#slasher reader insert

[blushingamethyst]

Unpopular opinion,

Too many men are written as “dom daddy” types in fics.

Like be for real, that man would be honored to be your floor mat.

He’s not giving orders, he’s taking them.

Stop being afraid, put on your big boots, and step on that man.

[ozzgin]

content: gender neutral reader, NSFW

Y'all...hear me out. Imagine going to a haunted house with your friends, and halfway through your group is chased by one of the hired scares.

It's a tall, muscular, masked man in a bloodied apron and a threatening knife. You immediately blush at the sight (obviously) and slow your pace. As your friends scramble for the exit, you pretend to get lost and reach a dead end.

He seems to have picked up on your intentions, because he walks towards you until you've reached the wall, then places a hand above you, essentially trapping you underneath his massive frame.

"Shouldn't you be running away?" he asks, throwing a quick glance to the security cameras and making sure you're out of view.

He doesn't wait for you to respond and lowers himself to your ear.

"What's your name, love?"

Your knees weaken at his deep, harsh voice, but you manage to mumble a response.

"Alright, then. Tell me, what did you want me to do once I caught up with you, (Y/N)?"

His other hand points the blade against your chest, then lightly drags it across your body, stopping above your groin.

Anyways, you get fucked dumb by a slasher, in a haunted house. Good luck returning to your friends and keeping a straight face while you're still dripping with his load.

Thanks for coming to my horny TED Talk.

[ghostiesnightmare]

The Rules We Keep

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader Summary: While working in the Heelshire manor, you were given one warning: follow the rules. As near-supernatural events rock you to your core, the rules seem to hold you in a vice-like grip. As paranoia takes hold, a chilling discovery marks the start of a deadly game. The rules were meant to keep you safe; but what if following them was the most dangerous thing of all? TW: DARK content, read at your own risk. Non-con, stalking, nudity, foul language, violence, glory-hole, sense deprivation, power imbalance, orgasm denial, degradation, unprotected sex, restraints, rough sex, abuse, creampies, and more. Word Count: 9,623 MDNI- NSFW

-----

The Heelshire mansion was your own personal hell.

The sprawling stone structure seemed to stretch onwards forever, with nooks and crannies at every turn. With multiple floors, countless staircases, and forgotten rooms the manor seemed to be much more of a labyrinth than a household. Doors opened into empty cellars, books activated secret passageways, and every waking moment seemed to present another mystery.

The house itself acted as if it were alive, the floorboards creaking under the slightest pressure, windows hissing at the faintest breath of wind. If you had any sense about you, you would have believed the legends that the house was very much, in fact, haunted. Yet the eerie atmosphere that the house produced was the least of your concerns, with something much more sinister afoot. 

Brahms.

The porcelain doll that you were tasked with caring for was not only unnerving, but unearthly in every way. When introduced to the ungodly toy you had almost laughed, finding the request to babysit an inanimate object to be not only ridiculous, but a joke. Knowing your situation now weeks later, you wished you could take it back.

Nothing in the world could have prepared you for the reality of the situation. Items moving in the middle of the night, screeching across the floor so suddenly it tore you from any slumber you hoped to get. Paintings would topple from their hanging posts, crashing onto the hardwood floors at all hours. The light fixtures would flicker consistently, casting shadows on every surface within the house.

The doll would move too, seemingly hopping from room to room in order to utterly terrify you. One night, you awoke to the wretched thing on your bed, the painted eyes staring at you, taunting you. 

That was the worst part, the feeling of always being watched.

Walking into just about any room left the hairs on the back of your neck shooting up, a wave of goosebumps permanently etched into your skin. It felt as if the world was consistently closing in, the room folding in on itself and leaving nothing but you and that devilish doll. No matter the hour, no matter what you were doing, you felt as if eyes were burning holes into the back of your head.

It left a shiver down your spine in a way that nothing could shake free, the chill of fear in your bones. At first, you thought you were going crazy, the weeks alone in the countryside finally taking their toll after having only the doll as company. But as the nights went on, bringing nothing less than supernatural events, you began to believe the rumors swirling around the brick manor were true. 

You never were a spiritual person, finding urban legends and ghost stories to be nothing short of fiction. Thinking the spirit of a ghost child possessing a doll sounded like something straight out of a horror movie, yet after hearing how the original Brahms was rumored to have killed a girl before perishing in a house fire, the doll seemed all the more terrifying.

At night you could have almost swore hearing whispers through the walls, voices beckoning you to explore the darkness below. The thought alone would send fear coursing through your veins. Throughout all the torment, the paranormal events, and the paranoia, your fears were confirmed: the house wasn’t haunted. It was alive. 

Then there were the rules:

1. No guests.

2. Never leave Brahms alone.

3. Save meals in the freezer. 

4. Never cover Brahm’s face. 

5. Read a bedtime story.

6. Play music loud.

7. Clean the traps.

8. Only Malcolm brings in deliveries. 

9. Brahms is never to leave. 

10. Kiss goodnight. 

Those forsaken rules ran every segment of your life, daily routine completely overrun by caring for the doll and manor to the point where you were isolated from all other forms of life. Malcolm was your only saving grace, the weekly deliveries of groceries single handedly keeping your spiral to madness at bay. It felt as if the doll was draining the life from you, any slip within the rules resulting in the house completely turning against you.

One fateful morning during your first week watching over Brahms, you had haphazardly thrown a blanket in Brahms' direction, which ended up covering it completely. Almost immediately, the grandfather clock in the hallway had toppled over, the hundred year old antique smashing to pieces, causing you to jump out of your skin.

From that moment onward, the rules were much more sinister than suggestion- they meant your survival. 

The soft sound of violin pulled you from your thoughts, causing your spine to straighten abruptly. Wagner’s “Siegfried Idyll” drifted from the gramophone throughout the Heelshire study, the calming melody dampening your mental spiral. Sitting up against the velvet armchair, you leaned closer to Brahms, who sat attentively in his own miniature chair and desk.

Clearing your throat, you reached for one of the worn novels stacked on the wood. “How about another chapter of your book before bedtime?” You mused at the doll, who stared blankly back at you. Not expecting any sort of response, you pushed onwards, grabbing a hardcover copy of Robinson Crusoe, the yellowing pages fluttering under your grasp. 

Scooping Brahms into your arms from the chair, you padded towards the gramophone, lifting the needle from the record. The manor fell into silence, the absence of noise almost suffocating.  Sighing slightly, you glanced around the messy study, making a mental note to clean the bookshelves once Brahms was settled in bed. The smell of paper and pine wafted through the stale air of the room, and you sniffled, rubbing your nose with the back of your sleeve, holding Brahms at your hip.

“Okay… let’s go. Time for bed.” You whispered, holding the doll as if it were a child against you. When you first began working at the manor, the thought of actually caring for the doll, much less speaking to it, seemed completely out of the question. As time passed, however, the supernatural elements that plagued your every move seemed to subside when you spoke to the doll, less angry when you played along.

It kept you from going insane, anyways. 

Exiting the study, you shuffled through the foyer, yawning tiredly with Brahms and the book in tow. Reaching the bottom of the winding staircase, a shift in the light caught your eye. Turning slightly, you gazed at the bronze nameplate that seemed to sparkle in the dim lighting. Of all the paintings in the manor, this had to have been your favorite. The painting was massive, spanning the entirety of the wall and encased in a mahogany frame.

Depicted with utmost care was the Heelshire family in front of their house in an almost Victorian fashion. Mr Heelshire stood to the right, pocket watch in hand and towering over his wife. Draped in a luxurious evening gown, Mrs. Heelshire smiled playfully, hands clasped around an infant Brahms at her hip. They were the epitome of class and elegance, a young family that dripped in wealth and prowess. Your fingers traced the bronze nameplate tenderly, brushing a line of dust off the metal.

The Heelshire family. 

Your brows furrowed, pity sinking into your heart as you gazed at the young couple in the painting. Little did they know their world would be torn apart eight years later, their own child perishing in the fire that almost claimed the manor. Your grasp on Brahms tightened subconsciously as you stared into Mrs. Heelshire’s painted eyes. You found it hard to pull away from the serene moment, lost in the emotion that seemed to swirl in her eyes.

You couldn’t pinpoint what exactly drew you to the painting, something anchoring you in place every time you passed it, almost daring you to come closer. There was a sense of mystery surrounding the painted figures, the moment frozen in time for eternity in a way that left your head reeling with questions. 

A creak in the floorboards above tore through the eerie silence, and you ripped your gaze away from the painting. Brahms’ lifeless eyes seemed to burn into your skull, and you hoisted the doll up to eye level, inspecting the porcelain slightly. “Someone’s impatient…” You mused, shuffling the doll in your grip.

Sparing the painting one last glance, you turned and continued your trek up the stairs, leaving the lower floor in silence. Unbeknownst to you, another creak in the floorboards rang throughout the house, the wooden panelling under the painting shaking as a force passed through, no behind it at an almost inhumane speed.

And then, silence. 

—

Sighing tiredly, you finished the final button on Brahm’s sleepshirt, leaning back and admiring your handiwork. Tugging the embroidered comforter over the doll’s body, you fell backwards into the wooden rocking chair, pulling open the book once more. Shifting the bookmark from the worn pages, you leaned further against the padded chair, tucking your feet underneath your body.

Clearing your throat, you glanced once more at the doll before beginning. “Chapter four: Crusoe considers. And now being to enter into a melancholy relation of a scene of silent life, such, perhaps-” The shudders behind you fluttered suddenly, the nighttime air whipping against the side of the house.

You swallowed thickly, unease settling in your stomach. “-as was never heard of in the world before, I shall take it from its beginning-” The wall on the opposite side of the bed thumped loudly, almost toppling one of the shelves nailed to the wood. A startled yelp escaped you, and you whipped your head towards the doll.

Nothing.

