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spikedfearn · 13 hours ago

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𝕷𝖔𝖘𝖊𝖗

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ꜱᴜʙ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴅᴏᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴅʀᴀɢɢᴇᴅ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ʙʏ ʜɪꜱ ʟᴏꜱᴇʀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ᴡɪʟᴅ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇ ʜᴇ ᴅᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇꜱ ᴀ ʀᴇᴡᴀʀᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴏ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛꜰᴜʟ.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴀᴜ - ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɴᴏ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ʟᴏꜱᴇʀ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱᴜʙ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ᴅᴏᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ʜᴀɴᴅᴊᴏʙ, ᴇᴅɢɪɴɢ, ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ꜱɪᴢᴇ ᴋɪɴᴋ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇ ᴋɪɴᴋ, ᴅᴇɢʀᴀᴅᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴋɪɴᴋ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ꜱᴘɪᴛᴛɪɴɢ, ᴅʀᴏᴏʟɪɴɢ, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴏʀᴀʟ ꜰɪxᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴘʟᴇ ᴏʀɢᴀꜱᴍꜱ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ, ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ? (ᴡᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴋɴᴏᴡ).

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 6k

The sound of the doorbell yanks you out of the half-slumber you were slipping into. You lower the volume of the TV program you were serenely watching and get up from the couch, tugging your oversized shirt further down with a lazy gesture as you walk down the hallway. You haven’t even thought about putting on something more decent: the shirt falls off your shoulders, short enough to reveal the edge of your panties when you take that longer step—but you don’t care. You’re a guest in your brother’s house, not in some random guy’s, and that comforting casualness feels good on you.

You open the door and the smell of alcohol reaches your nose before your eyes can focus on what’s in front of you. Your brother is leaning on an unfamiliar arm, completely slumped against the shoulder of whoever is holding him up. The man who’s with him stiffens the moment he notices you, but hides it well and quickly.

“Here we are, lad” the guy says with a gentle voice, slightly rough from the cold or the effort. He supports your brother carefully, though not without difficulty. His movements are precise: not clumsy, but slow and cautious, like someone experienced with collapsing bodies.

You step aside to let them into the house and close the door behind you, watching them disappear around the corner. The guy must have been a regular guest here, since he found your brother’s bedroom door on the first try.

He comes back out after a few seconds, wiping his sweaty hands on his pants and fixing his shirt as best he can.

When he sees you standing in the middle of the room, his gray eyes flicker over you, and when he notices your gaze lingering longer than necessary, he drops his own to his feet.

A faint smile curls your lips as you move toward the table where you had left your wine glass.

“Thanks for bringing him home,” you murmur, your tone halfway between serious and joking. “If it had been me, I’d have left him in some bush.”

He lets out an amused puff, a small grin on his lips, as if unsure whether he’s allowed to really laugh. “I’d never do that. We’ve been pals all our lives, 'twas the least I could do.”

That awkward air of his strikes you, so different from the men you’re used to. You amuse yourself by staring at him without saying anything, until he shifts uncomfortably, as if the silence were an unbearable weight.

Then you step closer, unhurried, with measured steps. You see him swallow dryly, his shoulders tightening. You get close enough to force him to take a step back. “Wait… maybe I remember you.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, surprised.

“Remmick, right? You played the banjo at one of my brother’s stupid parties, years ago. I remember.”

The recognition does something to him: his features open up, and for a second you see a fragile glimmer in his eyes, as though he hadn’t expected that detail to have stuck. “A-Aye, ma’am. That was me,” he replies, and the word trembles, full of surprise.

You stop to look at him. But not with a distracted glance: you truly scrutinize him, from head to toe, like a predator sizing up prey. He still has to be your brother’s age, around 35 or so. He’s not extremely tall, just enough, with fine lines, a hint of stubble lighter than the dark brown of his hair, and a slightly curved nose. His shirt is tucked sloppily into his pants; the suspenders stretched tight against the fabric, wrinkling it. You like how they outline and sculpt the muscles beneath the cloth.

You see the flush rising from his neck to his cheeks. And the more he tries to keep his eyes fixed on your face instead of letting them drop, the more you relish pushing him further. He’s clumsy, but in a tender way.

“Well,” you whisper, “you’ve grown quite a bit since then.”

Your hand moves on its own toward the strap of his suspender. Your fingertip brushes the fabric, and against your knuckles you feel the muscles of his chest tense beneath the shirt. You don’t know if he’s aware of the gesture or if it’s just his body betraying him, but you enjoy it all the same.

You toy with it. You tug the strap slightly and let it snap back: the crack against the fabric and his skin makes him let out a low, almost involuntary yelp. You smile, amused. That small vulnerability makes him immediately more interesting.

“Do you still play?” you ask suddenly.

He’s caught off guard, his mind short-circuiting. “W-what?” he answers, lost. The hesitation slips out like a mistake.

“The banjo, boy.” You bite your lip, letting the nickname fall on him like a caress and a blow all at once. “I remember you were good.”

His eyes light up for a moment, embarrassment easing into a flash of pride.

“Oh… oh! Aye, of course I do.”

“Mhm.”

The sound slips out slow, almost like a judgment, as you tilt your head toward the couch.

“Want to sit for a while? Clear your head from the hard liquor of the night…”

He follows your gaze and seems about to accept before glancing back at you, a crooked, embarrassed smile on his lips.

“No need,” he replies quickly, as if even such an innocent question were a test he couldn’t afford to fail. “I haven’t been drinkin', so I can drive no bother at all.”

You tilt your head slightly, surprised. So it wasn’t alcohol making him so stiff, so awkward. It was you. You were the reason for that tension.

“Really?” You narrow your eyes at him, probing as if you were reading between the lines of his body. And he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.

“I… I'm not much for the drink,” he admits quietly, honest. No excuse, no polished phrase. Just the truth.

“What a good boy.”

The compliment slips from your voice like honey, and you immediately see his pale skin flush a deep red. There’s no escape: he blushes like a kid caught stealing cookies.

You rise calmly, turning your back to him, and the rustle of your long shirt brushing your thighs fills the silence. You walk to the little table, grab the bottle, and pour yourself another generous dose of wine. The liquid slides golden into the glass, rich and gleaming in the light.

“I, on the other hand, go crazy for wine,” you say, in a conspiratorial tone. “One of my weaknesses.”

You raise the glass and sit on the armrest of the couch, right next to him. Your legs cross slowly, the hem of the shirt rising just enough to reveal a little more skin and the edge of your panties. You bring the glass to your lips and let a rebellious drop escape the rim, sliding down your neck and stopping at your collar.

Remmick swallows. You hear it, you see it: his eyes follow the trickle with near-religious attention, inevitably traveling further down until they land on your bare legs. You don’t move right away: you like letting him stare, you like seeing the struggle in his eyes between desire and guilt for looking too much. Then you snap your fingers, and the sharp sound makes him jump.

“My eyes are up here, Remmick.”

He stammers, his blue eyes darting back to you, full of guilt and shame. “I-I’m sorry, ma'am… maybe I oughtta—”

You don’t let him finish. Your legs spring forward, wrapping around his hips, pulling him toward you with an abrupt but firm gesture. His body tilts forward, forced to place one hand on the back of the couch and the other on your shoulder to keep from falling onto you. He’s trapped, and you know it.

“Don’t get nervous,” you whisper, swirling the glass in your free hand. “I never said I didn’t like the attention.”

You look up at him, your voice both caress and command. Remmick inhales, his eyes darting from you to the glass, then back again. His hand on your shoulder tightens slightly, an uncertain reflex: unsure whether to push you away or cling to you. The second option seems to win.

“You know, I think good boys deserve to be rewarded.”

You lift your free hand and bring it to his raven-black hair. Your fingers sink in, soft at first, then your nails barely scratch the back of his head. The reaction is immediate: his eyes close, his breath breaks, and a sigh slips from his lips. Without you asking, he leans toward you, as if your hand were a leash tied to an invisible collar he wears, dragging him closer.

“What do you think, Remmick?”

You get no answer. Not right away. His eyelids flutter, his body trembles slightly, yet he stays silent.

You click your tongue, pull your hand away from his hair, and the emptiness hits him like a sudden punishment. His face twists into a grimace of disappointment, and a small whimper, almost like the yelp of a dog, escapes him.

“When I ask a question,” you say coldly, “I expect an answer.”

“Yes… yes…”

“Yes what?”

Your voice is steady, and your gaze pins him in place. The tension is almost cruel, but he yields without resistance.

“Yes, ma’am. Please…”

You smirk with satisfaction. Just a few sentences, a few touches, and you’ve already bent him. You watch him reach out a hand to grab yours and place it back on his neck, with an almost desperate dependence. You like this fragility of his, this docility he offers you without realizing how much it’s worth.

“And what do you think a good boy like you deserves, Remmick?”

His breath stutters, words tangling before they can even be born. “I-I dunno…”

Your gaze hardens, a flash that freezes him. Fearing he’s disappointed you, he rushes to fill the silence. “A kiss… a kiss…”

You blink. You didn’t expect that answer. You thought he’d throw it immediately onto sex, onto the most immediate desire; instead, he asked for the simplest thing, the sweetest. You can’t hold back a genuine laugh, softer than you’d planned.

“Bend down a little more, pretty boy.”

His ears flush red, as if the compliment were more destabilizing than your command. Yet he obeys: he leans closer with hesitation, and your lips close over his.

The kiss is timid at first, almost chaste, as if he feared getting the rhythm or intensity wrong. You guide him, decisive: you part your lips slightly, suck his tongue into your mouth, and this transforms his awkwardness into ardor. Breath mingles, heat rises, and when you rise to your feet you don’t break the contact: you drag him with you, step by step, until you force him to retreat.

The taste of his mouth is unexpected. There’s no alcohol, no smoke, nothing to ruin the freshness of his breath. It’s clean, authentic, almost naive. And for that very reason it overwhelms you.

When he reaches the couch with his back, you push firmly. He falls with a soft thud, confused, short of breath. You set the glass on the low table and, without giving him a chance to breathe, straddle him.

His expression is a mixture of shock and adoration. He looks at you as if unsure whether to touch you or not. Then you, with a fluid gesture, grab the hem of your shirt and lift it. The fabric catches on your breasts, but with a bit of force it slides away in an instant, leaving you in your panties.

His breath halts. His eyes widen, unable to decide where to rest. It’s as if he had in front of him a revelation too big for him.

“I can’t believe this is goin' on…”

His voice is a strangled whisper, broken by disbelief.

His hand, uncertain but hungry, slides along your bare thigh. The fingers, rough and calloused, betray hours and hours spent strumming strings and manual work. They’re not soft nor elegant: they are real hands, imperfect, alive. Their touch sets your skin ablaze.

When he reaches the thin elastic of your panties, he holds his breath. You expect him to push them aside, to tear them off, to take what he wants. But he doesn’t. His fingers stop there, as if suspended. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t shift, doesn’t dare. He waits for you.

“If this is another one o' them dream,” he murmurs, and in his voice there’s a thread of despair, “don’t be wakin' me…”

His confession draws a low, warm laugh from you. A laugh that vibrates between you and makes him shudder. You like seeing him like this: trembling, incredulous, consumed by desire and fear all at once.

“Am I a recurring dream, pretty boy?” you ask with irony, though something shines in his eyes you can’t ignore.

