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thesightstoshowyou · 2 years ago

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Permission

Part 6

Asa Emory x AFAB Reader x Jesse Cromeans (NSFW)

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5)

Summary: Chromeskull joins the party.

Warnings: Implied Stockholm syndrome, blood, heavy gore, minor character death, violence, threats, use of “she,” nonconsensual face fucking, a little daddy kink, Asa and Jesse flirting.

A/N: Hohoho lookie here! Finally, a part 6 to my multi chapter Asa fic! I thought it would be fun to add Jesse into the mix and tie my little universe all together

*You can find more poly Reader/SkullCollector fics on my Masterlist*

The untouched mug on the counter grows cold as you stand frozen in the kitchen. You stare, wide-eyed, at the calendar hanging on the wall. It’s Friday again.

Asa has been gone for an entire week. Seven whole days. This is the longest he’s ever left you alone with no explanation.

Something must be wrong.

You’re certain if the Collector had been stopped, the story would be endlessly broadcasted on every station. There has been nothing on the news about his capture. So, the question remains:

Is he dead?

Had a trap gone awry, a victim escaped, gained the upper hand?

The thought should fill you with glee, elation, relief. You could be going home any day now. Yet, all you feel is cold dread, fear so heavy in your gut it’s made you too sick to even finish your coffee.

What do you do?

Slowly, your gaze shifts until you’re eyeing Asa’s dogs. They’re both staring at you intently, ears perked, like they know what you’re thinking. You’ve seen first hand what they can do to a person. You were warned, and the Collector doesn’t make empty threats. They’ll tear you to shreds the moment you reach for the door handle.

But you can’t stay here until the groceries run out.

You exit the kitchen, deliberately ignoring the front door as you move. Paws click on hardwood as the hounds follow, only pausing their measured pursuit when you ascend the stairs.

It takes some fiddling with the weighty lock on the medicine cabinet, but you eventually manage to work it open. Mismatched eyes scan the bottles until you find what you’re looking for: Diphenhydramine.

Pills rattle as the bottle rests in your trembling hand. In your mind, a battle rages. Asa will kill you if you accidentally overdose his dogs. There’s no question about that. You’re fairly certain you know the dose to give them, confident even.

But, say you’re successful? He’ll most certainly kill you for leaving the house.

How will you get to the hotel? You know where it is, a fact you’ve kept hidden from the Collector. Once, in the days of your imprisonment, you’d found a tear in the peeling wallpaper, a hole in the rotting wall beyond. The terrain was familiar, a place you knew was close to the shooting range your uncle used to take you as a child.

Then, after you make it to the hotel? Asa will kill you for knowing where it’s located, for showing up unannounced. You’ll be too much of a liability.

All options lead to death. There is no outcome that will ensure your survival.

But you were dead the moment you fell into that trunk anyway.

You spare one final look at the dogs sprawled out on the living room floor, furry chests rising and falling with slow, sedated breaths before you depart, front door clicking shut behind you. Silently, you cross the porch, descend the stairs, hurry into the moonless night.

Sweating, panting, you deposit the e-bike you’d stolen behind a pile of scrap metal. Even with the help of the little electric motor, you’re exhausted. Sitting around Asa’s house all day isn’t doing your stamina any favors.

Quietly, you sneak around to the back of the dilapidated hotel. It stands silent, casting an ominous shadow. Any passerby would be oblivious to the house of horrors contained within. You’d never wanted to return as long as you lived.

Yet, here you are.

There’s a crack in one of the boards covering a set of windows. Carefully, you wedge your fingers into the break and pull, peeling away the plywood little by little. Every snap makes you jump and whip your head over your shoulder, but your noise alerts no one. You may very well be alone out here.

Once enough board has been peeled away, you reach in to lift the latch on the widow. It takes several long minutes of shoving and wiggling before the ancient frame gives and slides open. Hastily, you squeeze inside.

The smell hits you first; bleach, medical grade antiseptic, musty carpet, dust, all with an undercurrent of rancid decay. It’s like a punch in the gut, the scent bringing back the worst memories of your life. You clap a hand over your mouth and nose to silence your surprised cough.