Gritting your teeth, you struggled to find your place in the book once more. “...I-....I shall take it from its beginning, and continue it in its order.” Voice cracking, you snapped the book shut as the light fixture over your head flickered, casting the room in haunting shadows. “Brahms!” you chided, irritation boiling in your throat. Almost instantly, the light returned to its warm glow as the house seemed to settle under your words.

“If you don’t want to read, you could have just said so.” you grumbled, shoving the book off your lap and watching it clatter to the floor haphazardly. Glaring at the doll, you rose from your spot and picked the book back up, placing it on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed. Fingers tracing the cool glass of Brahms’ face, you swallowed, nerves creeping up your spine. 

You always hated kissing the doll, bile somehow forming when your lips pressed against the cool surface. Something about the action felt so… lewd, the air in the room instantly feeling heavy whenever it was time to kiss Brahms goodnight. Thousands of imaginary eyes seemed to follow your every move, and the action itself left you feeling dirty and used, always craving a hot shower when the deed was done.

Glancing at the doll once more, you shuddered slightly, disgust gnawing at you. Leaning forward, you quickly pecked the porcelain forehead, retreating as if you were burned. Standing, you wiped your hands on your jeans while turning towards the door, trying to erase the feeling from your mind. “Goodnight, Brahms.” you mumbled over your shoulder, flicking off the light and shutting the door behind you, refusing to spare the doll another thought.

If he didn’t want a bedtime story, that was his own fault, rules or not. 

Shutting the door, you padded down the hallway to the guest room, trying to shake the apprehension that had wound your stomach into knots. Practically throwing open the door to the room, you immediately headed towards the bathroom, flipping on the hot water in the shower. Leaving the bathroom, you rummaged through the wooden drawers before grabbing some pajamas to change into.

Tucking them under your arm, your feet absentmindedly searched for your slippers before heading back into the bathroom. Steam began to coat the mirror, the air heavy with moisture, and you took a sigh of relief at the sensation. Setting your pajamas on the countertop, you quickly discarded your clothing, kicking off your slippers before stepping in the shower. 

The near-scalding water cascaded down your skin, and you relished in the feeling of the water washing away the stressors of the Heelshire mansion. Squeezing your eyes shut, you rested your forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall, feeling peace for the first time in the day. It felt so good, not having to walk on eggshells in the confines of the shower.

You almost felt protected by the hazy steam that clouded your vision and billowed towards the ceiling. The comforting warmth allowed you to pretend that you were safe, not in an abandoned manor with a doll that acted very much alive. Quietly, you scrubbed the grime of the day away, skin red from the heat of the water and the rough scraping, but the warmth felt too good not to indulge in. 

Rinsing the suds from your body, you reluctantly turned off the water, almost groaning as the water sputtered to a halt. Reaching around the shower curtain, you blindly searched for a towel, clawing at the air. Fingers brushing against the soft fabric, you pulled the towel into the shower, wrapping the fabric tightly around your body before pushing the shower curtain aside,  metallic creaking filling the air.

Stepping onto the tiled floor, goosebumps prickled your skin as the heat of the shower faded, your bare feet leaving damp prints on the floor. The hairs on the back of your neck stood suddenly, and your spine straightened. Turning slightly, something caught your eye as you approached the mirror to grab your pajamas. 

Steam continued to coat the surface of the mirror, the glass fogged up everywhere but the middle, where it was perfectly clear, your shocked expression staring back at you– as if someone, something wiped away the condensation. Your heart dropped in your chest as the steam began to clear, revealing faint but telltale words on the mirror’s surface, water dripping around the letters.

 BREAK A RULE, PAY THE PRICE. 

Your blood turned to ice, fingers trembling as they clutched the towel around your shivering form. Your mouth gaped, a scream clawing out of your throat as you stumbled backwards, eyes trained on the words. The letters dripped as the steam evaporated, the message seemingly etched into place.

This couldn’t be real. This was just a horrible nightmare. 

Fear stabbed into your heart, and you whirled around the small bathroom, looking for any possible explanation. Your gaze jolted to the door, lock still intact and door secure. You were the only one who had been in the bathroom, yet the words on the mirror were all too real to ignore. Break a rule… you squeezed your eyes shut, a sob wracking your chest.

The bedtime story and the thump on the wall. The flickering lights, the tapping on the floorboards, it was all part of the fucked up game that Brahms was playing, and you were losing. “I… I’m sorry.” Your lip quivered as you apologized, voice barely above a whisper as you stared at the drying mirror, the disappearing words demanding your submission. 

The sink pipes groaned suddenly, pulling you from your trance. The wall shuddered, pipes screeching under an unknown pressure and causing the mirror to rattle violently. Your eyes widened, and you scrambled backwards, tripping over the bathmat and crumbling onto the tiled floor. “I’m sorry! It… It won’t happen again, I promise.” You babbled, hiccuping as tears rolled down your cheeks in fat globs.

The rumbling stopped abruptly, your sniffles being the only noise in the bathroom. Lifting your head up, you shakily stood, knees weak and trembling. “...Hello?” You called out, voice strained and hoarse.

No answer. 

The silence was deafening, your breaths coming out in shallow huffs as the adrenaline died down. Gripping the sink, you hoisted yourself up the rest of the way, fingers digging into the bowl. Someone– something was in the house with you. Bile rose in your throat at the thought, and your fingers gripped the bathroom door handle, cautiously peeking the door open, heart in your throat.

Pitch black stared back at you, seeming to swallow you up. Blindly stepping forward, you clutched your towel with one hand, feeling around the room with the other. “...Hello?” You pressed again, straining your ears for any movement or sound. Nothing. 

Finding the door to your bedroom, you pushed it open, feet planted against the hardwood of the hallway. Tracing the wall with your hand, you braved onwards, every hair on your skin standing on edge. Your foot almost caught the runner carpet in the hallway, and you struggled to balance yourself.

The house was silent, seeming to hold its breath with you as you reached Brahms’ room, any creaks or groans absent. Practically bursting through the door, you flicked on the light, relieved to find Brahms still tucked into bed. Scooping Brahms into your arms, you quickly retreated back to your room, clutching the doll as if it were a lifeline. 

Slamming your door shut, you immediately locked it, silently letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. Throwing the covers open, you tucked Brahms into your bed, looking for any semblance of comfort as you turned back to the bathroom. Shedding your towel, you quickly hung it up before reaching for your pajamas, grabbing air.

You froze, glancing at the counter.

The black stack of clothes that was your pajamas was missing, nothing but countertop space staring back at you. You whipped around, quickly looking for anything else out of place as you darted towards your drawers, fingers fumbling to grab another set of pajamas. 

Quickly sliding the material onto your body, you pressed your palms into your temples, trying to slow your breathing. You didn’t feel safe. Not here. Not anywhere. Creeping back into the bathroom once more, your gaze met the mirror, begging for the words to be gone. When your wish wasn’t granted, you sighed in frustration, tears filling your vision. You turned to flick off the light when a smudge caught your attention. Squinting your eyes, you looked closer at the mirror.

There, pressed against the bottom right of the mirror’s surface, was a handprint. 

—

Sunlight peeked through the heavy curtains of the bedroom, casting a soft glow across the hardwood floor, illuminating specks of dust and grime. Forcing your bloodshot eyes open, you tried to blink the tiredness away. You hadn’t slept well, if you could even say you slept at all.

You were terrified, any semblance of a noise causing you to jolt awake with Brahms clutched like a vice in your grip. You had hoped that bringing the doll with you would have provided a form of comfort or safety, but his cold porcelain form dug into yours throughout the night and gave you nothing but a sore side.

Nevertheless, you watched the doll like a hawk, afraid to let him out of your sight and possibly break another rule. 

With a halfhearted sigh, you pulled yourself from the tangle of sheets on your bed, reaching to grab Brahms from his seated position on a pillow. In the dim sunlight, his painted eyes lifelessly stared forward, causing a shiver to waft down your spine. Shaking off the nerves, you picked the doll up before heading to his room to get him dressed for the day.

He’s just a doll, he’s just a doll, he’s just a doll. The mantra repeated in your head like a broken record, but there was no solace within the words. If Brahms was just a doll, there were much darker demons at play, and you prayed you wouldn’t insight their wrath. Either way, today was a new day, and the morning routine waited for no one.

The doll had needs, after all.

Trying to keep the normalcy of the daily routine, dressing Brahms was first and foremost. Setting the doll on his bed, you rummaged through his lengthy wardrobe in order to find a suitable outfit. Settling on a tweed jacket and slacks, you quickly dressed Brahms, fastening brown loafers onto his glass feet before carrying him into your room and dressing yourself.

Slipping on a pair of jeans and cable knit sweater, you moved Brahms and his “dirty” clothes downstairs to the kitchen. Throwing the clothes in the hamper, you sat Brahms at his miniature chair next to the marble island, throwing your hair up in a ponytail. Grabbing a kettle, the pipes groaned as you filled the pot with water, the sound causing you to grimace at the memory of last night. 

Putting the kettle on the stove for tea, you continued to move around the kitchen, wiping counters as the tea boiled. The rules– although simple, were very clear, everything in the manor needed to be kept tidy and organized. You had learned the importance of cleanliness the hard way through the first week of your stay, and avoiding consequences was at the top of your to-do list these days. Wiping at the counters, you found your mind wandering to the handprint on the mirror.

The sight alone had left your stomach tied in knots for hours, yet something about it seemed… off.

It had to have been yours, right? Maybe you were leaning against the shower earlier in the day when doing your skincare, or bumped into it on your way into the shower. That made logical sense, didn’t it? No matter how many times you ran through scenarios, the unease lingered, tightening around your throat like a vice. 

The screeching of the tea kettle pulled you from your thoughts, and you quickly rushed to turn off the stove. Pouring yourself a cup of tea, you leaned against the island, staring warily at the doll, whose gaze never left your own. Drumming your fingers on the teacup, you sipped at the bitter liquid eagerly, trying to unwind the bundle of nerves in your stomach.