He swallows, and then, as if a truth had slipped out that should have remained hidden, he lets those words fall: “For over ten years…”

Time seems to stop. His fingers remain still, still clutching the edge of your slip. His eyes, instead, immediately shoot to yours, seeking forgiveness, or perhaps complicity. He hadn’t meant to say it. Not so soon. Not like that. But now it’s out, and both of you know you can’t pretend otherwise.

You whistle softly, a drawn-out sound that breaks the heavy silence of the room. In an instant, you see the blush reclaim his cheeks, run down his neck, warming his skin like an uncontrollable flame. He realizes he’s said too much, too soon, too openly.

Yet you smile. A languid, amused smile.

“That’s a damn long time, Rem. I’m flattered.”

Your voice caresses his name, and he stiffens as if you’d touched him inside. He bites the inside of his cheek, lowers his eyes, unable to withstand the weight of what you’ve just acknowledged.

“Are ye?” he asks, hesitant, like a child who has just given away his biggest secret and doesn’t know if he’ll be embraced or crushed.

You nod, tilting your head with that fake lightness that is actually calculated down to the last breath. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“Ye're…,” he whispers, gripping tighter the fabric of your panties, not realizing his fingers are trembling. “And I… fuck,” he cuts himself off, as if the words burned in his throat. “I’ve seen the lads ye go out with… we’re nothin' alike…”

There’s bitterness, envy, a thread of pain in his voice. As if he’d watched you from the shadows for too long, seeing other men possess you, never able to even approach.

Your smile twists into a smirk. “Wow,” you murmur, tilting your face closer to his, “a stalker too.”

“I’m not!” he blurts immediately, voice cracking, almost childish in his defense. “I’m not a stalker—”

You press a finger against his lips. A quick, decisive gesture that silences him at once. You feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the dampness of his choked words dying under the light pressure of your finger.

You lean down, slowly, invading his space, your breath tickling his face, your lips a breath away from his.

“Lower your voice,” you whisper, sharp and sweet at the same time. “You don’t want my brother to find you fucking his sister, do you?”

Remmick’s eyes widen, terrified. He looks at you as if you’d just conjured his worst nightmare, and yet there’s something else there too: pure, wild arousal, the adrenaline of being on the brink of something forbidden.

“Strictly speakin'—” he tries to reply, perhaps to defend himself, perhaps to cling to a shred of logic to save him from the vertigo but you don’t give him time. Before he can finish, before he can say anything that might break that perfect tension, you grab his face with both hands and bend down over him.

This time you are not gentle in the kiss. You force his lips open with a bruise-making bite and shove your tongue into his mouth like a blade carving its space, claiming what is yours.

He moans, a muffled, broken sound, and his body tenses beneath you. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, whether to hold you or let you free. He remains trapped between the instinct to worship you and the fear of losing you.

It’s as if he can’t contain everything he’s feeling, as if you’re destroying in a few minutes ten years of repressed fantasies.

Your hand slides down, decisive, sure. He’s too busy letting himself be kissed to notice at first, and when your fingers start working at his belt buckle, you realize he doesn’t offer the slightest resistance. His hips move to hurry you, but you act with merciless calm.

The buckle comes undone, the zipper slides down with a metallic sound that cuts through the air and makes Remmick flinch. He stiffens, his eyes flying wide, and pulls his lips away just slightly as if to catch his breath. Your hand slips past the fabric, you feel him hot, throbbing, already swollen against your palm even before you free him.

With a smooth motion, you pull him out of his pants.

The sight nearly slaps you: hard as rock, incredibly long, heavy in your hand, with that smooth skin that slides just a little, uncircumcised, the glans flushed and glossy. Your tongue pricks against your teeth at how struck you are by the sight.

“Well, look at that pretty cock…” you murmur, in a tone that’s half compliment and half tease.

And to underline your words, you lift your fingers and give him a little tap on the tip, a quick, light touch that makes him jolt instantly. His shaft bounces like a spring, almost ridiculous in its automatic reaction, and you can’t help but laugh. It’s like one of those toy cat paws they sell at the Chinese shop downstairs: just a finger, and it flicks.

Remmick lets out a strangled moan and the hand resting on your thigh claws at your flesh, as if searching for an anchor to keep from losing his mind.

“You could have a career as a porn star with a cock like this,” you continue, tightening your grip just enough to feel him throb against your palm. “Ever thought about it?”

His blue eyes, clouded with lust, rise to you. And then he remembers: he has to answer. You’ve already trained him, in a sense. He knows that if he wants your attention, he has to give you the satisfaction of a reply.

“No, ma’am,” he pants, without even a hint of hesitation this time. The embarrassment that might have held him back minutes ago is gone, burned away by the fire devouring him. “But I can be yer slut, if ye want.”

You freeze for a second, surprised by his sudden boldness. Then you smile, a slow, feline smile that slides over him like a mask.

“How sweet.”

His mouth is flushed from kissing, slightly swollen, with a strand of saliva trailing down the corner. You stare at it for a moment, watching the droplet glisten in the soft light, and decide you can’t leave it there.

With the tip of your tongue, slow and precise, you catch the spit that escaped from the corner of his mouth. It tastes salty, warm, intimate in a way that excites you more than you expected. But before you can swallow it, he opens his mouth.

It’s not a conscious gesture. It’s pure instinct. His tongue reaches toward you, lips parting like a hungry pup, as if he’s willing to drink anything you’ll give him.

So you spit.

A transparent string falls from your mouth to his, slow and heavy, and he takes it all, swallowing at once as if it were nectar. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, his face tense with pure devotion.

You watch him, and your hand, still wrapped around his cock, moves just slightly, stroking him with a sluggish, almost absent touch. With the other, you trail up his neck, massaging his throat gently, feeling the motion of his swallowing beneath your fingertips.

“Little twisted pervert…” you murmur, your tone dripping with satisfaction.

Remmick moans softly, the sound vibrating right under your hand. His cock throbs in your grip, impossibly hard, and you realize this man is complete. Compliments and insults excite him just the same.

Your hand glides along his shaft with certainty, lethargic, attentive, as if you’re exploring a precious object worthy of care. Every time his hips try to chase more friction, you tighten just enough to remind him it’s you who decides. Not because you want to torture him, but because you want to savor every single shiver of his surrender.

“You like it, don’t you?” you whisper, bending just close enough for your breath to tickle his ear. “Tell me how much you like it. Tell me what you imagined doing to me all these years.”

Remmick’s eyes fly wide, and he turns his face to bury it against your shoulder and neck. You can tell he wants to resist, but your fist closes around the head, your palm pressing down on the tip, and all his resistance melts into a pleading whimper.

“I… I can’t…”

You pause, keeping your hand still on his cock. You lean down, brushing a feather-light kiss to his temple. “Yes, you can. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re doing so well.”

His resistance cracks. “I… I thought about ye when I was on me own…”

“When you were alone?” You encourage him, firm but gentle, without cruelty.

“A-Aye… when I jerked off… it was always ye in me head.”

You resume moving your wrist, soft and steady. “So good… keep going. Tell me what I was doing in your thoughts.”

“I thought… I thought I was… down on me knees before ye… with me mouth full…” he stammers, gasping.

“Mmh, your mouth full of what, sweetheart?” you press, nudging your finger against his balls.

“Of… of yer taste…” he blushes like he’s about to combust. “Of yer wet cunt…”

The awkward, desperate way he says it makes you smile. You love dragging the dirty words out of him, as if they were forbidden confessions to a priest.

You squeeze a little tighter and shift rhythm, fast for a few seconds, then slow again. His head knocks against the back of the couch, a desperate sob spilling from his lips.

A shiver shoots through your stomach. “Yeah? You want to taste me, baby?”

Remmick’s breath shatters as you wring every confession from him with the hypnotic, faster swing of your hand.

“So much… so much, ma'am…”

He lets out a broken moan, and you press harder, quickening your pace. Your hand moves quick, wrist twisting, fingers gripping and releasing, dragging every ragged sound from him.

He’s right on the edge. You can feel it in the way his thighs tremble, in the way his moans tumble out unchecked. And as you watch him writhe beneath your touch, you feel the tension building inside you too, impossible to ignore.

Your free hand drifts slowly down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. You touch yourself lightly, already finding yourself soaked, hot, ready. A smile ghosts over your lips as you gather the slickness pooling between your folds.

Remmick’s eyes, wet and dark with appetite, track every movement of your hand as it rises slowly in front of his face.

He swallows.

Your fingers glisten with your arousal, sparkling under the lamp’s soft glow. You hold them up before his eyes, slow and deliberate, as if you want to carve that image into his mind.

“Open your mouth,” you order, hanging.

For a moment he freezes, breath caught. Then he obeys, his lips parting, trembling.

You slip two fingers between his teeth, brushing against his tongue, and you feel the warmth of his mouth welcome you without hesitation. He whines faintly, and the wetness you let slide onto his tongue makes him moan even louder.

“Good boy…” you praise him, caressing his cheek with your thumb while the other hand brings him closer to the edge. “So obedient.”

He closes his lips around your fingers and sucks softly while you feel the throbbing of his cock under your hand, the way it strains, desperate.

“That’s it, baby. I want you to cum for me right now.”

He moans something indistinct, his mouth still full of your fingers, and the vibrating sound sends a shiver down your spine. Then you feel it: his whole body stiffens all at once, his hips jerking forward as pleasure overwhelms him.

With a strangled cry, Remmick explodes in your hand. The hot seed floods your fingers, running thick down your palm and wrist, and you don’t stop stroking him, squeezing out every drop, forcing him to remain suspended in that abyss of pleasure.

Your fingers stay in his mouth while he moans, trembling beneath you, swallowing your taste as he empties himself completely. Or so you think.

You gently wrap him against your body, feeling the heat radiating from him as he rests his face on your chest. His kisses are warm and damp, lips lapping and caressing your skin with an almost trembling devotion. Your hand, the one not messy with cum, slides into his hair, caressing the nape of his neck as he clings to you.

Every breath he takes vibrates against you like a warm wave running over your skin and seeping into your body. You feel the rhythm of his heart racing beneath his shirt, the beats thudding faintly against your chest as he holds you tighter. His hands close over your ass, kneading the flesh there.

His mouth climbs upward, hungry, until it settles on your neck, and you can clearly feel his teeth scraping at your throat.

The gesture sends a shiver through you that forces your torso forward, riding his hips until your inner thighs come into contact with his dick.

You thought you’d find him soft by now, spent and satisfied. Instead, he presses hard and vigorous against your flesh, smearing you with cum and fresh pre-cum.

The heat radiating from him spreads through your legs, rising along your thighs until it reaches your lower belly with a current mixing pleasure and anticipation.

His head rests on your chest, breathing against your skin with a frantic but controlled cadence. The warmth of his breath strokes you like a veil, and you’re surprised at how intense the desire he radiates feels—not aggressive but deep, palpable.

“Fuck me… please, ma'am, let me have this pussy just for tonight…” he begs, his hands gripping your back, pulling you closer. His voice is delirious but respectful.

You frown and grab his hair between your fingers, tilting his head back. His eyes widen slightly, shiny, as he stares at you, and in that look there is all the devotion he feels for you.

“We’re getting a bit too greedy. Isn’t what I already gave you enough?” you ask, wiping your hand still smeared with his release on his open shirt, the gesture as soft as it is firm.

Remmick lets out a low moan, lowering his gaze just a little. “Darlin'… ma'am… ye can’t leave me like this, please… I can make ye come, I promise. I’ll be good, so good…” His voice trembles, sincere, full of the need to please.