From down the hall comes the rattling of chains, gurgling snarls. You hurry in the opposite direction.

Behind a stack of dusty, peeling books you find the hidden staircase. Hastily, you shove them to the side, heave open the creaky door, slip through. You are certain to close it tightly, lest any of those…people try to follow.

You’re careful on the stairs. Unsteady metal bars rattle under your hands as you ascend, one squeaky step at a time. You skip the top one—it is set to give way, something sharp undoubtably waiting below.

Now, you’ve reached the second level, the one with which you are most familiar. Still, you tread with extreme caution. Asa may have moved traps, changed things since you were last here. To come all this way just to be impaled would be less than ideal.

No sign of the Collector yet. You ponder where to search first. Raising your gaze, you make eye contact with the camera perched in the corner of the hallway. If he’s in the control room, he will know you’re here. The thought constricts your throat. Images of his cold, furious expression float to the forefront of your mind.

Stop it, stop thinking. Keep walking.

Carefully, you traverse the wide, main hallway leading to the display room. Ease over a trip wire, skirt around a loose floorboard. The huge wooden doors are ajar, just enough for you to slip past.

It’s quiet inside, eerily so. Icy blue light emanates from the display cases and makes the room feel colder than it actually is. Distantly, you hear mechanical whirring, but it’s further away, down the other hallway maybe—

Movement across the room, in your peripheral.

You startle, head snapping in the direction you saw something large and black slinking behind one of the glowing cases. For a one, hopeful moment, you think it’s Asa, but then….

A man emerges from behind a case, pale light glinting off the shiny, chrome skull mask he wears. He’s tall, incredibly so. He wears torn black nitrile gloves and a black button up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tattoos littering his forearms. You notice one of the sleeves of his shirt is torn at the shoulder, dried blood visible on the skin underneath. He has more slashes on his neck, and he appears to be limping, though it’s difficult to tell with how he swaggers as he admires the macabre creations suspended within the displays.

Confidence. Recklessness. The man wears these characteristics as plain as the gleaming mask on his face

He pauses when he spots you trembling on the other side of the room and a moment of tense silence passes between the two of you. Slowly, curiously, his head tilts to the side and you can almost feel his eyes—hidden in the dark holes of the mask—tracing your figure.

A blinking red light catches your eye and you frown when you spot the camera mounted on his shoulder. Odd. What could that be for…?

From his pocket, the man in the mask produces a cell phone. Quickly, he types up a message and holds up the phone. You flinch when the phone screams at you, what sounds like various terrified women yelling his message:

‘Where did you come from, piggy?’

Unease twists your stomach in knots. You take one step backward. Slowly, the man withdraws his other hand from his pocket. Clutched in his palm is a massive, serrated blade. Your eyes grow wide as he nonchalantly swings it around a gloved finger.

You’ve seen enough.

Turning on your heel, you flee, hopping through the gap in the door and sprinting down the hall. Behind you, the door bangs open, smashing against the the wall, and you hear the click and whir of a trap. That should do it—

Spikes fly down from the ceiling, poised to skewer, but the man merely steps to the side, effortlessly dodging the trap. How did…?

Understanding hits, a missing puzzle piece snapping into place. This is why Asa has been gone for a week. This man. His injuries…these must have been inflicted by the Collector.

Is Asa hurt too?

Is he dead?

You don’t have time to linger and think. The man is already stalking toward you, knife at the ready, boots thunking on ancient hardwood.

You’re off in a blink, hurrying around the corner and down the next hall. You fly past rooms, duck under wires, hop over triggers. You turn left, then right.

Slowing, you listen. Silence greets you. Are you still being pursued?

Don’t wait around to find out.

Cautiously, you search around you for a set of stairs. You’re fairly certain there is a staircase around here….

A startled shriek rips from your throat when strong arms seize you around the waist, haul you off your feet, drag you into a nearby room. The door slams shut and you grunt when you’re smashed back against a crumbling wall. Glancing up, your eyes widen when find yourself face to face with an incredulous, unmasked Asa Emory.