After a full cup of tea with no relief, you decided it was a lost cause, preferring to take your chances cleaning the manor instead. Hefting the doll out of the chair and into your arms, you padded over to the study, the unorganized clutter immediately reaching your gaze. Setting Brahms back in his study chair, you went to work, dusting shelves, reorganizing bookcases, wiping down the fireplace, cleaning the windows, and then some. 

As you worked, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched, consistently looking over your shoulder to stare at the unmoving doll in anticipation that something, anything would happen. Yet, nothing. Wiping your hands clean, you glanced around the study once more, the space much more tidy compared to last night.

Nodding triumphantly, you moved around the first floor, dragging Brahms as you went to clean anything that was deemed out of place or unnecessary clutter. Once everything was in working order, you began the trek up the all too familiar flight of stairs in the foyer, taking a quick moment to polish the nameplate of the painting as you went. 

Stepping into your room, you swept the floor, picking up dust and grime as Brahms watched you from your bed, silent as ever. After a quick dusting and window cleaning, your room practically gleamed in the sunlight. Next, the bathroom. You turned towards the room, dread creeping up your throat again.

You had refused to go into the bathroom since discovering the cryptic message and handprint, too terrified to confront any more ghosts or experience any more hauntings. Now that morning had come, a sense of bravery had fallen upon you, the daylight bringing a sense of security with it.

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself and pushed into the room. 

The damp smell of soap immediately hit your nostrils, the air hanging heavy with moisture from the night before. The mirror was still foggy, condensation dripping from the reflective surface, the words barely legible in the dim light.

Your brows furrowed, confusion wracking your form– it shouldn’t be this humid in here. The bathroom had time to air out all night.

Grabbing a microfiber cloth and Windex, you pushed up on your tiptoes, leaning over the sink to wipe away at the mirror. As you wiped away the mist, something caught your eye. A streak of grime– or dirt?– was stuck to the mirror.

Wiping harder, the mark appeared unfazed– as if the streak was inside the mirror. 

Trepidation churned in your gut, and you forced yourself to continue wiping the surface. Maybe the mirror was damaged in a way that you hadn’t noticed before, or it was poorly made. Yet, your stomach twisted every time you ran the cloth over the streak. Huffing in frustration, you threw the cloth into the sink, elbow accidentally slamming against the mirror.

Upon the harsher contact, the mirror vibrated, a hollow rumble escaping the surface– just like last night. Rubbing your slightly injured funny-bone, you traced the surface of the mirror again, fingers dusting over the mysterious streak once more. Pushing against the material again, the mirror shifted, not much, but slightly giving in against the tiled wall as if it wasn’t hung properly. 

Worried you broke the mirror, your fingers pressed against the edge of the surface, causing the whole thing to wobble slightly under your touch. Your breath hitched, curiosity racking your brain as you ran your fingers along the edge of the mirror, feeling for any gaps between the wall and the mirror that was causing the noise.

Tracing the bottom right corner, thumb touching the smudged handprint, your nail snagged something. Feeling blindly for the snag, it dawned on you that there was something– a latch hidden between the mirror and the wall. Without thinking, you pressed down on the latch, heart pounding in your ears. 

Immediately, a faint click sounded out against the bathroom, the mirror sliding towards you slightly, revealing a slight crack of darkness behind it. Swallowing thickly, you pulled at the mirror, the hinged surface swinging towards you and revealing a perfectly cut rectangle where the mirror sat at the wall. A damp smell invaded your nostrils, any leftover moisture from your late-night shower pouring into your bathroom, causing you to gag at the smell.

Gripping the mirror, you looked at the inside of the mirror, finding the smudge of dirt glaring back at you. Horror gripped your chest. It wasn’t just a mirror, it was a one-way mirror. Gazing through the inside, you could clearly make out the tiled wall of the bathroom, clear as day. As you swung the mirror from hand to hand, the traces of lettering caught your attention. 

Written on the inside of the mirror was your cryptic message, and before you knew it you dipped your finger in the letter “B”, a wet material coating your index finger. Bringing your finger to your nose, you could faintly smell oil. Your brain seemed to short circuit at the realization.

There wasn’t a ghost boy haunting you, there was a very terrifying, very real person writing you messages in the mirror, knowing that the condensation on your side would reveal their haunting warning. Your lip quivered at the thought. You were staring at a door, a door leading to something. 

Despite any semblance of your conscious screaming at you to stop, you pulled the mirror fully open, the glass tapping the wall to your left. The gaping hole in the wall was filled with dust, and the stale air immediately invaded your senses, feeling heavy and suffocating. The space behind the mirror was small and narrow, but was just wide enough for a person to squeeze through.

Through the lighting of the bathroom, you could barely make out the faint outline of a passageway, the wooden beams acting as the support structure of the house fading into pitch black. Your chin trembled, fingers fumbling as you dug your phone from your back pocket, turning on the flashlight.

A thin stream of light illuminated the cavern, the passageway going straight then sharply turning left. You swallowed thickly, biting your cheek as you turned towards your room. Hurriedly putting on a pair of boots from the closet, you apprehensively approached the gaping hole in the wall.

Shutting the toilet seat, you stood on top of the toilet, turning your body over the sink as you reached into the passageway. Gripping onto a wooden support beam, you pulled yourself forward, inching over the sink and plunging further into darkness. Crawling into the small space, you glanced backwards, your feet dangling from the opening into the sink. 

Tucking your arms into your body, you let the phone’s flashlight guide the way, army crawling through the dirt until the cavern opened up, the walls thinning and ceiling expanding upwards. Immediately, you shifted uncomfortably until you were standing, crouching slightly. Looking back on the way you came, you noticed a wrapper on the dirt floor, the plastic pushed haphazardly to the side by your clumsy crawling.

Someone had been here– recently.

You inhaled sharply at the thought, heart twisting in your chest, but you pushed onwards, determined to solve the mystery that plagued you for weeks. As you turned, everything seemed to click into place.

Someone had been watching you. Someone in the walls.

A click made you jolt, and you realized the mirror had shut again, leaving you in unfamiliar territory. You stood, rooted in place, phone shaking in your hand as you tried to slow your breathing. Realizing there was no way to go but forward, you trembled slightly, bile threatening to rise in your throat.

The handprint. The rules. The noises. The lights. Everything– it all clicked into place with a terrifying realization. You weren’t alone. Ever since you stepped foot in the manor, you had never been alone.

“Just a quick look…” You reasoned with yourself, pushing forward. 

The passageway seemed never-ending, twisting and turning around the countless rooms in the manor. The wooden beams surrounding you were almost impossible to maneuver around, causing you to walk hunched over to avoid banging your head against the low ceilings.

The wooden planks creaked beneath your feet, and you cringed at any sudden movement you made. Within the tight confines of the passageway, every sound felt amplified– your breath, the rustle of your clothes, your steps. The twists and turns of the passageway left you at many forks, leaving you to blindly choose a direction with nothing but instinct to guide you. 

The deeper you went into the passageway, the more unnerved you became. It felt as if you were crawling into the belly of the beast, and a part of you was terrified with what you would find. You passed an immeasurable amount of peepholes drilled into the wall, each hole giving a clear view of the room attached to it.

Your bedroom. The study. The kitchen.

A chill creeped up your spine as you realized how every single moment you experienced in the manor had been on display, every movement watched by another. You swallowed thickly at the thought. Braving onwards, it felt like a lifetime had passed within the passageways, with you maneuvering against the nooks and crannies of the house.

Suddenly, the passageway opened up, housing an actual room in a space you could only imagine was the attic. An old bed frame was pushed to the far side of the wall, adorned with a ragged mattress and mismatched blankets. Food containers, papers, books, and other odds and ends covered almost every surface of the room.

A singular light bulb hung from the ceiling, the bulb swaying slightly in the drafty air. Papers were plastered to the wall, covered in sketches and pictures. You had stumbled upon your stalker’s hiding place. Lip quivering, you approached the wall, looking at the pictures under the light of your phone. 

They were sketches of you.

Drawings in various stages of completion of you doing random tasks, some with the doll, some alone. Your nostrils flared at a sketch of you in the shower, suds caressing your skin under a stream of water. Another showed you sleeping, the viewpoint being so close you were sure they were in your bedroom with you to sketch it. Your chest tightened at the sheer amount of sketches, and you backed away subconsciously.

Your knee hit the edge of the metallic bed frame, causing your attention to divert to the unmade bed in the corner of the room. Your eyes snaked across the multitude of blankets before reaching the crevice of the bed that met the wall. Two pillows were stacked on top of each other, your stolen pajamas from the night before pulled over them as a crude form of you. Crumpled up tissues dotted the edge of the bed and the floor, stomach churning violently as the reality of the situation set in. 

Your breathing hitched, and for a moment, you were sure you were going to faint.

Your stalker wasn’t just watching you. He was controlling the house– controlling you, by making you believe that the doll was real. The rules you were so keen on following weren’t about the doll at all. They were about you. The realization left you gasping for air, the atmosphere of the room becoming much too cramped for your liking.

Your breath came out in strangled huffs, and every part of you screamed to run, but you felt bolted in place. Your legs felt like jelly, and you struggled to tear your gaze away from those godforsaken pajamas and go back the way you came. 

Finally ripping yourself away from your trance, you turned towards the opening, flashlight trembling as you stopped dead in your tracks. Standing no more than a few feet in front of you was a man, his imposing form towering over you as he slouched against the walls. Silently watching you, his head cocked to the side, catching the light of your phone.

Your heart nearly stopped as the light illuminated a porcelain mask, all too familiar to the very doll you were employed to take care of. Your world came crashing down, each brutal piece falling into place to show you the true, horrifying reality. He was here; the whole time, terrorizing the manor and making your life a living hell.

Brahms Heelshire. 