You shake your head. “Listen to yourself. Totally out of control. All for a wet, hot hole…” you chide as you move slowly against his cock, rubbing yourself with panties drenched in your arousal.

His hands fly to your waist, barely holding you back from teasing him further.

“Not… not just any hole… it’s special, ye’re special…” he whimpers, pressing his head just beneath your chin, his voice an fervent murmur.

You huff, amused by his devotion, and yet he doesn’t push further. He doesn’t force you, doesn’t rush: he waits, patient, completely undone. Other men would have already acted without measure, without regard for your timing, bending you over the first flat surface to fuck you quick and hard, but Remmick is different. He’s obedient, servile, and every gesture seems crafted to make you happy.

“Remmick…” you whisper, velvet-voiced.

He pulls back just slightly, his eyes locked onto yours. With gentleness, you massage his face, sliding your fingers along his cheeks and chin, letting every touch be a soothing caress. Then, with a slow, deliberate gesture, you smooth his hair back, deepening his gaze.

You feel his breath quicken as you move calmly, and you watch him carefully before leaning in to kiss him.

Your lips meet his with a tenderness that contrasts with the tension built up: a soft, lingering kiss that lets him feel loved, desired, and respected all at once. Remmick’s hands clutch at your hips, feeling the warmth of your body, and you encourage him, letting him feel he can surrender—without fear, without shame.

You pull one hand from his face only to push your panties aside, letting your body be ready to welcome him. You feel the warmth in your stomach surge immediately, a heat that spreads like an irresistible call. Your hips tilt slowly, guiding Remmick with a near-theatrical ease.

When the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, you see his eyes widen in surprise and pleasure. The moment lasts a heartbeat before he closes them immediately, unable to withstand both your gaze and the sensation at once.

You sink down slowly, letting him slide inside you, one inch at a time, savoring every throb, every tension of your inner muscles as you adjust to his size. The whimpers that escape him are swallowed by your tongue and your mouth—along with your own sighs and moans.

Every inch that enters makes you tighten and breathe deeper, and the press of his shaft against the most sensitive walls of your entrance already makes you edge closer to climax.

When you reach the bottom, you feel the tip of his cock kiss your cervix, and pleasure bursts inside you like an unstoppable wave. Your eyes close, your head tilts back slightly, and a moan breaks from your throat, deep and involuntary. “Fuck, you’re so big…” you manage to whisper.

Remmick watches you with adoration. He gently brushes your hair from your face, as if to have a clear view of your expression, to see every single detail, every mark of your reaction. “D'ya like it?” he asks hoarsely, probably tense with the need to move. “D'ya like how I fill ye?”

You nod against his face, your lips brushing his, your breath mingling with his. “Fuck yes… I love it…” you manage to reply, the sound vibrating with sincerity and passion. The sensation of being completely filled by him, of feeling every movement and every pressure of his body against yours, makes you forget everything else.

“Yes? Will ya let me fill ye again?” he asks, and the tone of his voice is a mix of question and plea, a desire to keep being part of your pleasure, not to stop here. To make it so that it isn’t just this night but all the nights to come.

You nod again, and your contact becomes even more intimate. Your noses brush, your breaths mingle, your gazes meet.

You start moving on top of him with firmness, your hips gliding slowly upward and then all the way down.

“I won’t let anyone else have this cock. You’re mine, Remmick, understand?” you whisper, the words laced with sweet possessiveness. You want him to know how special he is, how this moment belongs only to you both, and how impossible it would be to replace what you’re sharing.

Remmick swallows hard and nearly rolls his eyes when your pussy clenches around him in a particular thrust. “Yes, yes, bloody hell, yes…” he answers, his voice broken by pleasure.

You feel him stiffen every time your hips meet again, his body moving just slightly to seek more depth. Whimpers and moans escape from his throat like silent pleas, each sound from his lips making you even more aware of how ridiculously close he is to the edge again.

“Yes what?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, your gaze scrutinizing him carefully, every detail of his face, every micro-expression which told you he hadn't forgotten.

“Yes, ma’am. This cock is yours, I am yours.” His voice is thick, and you can’t even tell if he’s speaking consciously given how undone he is beneath you. “So close… so close, fuck!” he mutters between breaths.

His hands clutch your hips, his thumbs lightly massaging your skin as he tries to make contact, but not enough to take control. You’re still in charge, the rhythm in your hips remains yours.

“Now…” you say, your voice both threatening and mischievous. “I hope you know you have to ask my fucking permission, right?” The words come out forcefully and decisively, and the imperative tone makes the air around you vibrate. As you say it, you grasp his throat firmly to bring him back to attention and receive the focus you deserve.

Remmick nods almost instinctively, unable to say anything else. His body stiffens, but after a moment, a hand slowly, almost hesitantly, lowers to rest on your clitoris. The pressure is gentle, uncertain, yet enough to make a moan escape your mouth, a mix of pleasure and laughter. Biting his throat, you laugh as your body reacts immediately, your hips moving even more decisively on his.

“You’re a clever little man, God… I’ll give you that,” you observe, full of approval. You love men who learn fast.

The rhythm intensifies, the tension in your stomach cord stretching to the limit.

“Remmick… Rem—”

“I’ve got ye, darlin'.”

That desperate tone alone seems enough to break you. The heat flooding your body is intense, penetrating, and you feel every drop of excitement pouring out of you, releasing your system. Your walls squeeze around Remmick, and he barely has time to desperately seek your gaze and approval before letting go inside you.

His moans grow longer, deeper, an echo of surrender and satisfaction resonating against the walls of the room. The movements of your bodies stays synchronized even as his orgasm leaves him trembling and vulnerable, every contraction passing through you like an irresistible call. You feel him press his head just under your chin, as if seeking more intimate contact, an embrace to confirm your connection—but you pull him back.

You lean slightly forward, your face close to his, breathing deep so you can look him in the eyes. You feel the hand on your back supporting your weight so that you rest against his chest.

You both pause, panting but satisfied, your bodies still entwined on the couch.

“You’ve wanted to fuck me for ten years, seriously?” you ask, your voice warm but incredulous, an ironic smile on your lips.

Remmick widens his eyes slightly, his skin still glistening with sweat and hair tousled. He looks at you with that mix of shyness and ardor that makes him irresistible, then lowers his gaze for a moment, as if carefully choosing his words.

“Fifteen… but I didn’t want to seem too pathetic.”

You burst out laughing, a clear, contagious sound that fills the silence of the room. You tilt your face and give him a small kiss on the nose, soft and playful.

But a sudden noise interrupts the laughter. The clang of dishes in the kitchen echoes through the room, making you both jump. Remmick snaps his head in that direction, and you widen your eyes, clinging to each other’s bodies to hide your nudity.

“If you’re going to fuck in the living room, make less noise next time…” your brother’s voice carries from the kitchen, a tone oscillating between irritation and hilarious resignation.

Remmick immediately buries his head in your chest, as if he wants to disappear entirely under your protection, his ears red. You can’t help but stroke his hair, letting him tremble slightly in your arms. Oh, tomorrow will be embarrassing for him.

#OH HELL YEAH PATHETIC WET DOG REM MY FAVE #fic rec

162 notes · View notes

spikedfearn · 1 day ago

Text

One-Shot

🔴 pairing: Brett x fem!reader

🔴 summary: He spares you, but not out of mercy. Ghostface wants something worse than your death—he wants your devotion. What begins as terror becomes a pattern you can’t escape, recorded and replayed until the sound of his voice feels like the only thing you know.

You’re not his victim—you’re his cycle: recorded, ruined, and replayed forever.

🔴 wc: 12k

🔴 a/n: Listen…I have a massive Ghostface kink and this fic is me shamelessly indulging it after obsessing over the idea for weeks. 👻🔪 I know I ran that poll and Cook won by a landslide, but the Brett brainworms hit way too hard, so his chavvy Ghostface au demanded to be written first. I pictured this modernized ghostface disguise while writing, because of course I had to get extra with the details. Huge shout out to Christine @iamyourwayout for making the killer fic banner and Abhi @scannainscanrula for the mdni banner—you’re the real MVPs. I'm impatient so this is not beta read, all mistakes are mine.

🔴 warnings: graphic depictions of violence, major character death (side characters), murder, slasher horror, knifeplay, blood kink, cumplay, spit kink, choking, spanking, humiliation, degradation, possessive behavior, obsession, stalking, noncon/dubcon, recording during sex, photography kink, creampie, power imbalance, predator/prey dynamics, party massacre, psychological manipulation, identity reveal, p-in-v, unprotected sex, unsafe situations, not beta read

🔴 likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

🔴 Main Masterlist

The street is almost too quiet.

Not the kind that settles your nerves, where crickets drill the air and distant traffic hums a steady reassurance. This quiet presses on your ears until you hear your own breath like a flaw, until your footfalls scrape the pavement too loud and too often, until the sodium lamps turn every moth into a frantic shadow. The light is jaundiced, a chemical halo.

Outside it, the dark is heavy as a curtain, thick with autumn damp and leaf rot. The row of semis behind you falls away into hedges and treeline, and beyond that the estate dissolves into nothing but black.

Your boyfriend doesn’t notice. Or he doesn’t care.

He swings the six-pack by its plastic ribs like he’s on patrol with a weapon, though he’s the kind who’d trip on his own bravado long before he ever swung in earnest. He’s drunk enough to speak louder than the night deserves and sober enough to be mean about it.

“Spooky, innit?” he says, shoulder nudging yours. The aluminum clinks, dull and hollow. “Bet you think the bogeyman’s out. Gonna jump from a bin and make us both cry.”

You huff, a breath that means please don’t and you’re not funny and I just want to get home. Your tongue tastes like stale beer and supermarket crisps and an anxiety that never fully left your body after the party. Horror films on the TV, everyone heckling the killer like they’d survive it. A rubber knife under bright living-room lights. The way somebody’s laugh broke too sharp and made your heart kick.

“Can you just walk me the rest of the way and not be a dick about it?” you say, more statement than question.

He snorts. “Christ, you’re wound up. It’s a fox. Or Mr. Davies’s cat. Chill.”

But then there’s a sound: metal against tarmac, a short scrape like a shoe dragging and then the quiet again, deeper than it was before because now there’s a seam in it. Your boyfriend’s mouth goes tight and mean. He squares his shoulders at the hedgerow like the night offended him personally.

“Oi!” he shouts. “That you, mate? We’re not playin’ hide and seek. Come out if you’ve got balls.”

“Stop,” you hiss, your fingers catching his sleeve. “Just—let’s go.”

He shakes you off, swaggering toward the far end of the lamp’s circle. His shadow stretches thin and stringy, a puppet in amber. The hedges there are tall, the gaps between houses blind and black, and the lamppost past that one is dead, a tall dark thing with a burn ring like a throat.

You see it before he does. Or maybe you see it at the same time and your brain refuses to colour it in. The white shape sits cut from the dark with ugly clarity: a face that is not a face, an O of permanent scream, the pits of the eyes bottomless. The hood pulled up is not a robe. It’s a black track jacket. There’s the slick wet shine of leather gloves. The stance is loose, wide, a cocky lean—like a boy at the bus stop who learned early to take up space.

The mask tilts. That’s all.

Your breath stalls. Something cold moves through your body like water spilling from a broken glass.

Your boyfriend chuckles. It’s a sound that wants to be brave and lands somewhere in brittle. “Fuck me,” he says, “fancy dress in August. What, you lose your way to Comic-Con?”