His expression darkens and you feel him tense as he prepares to throttle you, but you’re the first to react.

“Asa!” you exclaim, leaping into his arms and wrapping your own around him. His familiar scent—musky cedar, cigarette smoke—fills your lungs and your racing heart calms, swells. Asa’s own arms hover next to you, half-outstretched as he stands frozen in place, like he’s unsure where to put them.

Coming back to himself, the Collector grips your shoulders tightly and pushes you back against the wall. “Why are you here?” he hisses, shaking you slightly for emphasis.

“I was…I thought…I thought you were dead!” you reply, tears welling up in your eyes. Asa’s brows raise, then furrow. He fixes you with a hard, calculating stare, like he’s looking for something.

You notice his eyes then. Dark purple circles sit underneath, darker than normal. He’s exhausted. Has he gotten any sleep all week? Next, a slash of red draws your gaze, your eyes falling to his chest. His sweater is torn, the skin beneath sliced open. His knuckles are bloody too, you notice, and there’s dried, flaking crimson caked on his left ear.

“You’re hurt,” you whisper, pressing your fingers to his chest. He shakes his head, like it doesn’t matter.

“You saw him,” he states. It’s not a question but you nod. “Is he close?”

“I don’t know. Who—

Asa doesn’t let you finish. He grips your wrist, throws open the door, peeks outside before dragging you out and around another turn, past a hidden doorway, down a flight of stairs. You pass that room—the one filled with bloody instruments, stainless steel gurneys, vials of evil smelling liquids, terrariums, and empty, torn trunks—and enter another.

He closes and locks this door as you survey the various monitors mounted on the walls, the costumes and weapons hanging on hooks. The control room. On a nearby table sits a huge, serrated knife, the twin to the one the masked man wields. The Collector must have gotten it away from him during a skirmish.

You turn to face Asa, timid, terrified he’s going to hurt you for showing up here, but you find his weary gaze elsewhere. He’s watching the screens, dark eyes scanning, searching for the intruder.

You both spot him at the same time, strolling along one of the second floor hallways. He peers inside rooms, swinging that heinous blade around a finger like he has all the time in the world. Is he still looking for you, or for the Collector?

Asa sighs and slumps into a chair. Finally, he glances in your direction. The annoyance in his eyes makes you bite your lip and flinch and, on reflex, you drop to your knees.

The Collector blinks wearily and exhales sharply through his nose. “Watch him.” he orders, pointing at the screen. Earnestly, you nod, jumping to your feet once more and gluing your eyes to the screen.

Rustling behind you tempts you to look, but fear of disobeying more orders keeps you still. Tearing of paper, clinking of something metallic—easy to ignore—but it’s the hiss of pain that makes you twist around.

Asa’s shirt is gone and he fumbles with the antiseptic, the strange angle of the laceration on his chest difficult to see on his own. You hesitate for a moment, but the shaking of his hands prompts you to act.

Watching the man in the chrome skull mask out of the corner of your eye, you take the antiseptic-soaked gauze from the Collector’s fingers and gently dab along his wound. You wager his pure exhaustion is the only thing keeping him from gutting you on the spot, but if the tense look on his face is anything to go by, you’re in for it later.

If there is a later.

Asa hands you the liquid bandage and, as you carefully apply it along injured flesh, the deep vibration of his chest heralds his voice.

“There have been a series of murders in the south. You’ve seen it on the news, I assume.” You nod, vaguely recalling the story: Videotapes sent to police showing the brutal murders of various women.

Wait. Videotapes? You glance at the monitors again.

The camera on his shoulder.

“Him?” you exclaim, looking back to Asa in shock.

The Collector nods. “He fits the description.” You don’t question how he knows this. Instead, you wonder why the man is here. Your question must show on your face because he murmurs, “I’m not entirely sure why he’s here, but I suspect it’s something to do with me.”

He can read your damn mind.

You reach for more gauze to take care of his split knuckles, but find the first aid kit empty. He’s used it all up.

You know where to find more though….