You felt as if you were punched in the face, mouth parted in shock as you simply gaped at the man before you. Clearly not expecting you, Brahms stood with a tupperware in his hands, half eaten leftovers you made clearly forgotten. For a moment, neither of you moved. The atmosphere was impossibly heavy with tension, weighing down on you so strongly you could cut the air with a knife.

Your chin trembled, voice catching in your throat as you gaped like a deer caught in headlights. “(Y/n)?” A childlike voice escaped the hulking male in front of you, and a wave of nausea washed over you. The figure in front of you was nothing like the childish doll hidden away inside the manor, he was a man– a towering, cardinal force of nature that made your blood run cold. 

Brahms took a step forward, snapping you out of your shock induced state. Through the holes in the mask, you caught his eyes– brown so dark it looked black stared back at you, a curious but predatory look in them. You swallowed thickly, nodding quickly to acknowledge the man.

He hummed in approval, the noise much deeper than the voice let on, sending a shiver down your spine at the almost primal sound. You shuffled backwards, boots dragging across the floorboards, a creak splitting through the silence. Brahms froze, eyes narrowing, hands too large for comfort tightening into fists. You could hear a pin drop in the silence, the weight of his gaze alone making your head swim. 

“You… you broke the rules…” The voice chided you, cracking down at least an octave at the statement, the childlike pretense twisting into something much colder, sharper. He cocked his head again, eyeing you darkly. “-Now, you pay the price.” A shudder tore through you, his words echoing the haunting message on the mirror the night before.

The mantra pounded in your skull, gaze flying to the wall of sketches before landing on the rustled pajamas. Break a rule, pay the price.

The realization slammed into you just as your body reacted, a burst of movement tearing through you. Heels skittering across the floor from the force, you turned, the noise echoing through the room like a gunshot. You jolted, legs pumping as you sprinted to an opening in the wall. 

Brahms, startled by your sudden attempt at escape, took a step forward, hand clawing at your hair as you whipped past him. “Get back here!” He bellowed, the childish facade shattering as his rough, deep voice rattled your bones.

Ducking into the passageway, you narrowly missed crashing into the ceiling, phone slipping from your hand in the chaos. The space was suffocating, illuminated only by the slivers of light pouring through the peepholes in the wall.  The passageway rattled behind you, a furious Brahms expertly navigating the tunnels, too close for comfort.

You were in his territory now, and he was never going to let you escape. 

A sob clawed its way through your throat as you sharply turned right, trying to increase the distance between you and your attacker. Fumbling down another miniature flight of stairs, your sweater caught momentarily on a nail, causing you to lose precious seconds tearing yourself free. You could practically feel Brahms behind you, hot on your heels and closing in for the kill.

Adrenaline pushed you forward, and a fork in the road quickly met your gaze. Which way? Not missing a beat, you turned left, almost tripping down the passageway’s sharp decline. The stale air seemed cooler as you pushed onwards, and you prayed that the tunnel was leading towards the basement. If you could reach the basement, you would be able to slip through one of the windows or hide among the debris until you could formulate a better plan. 

What you weren’t expecting, however, was the collapsed wall you almost ran into full force.

Over the years, the beams had rotted away, folding in on itself and leaving small gaps in between the rubble. Panic seized you like a vice, heart beating so loudly that you were certain Brahms could hear it. Digging your nails into the wall, you threw yourself against the deteriorating beams, trying to open up a gap large enough for you to crawl through.

A rustle of clothing sounded behind you, a spike of terror seizing your chest. Brahms was close– too close, as if he was about to reach out and grab you.

Throwing your full weight against the beams, a sob tore through your throat and despair settling in the pit of your stomach. With a crack, one of the beams shifted, revealing a thin gap just wide enough for you to squeeze through. An unearthly growl sounded out behind you, practically right at your heels, and before you knew it, you surged forward through the gap, bracing for the impact against the cold floor. 

The impact never came.

Instead, pain exploded throughout your midriff as the beam fell, caving in on its own weight and crushing you in place. The air was knocked from your lungs, and you sputtered for air, trying to weasel your way through the gap, expletives flying from your mouth. You were pinned in place, the beams above collapsing in at a bruising force, and your lower ribs burned as if you were stabbed.

Breaths coming out in shallow, pained huffs, you quickly realized your situation. You were injured, trapped, and exposed. Stomach crushed painfully in between the beams, your hips knocked against the beam stubbornly, too large to un-wedge yourself from your position, no matter how hard you barred down and pushed.

A breathless chuckle escaped from somewhere behind the wall– chillingly amused. 

Your sight was useless against him, vision blocked by the very beams pinning you in place. Craning your neck, your hearing sharpened as blood roared in your ears. You could hear him– feet shuffling against the dirt floor as he approached you slowly, predatory and deadly. Squeezing your eyes shut, you stiffened, back scraping painfully against the wood, splinters biting into your skin.

Icy fingers brushed against your back, and you physically jolted at the sensation. You cursed your sweater, its betrayal evident as it bunched around your shoulders from the chaos.  A deep hum sounded out behind you, the graze of his fingers much more deliberate as they curled along your lower spine, seemingly savoring your warmth. 

“Caught you…” Brahms whispered, eerily calm in a way that made your head spin.

The passageway was catastrophic, walls closing in as your senses heightened, hyper-aware of the precarious situation. Jagged edges dug into your ribs, each breath you took causing a white-hot pain to shoot to your sides. Brahms’ blunt nails scraped against your back, more persistent, hungry.

Blind panic seized you, feet kicking blindly as you fought against the beams, praying for something to give way. A hand roughly grabbed an ankle, squeezing so tightly you were certain he would leave bruises. You froze, and the hostile grip eased slightly. “Fight all you want…” He growled lowly, voice dropping. “–you aren’t going anywhere.”

Tears fell at that, and you smacked a hand over your mouth to silence your sobs, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Brahms… I-... I’m sorry.” You sputtered out, voice shaking as you begged for mercy. The rules were supposed to be your saving grace, and now that they had been broken, nothing would be able to rescue you now.

Dropping your leg, Brahms clicked his tongue, weighing your apology while shuffling forward. He was so close, you could practically feel his breath on your back as he triumphantly stood over you. His icy touch returned, fingers tracing the vertebrae of your spine exploringly. You inhaled sharply, stomach clenching as he caressed the sensitive skin in an almost endearing manner.

His fingers faltered slightly, palm spread over the bottom of your back, pushing you down. 

Immediately, you arched, the pressure sending ripples of pain in your ribs that you struggled to alleviate. A heavy sigh rang in your ears, and realization stabbed into you like a knife. He was experimenting; a man hidden away from society and living in complete isolation for decades and never experiencing human touch, human connection.

But he was still a man, a man with wants… with needs.

Your heart caught in your throat as his palm retreated suddenly, opting to trace the curve of your waist almost shyly, curiosity evident in the slow, inexperienced touches. Calloused fingers wavered over the hem of your jeans, feeling your softness. The sensation sent you into a squirming mess, trying to push away from the ticklish movements. 

Brahms pushed onwards, fingers shaking from what you could only imagine was excitement as he dipped below your jeans, tapping your hip bones.  Large hands stuffed beneath the denim, he gripped your hips sharply, a startled yelp escaping your lips.

He shuffled even closer, hips draped over your clothed ass, almost leaning into the wall, hungry for the warmth radiating from your skin. You squirmed immediately, the weight of his eyes scalding as his touches became more frantic. A hand surged around your front, toying with the button on your jeans, and you inhaled sharply.

Break a rule, pay the price. 

The button popped beneath his fingers, zipper straining as it was practically yanked downwards. “Brahms-” you pleaded, boots scraping against the dirt as you braced yourself against the wall. Brahms huffed, seeming to enjoy the way you called his name, any warning or emotion attached to it forgotten.

Your jeans were unceremoniously pulled downwards, bunching around your knees, excited hands drawn to the exposed skin like a moth to a flame. Brahms’ patience quickly faded as he pressed forwards, poking and prodding your thighs with his fingers.

“So… soft.” a broken murmur came from behind the wall, Brahms enchanted by the way your skin felt beneath his fingers, better than any silk or velvet in the manor. 

You shuddered at his words, the feeling of his fingers dancing along your skin sending a stroke of fire to your stomach. Gone were the gentle, exploring brushes, replaced with something much rougher. Brahms mapped your legs with his hands, yanking your boots from your feet and leaving your lower half bare, spare your cotton panties.

Any exposed surface was immediately touched, hands encircling your much smaller ankles, scraping along your calves, or gripping your hips. A sharp smack to your ass left your head spinning, a startled gasp escaping you. Brahms was falling fast, resolve shattered at the promise of the new, shiny toy sprawled in front of him, hands kneading your ass while his hips absentmindedly ground against you. 

You jolted sharply as the outline of Brahm’s cock pressed into your upper thigh, the excited nature of the male behind you only amplifying once he discovered how good it felt brushing against your rear. An animalistic growl cut through the air, hips snapping against yours momentarily before your panties were grabbed tightly, the fabric straining against your skin before being torn to shreds, skin raw from the force.

“Brahms!” You tried to chide, knowing it was futile. It was almost laughable trying to control the doll version of Brahms, so the very primal, very real Brahms was out of the question. 

At first, there was nothing.

You could faintly make out his heavy breathing, and you cowered under the apparent gaze that was fixated on your newly exposed skin. If this had been any other situation, you would have been flustered, embarrassment coating your skin at the rough nature of your partner, but now you only felt terrified anticipation.

A lone finger drifted from your hip bone to your front, the touch surprisingly soft as it trailed down your skin, causing your thighs to clench at the feeling. Scraping down your pubic bone, the finger brushed against your pussy, dipping within your folds. Shame burst through you as he pulled your folds apart, swiping at slick collecting between your thighs.

You were aroused, your body betraying you from his soft touches as his finger experimented against your skin.