No answer. The figure is still. The knife’s edge catches the light and offers it back in one brief, blade-thin line.

“Piss off,” your boyfriend snaps, stepping nearer. The beer rings creak. “You’re not scary, lad. You’re a knob in a Poundland mask. Show us your face, go on.”

The blade moves like a thought.

There’s an almost domestic noise—meat and metal, wet and certain. Your boyfriend makes a sound you have never heard from him before, shocked and high, and the six-pack buckles as his core buckles, as he stares down at where the knife sits in him like it belongs there.

You scream. It tears out of you, unplanned, and the sound seems to have mass. It hits the hedges and comes back wrong.

The mask is close now. Closer than the distance you remember. You didn’t see him cross it. The knife comes out with a breathy sound and goes back in again. Your boyfriend’s hands slap clumsily at the other boy’s chest, feeling for seams, for purchase, for mercy. Something like lager explodes and sprays the killer’s pants and boots, sticky and sweet, and then red joins it, darker and unforgiving, blooming inside your boyfriend’s shirt like a nasty flower.

He staggers. The masked boy—in the track jacket, in the gloves—catches his wrist mid-swing, twists, and the plastic rings sheer. Cans tinkle and roll. Your boyfriend swings again with his other hand, but the blade finds him under the ribs this time and the sound he makes is a sick dog’s sound, the kind you don’t admit you carry a memory of.

“Not so hard now, are we?” The voice is muffled by the mask but close, too close. It’s not the smooth cinema growl you expect. It’s Midlands grit and estate sarcasm, mean and amused. “All bark, you. All yap.”

Blood spatters your shoes. A mist finds your cheeks. The boy with the knife plants his boot on your boyfriend’s instep and crushes down until something in there pops with a soft wooden crack. Your boyfriend goes down, a heavy knee first, and the killer rides him to the tarmac, hand fisted in his shirt, knife pumping like a piston, practical and vicious. The blade works as if there’s nothing fragile beneath it, only a job.

You can’t look away. You can’t make your body obey you. Your vision narrows until there is only the mask and the mechanised lift and fall of the arm and the wet that paints the road in impatient lines.

“Stop—” your mouth is moving, maybe your voice is too, but you don’t hear it.

The masked boy pauses only when your boyfriend is blinking up at the dead sky and his mouth works around the blood trying to speak its own language. The killer is breathing quick now, but it’s a steady quick, trained. A laugh hums out of him, low, pleased, and he lowers the knife to press the flat of it against your boyfriend’s cheek the way someone might cool a fever. He looks up.

He looks at you.

Everything inside you folds small.

He does not chase you. He does not spring. He stands with the knife in his hand and his shoulders easy and his head cocked, and he watches the way your body is trying to decide whether to run or faint. It feels like a trick of physics: the world is a frozen sheet of resin and only your lungs are moving, desperate fish mouths, trying not to drown in air.

The killer moves—one step, two—and the sound of his boot on grit breaks whatever spell you were under. Your body snaps into itself and you run.

You don’t know how long you run. Your thighs burn. Your breath knifes your ribs. The row of houses telescopes: here, not yours; here, not yours; here, the chipped paint you’ve been meaning to complain about to the landlord, here, the hanging basket you forget to water. Your keys find the lock like you’ve been training for it. The door bangs. You throw the chain. The sound of it sliding home is obscene with relief.

You lean your forehead to the wood. You try to move air around your heart.

Silence again. But this one is indoor silence, cheap walls, the electrical heartbeat of your fridge, the soft, maddening click of the living-room clock. Light is too bright. Your hands are not hands; they are claws that will not open. Blood spiderwebs your forearms; it's gotten under your nails, into the whorls of your fingerprints. Your shirt sticks to your stomach like tape.

You go to the sink on legs that belong to someone else. The tap stutters before it runs. You cup water and throw it at your face until the very cold gives you something to answer. It turns pink in the bowl, then red, then thin again. Your skin smells metallic, mineral. You take your shirt off and it peels with a soft wet kiss from your skin, and then you gag, violent, gut-deep, sudden, and you brace yourself on the counter while your body revolts.

You think, call someone. Call the police. Call anyone.

Your phone is on the bed where you threw it earlier when your bag felt too heavy. You wipe your hands on your jeans and your jeans smear your hands back. You don’t remember deciding to go into your bedroom, but you are in it now with the lamp on and the curtains still open to the night. Your fingers leave prints on the light switch. You try not to look at the window and then you are looking at the window, and your body is a chamber of knives, and nothing is behind the glass but your own reflection and the tired yellow rectangle of the lamp.

You pick up your phone. The lock screen glows with your own face underlaid—some good day, some soft light, a stranger. Your thumb is slow to recognise you. There’s a smear on the screen you can’t stop seeing.

It rings in your hand.

Unknown Caller.

Every hair on your arms goes upright, as if your skin has ears and they all heard something you didn’t.

You answer. Your mouth is too dry for hello.

There’s a breath on the other end, simple, human, the kind of sound you would never notice if your body weren’t tuned to it like prey. And then:

“Evenin’, princess.”

It’s wrong in the mouth and more wrong in your ear. The same voice, dampened by the mask, rounded in the vowels by a childhood you didn’t live. It carries laughter the way some voices carry smoke.

You swallow. Air burns. “Who is this?”

“You run nice,” he says. “Good legs. Nearly ate pavement at Mr. Davies’s hedge, but you sorted yourself. Ten out of ten for the sprint, five for the footwork.”

“Why are you—” Your voice collapses, embarrassed by itself.

“You didn’t say his name,” the caller says. He sounds genuinely curious. “Most girls do. The wailin’ and the beggin’…all ‘please, please, please’ it's bloody fuckin’ annoying. Yours was just air. Bit of a gasp. Pretty sound, that.”

Your grip tightens. Your phone creaks. Your other hand finds your sternum and presses like you can hold yourself inside your own bones if you try hard enough.

“You’re sick,” you say. It sounds small.

“Mm.” He considers. “Reckon I’m honest. Which is almost the same thing, the way people carry on.”

“Why.” You hate the word out of your mouth, soft as a bruise.

He chuckles. It’s fond and cruel. “’Cause I can. ’Cause you looked at me like you do as you’re told. You will, won’t you?” A smile in the consonants. “You were mint, by the way. Blood on your chin, on your little collarbone. Could eat you up. Bet you taste better scared.”

You lurch to the window before your mind can argue, drag the curtain closed in a hard line, the rings rattling. The room shrinks. Sound folds over sound: your breath, the sleeping house, the tremor in the line when he shifts. The memory of the knife in the street plays itself in your vision like a dirty loop.

“You should call someone,” he murmurs. He’s teasing again; you can hear it. “Tell ’em I’ve been naughty.”

“I—I will.” You take a step toward the door like that proves something. “I will.”

“No you won’t,” he says affectionately. “You’ll wash your hands again and you’ll sit on your bed and you’ll listen, ’cause nobody’s talked to you like this before. Your lad talked like a lad. I talk like I know where your pulse is. Don’t I?”

“Where are you,” you whisper.

A tiny pause. “Close enough to see the way you turn your head when you lie.”

Your skin goes hot then cold. Your mouth feels full of pennies. You flick your lamp off with a panic you can’t swallow and then hate yourself for it because dark feels worse, so you snap it back on and the sudden brightness makes your eyes tear.

“What do you want?” you say. It sounds almost steady.

Another chuckle, this one deeper. “You. Simple. Don’t fret. I’m generous. Won’t kill you, princess. Would’ve. Didn’t.” He lets the silence stretch until you can hear your heart brush your throat. “You’re mine now. You’ll learn it. Slow.”

“If you come here—” Your voice abandons threats midway through the sentence like a coward. “If you come here, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” he asks gently. He’s enjoying this. “Ring the police? Cry? S’fine if you cry. I like it. Makes your mouth soft.” His breath ghosts the receiver. “Wash your face, yeah? Get the red off. You looked fit in it, but it’ll crust.”

The line clicks. Nothing. You hold the phone there a second longer like a talisman and then lower it very slowly until it’s in your lap and your head bows under a weight that isn’t physical but might as well be. Your shoulders shake. Your body makes a sound you didn’t tell it to make. You taste salt; you taste iron.

You wash like he told you not because he told you but because the alternative is to look at your hands and see someone else’s life. The sink runs and runs; the water goes pink, clears, goes pink again. You scrub until your skin whines and the mirror offers back a stranger with panic round the eyes. A lock of hair is stuck to your cheek and it is—God—gummed with something that is not yours. You fold. You lean your forehead to the cabinet and breathe through your nose until you aren’t sure you’ll ever breathe through your mouth again.

The house ticks. Pipes settle with tired old-man sounds. From outside, a fox cries with its uncanny, human wail and for a dumb, fraction of a second your body says child and your brain says animal and your nerves say mask. You turn off every larger light on the way to your room because brightness feels like a target and leave the lamp, the little one, because the dark is too full of teeth.

You sit on the bed. Your phone sits face-down beside you like a dog told to stay.

You try to call your friend. You don’t hit the button. You draft a text—call me please—and the words look like they were written by someone who needs to be handled carefully, so you delete them and press your knuckles to your lips until they ache. You picture your boyfriend’s face making a hideous O that had nothing to do with the mask’s one, and then you picture his face as you have always known it, the dumb, douchey bravado, the jokes that landed like coins down a well, and you feel something that is not grief and is not not-grief and it scares you.

Your phone vibrates against the duvet.

Unknown Caller.

You answer because not answering feels worse.

“Good girl,” he says, and the warmth in it, the approval, is obscene. “Knew you’d pick up.”

“Stop calling me,” you say. It trembles and you hate it.

“Look to your right.”

You don’t want to. You do. Your eyes slice sideways without moving your head and the curtain is closed, the fabric cheap and a little sheer and nothing behind it but a false wall of shadow.

“I can hear you thinking,” he says, amused. “Relax. I’m not in your wardrobe. Not under your bed.” A small pause. “Not inside, anyway.”

You can’t help it; your eyes drop to the crack under your door. No shadow. That feels like proof of something and proves nothing.

“What do you want,” you say again, hoarse. “What is this.”

“This is nice,” he says. The word nice in that mouth is a violation. “You and me. Your breath in my ear. Your heart goin’ off like fireworks. I could get used to this.”

You shut your eyes. It's easier to talk to a voice if the world is a lid.

“You killed him,” you say, and somewhere in you, small and furious, is surprised at how flat it comes out. “You killed him like it was nothing.”

“Wasn’t nothin’,” he says. “It was…what it was. He ran his mouth. Came at me with lager and chat. You can’t bring lager to a knife. That’s on him.”

“You’re insane.”

“Nah,” he says, not unkindly. “Just done pretendin’.” Another soft breath, as if he’s looking at something and liking it. “Wash your sheets tomorrow. That copper stink’ll keep you up.”

You open your eyes to the ceiling. There’s a crack in the paint that slowly draws a river map between the corners. Your throat feels full of ground glass. The room contains too much air and none you want.

“Why me,” you say. It is the smallest voice you have.

“’Cause you looked at me like you’d listen,” he says, simply. “’Cause you looked at me like you’d be better when you’re frightened. Some girls go to pieces. You—” His smile finds the line. “You hold together. Makes you sharp. Makes you sweet.”

You don’t have a box to put that in. Your mouth opens and closes. The thought comes and you hate it, and the thought is: You didn’t kill me.