“No,” Asa snaps, shaking his head when you raise your gaze to his face. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you glance at the monitors. The man is all the way on the other end of the floor above. You could make it back with more gauze before he noticed….

Asa’s hand darts out, grips your jaw, squeezes hard as he forces you to meet his frigid gaze. “No.” It’s sharp, final, the look on his face sending a thrill of icy fear down your spine. He’s had more than enough of your disobedience.

“Yes, Sir,” you whisper, eyes lowering submissively. A strained beat passes, your jaw beginning to ache under Asa’s rough grip. Worse pain is finally coming, you’re sure of it—

Calloused digits ghost along your upper arm and you flinch in surprise, eyes flying back up to his face. Heat instantly curls in your belly, a conditioned response to the way his hungry gaze assesses your frightened expression. It only takes the pressure of his thumb tugging down your bottom lip for a whimper to sneak past your teeth.

The Collector seems to remember himself then. There’s a quick inhale as he sits back, eyes snapping to the monitors, hands releasing you, pushing you away. Your own hand flies to your chest to feel your heart hammering under your palm. Thickly, you swallow, steadying yourself. On screen, the intruder still stalks through the halls, nearer than he was last time you looked.

Leaning his head back against the wall, Asa’s eyes close. Your own flit between his face and the cameras, the masked man closer now. He’s directly above you both, near the secret staircase. Back to Asa, his arms are lax, his breathing steady…. Asleep. How exhausted he must be to allow himself to sleep while you’re here, awake.

Back to the monitor, the man now picks at something on the wall, head tilted to the side, inquisitive, searching. He’s going to find it, the little divot in the wall revealing the hidden entrance.

You look to the door lock—will it hold—then back to Asa’s sleeping figure—should you wake him—long fingers sneak under the hook, pull, loud creaking of wood, it’s open, he’s on the stairs—

“Asa,” you hiss, hands wringing in front of you. The Collector doesn’t respond, doesn’t move, too fatigued to be pulled from his slumber. Thump, thump, thump, you hear the measured steps as the intruder descends the hidden staircase.

Do something! Distraction. You need to make some kind of distraction, something to draw his attention away from the both of you.

There’s no thought in your head as you move to the door, tug it open, slip outside, close it again. Going right will take you down to the basement, to the pen of the Collector’s drugged once-humans. To your left, the room of empty trunks and medical supplies, the staircase just beyond.

Left it is.

You reach the medical room just as the man rounds the corner. Spotting you, he doesn’t hesitate this time and instead sprints directly toward you with a surprising burst of speed. Heart leaping into your throat, you dive through the doorway, slam the door shut, twist the heavy lock.

The man rams into the door and you yelp, stumbling back into an empty gurney, sending it clattering and crashing into a closed trunk. A desperate, muffled scream from within pulls another shriek from you, your hands flying up to your mouth.

There’s someone else in here!

WHAM, WHAM!

He kicks the door, metal thudding noisily under his boot. Next to you, the trunk wails and shudders.

Shit, now what? You had not intended to endanger another person, even if their fate has already been sealed. But, if you linger too long, the man will move on down the hall, finding the control room and a helpless, dozing Asa….

Your sweaty palm closes around a scalpel. Swearing internally at your poor excuse for a plan, you twist the lock then jump back, scurrying across the room as far away from the door as you can get.

Silence.

Then, the handle rattles as it’s twisted, hinges squealing as the door swings open. In saunters your pursuer, his frame filling up the entire doorway, fluorescents gleaming off the chrome skull mask.

You stare at one another, your hands trembling, his reaching in his pocket for his knife and his phone. Keys click and you wonder what shouted message awaits. You brace, muscles tense, ready to fight or flee.

‘Pretty piggy, aren’t you? Are you his little house pet—

Screaming startles you both. “HELP, OH GOD, PLEASE!” shrieks the contents of the wobbling trunk. The man glances from the trunk back to you, like he’s waiting for an explanation. Shouldn’t he know what they’re for by now?