Brahms grunted, seemingly pleased, instinct pushing him onwards, another finger joining his endeavor, spreading you apart. The cool air hit your core at that, and you tensed, completely exposed and at his mercy. Almost lazily, his finger trailed along your slit, coated in your juices, mapping your folds to memory as you squirmed against his touch. A knuckle brushed your clit, and your heart almost stopped, stomach clenching at the sudden touch.

A whimper escaped you, and Brahms paused at the noise, curious. His fingers withdrew from your core, shuffling ensuing as you strained to hear something, anything. A droplet of something wet hit your rear, and you jolted. He was drooling, mask abandoned as he stared down at you, the heat of his gaze sending sparks down your spine. 

Abruptly, a finger wedged between your thighs, pushing inside of you. You cried out, the sudden intrusion causing you to clench around his digit, hands clawing at the dirt beneath you. Sinking inwards, he twirled his finger, flesh scraping against your gummy walls, much larger than your own fingers. The finger stilled, another quickly pushing in to relish in your warmth, the stretch uncomfortably addicting as he rocked his fingers within you.

You pressed your forehead against the dirt, heavy pants escaping you as he fucked you with his fingers, chasing the feeling of you clenching around him. The air felt heavy, tension crackling between you and your captor as you fell apart on his fingers, shame fading away as something much more primal began to take root. 

Brahms, addicted with the feeling of your soft walls, picked up pace, and you whimpered at the force. A shuddered sigh escaped the male behind you, getting lost in the image of his fingers sinking within you, a lewd squelch filling the air as his fingers retreated from your core. His hips ground against your upper thigh, and your lip quivered at the feeling of his clothed cock rutting against your skin.

His fingers scissored within you, and a broken moan tore within you. This was so wrong, so perverted, but you couldn’t help but get lost in the feeling, a wave of warmth tearing through you. Sweat beaded your hairline, and you clamped your jaw shut to try and silence the noises threatening to spill from your lips. 

Brahms however, always observant, noticed the slip immediately, no amount of stifling able to keep your sounds away from him.

Although quiet, the moan rattled throughout the passageway, shattering any sense of resolve or patience that was left. You wanted it, you liked what he was doing to you, and that was all the reinforcement he needed, whether you knew it or not. Your skin felt as if you were on fire, the pain in your ribs mixing with the pleasure in a dangerous concoction that left you reeling.

Your nails dug into the dirt, coating your fingertips as tears streamed down your cheeks, any coherent thought melting away as you felt your orgasm building within you, muscles tightening. The hand not driving into you traced along your lower back once more, the soft touches contrasting the rough thrusts of his fingers so sinfully your eyes rolled. 

You were so close, body quickly submitting to the pleasure that rocked your body, head spinning as he brushed your clit once more. Your hips rolled slightly, eager to match the pace, oblivious to the devious grin sported on the other side of the wall. Brows furrowed, your mind short circuited, chasing the feeling as you silently begged, praying to get your release.

Brahms’s fingers tore from you so quickly it hurt, orgasm halted right before you hit the precipice. Your jaw clamped down, biting into your cheek so roughly you drew blood, frustration wracking your body. Your legs shook, emptiness consuming you as you squirmed against the wall, desperately trying to reach your high. 

So caught up in your denial, you barely registered the shuffling of clothes, ears ringing as your heartbeat pounded in your head. A hand gripped your hip suddenly, nails digging into your skin as Brahms' hips met your ass. Your eyes widened, the feeling of his bare skin against yours sending a shiver down your spine.

Before you could even think, Brahms nestled in between your legs, clumsily aligning to your core and entering you in one, quick thrust. A scream tore from your throat at the intrusion, and you steeled yourself against the wall, trying to catch your breath as Brahms’ cock delved into you without any chance of stopping. 

Aching, you faltered, clenching blindly around Brahms as he quickly bottomed out, scraping against your walls in ways that made his fingers seem like child’s play. He was so big, filling you so full you could feel him in your stomach, his bruising force shoving you further into the wall, your ribs screaming in pain.

Bracing yourself against the dirt, you helplessly met his ruthless thrusts, choked moans spewing from your throat. It hurt so good, the uncomfortable stretch melting away with every thrust, the only thing grounding you in place being his hands digging into your flesh. He fucked into you, chasing the sensation of your snug walls, heavy groans and pants echoing around the passageway. 

You were falling fast, lost in the feeling of his cock pushing into you so forcefully you felt as if he were rearranging your insides, so consumed with nothing else but him. You felt as if you couldn’t breathe, pleasure racking through you so violently your toes curled into the dirt. Your whole body tensed, clenching down on Brahms so hard you were sure you were squeezing him to death.

Static heat prickled against your skin, electricity flowing through your limbs as you felt like you were going to burst. You babbled nonsense, chanting into the stale air as you felt your orgasm approaching, mind moving a million miles a minute and ready to crash down at a bruising force. Brahms continued his onslaught, refusing to let up as he delved into you, chasing the sensation of you wrapped sinfully around his cock. Your back scraped against the wood as he thrusted into you, head bobbing against the dirt as you took him with everything you had, drool dripping down your chin. 

It was too much, everything was too hot, too fast.

The grip on your hips never relented, pulling you towards him as if you were a fuck-toy, and you weakly met his thrusts. Arching your back, you ignored the burning sensation in your ribs, caught up in the addictive nature of Brahms’ cock drilling into you, ruining you for all others.

His cockhead snapped against your cervix, pain blossoming within you, and you sucked on your lips for comfort. Brahms was like an animal, so caught up in the way you sucked him in that nothing else could ever compare to. Your eyes rolled as he angled his hips upward, cock hammering into your spongy walls, the new position making your stomach roll. 

Your fingers dug into the dirt so hard a nail snapped from the pleasure, and you came.

Your orgasm crashed into you, body spasming as you screamed, clinging to the dirt like a lifeline. Brahms faltered at your visceral reaction, hips rutting against yours as you finished, fucking you through your brutal orgasm. The world tilted, vision dotted with black as you struggled to breathe, consumed with the release of pressure within you.

Brahms growled, pulling your hips flush against his, pace wavering as you clenched down on him like a lifeline. The sound of his cock leaving you in a squelching, moaning mess bounced lewdly along the walls, but you found yourself too exhausted to care. Stamina evaporating, Brahms collapsed on top of you, head pressed against the wood as he pushed himself so deep you were sure you were suffocating.

Thick ropes of cum coated your insides, filling you to the brim as you weakly took his final thrusts, Brahms heaving as he stilled within you. 

The air was heavy, the smell of sex coating your sweaty body as you laid limply in the dirt, cable knit sweater scraping against your raw skin. Brahms retreated from you slowly, a hiss of pain escaping you as emptiness consumed you. Your legs spasmed, twitching from the force of his thrusts as you tried to catch your breath.

Your ribs throbbed, the ache making it hard to breathe– limbs weak and heavy, adrenaline leaving your body as you trembled from the aftermath of your climax. Somewhere behind you, Brahms shifted, feet scraping against the dirt, a new wave of anxiety coursing through you.

The scratchy fabric of your jeans dragged against your legs as he tugged them back into place, movements rough and quick. You winced, powerless to stop his antics, but relieved to be clothed once more. With a sudden grunt of effort, the crushing weight on your ribs eased.

You blinked, confused as the beam pining you in place was hoisted into the air. The opening was wide enough for you to crawl through, and hope surged through your limbs. You wriggled forward, using the little strength you could muster to drag through the rubble.

Before you could crawl more than an inch, however, a strong hand gripped your sweater, yanking you backwards with a brutal force. 

You hit the ground, pain shooting through you as you landed in a crumpled heap onto the dirt floor. The beams came crashing down, a cloud of dust enveloping you, sealing the passageway you had fought so desperately hard to escape through. You stared at the crude wall of wood and stone– your escape route, gone.

Brahms stood a few feet in front of you, shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breaths. You swallowed thickly, the taste of dust and dirt coating your tongue as you gaped at your captor, mask tightly bound against his face once more. Dazed, you fumbled with your boots, slipping on the uneven ground as a defeated, tired sigh escaped your lips. 

Your gaze shifted to Brahms, who tilted his head, catching you in his line of sight. His eyes bore into you, making your stomach churn, your skin flushing at the memory of his hands on you just moments before. Wordlessly, Brahms stalked over to your form, towering over you as you pressed further against the floor.

Before you could react, a rough hand grabbed at your arm, pulling you up with unnerving ease. You stumbled, knees weak and body sore, a low chuckle escaping his lips, muffled by the mask.  A hand roughly gripped your jaw, forcing your face upwards to meet his eyes. Your breathing hitched at the proximity, his strength evident in the bruising grip.

The cool porcelain of his mask brushed against your damp forehead as he leaned closer, causing you to shiver. “New rule…” He rumbled, voice low with a newfound sense of authority. His grip tightened, your teeth knocking together painfully as you gaped into the void of his eyes.

“– I kiss goodnight.”

[part 2]

—

A/N: This definitely took longer than expected... I will try to post more consistently now that my schedule is more consistent! If you have any requests or suggestions please message me! Enjoy ;)

[cece693]

Touch Starved

pairing: brahms heelshire x gender neutral reader tags: touch starved Brahms, you're a nanny, not movie compliant, just you delivering kindness to a man who's living in the walls, cute but also concerning, cause who wants a stinky, murderous man

You hadn’t planned on taking care of anyone but yourself for a while, least of all a man hidden away behind old walls and silent halls. But fate has a funny way of leading you to the places—and people—you didn’t know you needed.

The moment you stepped through the heavy wooden doors of the Heelshire estate, a sense of quiet trepidation mingled with an unexpected tingle of warmth. You were met by the echoes of distant footsteps (or so you thought) and the slow creaking of doors that seemed to open by themselves. There was supposed to be a doll, you’d been told. Brahms, a porcelain boy that you were to care for as though he were a real child. But as the days passed, you quickly realized you were not alone. You could feel it—a presence just out of reach. A low scuff against the floorboards when you turned your head, the flicker of a shadow across a mirror.