“Not yet,” he says, as if he heard you think it. “Maybe not at all. See how you do.” The next words lower a shade, a caress the size of a threat. “You’re mine now.”

“No.” It’s almost a laugh, how wrong the word is in this context. “No. I’m not. I don’t even—” Your voice breaks on the practicalities. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Don’t need it,” he says, soft satisfaction banked in the syllables. “You’ll learn the other things. The important ones.” The call thins with a sense of him standing. The angle of his breath shifts. “Go on, princess. Lock your window. Draw your curtains right. Drink some water. You’ll want your voice back for when I ring tomorrow.”

The line dies for real. This time, you don’t keep the phone to your ear. You put it face-down again and you sit there in the dead hum of your lamp until the quiet becomes loud and you get up because he told you to and you hate that you are and you slide the window latch into its slot with a tiny clack and you push the curtain so the cheap fabric sits flush.

You drink water at the sink and it tastes like tin and you realise your hands have stopped shaking and that feels like betrayal. When you return to your room, you stand in the doorway a full count of ten like if you enter wrong you’ll trigger something, and then you go in like you always do and let your body find bed because there is nothing else to do.

You don't sleep. Your brain doesn't know how to do anything that isn't rewatching. It plays the white mask. It plays the knife. It plays the boot and the sound the foot made when it broke and the wet rhythm of the blade like something mechanical.

It also plays—wrongly, stupidly—the way his voice said good girl. It sits there in your ear like a bead of mercury, splitting and rejoining, impossible to hold, impossible to ignore. You loathe the shape your skin makes around it.

At some point—minutes, hours—the red at the edge of the curtains softens to a grubby grey that means morning is somewhere. Your lamp is still on. Your phone is where you put it. You doze in brief, vicious scraps that end with your body jerking you up so fast your teeth click.

When you finally stand and peel back the curtain just enough to see without offering yourself, the cul-de-sac is ordinary. Bins rolled to the curb. A milk crate across the way like someone forgot it. A smear on the pavement, long and finger-wide, already drying at the edges, with the clean marks of a night that got accidentally erased around it. On the fence across from your house—a slat chipped and flaking—someone has left the plastic ring from a six-pack hooked over a nail. It moves in the small morning breeze, a ghost of a smile, white and weightless.

You shut the curtain on it and lean your head against the wall.

Down the street, a dog barks twice and gives up. Birds do their earnest small-lung song. Somewhere, a door closes, dull. The world has the audacity to continue.

You put the kettle on. Your hands are steady. You hate that. You hate all of it. You hate the way water sounds like whispering in a quiet house. You hate the way your phone sits. You hate the way the cheap plastic ring will still be there if you look again.

You don’t look again. You drink tea you don’t taste and sit at your table and at some point your phone vibrates twice—some useless app, some ghost of a notification—and your body plays a full second of terror before your brain tells it to stand down. Your heart refuses to obey for longer than that. It goes on hitting your throat like a war drum.

When the real call comes, it will be later. Or sooner. And when it does, you will answer, because not answering is worse. And because the truth coils sick and exact in your chest: he may have killed your boyfriend quick and brutal, but with you? With you, he’s going to take his time.

Outside, beyond the thin skin of your house, somewhere a boy in a tracksuit leans against a fence, the white of his mask turned up to the day, and smiles without a mouth.

The house reeked of warm beer and sweat, the kind of smell that clung to the wallpaper and would linger for days after the last guest stumbled out. Cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling in thin blue ribbons, the ashtrays already overflowing, bottles rolling empty underfoot. Someone had burned an incense stick in the kitchen to mask the stench, but all it did was layer cloying sweetness over the sanitized scent of cheap vodka and body odor.

The living room was packed shoulder to shoulder, everyone stacked on couches, armrests, even the floor, knees pressed to knees. The TV in the corner screamed with the too-bright glow of Hereditary.

Toni Collette’s voice tore through the speakers, raw and throat-shredding, only to be swallowed up by a surge of laughter when the sound startled someone into spilling their drink. Every scare in the film was greeted with cheers, jeers, or dramatic gasps, like the whole room was trying to outdo each other in how unbothered they were.

Beer cans littered the coffee table, condensation soaking the stack of pizza boxes underneath. Someone had drawn a crude dick on the top box in Sharpie. Music thumped low from a speaker in the kitchen, bass bleeding through the plaster, clashing horribly with the sound design of the movie.

You sat tucked in at the corner of a ratty loveseat, legs pulled tight to your chest, plastic cup balanced between your palms. The drink inside had gone flat and warm a long time ago, sticky-sweet against your tongue, but you hadn’t taken more than a sip. The cup gave your hands something to do, an excuse to stay small and silent while the rest of the room shrieked and laughed and shouted at the screen.

Every loud laugh made your stomach flinch. Every scream skinned your nerves raw. The sound bled too easily into memory—the other scream, the one that had ended sharp on the pavement two nights ago, the one you could still hear if you closed your eyes. Your boyfriend’s voice cracking open into something you’d never heard before, something not meant to be heard.

No one here noticed. Why would they? To them, you were furniture: a quiet girl in the corner, taking up as little space as possible, invisible under the crush of bodies and the strobe of the TV. A girl on the carpet popped crisps into her mouth one by one, neon-orange dust bright against her fingertips, and shrieked theatrically at a jump scare. Two boys at the back wrestled over the remote, knocking a can of lager to the floor, foam hissing out across the carpet.

You didn't want to be here, but staying home alone seemed infinitely worse.

“Oi, stop fuckin’ about—rewind that bit!” someone yelled.

You didn’t even lift your head. You stared at the condensation sliding down your cup, watching it bead and trail, anything to keep your gaze off the flickering TV.

A hand appeared suddenly in your periphery, offering you a fresh can. You blinked up, startled.

“We’re dry in here,” the boy said, grin crooked, words slurred just enough to be loose. He pressed the can into your hand like it was your problem now. “Go grab some more from the garage, yeah? Think there’s a case in the beer fridge.”

You frowned. “Why me?”

“’Cause you’re up,” he said cheerfully, already turning back toward the screen. “Be a darling.”

No one else looked your way. No one volunteered. You were dismissed before you’d even stood.

You set your untouched cup on the coffee table, slipped out past the tangle of legs and laughter, and stepped into the kitchen. The door swung shut behind you, muffling the noise to a dull, vibrating hum.

The kitchen was no quieter, only lonelier. The bass from the Bluetooth speaker rattled the cupboards, the counter sticky with spilled mixers and ringed with empty glasses. Someone had left the back door open, letting the night breeze push cigarette smoke in lazy curls across the room. The sharp tang of spilled liquor and lime clung to the air.

You set the can down on the counter, flexing your damp palms against your jeans, and headed for the door at the far end of the kitchen. The one that led to the garage.

The hinges creaked when you pushed it open with your shoulder.

The change was immediate.

The garage smelled like rubber and mildew, old oil stains soaked deep into the cement floor. It was colder, too—your skin prickled with gooseflesh as soon as you stepped inside. The fluorescent tube overhead buzzed in a high, insectile pitch, flickering every few seconds, throwing shadows that twitched across the stacked boxes and leaning tools. The fridge hunched in the corner, an ancient white beast with rust blooming along the edges and duct tape holding the seal tight in places.

You crouched in front of it, fingers curling around the stained plastic handle. Your warped reflection peered back at you in the chrome trim, your face smeared and stretched, like something trying to crawl out of the metal.

Behind you, the door clicked.

Not the soft bump of air pressure pushing it shut on its own. No. A deliberate click. Mechanical, heavy in the silence. The sound of it was so small it might have been imagined. A snick of metal, a subtle click, but it carried through the garage like a gunshot.

You froze, something heavy dropping into the pit of your stomach like a stone, fingers still hooked in the fridge handle. Your warped reflection stared back at you from the chrome, wide-eyed, panicked.

“Hello?”

Your voice didn’t sound like yours. Thin. Strained. It skittered across the cement and came back wrong.

Silence.

You turned, slow, each movement molasses-heavy. The door was closed now, sealed against the kitchen. Your chest tightened.

The scrape came first. Leather against concrete.

And then he was there.

He stepped out of the far corner, half-swallowed by shadow until the fluorescent light cut across the white of the mask. That face—stretched wide in a scream that would never end, eyes like black pits swallowing the light. A black hood pulled low, tracksuit jacket zipped halfway, gloves gleaming faint with oil. Boots planted wide. He didn’t stalk. He sauntered, like the garage belonged to him.

The knife gleamed lazy in his hand.

You staggered back a step until your hip clipped the fridge. The sound carried.

“Miss me?”

The voice was muffled, distorted by the mask, but you’d know it anywhere. Midlands grit, mean and amused. The same voice that had dragged across the phone line in the dark of your room.

Your mouth opened but no sound came out.

He tilted his head, the mask exaggerating the movement into something alien. “What’s the matter, princess? Thought you’d be glad to see me.”

Your stomach lurched. He laughed at the sight of your face, soft and cruel.

“Bet they’re all in there watchin’ that film, aren’t they? Jumpin’ at shadows. Shoutin’ at the telly like it’ll save ’em.” He twirled the knife in his hand, casual, like a boy flipping a lighter. “And here you are. Cornered.”

He closed the distance in three slow steps. You pressed yourself tighter to the fridge, breath shallow, pulse a drumbeat in your throat.

“Stay away,” you whispered, pitiful.

He clicked his tongue. “Where’s that fight, eh? Didn’t see much of it the other night, either. You just stood there lookin’ pretty while your lad bled out.”

The memory crashed into you, hot and metallic, your boyfriend’s scream overlaid with Toni Collette’s from the other room. You sucked in air too fast, choking on it.

Ghostface laughed, low, intimate. “There it is. That look. You’ve got no idea how fuckin’ good you look like that.”

He lunged.

You shrieked, scrambled sideways, bare palms skidding on the slick fridge surface. The knife flashed as he feinted, not cutting, just herding you, laughing as you stumbled toward the garage door.

Your fingers found the handle. Yanked. Locked.

“No, no, no—”

You spun, searching, heart hammering. The only other way out—the doggy door set into the bottom of the garage door. A stupid thing, barely big enough for a terrier.

But panic didn’t care about stupid. Panic made you drop to your knees, claw at the flap, wedge your shoulders through.

Cold air rushed your face, the night just on the other side. You shoved your arms out, shoulders straining, chest scraping. For one wild second you thought you might actually make it.

Then hands closed around your hips.

Gloved. Firm. Possessive.

You screamed, legs kicking, shoes scuffing the cement, but he only laughed—muffled through the mask, breath hot against the back of your thighs.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’, princess?”

He yanked you back an inch, wedging your hips tight in the frame. The edge bit into your ribs. Your arms scrabbled uselessly outside. You were stuck—half in, half out—your ass raised in the garage, your head in the night air.

Behind you, Ghostface chuckled, low and filthy, the sound vibrating straight into your spine.

“Perfect,” he said. “Absolutely fuckin’ perfect.”

Your hips burned where the wooden frame dug into them. Your ribs screamed every time you tried to wriggle forward, but the gap was too tight—you weren’t going anywhere. The cold night air licked your face outside while the garage behind you throbbed with fluorescent buzz and the sound of your own ragged breath.

And then his hands were on you.

He leaned in, mask brushing your ass, hot breath pushing through the plastic and spilling against the back of your thighs.