You say nothing, shuddering breath the only sound leaving your lips. The man shrugs, stalks over to the trunk, kicks it over. It hits the floor with a clunk, a stifled groan sounding within. Locks click and the lid swings open.

With a cry, a young man claws his way out of the trunk, arms flailing, blood and sweat and dirt staining his clothes and splashed across his skin. You can only watch, trepidation turning to nausea in your gut as the man in the mask grabs him by the hair, twists him around so he’s facing you.

The man from the trunk is weak from dehydration and exhaustion, his fingers uselessly tugging at his captor’s arm. A pathetic wail leaves his chapped lips when the serrated blade passes before his wild eyes.

There’s no chance for him, you realize, terror gripping your chest when the point of the knife sets against the victim’s ear. The man in the mask looks directly at you then and you can almost see the smile through chrome.

Your gasped, “Wait!” is interrupted by a sickening crunch as steel is forced into the ear canal and the skull beyond. The young man’s shocked expression freezes, goes slack, twists as the blade saws through flesh and bone. The cracking, snapping, squelching of sinew, the splatter of gore onto concrete makes you gag, stumble back, slap a palm over your mouth.

He doesn’t bother to look away from you, seemingly more intrigued by your reaction than what’s happening to the seizing body in his clutches. You so desperately want to tear your gaze away, but you don’t dare, not when you’re next. Not with the way he’s eyeing your quivering form like a hungry predator.

Your heart skips a beat when he glances down to grab hold of the mangled jaw bone. It’s the only chance he’s going to give you.

Go.

You sprint toward the open door.

Thud, thud, CRASH.

He smashes into you so hard it sends you careening into the wall, your skull cracking against its hard surface. Your vision blurs, darkens. Your knees buckle. The scalpel clatters to the floor, forgotten.

You would have crumpled to the ground if not for the hand gripping you around the throat, holding you up, torn, black nitrile squeaking against the skin of your throat.

Asa?

You blink. Blink again. Blurred vision clears. No. No, not Asa.

You must squint your eyes when a bright phone screen is shoved in your face. Dizzy, you read the typed message before it’s shouted at you:

‘Gotcha.’

Your dazed reflection stares back at you as the man bends, chrome mask level with your face. He glances down to type and you’re frozen in place when you realize he’s holding the knife, blade bathed in crimson. Across the room, the young man lays motionless, empty trunk at his side.

‘Who is he? What’s with the trunks?’ shrieks the phone. He wants you to tell him about Asa. You glance into the dark eye holes of the mask and shake your head.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

‘C’mon, doll. You don’t want to ruin his pretty toy, do you? How long has he had this place?’ As you read the text, the bloody knife is pushed between your shivering legs, flat of the blade coming to a rest at the apex of your thighs. A squeak leaves you, your body tensing, blood rushing furiously in your ears. Again, recklessly, you shake your head.

A huff sounds from behind the mask. The man shrugs as if to say, ‘Suit yourself.’ Reaching up to his shoulder, he presses a button on his shoulder camera. Red light flashes. He’s recording. There’s pressure against your groin—oh god you’re really about to die this time—

Everything disappears all at once—the hand around your throat, solid chest against your arm, steel on your crotch—seconds before a knife whooshes past your face, so close the air disturbs your hair as it passes. Following its path, you see Asa poised in the doorway, hand extended. He stares daggers at you and the masked man who has backed away across the room.

A shivering breath leaves you and you scurry to the Collector’s side, heedless of the ire radiating off him in waves. You’re in so much trouble, you’re dead, he’s going to cut you into little tiny pieces and feed you to his bugs….

‘Loyal doggy you have there. Where do I get me one of those?’

The man nods toward you when his phone speaks for him. You glance up at Asa. His face is unreadable, cold expression firmly in place. The mask tilts back down as another message is typed. You hold your breath. The Collector waits. Above you, fluorescent lights buzz.

‘Nice set up you got here. How much you charging for rent?’

You frown. The man’s shoulders shake in silent laughter. He’s…making jokes?

Asa is silent, still. You wonder what he’s planning. More keyboard clicking heralds another message:

‘Tough crowd. Alright, this has been fun, but I need a steak and something to fuck before I lose my shit.’