Every now and then, you caught sight of a shape in the doorway: tall and still, eyes peering through a masked face. Brahms. Not the porcelain doll, but a flesh-and-blood man, heartbreakingly silent and desperately lonely.

It was late one evening when you finally found him in the living room, crouched behind an old armchair. He might have fled if not for how gently you approached—slow steps, outstretched hands, your voice calm but cautious.

You knelt down, heart pounding, meeting those wide, frightened eyes through the mask’s eyeholes. “You must be Brahms,” you whispered into the stillness. Your words lingered, soft reassurance filling the space between you.

He didn’t speak; you hadn’t expected him to. But there was a distinct tremor in his shoulders as though he was holding back a flurry of words—or maybe sobs. Even behind the mask, you could feel the intensity of his longing for contact, for acknowledgment, for someone to look at him and not run away in horror.

So you didn’t run. You didn’t even back away.

You settled into a routine with surprising ease. Brahms was silent as always, but his presence began to make itself known through little gestures: the steady pattern of footsteps behind you as you moved about the estate, the slight tug on your sleeve when it was time for dinner, or a gentle tap on your shoulder in the afternoons when the house felt too big, too empty.

In response, you offered him wordless kindness. Meals at the table, always setting two plates so he’d know there was a seat for him. A folded blanket left on the sofa, just big enough for the two of you to share when the nights got cold. A record player with music turned down low, so he could sit near you without feeling overwhelmed.

At first, he was shy about receiving affection. You’d see his shoulders tense whenever your hand hovered over his arm—but he never pulled away. Slowly, day by day, Brahms let himself draw closer to you. Where he once watched you from afar, now he’d sit at the edge of the same couch.

One evening, you found yourself in the library. The moonlight streamed in through stained-glass windows, painting the shelves in a kaleidoscope of color. You sat on the old, worn rug, a book splayed in your lap. You were reading quietly to him, your tone hushed and steady, when Brahms leaned close—closer than he ever had.

Your voice faltered for a split second, but you carried on. His breathing was unsteady. At last, carefully, you rested a hand on his knee. For an agonizing moment, you thought he might leap up and bolt into the hidden corridors. But instead, Brahms let out a sound—something between a sigh and a relief-filled moan.

He turned just enough for you to see his eyes through the mask, shadows dancing in the moonlight. Slowly, painfully shy, he laid his head against your shoulder, letting you cradle him gently. Brahms felt fragile, like an abandoned creature starved for love.

You ran your fingers through the strands of his hair that peeked out from beneath the mask’s edges. His shoulders relaxed little by little, tension melting under the warmth of your touch. If you had any doubts that your affection was what he so badly needed, they all drifted away in that moment.

Affection became your shared language. Brahms still didn’t speak; you didn’t need him to. The way he tentatively placed his hand over yours—masked fingers brushing yours—was worth more than a thousand words. When he was anxious, you felt it in the trembling press of his body against yours. When he was happy, you saw it in the more confident way he moved, as though it no longer pained him to be seen.

You took pleasure in the smallest rituals: combing through his hair by the fireplace, making him tea, encouraging him to hold your hand whenever he felt uncertain. He was ravenous for the smallest bit of kindness. Every fleeting touch on his arm or gentle brushing of your fingers along his back made him shudder in gratitude. You were more than willing to give it to him.

Eventually, one crisp morning, you convinced him to come outside with you. He hovered in the doorway, torn between the fear of the open world and the longing to stay by your side. But you simply offered your hand, palm upturned, and waited with all the patience you could muster.

He took it.

Once outside, Brahms let out a breath he’d been holding for years, it seemed. The sun’s warmth touched him through the fabric of his clothes, through the slight gap between the edge of his mask and his skin. You guided him to the garden, letting him feel the dew on his fingertips.

He never let go of your hand.

You paused by the rosebushes, a single white blossom catching your eye. You plucked it gently and offered it to him. Brahms stared at it for a long, reverent moment. Then, with trembling care, he lifted the bloom to his mask, as though inhaling a memory of a life he never quite had. Softly, you reached out, cupping his cheek over the porcelain of his mask. He leaned into your palm as though memorizing the warmth, the unmistakable proof that someone saw him, someone cared for him. In that private corner of the garden, with sunbeams turning both your breaths into pale mist in the cool air, you let him rest his masked forehead against yours.

[sharkie-ds]

🦈My type🦈

[marksbear2]

Soft dom Hannibal Lecter and crybaby mreader where he teach reader how to ride him 🙂‍↕️🏃‍♂️‍➡️🏃‍♂️‍➡️

HANNIBAL LECTER X CRYBABY MALE READER

⚠️Warnings- Soft dom Hannibal, talking through it, teaching, guiding, crying- and crying kink, shy reader. Naive/ Virgin reader. And etc ⚠️

Soft but muffled moaning and choked sobs could be heard inside of Doctor’s Lecter office. You were whimpering softly as Hannibal stared at he looking down at you in between his legs with your face all puffy and wet from crying as you had your lips wrapped around Hannibal’s cock.

Hannibal had his hand laying gently on your head but had a firm grip. You eyes still had tears falling from it from earlier.

You were crying and whining earlier as he was fingering you and stretching you out prepping for his cock.

Once he had decided that you were prepped enough he told you. “Isn’t it only fair that you give me something back?” 

That’s how you both ended it up now. Hannibal staring down at you while you trying the best of your ability to give him a blowjob.

You squirmed under his eyes, but tried to ignore his gaze. “Your teeth is grazing me. Relax. Stop thinking so hard.” Hannibal said as he used his free hand to pull you off his cock before moving his thumb inside your mouth pressing it against your tongue.

Hannibal stared down into your mouth for a few more seconds before pulling his hand away and grabbing your jaw guiding your mouth down on his cock. 

“Teeth, watch your teeth.” Hannibal said in a soft but firm tone. You slowly do as you said as you moved your tongue around his cock. 

Hannibal hands stayed where they were guiding you up and down on his cock. 

Your face was flustered as tears still went down as Hannibal cupping your cheeks, he could feel his own cock moving and moving the side of your cheeks with his cock making your mouth full.

With his large hands guiding your head, you let him do all the work while you just moved your tongue around.

Hannibal gently pushed your head away from his cock and adjust the way he’s sitting in the chair tapping his knee. You quickly scramble into his lap and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. Hannibal puts his firm large hand on your hips holding you still as he used his free hand for hold and angle his large wet cock to your hole.

You were somewhat unaware, as he distracted you with comforting praises and words of affection.

“Take a deep breath for me darling.” Hannibal said, you do as he says before letting out a sharp gasp as you felt his cock slowly enter your walls.

“You can take it can’t you? Don’t want to disappoint me now would we?” Hannibal mused watching your face show many expression with uncertainty, uncomfortable and most of all pleasure. “We’re doing something more your pace.” Hannibal said as he raised you up and down on his cock.

“Shh, shh, your doing such an amazing job taking me.” Hannibal whispered against your ear as he began to move your body up down like an toy.

As you cried and whimpered softly Hannibal pressed his mouth against your ear soothing you with an hum.

His cock moving deeper and deeper inside of you as his large hands held you in a firm but gentle grip.

“Such a precious little thing…” 

”I would hate to ruin you…”

THE END

[i-heart-slashers]

For Our Girl

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Poly!Lost Boys x Female!Reader

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: You never meant to get tangled up with the Lost Boys, but a wrong turn in the woods led you to them—four vampires with glowing eyes and dangerous smiles. Now, weeks later, you’re theirs. Surrounded by their cold skin and sharp promises, you’re not just safe—you’re wanted, desired, and maybe too far gone to care what they are.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 1.7k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: suggestive themes. sexual tension. possessiveness.

The boardwalk hums with life, the carousel’s tinny music clashing with the roar of motorbikes and the screams from the roller coaster. You weave through the crowd, the salty ocean breeze tugging at your hair, your waitress apron still tied loosely around your waist from a double shift at the diner. Your feet ache, your head’s foggy, and all you want is to collapse into bed.

But the weight of their eyes on you, always watching, always there, makes your skin prickle with something that’s not quite fear anymore.

It started that night in the woods. A stupid shortcut after a late shift, your flashlight flickering, and then those glowing eyes. Four of them stepped out of the shadows like they owned the night. Paul, with his wild grin and a joint dangling from his lips. Marko, all sharp edges and sharper laughter. Dwayne, silent, his dark eyes pinning you in place. And David, cold and commanding, like he was sizing you up for dinner.

You should’ve screamed. Run. Done something. Instead, you snapped at David to get out of your way, or you’d make him. The words had tumbled out before you could stop them, fueled by exhaustion and defiance.

Paul had howled with laughter, Marko’s eyes had glinted with something dangerous, and even Dwayne’s stoic mask cracked into a faint smirk. David, though—he’d just stared, his lips curling into a slow, predatory smile.

“Feisty,” he’d said, voice like gravel and smoke. “I like that.”

You thought that was the end of it. A weird encounter with some punks who hung out in the wrong part of town. But then they started showing up everywhere.

Paul slipping a mixtape labeled “For Our Girl” onto your windowsill, filled with Mötley Crüe and The Cure. Marko ambushing you at the pier, dragging you to a secluded stretch of beach to watch the stars his arm brushing yours. Dwayne wordlessly showing up at your rundown apartment to fix the lock after you mentioned it was busted, his hands steady and sure, his gaze lingering too long on your throat.

And David. David, who one night draped his leather coat over your shoulders when the wind off the ocean turned sharp, his gloved fingers grazing your jaw as he tilted your face up to meet his icy blue eyes. “Anyone messes with you,” he said, voice low and deadly, “they answer to us.”

Now, weeks later, you’re unsure what you are to them. Not a victim—they’ve made that clear. Not just a friend, either. There’s a heat in the way they watch you, a hunger that’s equal parts thrilling and terrifying. You’re theirs, they say, and the word carries a weight you’re only starting to understand.