“Look at you.” His voice was muffled but thick with laughter. “Head out there in the night, ass right here for me. Pathetic little rabbit, caught halfway out the hole.”

You squirmed, kicking, shoes re-scraping against concrete. “Let me go!”

The slap cracked sharp across your ass before the words had finished leaving your mouth. The sting flared bright, heat blooming under your skin.

“Shut up,” he snapped, voice low and mean. “You don’t call the shots. I do.”

Another smack. Harder. Your body jolted forward but the frame held you in place. The mask bumped against you as he leaned closer, laughing.

“Bet you’re wet already, aren’t you?” he taunted. “Stuck here with your little cunt drippin’ like she knows what’s comin’.”

You shook your head violently, denial stuttering out of your throat. “N-no—”

He shoved your skirt up, your waistband down, baring you. The air was cold, humiliating, and then wetter still as he spat directly on your hole. Thick, hot, obscene.

“Filthy little slag,” he muttered, smearing the spit in with his thumb, grinding it against you through the thin stretch of resistance. You gasped, thighs twitching, the sound only making his chuckle deepen.

“Yeah, that’s it. Clench on me. Beg for it. You were made for this.”

You whimpered, pulling at the air outside, but his grip held you open. The rasp of his zipper was louder than the movie playing in the other room, louder than your heartbeat hammering your ears.

Then the blunt head of his cock pressed against you.

He didn’t push in, not yet. He dragged it slow, up and down, smearing precum against you, teasing your folds, circling your hole. Each pass made you twitch, the humiliation thick and choking.

“You feel that? That’s mine. All of it. Gonna stuff you full, make you scream for me while your little mates are in there watchin’ their film. They’ll never know, will they? Not unless I show ’em.”

Your stomach flipped, shame and fear tangling until your vision blurred.

He laughed. “Oh, you like that idea, don’t you?”

Another sharp smack to your ass, then he pressed in harder, just enough to breach you. You yelped, fists pounding the garage door, but he caught it all on his phone—the little red light blinking as he held it up in one hand, capturing every filthy second.

“Say hi to yourself, princess,” he crooned. “Gonna watch this later while I get myself off. Might even send it to you, let you watch what a slut you are.”

He spat again, the wet splatter sliding down to join the mess between your thighs. The blunt head pushed in deeper this time, stretching you, forcing you open around him.

“Christ,” he groaned, voice muffled in the mask. “Tight little bitch. Cunt’s grippin’ me already.”

You tried to shake your head, tried to crawl forward, but the frame held you trapped. All you could do was take it.

The stretch burned, sharp at first, then molten as he forced himself deeper. You clawed at the air outside, nails scraping uselessly at the driveway, but the frame bit into your ribs and held you fast. The sterilized light above buzzed in and out, strobing the garage in broken flashes—mask, knife, your trembling body bent in half.

He bottomed out with a rough grunt, hips flush against your ass. One gloved hand squeezed your hip hard enough to bruise, the other holding his phone steady.

“Look at that,” he rasped, thrusting once, shallow, enough to make you gasp. “Stuck in a fuckin’ dog door, gettin’ stuffed full of cock. You’re pathetic.”

The knife scraped cold along your back, the flat pressed down between your shoulder blades as if pinning you tighter. Every movement sent a shiver through your spine, fear and arousal twisted together until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“Bet you’ll watch this later,” he sneered, giving a sharp snap of his hips that made the wood creak. “Bet you’ll get yourself off to the sight of me poundin’ you like a bitch in heat. Don’t lie.”

You tried to shake your head, whimpering, but the sound melted into a moan when he spanked you hard. The slap cracked through the garage, flesh smarting, skin stinging as he grabbed a handful of your ass and spread you open for the camera.

“That’s the noise I wanted,” he chuckled darkly. “Little slut can’t keep quiet, can she?”

He pulled almost all the way out, the head of his cock dragging against your swollen rim, smearing spit and precum in messy circles. Then he spat again, hot, wet, it dribbled down to join the slick, and he slammed back in, the force jolting your body forward in the frame.

“Christ—tight fuckin’ cunt. You’re squeezin’ like you love it.” His breathing rasped through the mask, harsh and ragged. “Say it. Say you love it.”

“P-please—”

The knife pressed harder against your back, a warning.

“Say it.”

Your throat caught. “I—I love it.”

“That’s my girl.” He gave another brutal thrust, then another, each punctuated by your muffled cries. His gloved thumb found your clit, rubbing rough circles, forcing your body to betray you. The pleasure built hot and unbearable, no room to deny it, no room to breathe.

“You gonna cum on my cock, princess?” he taunted, voice low and vicious. “Gonna squirt all over me while I film you, stuck here like the dumb fuckin’ slag that you are?”

Your answer was a broken sob, your body clenching hard around him as you came, wetness slicking his thrusts, loud enough to echo in the garage. He laughed, cruel and triumphant, grinding into you while you shuddered helplessly.

“Good little slut. Knew you’d give in.”

He pulled out suddenly, leaving you empty and aching. You whimpered, half from relief, half from loss, until you felt his hand smear hot across your ass.

He was stroking himself above you now, phone angled to capture it all—your bare body trembling in the frame, ass pushed up, cum-slick hole gaping open. His voice went ragged as he worked himself, spitting one last time to smear it down your back.

“Gonna cover you,” he growled. “Gonna drip down that slutty hole so you remember who you fuckin’ belong to.”

The first hot stripe hit your skin, shocking against the chill of the garage. Then another. He groaned low through the mask as he came across your ass and lower back, dragging his gloved hand through it, smearing it down until it began to drip, messy, obscene. All of it on camera.

“Look at that,” he panted, phone trained steady. “Drippin’ down your cunt like it’s meant to. That’s mine. You’re mine.”

The red light blinked one more time before he clicked the recording off.

He gave your ass a final sharp slap, then stepped back, leaving you trembling and pinned in the doorframe, his spend cooling as it slid down your skin.

From the living room, the movie screamed again—Toni Collette’s voice tearing through the walls—and the sound mingled horribly with the last whimper that broke free from your throat.

The silence after was almost worse than the thrusts.

You were left hanging in the frame, half in, half out, every muscle trembling from strain. His cum slid down your back in slow, sticky rivulets, tickling, humiliating, making you twitch. The air bit cold against it. The doggy flap rattled faintly where your weight pressed, every tiny movement making the wood creak.

Behind you, his boots scuffed the floor. He zipped his fly, chuckling under his breath.

“You looked good like that,” he said, tone casual, like you were just another notch in a night’s work. The plastic mask loomed close for one last second, breath hot through the slits. “Pathetic. Perfect. Mine.”

Then he was gone.

No dramatic exit, no knife plunged into your spine. Just retreating footsteps and the faint creak of the kitchen door. The fluorescent tube buzzed back into steady light, showing you the empty garage.

You whimpered, twisting, shoulders aching. It took everything you had to wrench yourself free of the frame. The wood scraped your ribs raw as you tumbled backward, collapsing on the cold cement floor. Your knees ached where they hit.

For a long moment you couldn’t move. The only sound was your own breath, ragged, and the faint roar of the movie filtering through the walls. Screams and sobs from Hereditary bled into laughter and cheers from the living room.

They had no idea.

Your hands shook as you dragged your clothes back into place, trying to wipe yourself down with trembling fingers. It didn’t work—the mess smeared more than it cleaned. You bit down on a sob and shoved it back inside.

“Oi!” a voice shouted from the living room. “Where’s the beer?”

Your heart leapt into your throat.

You forced yourself upright, legs shaky, and staggered to the beer fridge. Your reflection in the chrome strip looked monstrous—hair wild, eyes swollen, skin flushed. A girl you didn’t recognize. A girl you’d never admit to being.

You grabbed the case of cans, pressed it to your chest, and forced your body back through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the living room.

“Finally,” someone groaned, snatching the case from you.

No one noticed your face. No one noticed your silence. The movie roared on, friends laughed and shoved each other, the party alive and oblivious.

You sank back into the loveseat, hands folded tight in your lap, pulse roaring in your ears and felt it—the slow slide of his spend still dripping down your skin, soaking into your underwear. Your stomach turned cold. The video on your phone wasn’t the only proof. He’d made sure you couldn’t forget him, not even for a second.

Then your phone buzzed for a second time in your lap. Not a video this time. A missed call. Same number. No voicemail. Just a log that sat there like a fingerprint you couldn’t wipe away.

Morning tasted stale in your mouth.

The party had bled on until nearly dawn, voices slurring and thinning out, the house gradually emptying of bodies until the only thing left was the reek—beer gone sour in the carpet, cigarette ash ground into linoleum, half a pizza fossilizing on the counter. The living room was a graveyard of cans and limbs, your friends collapsed in drunken heaps, the TV still glowing faint with its blue “no signal” screen.

You’d barely slept.

Every time your eyes closed, you were back in the garage—half-stuck, humiliated, his gloved hands bruising your hips, the mask breathing against the back of your thighs. You felt the sting of his palm, the cold press of the knife, the hot, humiliating slick on your skin. You felt the lens of his phone, capturing it all.

You’d scrubbed yourself raw in the upstairs bathroom before creeping into bed. Soap burned your ribs where the doorframe had scraped. You’d scoured your back until it was pink and tender, but when you touched your skin, you swore you could still feel it there, sticky, cooling, his.

Now you sat at the kitchen table with a mug of tea you hadn’t touched, head pounding, stomach twisted. Through the open window, birds sung their idiot dawn songs. The world outside looked ordinary—kids on bikes, the rumble of a garbage truck—but your skin felt like a costume you couldn’t peel off.

Your phone buzzed.

The sound cracked through the kitchen like thunder.

You flinched, tea sloshing, nearly spilling. Slowly, like it might bite you, you picked it up.

Unknown Number

> File Attached.

Your lungs seized.

You tapped it open.

The screen lit with the grainy, handheld footage. Your body bent in the doggy door, skirt rucked up, skin bare, his hand spreading you, his voice a muffled taunt through the mask. The camera shook with each thrust, your muffled sobs spilling out over the tiny speaker. The angle shifted just enough to capture his finish across your back, the drip sliding down, obscene, humiliating.

The clip ended on the mask filling the frame, black eyesockets swallowing the light. His voice, distorted and smug, rasped: “You’re mine now.”

The screen went black. Your reflection stared back—wide-eyed, stricken, hands trembling.

A noise slipped out of you before you could stop it. Half a sob, half a moan.

You slammed the phone face-down on the table, as if that could erase it. But the images were seared into your head, replaying on a cruel loop.

A new buzz rattled the phone.

Unknown Number

> Bet you’ve watched it twice already.

You shoved your chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. “No,” you whispered, shaking your head, though there was no one to hear you. “No, I haven’t.”

The phone buzzed again.

> Liar.

Your stomach flipped. You could almost hear his voice, Midlands grit wrapped in laughter, saying it aloud. You pressed a hand to your chest like you could keep your heart from leaping out.

Outside, a bin lid clattered as the garbage truck lifted it. The sound made you jump. You yanked the curtain tighter across the window.

The phone buzzed again.

> Red hoodie. Looks good on you.

You froze.

Your head jerked down. You were wearing it. The old red hoodie you’d grabbed from the floor this morning, strings chewed at the ends, sleeves too long.

Your throat went tight.

Slowly, your eyes crept up to the window.

Nothing but the bright blue strip of sky and the hedges lining the street.

But your skin prickled like you were standing under a spotlight.