Before you can even react, there’s a wheezing exhale to your left. You must do a double take, your jaw dropping when you discover the sound came from Asa. He’d…he laughed.

Your eyes dart from one man to the other. They exchange something, some look you can’t read, some feeling you can’t place. There’s a shift in the tension, like a wave receding. Asa’s chin lifts slightly as the other man’s head tips minutely to the left. Are they…communicating?

The cell is back out, quick taps, and then, ‘Unless you’ll let me borrow that one’s mouth.’ He points to you as the words are screamed from the speaker.

Incredulous, you can’t suppress the scoff. You wait for Asa’s quick retort—

“Go ahead.”

Your eyes bug out of your head, “W-What—

But, the man in the mask crosses the room before you can finish. He twists a hand in your hair, drags you away, shoves you to your knees. You cry out when they crack against concrete, then hiss and squirm as he works his pants open.

“Behave,” Asa commands and you freeze, staring pleadingly at him out of the corner of your eye. He stands as still as a statue. When he meets your gaze, your stomach plummets, horrible understanding settling there instead. He’s going to let this happen because this is your punishment. This is your punishment for leaving the house, for coming here, for leaving the control room.

You earned this.

The man grips your jaw, squeezes until your lips pop open. Instantly, warm, hard flesh pushes past your teeth, fills your mouth, forces its way into your throat until your gagging, choking on cock and musky scent.

He releases a slow exhale and peers down at you. The hand in your hair twists tighter, holds your nose firmly against his pelvis as your poor throat spasms to accompany his girth. Tears well up, spill over, streak down your cheeks. The thumb of his free hand comes up to smear them across your face before he retrieves his phone once again.

‘That’s good. Cry for Daddy.’

You barely have time to suck in a breath when he pulls back before he’s shoving you down his length again. Thrust after vicious thrust assaults your throat, strangled, wet whines doing their best to escape. Drool spills down your chin, wets your chest, drips onto your pants.

‘Chirps, doesn’t she?’ shrieks the phone.

“Like a cricket,” Asa comments.

Through tears, you stare up at the black eyeholes of the mask. You don’t have to see his eyes to know they’re intently focused on your wrecked expression. He doesn’t make a sound, but you can tell by the way his thighs shake under your palms he’s affected. Close too, you hope.

With one final buck of his hips, your nose is pulled flush against him once more, copious warmth spilling down your battered throat. Only a long sigh escapes him, the muscles of his thighs relaxing with his release. Finally, your hair slips free of his fingers so you can scoot away.

Gasping, coughing, dripping, you move to slump backward, but your back hits something solid. Black boots, black pants…. Tipping your head back, you find Asa looming over you.

He seizes you under the arms, hauls you to your feet, grips your jaw so you look straight into the chrome mask.

“What do you say?” the Collector demands. You fight the grimace that threatens to sour your features, something that would surely mean more discomfort. Instead, you speak through shuddering inhales:

“T-Thank…thank y-you…Daddy.”

The man in the mask saunters forward until he’s standing inches from you and Asa. For a moment, you panic, realizing you’ll be skewered first should this strange truce be broken.

Instead, the man snaps off his bloody gloves and tosses them over a shoulder. He reaches out, hooks his fingers in the waistband of your jeans, runs his knuckles along the skin of your belly.

He’s not looking at you, though. Even with the mask on, you can tell he’s staring straight at Asa. The Collector stares back, his own hands releasing your jaw, sliding down your body to grip the fingers teasing your skin. Asa guides the other’s hands to the button of your pants.

Permission.

The man pauses. Finally, he looks at you. Phone in hand, he types one more message.

“Well, sweetheart. I’m Jesse.” You’re stunned to silence, baffled beyond words. Asa helps.

“Manners.”

“…Nice to meet you…Jesse.”

#asa emory #the collector 2009 #jesse cromeans #chromeskull #laid to rest #asa emory x reader #jesse cromeans x reader #the collector x reader #chromeskull x reader #skullcollector #thesightstoshowyou #the collection 2012

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