Tonight, you feel it more than ever. You’re halfway across the boardwalk when Paul’s voice cuts through the noise, lazy and teasing. “Yo, babe, where you runnin’ off to?”

You turn, and there they are, lounging against the railing like they own the place. Paul’s sprawled out, one leg kicked up, his blond hair a mess from the wind. Marko’s next to him, twirling a switchblade between his fingers, his patchwork jacket catching the neon glow. Dwayne leans back, arms crossed, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he watches you with that quiet intensity that makes your pulse race. And David—David stands at the center, his cigarette glowing red in the dark, his smirk promising trouble.

“Home,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “Some of us have jobs, you know.”

Paul laughs, loud and bright, hopping off the railing to sling an arm around your shoulders. “Jobs are overrated. Come hang with us. We’ve got plans.”

“Plans?” You raise an eyebrow, glancing at the others. Marko’s grin is all teeth, and Dwayne’s expression doesn’t shift, but you catch the faintest tilt of his head like he’s daring you to say yes. David just exhales a plume of smoke, watching you through half-lidded eyes.

“Something… fun,” David says, and the word drips with suggestion, his voice curling around you like a promise.

Your stomach flips. You know what they are. You’ve seen how their eyes glow in the dark, and their teeth glint a little too sharp. You’ve noticed the bloodstains on Marko’s jacket that he laughs off and the way Dwayne’s hands are always cold when they brush your skin. Vampires. The word sits heavy in your mind, but instead of running, you’re still here, caught in their orbit.

“Fun,” you repeat, crossing your arms. “Last time you said that, Marko tried to teach me to surf at three a.m. I nearly drowned.”

Marko snickers, flipping the switchblade closed. “You loved it, admit it. Looked hot in that wetsuit, too.”

“Keep dreaming,” you shoot back, but a smile tugs at your lips, and Marko’s eyes light up with mischief.

Paul tightens his arm around you, pulling you closer. “C’mon, babe. Live a little. Or, y’know… unlive a little.” He winks, and you roll your eyes, but the heat of his body against yours sends a shiver down your spine.

Dwayne finally moves, stepping forward until he’s close enough that you can smell the leather of his jacket and the faint tang of salt and iron that clings to him. “You’re tired,” he says, voice low, almost gentle. “Let us take you home.”

It’s not a question, but there’s no threat in it either. Just a quiet certainty, like he already knows you’ll say yes. You glance at David, who’s still watching you, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers. There’s something in his gaze—possessive but not cruel. Like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do.

“Fine,” you say, exhaling like you’re annoyed, but your heart’s pounding. “But I’m not riding on the back of anyone’s bike. Last time, Paul nearly crashed us into a dumpster.”

“Lies!” Paul gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “I’m an artist on that bike.”

“An artist at chaos,” you mutter, and Marko laughs, sharp and delighted.

David flicks his cigarette away, stepping closer until he’s right in front of you, his presence overwhelming. “You’ll ride with me,” he says, and it’s not a request. His gloved hand brushes your cheek, lingering just long enough to catch your breath. “Unless you’re scared.”

You scoff, meeting his eyes. “Of you? Please.”

His smirk widens, and for a second, you think he’s going to kiss you right there in front of everyone. Instead, he steps back, jerking his head toward the bikes parked nearby. “Let’s go.”

The ride to your apartment is a blur of wind and adrenaline, David’s bike roaring beneath you as you cling to his waist, the leather of his coat cool against your cheek. The others follow their laughter and whoops cutting through the night.

When you reach your place, you expect them to drop you off and peel out, but they don’t. They follow you inside, sprawling across your tiny living room like they own it—Paul kicking off his boots, Marko raiding your fridge, Dwayne leaning against the wall, watching you with that unreadable stare.

David doesn’t sit. He prowls, circling you like a predator as you untie your apron and toss it onto the counter. “You’re tense,” he says, voice low, almost a purr. “Rough night?”

“You could say that,” you reply, leaning against the counter, trying to ignore how your skin tingles under his gaze. “Some creeps at the diner wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

The air shifts. Paul’s head snaps up from where he’s sprawled on the couch, his grin gone. Marko freezes a bottle of soda halfway to his lips. Dwayne’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. David stops moving, his gaze locking onto yours, sharp and dangerous.

“Who?” David asks, and the single word is a blade.

You shrug, trying to play it off. “Just some drunk tourists. I handled it.”

“You handled it,” Marko repeats, setting the bottle down with a thud. “What’d they do?”

“Nothing worth mentioning,” you say, but your voice wavers and you curse yourself for it. “Just… got too close. Said some shit. My boss kicked them out.”

Dwayne pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “They touch you?” His voice is quiet, but there’s a lethal edge to it that makes your heart skip.

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Paul growls, sitting up. “Point ‘em out next time. We’ll handle it.”

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “What, you gonna beat up every jerk who looks at me wrong?”

“Yes,” Marko says, dead serious, and the intensity in his eyes makes your stomach flip.

David’s gloved hand cups your chin, tilting your face to meet his gaze. His touch is firm but not painful, and the heat of his stare makes your breath hitch. “No one touches what’s ours,” he says, voice low and deliberate. “No one bothers you. Ever.”

The possessiveness in his words should scare you, but it doesn’t. Instead, it sends a thrill through you, dangerous and electric. You’re not sure when you stopped being afraid of them—when their sharp edges and glowing eyes started feeling like safety instead of a threat.

“I can take care of myself,” you say, but your voice is softer now, your defiance melting under the weight of their attention.

“We know,” Dwayne says, his voice a low rumble as he steps closer, his hand brushing your arm. “But you don’t have to.”

Paul’s on his feet now, crowding in, his grin back but sharper, hungrier. “You’re ours, babe. Means we’ve got your back. Always.”

Marko’s behind you, closer than you realized, his breath cool against your neck as he murmurs, “And we don’t share.”

Your pulse races, the air thick with tension—sexual, dangerous, intoxicating. You’re surrounded, their bodies close enough that you can feel the unnatural chill of their skin, the promise of something more in every lingering touch. David’s thumb brushes your lower lip, and you swallow hard, caught in the pull of his gaze.

“Get some rest,” he says finally, stepping back and breaking the spell. “We’ll be around.”

They leave as silently as they came, the roar of their bikes fading into the night. But the weight of their promise lingers, heavy and warm, and as you crawl into bed, you know there’s no going back. You’re theirs—and you’re not sure you’d want it any other way.

[thefavouritelamb]

GOLDEN CURLS and your BLOOD-STAINED KNIFE

premise . . . you should be terrified, you should be fucking horrified. all the annoying bitches around you drop dead like flies and the masked hottie man in front of you is about to kill you. and, oh my god, it's that nerd from chem

( requested by anon ! )

CAST virgin!slasher slutty!final girl TAGS plot with porn, murder and attempted murder, mentions of attempted suicide, crack treated seriously, possessive behaviour, light obsessive behaviour, light knifeplay, light femdom/dominant reader, light submissive slasher, brief breeding kink, creampie, unsafe sex done by unsafe people

affiliated links ─── pinned inbox requests (closed for now)

death clings to your scent—everywhere, it knows where you are. it started small, seemingly a one-time thing. some old hag dies and everyone assumes it was from old age. it wasn't. god forbid, it wasn't. whispers echo through the hallway and doesn't leave your ears; it was a murder. who the hell gave a shit though, right? you didn't. you couldn't care when that hag refused to give you the mark you deserved. fuck her.

then, mechanically, it comes after one another. you're starting to think of moving, really. like flies, your contact list fills with dead bodies. literally. name after name, vague description after just another number, the men you've slept with are all fucking dying. if you were superstitious, you'd think this was karma. yet, you're not. you're realistic. you know someone is haunting your trail and they aren't fucking stopping.

the world stops for a moment. the only thing you can hear is that repetitive bounce of some... fucking tennis ball or something. the house is dreary, the silence occasionally stabbed with the thrumming of the ball bouncing around. your heart pounds against your chest. you can't feel your fingers though they tightly wrap around the handle of the kitchen knife. you've been sensing you were next for a while. you just wish that it didn't end like this when you're half naked, a nameless man dead on the floor of your bedroom, and pussy out in the fucking cold.

it's getting closer. your hands are grasped in prayer as you pull it close to your chest. when the pounding stops, you know he's there.

quickly, you turn to face the man in the doorway. you raise your hand to stab yet he halts you by your wrist. fuck. all your anger and frustration bubbles into a punch but it comes out fruitless. his fist hammer to your ribs. you're promptly pushed down; weak, hurting, and pathetic. this was not how you wanted to die. the man towers over you as he drags you by the hair—a string of whines fall from your lips as you struggle out of his grasp.

"get the fuck off me, you sicko!" you scream, the sting at your scalp more painful than a knife stab. you think so, anyways. "i won't fucking report your ass just please! leave me the fuck alone!"

if he's been operating systematically, killing off your contact lists one by one, you just knew that telling him off wouldn't stop him. still, he drops you on the floor. you find yourself on your back, staring wide-eyed as the mask looks into your eyes. he has no eyes, not really. he has one mouth, a grin so wild. his entire body is cloaked and with it soaked in blood—you were too. both of you were bathed in the blood of some bloke you didn't even remember the name of. you hoped, just a little, you get to have one good fuck before you died.

"do you like pain?" he says your name, his voice unnatural and a deep monotone. "i know you do." fucking pervert, watching you getting your masochistic streak on. "you like inflicting them more than you receive them, though. i know you do."