You left the house late that afternoon, phone heavy in your pocket like a live wire. The red hoodie clung to you like a bad omen, but you couldn’t bring yourself to take it off. Every step down the pavement felt watched.

You checked over your shoulder three times before you reached the corner shop. Nothing. Just the hum of traffic and a kid dragging a scooter across the curb. Still, you couldn’t shake it—the prickle at the base of your neck, the certainty that if you turned quick enough, you’d catch a black hood vanishing into shadow.

The bell over the shop door rang falsetto as you pushed inside. Bright strip lights buzzed overhead, too sterile, too revealing. You grabbed crisps and a bottled drink without looking, fingers fumbling coins at the counter. The shopkeep didn’t glance twice at you. Nobody noticed the way your pulse jumped when the bell rang again, faint behind you.

You didn’t look back.

On the walk home, the weight of him pressed closer. Boots scuffing against tarmac a beat behind yours. A low laugh carried just far enough to reach you before it died. Every time you turned, the street stretched empty.

By the time you reached your estate, your hands were clammy around the plastic bag, and the air felt thick, hard to swallow. You fumbled your key in the lock—too slow, too loud—and then the phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

> Nice view from behind. Should wear those shorts more often.

Your breath locked in your chest. You shoved the door open, slammed it shut, twisted the lock with shaking fingers.

Silence inside. Only your own heartbeat.

The phone buzzed again.

> Don’t hide, princess. Makes me want to drag you out.

Later, in the flat bathroom, the tap rattling to life, you caught him.

Movement in the mirror first—something outside the window, behind your shoulder. You snapped around, throat tight, and there he was at the edge of the car park. Black hood, mask white against the grey light, just standing there. Watching.

By the time you blinked, he was gone.

That night, the call came.

Not the buzz of a message. A proper ring, vibrating the phone across your nightstand.

You answered before you thought not to.

“Miss me?” The voice was smug, muffled, alive.

You didn’t reply.

“I’ve been patient,” he said, each word low and deliberate. “But you’re makin’ me hungry.”

The line went silent. You strained to hear—background noise, breath, anything. Then:

“Open the door.”

Your stomach plummeted.

You whispered, “No.”

He laughed. The sound rasped through the speaker, sharp as gravel. “Don’t worry, I’ll help.”

A knock rattled your bedroom door.

You dropped the phone.

The knob turned slow. Hinges creaked. And then he was inside—mask first, blade drawn, his other hand already reaching for you.

The door clicked shut behind him before you could run. The mask gleamed in the dim light of your room, that hollow scream fixed on you, swallowing the space. The knife caught the glow from your lamp, a single sharp wink as he lifted it to his shoulder.

“Thought you could shut me out?” His voice was low, edged with laughter. “Cute.”

You stumbled back until your legs hit the mattress. Your phone lay on the carpet where you’d dropped it, screen cracked with a thin spiderweb, still lit up with Unknown Number.

“Please—”

The knife pressed flat under your chin, tilting your face up. Cold steel, steady in his hand.

“Don’t beg unless I tell you to.”

You froze, throat tight against the blade.

He shoved you back onto the mattress, your hoodie rucked up around your ribs. He straddled your hips, knife poised against your sternum now, and with his free hand tugged his phone from his pocket. The little red light blinked alive. Recording.

“Smile for the camera, princess,” he mocked. “Gonna make this one special.”

He dragged the knife down, slow, scoring the fabric of your hoodie until it split open. The sound of tearing cotton filled the room, obscene in its intimacy. Underneath, bare skin goose-pimpled under the draft.

“Pretty,” he rasped, thumb grazing your nipple before flicking it hard enough to sting. You gasped, shame flooding your chest, but he only laughed.

The knife shifted lower, tracing your stomach, circling your navel. Then he set it aside, within reach, and spit directly on your chest. The wet smack landed hot, sliding down between your breasts. He smeared it with his gloved thumb, pressing hard until you whimpered.

“Slutty little mess,” he taunted, phone angled to capture your face as he slapped you across the cheek. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to shock, to leave heat blooming on your skin. “Bet you’re soaked already.”

He yanked your shorts down, exposing you fully. The air felt vicious on your skin. His hand came down hard across your thigh, a loud crack echoing in the small room.

“Open up.”

You hesitated. His palm struck again, harder, making you jolt.

“Open. Or I’ll carve it into you instead.”

You obeyed, legs trembling as they spread. He spat again, thick and wet, directly onto your cunt. It dripped down your folds, sticky and humiliating, and he rubbed it in with two fingers until you were squirming against the mattress.

“That’s better. Look at you—soaking my glove, desperate already.”

He tapped the head of his cock against your slit, teasing, dragging it up and down, smearing precum across you. Every time you tried to lift your hips, he pulled back, denying you.

“Pathetic,” he sneered, spanking your inner thigh this time, the cherried imprint making your body jerk. “You want it that bad, huh? Say it. Say you want it.”

You shook your head, heat flooding your face.

The knife was back in his hand, flat pressed against your throat. The cold bit into your skin, nearly unbearable against your feverish flesh.

“Say. It.”

Your voice cracked. “I want it.”

“Louder.”

“I want it!”

His laugh was muffled, ragged through the mask. “Knew you’d be my whore.”

He slammed into you in one brutal thrust, forcing a cry from your throat. His gloved hand clamped over your mouth, muffling it, while the phone captured everything—your wide eyes, the tears brimming, the way your body bucked under him.

“Good girl,” he groaned, hips snapping into you, relentless. “Clenchin’ on me like you’ve been waitin’ for it. Filthy fuckin’ slut.”

He pulled back just enough to spit again, this time straight into your open mouth. You gagged, instinctive, but he grabbed your chin, forcing you to swallow.

“Swallow it all. My spit, my cock—you take everything I give you bitch.”

The knife hovered at your cheek now, cold and sharp, a constant reminder of how brittle the line was.

His thrusts grew rougher, the bed frame slamming the wall in rhythm. “Say it,” he demanded, each word punctuated by a snap of his hips. “Say you’re mine.”

Tears streaked your face. You choked on the words, but you said them. “I’m yours.”

“That’s right.” His groan tore out of him, guttural, triumphant. “Mine to fuck, mine to film, mine to ruin.”

He shifted his phone lower, catching the sight of him driving into you, your cunt stretched around him, glistening. He spat again, this time onto your clit, and smeared it roughly with his thumb, making you jerk under him.

“You gonna cum for me?” he taunted. “Do it. Cum on my cock like the needy bitch you are. Do it while I’ve got the knife to your throat.”

Your body betrayed you. Pleasure surged hot and unbearable, ripping through you in a humiliating flood. You writhed under him, muffled cries spilling against his glove, your cunt clenching tight as you came hard around him.

He laughed, dark and pleased, grinding into you. “That’s my girl. My perfect little whore.”

Your body still shook with the aftershocks of your orgasm, thighs twitching, nails clawing uselessly at the sheets. He didn’t slow. If anything, your climax only spurred him on. His hips snapped harder, the mask looming over you, plastic mouth locked in its eternal scream.

“Look at you—fuckin’ dripping, milkin’ me like your cunt knows who owns it.” His voice was ragged, guttural under the mask. “You’re mine, princess. All mine.”

The knife grazed your cheek, not cutting, just a cold threat. His gloved hand still pinched your jaw, forcing you to face his phone. The little red recording light glared down, catching every tear streaking your cheeks, every broken cry.

“Say it again,” he growled, thrusting deep. “Say you’re mine.”

You gasped the words, broken. “I’m yours—”

“That’s right.”

He slammed into you over and over, the head of his cock battering that tender spot until you sobbed from overstimulation. Each thrust drove the point home—there was no escape, no mercy. Just him, claiming you in every way possible.

“You feel that?” he snarled, pressing the knife flat against your throat as his pace turned savage. “I’m gonna pump you full. Gonna leave you stuffed, dripping my spend. You’ll walk round with me inside you, rememberin’ who you fuckin’ belong to.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, shame and heat colliding. The sound of his breathing through the mask filled the room, harsh and animal.

He grunted, hips jerking, losing rhythm as he shoved in deep and held there, buried to the hilt. The moment hung suspended, heavy, before he groaned low and thick—

—and the flood of heat filled you.

You cried out at the sudden rush, your walls clenching around him involuntarily as his cum spilled deep inside, spreading hot, dripping already as he ground himself against you to the root.

“Take it,” he hissed, voice shaking with release. “Take every fuckin’ drop.”

He pulled his phone down to capture it: his cock still inside you, your hole stretched and leaking as he dragged back just enough to let the thick mess start spilling out. His glove smeared it against your folds, spreading it with deliberate, obscene care.

“Look at that,” he chuckled breathlessly, angling the phone to catch the drip sliding down onto the sheets. “Cunt can’t hold it. Can’t keep me in. You were made to be filled, weren’t you, princess?”

Your cheeks burned hot, tears streaking, but your body trembled helplessly beneath him.

He gave you a sharp slap on the thigh, making you jolt. “Answer me.”

“Yes—” It tore out of you, a sob. “Yes.”

He laughed, satisfied, tucking himself back into his track pants but never shutting off the camera. He gave your pussy one last rough slap, watching the cum drip freely in the frame.

“That’s mine,” he muttered, zooming in. “Proof you belong to me.”

Finally, he clicked the recording off. The mask tilted down toward you, breathing harsh, voice muffled but clear:

“Better get used to it, princess. You’re my hole now. And I’ll fill you whenever I fuckin’ like.”

Then he was gone, slipping out as suddenly as he’d entered, the knife vanishing with him.

You were left sprawled across your sheets, thighs sticky, cunt leaking, your body aching and raw. The silence after was deafening.

Your phone buzzed once on the floor. The screen lit with a new message.

Unknown Number.

> File Attached.

You didn’t need to open it. You already knew what it was.

The second party was bigger. Louder. Messier.

The kind of night that burned itself out before it ended, destined to rot in everyone’s memory as just another house trashed, another morning-after hangover. But to you, the air was thick with something else entirely.

Everywhere you turned, bodies pressed close, sweat sticking shirts to skin. Someone had dragged speakers into the living room, bass rattling the windowpanes, bleeding into the shrieks of laughter. Beer stank sweet and sour, soaking into carpet and couch cushions. The kitchen counter was a graveyard of bottles—vodka, gin, cheap cider—and cups were scattered across every flat surface, most abandoned, half-full, already buzzing with flies.

The TV was on again, but tonight it was playing Talk to Me, blaring on the flatscreen in bursts of pale LCD light. Every scream from the movie blended into real ones—people shouting over each other, jumping at the scares, trying to laugh it off louder than they were scared.

You hovered at the edge of it all, plastic cup in your hands, the bony ridges of your knuckles straining against the thin skin there.

No one else felt it.

The heat under your skin, the itch at the back of your neck. Every flicker in the corner of your eye made you jump. Every slam of a cupboard door in the kitchen made your stomach clench. You’d spent the whole day waiting for this. Waiting for the knock. The call. The mask.

Your phone buzzed once in your pocket.

You didn’t look.

A girl stumbled past you, shrieking with laughter, clutching a boy’s arm as he dragged her toward the back garden. Someone sprayed cider across the living room, and the sticky mist clung to your face, your hoodie. Your friends were scattered through the chaos, too drunk, too loud, no one watching you close enough to notice how rigid you were.

The bass dropped again. The walls trembled. The film screamed.

And then, like someone had flipped a switch, the house went black.

The music cut mid-beat. The TV screen died. For a second there was only the echo of voices, a laugh cut short, the scrape of a bottle tipping over. Then the first scream tore through the dark.

The blackout lasted only a second, but panic bloomed instantly.

Someone shrieked, nervous laughter breaking too high. Another voice—angry, slurred—yelled for the lights. The shuffle of feet, the crash of a bottle against the floor. The smell of spilled beer went sharp and sour in the dark.

Then the front window shattered.

The scream that followed wasn’t playful. It was raw. Wet. Cut short.

The living room erupted—bodies surging in every direction, hands fumbling for phones, the glow of screens flickering desperate blue across terrified faces.

And in the middle of it stood the mask.

Ghostface moved through the chaos like he was born for it. Knife flashing in the dim, boots solid on the floor. The first boy to lunge at him got his throat opened ear to ear, blood spraying hot across the TV screen. Another stumbled backward, hands clapped to his stomach where the blade had already punched through, intestines spilling like party streamers.

The crowd broke into two waves—half bolting for the back garden, half trying to cram through the hall. Ghostface laughed, loud and cruel under the mask, before shoving a girl back against the wall and driving the knife into her chest. He pinned her there like an insect, twisting the blade as she kicked.

The room was a slaughterhouse within minutes.

Someone tripped over the coffee table and got stomped down hard, skull splitting against broken glass. Another tried to crawl toward the door and had their spine split with a downward stab. The floor turned slick, shoes skidding in blood.

You couldn’t move. Your back pressed flat to the wall, cup still clutched uselessly in your hand. The smell of copper and smoke burned the inside of your nose. The screams blurred, bodies clattering around you, but all you saw was the mask turning toward you.

The hollow black eyes found yours.

He pushed through the bodies without hurry, knife dripping red. Every step closer pressed your lungs tighter, until you dropped the cup and bolted.

You barely cleared the kitchen before he caught you.

A gloved hand clamped around your wrist, wrenching you back. You shrieked, kicking, nails catching the counter edge. He laughed, low in your ear, breath hot through the mask.

“Not runnin’ off, princess. Not tonight.”

The knife waved lazy in his free hand, already painted with your friends’ blood. He shoved you down the hall, past the bodies spilling onto the floor, until your back hit a bedroom door. He kicked it open, dragged you inside, and slammed it shut behind you.

The noise outside dulled to a storm of distant screams, pounding feet, the occasional crash of something shattering. Your pulse was louder than all of it.

Ghostface shoved you back onto the bed, the springs creaking under your weight. His knife dripped onto the carpet between you, dark stains spreading in uneven dots. He stood over you, chest heaving, the mask’s hollow mouth locked on your face.

You tried to crawl backward, nails clawing at the sheets, but he caught your ankle and yanked you back down the bed in one savage pull. You screamed, throat tearing, but he only laughed.

“Quiet, princess. Nobody left to hear you anyway.”

The mask tilted, savoring your terror. Then, slowly, deliberately, his gloved fingers hooked the edge of it.

He pulled it off.

Brett’s face filled the space where the mask had been. Sweat dampened his hair, sticking to his forehead. His mouth twisted in a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. They were bright, wild, lit from within like this was the best night of his life.

“Surprised?” His drawl was clearer without the plastic muffling it, sharp and mocking. “Shouldn’t be. Only one who’s ever looked at you proper is me.”

Your body froze. Your breath hitched hard. Brett. The chavvy menace from the estate. The boy you’d dismissed, ignored, avoided.

And now—this.

He leaned closer, knife still in his hand, blade cold as he slid it along your cheek. “You’re mine. Always were. Mask was just for fun.”

He shoved you onto your stomach, pressing your face into the mattress, hips pinning you down. You felt the weight of him, the heat of his body, the scrape of his zipper.

“Gonna fuck you like this while they all bleed out outside. Make you moan while their screams die. Filmin’ it too. Wanna see your face when you realise it’s me stretchin’ you open.”

You thrashed weakly, but he slammed your wrists into the bedframe, pinning them with one hand. The phone in the other blinked its red light, already recording.

“Say my name,” he ordered, cock rubbing along your slit, teasing, smearing precum against you. “Say who owns you.”

You shook your head, sobbing.

The knife pressed flat against the back of your neck. “Say it.”

Your voice cracked. “B-Brett—”

“That’s it,” he growled, shoving forward. The blunt head breached you, forcing your body to stretch around him. He groaned low, muffled against your shoulder. “Tight little slut. Always knew you’d fit me perfect.”

He spat down between your thighs, the hot mess sliding over your cunt, easing the glide as he pushed deeper. “Filthy. You like it, don’t you? My cock inside while the whole house dies.”

His hips snapped forward, bottoming out with a harsh grunt. The bed jolted, frame thudding against the wall in rhythm. You muffled a cry against the sheets, but the phone caught it anyway, red light blinking.

“That’s right,” Brett panted, thrusting hard, each word broken by his rhythm. “Take it. Take my cock like a good whore.”

The slap of skin on skin filled the room, mixing with the muffled chaos outside. He spanked you hard, once, twice, laughing when your body jerked. “Knew you’d like it rough. Bet you’d spread your legs quicker if I told you to.”

The knife dragged down your spine, leaving a cold trail that made your whole body shiver. He tapped it against your ass cheek, playful, cruel. “Bleedin’ all over each other out there, and here you are, gettin’ stuffed like it’s your fuckin’ job.”

You moaned, broken, the sound spilling out before you could choke it down.

Brett groaned behind you, fucking harder, sweat dripping onto your back. “That’s my girl. My perfect little fucktoy.”

Brett wrenched you up off the mattress mid-thrust, dragging your back against his chest. His arm locked around your waist, holding you flush to him while his cock drove in deep, savage, relentless. The mask dangled from his wrist now, swinging with every brutal snap of his hips, but his face was bare against your shoulder—sweaty, grinning, wild.

“Look at you,” he hissed in your ear, teeth scraping your skin. “Squeezin’ me like you don’t wanna let me out. Fuckin’ perfect.”

His free hand slid up, gloved fingers wrapping lightly around your throat. Not tight enough to cut air—just enough to make your pulse hammer against his palm, just enough to remind you that he could. His thumb pressed under your jaw, tilting your head back until you couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

“Smile for me, princess.”

The phone flashed.

You choked on a sob as the light seared your vision, your own face caught wide-eyed and ruined in the glow, your mouth parted as he filled you. Another flash, this time angled down, catching his cock buried to the hilt inside you, your thighs trembling, slick and obscene.

He laughed against your neck, low and cruel. “That’s goin’ straight in the wank bank. Gonna stroke my cock to these later, relive it every fuckin’ night.”

The camera clicked again—your ass red from his handprints, his cum from earlier still smeared faintly across your back, now mixed with the sweat dripping from both of you. He angled the phone to capture his hand around your throat, the blur of his hips driving into you, your body arched helpless against him.

“Pathetic little slag,” he growled, breath hot in your ear. “Love bein’ filmed, don’t you? Gonna watch yourself get ruined over and over. Maybe I’ll send a few more to you—let you finger yourself to the sight of me fuckin’ you raw.”

His hips slammed harder, faster, the bed frame hammering the wall in a relentless rhythm. Every thrust shoved his cock deeper, battering you open until you were sobbing into his grip.

“Say my name,” he ordered, squeezing your throat just a fraction harder.

“B-Brett—”

“Louder.”

“Brett!”

“That’s right. Mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours!”

The words broke on a moan as his thumb flicked your clit, rough, merciless, pushing you to the edge again. Your body convulsed, cunt clamping around him, slicking him wetter as another orgasm ripped through you. He groaned, shoving deeper, his teeth scraping your ear.

“Fuck—yeah, that’s it. Cum on me. Milk my cock, you filthy whore.”

The phone flashed again, catching your face twisted in ecstasy, his hand tight on your throat, your body spasming against him. He shoved the device back into his pocket without missing a beat, both hands on you now—one gripping your throat, the other clamped vicious on your hip as he lost rhythm, hips jerking.

“Gonna fill you up,” he snarled, voice ragged. “Paint your cunt so deep it’ll drip for days. You’ll smell like me, taste like me, fuckin’ belong to me.”

The words broke into a groan as he slammed one last time, buried to the root. Heat flooded you, thick and overwhelming, spilling deep until it leaked back around him. He ground himself into you, milking every drop, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

“Take it,” he growled, low and feral. “Take my cum like the little cumdump you are.”

You sobbed, trembling, his cock still pulsing inside you. His hand eased off your throat, sliding up to cup your cheek almost mock-gentle as he pressed his lips to your ear.

“You’re mine now, princess. Not just in a mask. Me. Brett. Say it.”

You whispered it, broken: “I’m yours.”

He laughed, satisfied, pulling out slow, watching the mess drip down your thighs onto the sheets. He snapped one last photo with his phone—his cum seeping out of you, your cunt gaping, your body slack and ruined.

“Fuckin’ perfect.”

Outside, the screams were already dying down. The house smelled like blood and sweat and sex, the walls echoing with silence where chaos had been. He tucked himself back into his pants, knife back in hand, mask dangling at his side.

“Don’t worry, princess,” he said, smirking down at you, sweat shining on his brow. “They’ll remember the massacre. You’ll remember me.”

And then he was gone, leaving you wrecked, leaking, your phone buzzing minutes later with a new message:

Unknown Number.

> File Attached.

A single photo.

You, back pressed to his chest, his hand curled around your throat, eyes puffy and discolored from tears, his cock buried inside you.

Caption: Mine.

By the time the sirens came, the house was quiet.

The screams had burned themselves out hours ago, leaving only the drip of water from a burst pipe in the kitchen and the sticky silence of blood drying on walls and floors. Bodies lay where they’d fallen, twisted across the carpet, slumped against doorframes, sprawled half out of windows. A slaughterhouse disguised as a semi-detached.

They pulled you out in a blanket, your body limp, your eyes hollow. Questions came—What happened? Who was it? Did you see him?—but you couldn’t make your mouth work. Your throat was raw, your chest bruised, your thighs aching, and all you could taste was copper. The paramedic’s latexed hands were too gentle. You flinched from them anyway.

The police called it a massacre. Ghostface. Another spree, another faceless killer in a mask. Survivors would talk about the blackout, about the knife flashing in the dark. Nobody would say Brett’s name. Nobody but you.

But you didn’t.

You sat on your bed days later, curtains drawn tight, the air in your room stale with sweat and silence. The sheets still smelled like him no matter how many times you washed them. You couldn’t look in the mirror without seeing the flash of the camera, your own face caught ruined and wide-eyed.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Unknown Number.

Your hand trembled as you answered.

“Miss me?”

His voice was clearer without the mask, rough and amused, the Midlands drag curling around the vowels like a fine mist.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“Thought so,” Brett said, pleased. “Don’t worry, princess. I ain’t done with you. Not by a long fuckin’ shot.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

“You’ll learn to love me proper,” he murmured, intimate as a whisper in the dark. “And if you don’t…” A pause. The faint click of a lighter, a drag, the exhale of smoke curling down the line. “…I’ll make you.”

The call ended.

You stared at the dead screen, your reflection faint in the black glass. Your hand shook, pressing the phone to your chest, holding it like it might still be warm from him.

Outside, the estate carried on as if nothing had happened—kids yelling, cars idling, dogs barking. Ordinary life.

But you knew better.

Somewhere close, Brett was watching. Waiting. Planning.

And you were his.

To record. To ruin. To repeat.

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