"i don't know what you mean," your voice trembles. he slowly squats down to your level, his bloody gloved hands making a print on your cheeks. "j-just..." his knife kisses your jaw, "if i did something or i said something to you—... i'm fucking stupid. you can ruin my life however you want just let me live! wouldn't that be better? let me live with my own mistakes?"

his laugh comes out a growl through the voice changer. it's animalistic. "you have been living with your mistakes," he tells you, "everyday, every man you bring home. every single one of them is a man who doesn't even care for you. they're a mistake. you've lived far long enough with them, haven't you? i'm here to finally—" the edge of the blade traces a line on the bottom of your jaw, leaving a heated pain behind—"dissolve you from your past."

before you try to reason with him, he grips his mask. the white sullen face is pulled upwards revealing—revealing...?

him? "you?" this feels like a sudden joke. "no... oh my god, no fucking way."

you want to laugh; hat was, of course, your attempted reaction before you felt the blade go deeper in your skin. fucking ouch. the man above you is none other than that nerd in your chem class. you remember months ago how you laughed because he continuously tried to flirt with you. his attempts all but adorable with his soft face and thick glasses. it was endearing back then. you almost slept with him just because you thought he was cute.

but now? holy fuck. now, it's different. you almost couldn't tell they were the same person if not the mole on his lips, a gentle kiss from the gods that turned his mouth a shade of pink. the soft cheeks have slimmed into a distinguished jawline. strands of hair curl at the top of his head, almost shielding his watercolour eyes beneath those stupid glasses. you can't believe it. that fucking nerd, after disappearing for months, came back to do a killing spree all because... you didn't sleep with him?

"you embarassed me," he says, his voice almost whiny. "do you know how hard it was for me to go around school? everyone picked on me because you said that i was... i was a good for nothing fucking virgin! you made fun of me and the entir..."

it's odd how his words dulled into a muffled tone. from this angle, the cloak falls off a little and you see a glimpse of his collarbones. he lost weight, didn't he? that's slightly sad, you quite liked him in his softer body. you mourn it silently but you notice how his voice trembles into a deeper tone—had he gone through puberty again? jeez. he looks and sounds cute. you're smiling a little as your heart skips a beat from anything but fear.

"what the fuck are you doing?" he asks, snapping you out of your trance. before you could notice it yourself, your hands already moved down to your crotch. you haven't even came yet, not even a fake orgasm. you're only slightly bit shameful that you're touching yourself while he's having his villain monologue.

you hum, spreading your legs. "look, i feel a bit bad and all, but you really caught me at a bad time." you see his eyes trail to your cunt, seeing where your fingers disappear between your legs and how he gulps down in want. "come on, he didn't even have his cock out, baby. i was just barely taking off my panties when you interrupted us. and... you're kinda hot."

"you're sick." hah! the irony in that. "you want to fuck me now?" he laughs, gripping your hair again which makes you moan this time. you can see how his face loosens for a moment at the sound. "y-you only like me now because i lost weight! i starved myself from the bullying, and planning on how to fucking kill those people!"

"but baby, you're cute the way you are," you pout. "the only reason why i didn't fuck you was because you were just kinda weird at times. it was cute how you thought flower facts were going to get you pussy. and it was going to give you pussy, baby. but i can't risk my reputation if i fucked a cute nerd like you. can't give it all up just for one dick, you know?

"but now...?" you gasp, reeling in his attention with how two fingers slip in with ease. "you fucking killed those dickheads, baby. i fake orgasmed with most of them. i don't need a reputation when you've killed my audience."

his face drops into one of shock. you're not surprised that he's surprised. you're a bit surprised too—hah, you're kinda going delirious, maybe you are insane after all. despite the festering pain on your face, the stickiness of blood, you curl your fingers perfectly into your g-spot that has you moaning. you admire the way his eyes are trained onto you, his desires unfulfilled coming back again like a pest. he's tried to get over you but he hasn't. you're not letting him. absolutely fucking not.

his knife moves and you stick your tongue out, chasing the tip of it. you moan, looking into his eyes as you lay your tongue flat against the plane of the blade. "co' fu'h me?"

the words "come fuck me" were muffled but it seemed like he got the gist.

like how it was meant to be, you lay on stained bedsheets. it's a bit disgusting but you're too distracted with how cutely he's hurrying to undo his jeans. the cloak is pulled apart and you see how his hands struggle to undo his belt. silly boy. you reach out, hands expertly taking them off as he melts in your hold. it's thrown away along with your underwear, wherever it may be, as his pants are roughly pulled down by him.

you can't help but tease him, "feeling excited, baby?" he moans, hips grounding against you with a sticky fabric bordering you two. "so cute. did you cum in your boxers already? why's it all wet, baby boy?" he blushes, silent as you pick him apart knowingly. your hands make it inside his briefs and both of you moan at the contact—he's fucking wet, almost gushing. you would think he already came with the pre-cum leaking at the tip. despite that assumption, his cock is an angry red demanding warmth. your warmth.

"such a pretty little boy for me. take that off," he does so obediently. his fat cock—and it is fat, the length of it just nice but the thickness of it makes you drool in want—slaps against his stomach and makes a patch on his happy trail. "good boy, such a pretty and good boy for me.

you ask, "wanna shove it in?" and he moans, an echo of agreement and pleas falling from his mouth. he's pressing kisses against the open wound, a silent apology as he begs to be touched by you. the pain doesn't feel that bad now. it's numbed as his cockhead presses against your wet heat, wanting an entrance. you can only hear his ragged breathing as his tongue laps up the blood. your heart races against each other, the two of it throbbing with only both your flesh and bones separating them from mauling each other.

it's a miracle how he hasn't combusted yet. however, you hold onto that as he shoves the first inch inside. you've barely stretched yourself with two fingers and you almost wish you took more. the stretch of his cock punches a moan out of you, unwilling. the little thing above you whines and moans, "so good, so good, you feel so fucking good." it's the only thing he can muster in his brain as your cunt grasps him in a tight embrace, slick gushing around it as it tries to ease the slide.

"so good," he draws out in a tight moan. "i've never... you—i can't fucking believe it." you almost forgot the nerd was a virgin. "you feel so good around me. your pussy is so tight but it's, oh my god, it's opening up so nicely. so nicely for me."

your hands tangle itself in his hair after you pulled his hood down. "yeah, is it how you imagined? how does my pussy feel in comparison to your hand?" he's barely understandable with how fast he repeats so good so good so good. without prompting, one of his gloved fingers reach down to play with your clit. mostly the men need a signal or even a guide to do that. the leather is an odd feeling against such a sensitive area. still, it's not unwelcomed. you moan freely, your legs moving to wrap itself behind him. you want him to start moving. you need him to.

"come on," you goad, "need your fat cock inside me. you gotta start fucking me how you did in your fantasies, baby." then, that he does. he pushes inch by inch in, making you moan with the delightful and painful stretch. it's a feeling you're never going to tire yourself from. his cock splits you open more than anyone ever could. he presses it nice and deep, the tip kissing your g-spot gently. he doesn't move his hips, the vice around his cock too tight. he understands immediately and flicks your clit, a rapid motion that has you grinding against his hold.

that gets him to move. he starts to fuck his cock in and out of you. it's slow, pulling out until the tip is left just for him to fuck it deep again. his playful hand gets distracted but it's okay. every thrust you're groaning, your head having swivelled backwards from the pleasure. it's getting your legs to numb out. his balls slap against your ass and there's lewd sounds of skin slapping with echoing moans from the both of you. it's textbook erotic. you crave his cock just as much as he's craving your pussy.

"faster, come on." he's a show dog who's memorised all his cues. he moves his hips faster, opting for a more chaotic pace to chase both of your orgasms. he moves his hand again, a slower and more gentle act of circling in contrast to the impaling of his cock. your cunt is leaking in wet arousal as your breath is stolen from you. you can barely feel your legs when he's going ballistic. he mouths delightfully at your face now, just shy of kissing you.

you don't let his fantasy go to waste. eagerly, you tilt your head so your lips meet in unified desperation. he's moaning into the kiss. his pace stutters as he loses himself to the pleasure of being kissed. you're not surprised if you took all of his firsts tonight. in eager motions, he's chasing his orgasm orgasm. his first orgasm inside a cunt raw. you don't really mind that he's without a condom. you know you're safe when you've made everyone who tapped to wrap it up. this little killer of yours is, of course, a special exemption.

"'m gonna cum," he whines, dick hammering into your cunt. "gonna cum inside your pussy. gonna make it mine. gonna breed your pussy and you're gonna be all mine, all mine, all mine."

his free hand goes to grip your waist with one final thrust, both of you pulled into waves of orgasm. he's cumming inside of you and you mirror as you squirt all over him. the orgasm is intense as he gently plays with your clit, easing it with a slow lull. all of it becomes just a bit too much and you're writhing beneath him. he gets the point and moves away, carefully moving out of you.

in between the post haze, you feel the sheets move beneath you and you lay on the mattress. he wraps you in his arms and you're being embraced by the warmth of his body and the feel of his tongue against your lips. his kissing could be improved, you think with a laugh. that pulls him out of his cocoon-like touches. an insecure question of, "what are you laughing at?" has you smiling a little.

you answer him truthfully, "you fuck like a menace and kiss like a virgin. it's cute though, don't get me wrong." he blushes like a virgin too. you can't help but squish his cheeks. "gosh. you're adorable," the fog thins and you smell the corpse rotting at your feet, "and... you're a serial killer. how are you going to get rid of that dead fucking body?"

he looks down, almost surprised that there was a dead body there. "oh," he says, quite dumbly, "i actually don't know. i really did plan to kill you and then kill myself afterwards. i don't want to go to jail."

oh. o-fucking-kay.

you two sit up and you pull at your hair. the golden curls fall in front of your face in anger. "why the fuck would you go through all this just because you couldn't get some pussy?" he's about to answer you and you know he's going to repeat his monologue. "no, no. okay, i get it. i'm sorry. but seriously, i don't want to die and i don't want to go to jail because i fucked the murderer." this is bad. his knife is on the bed and you're thinking about just stabbing him.

wait, that could work. you grab the knife quickly and stab him. that immediately gets him to yelp, "what the actual fuck!?" he glares at the knife in his stomach then at you, "why would you do that?" he's looking at you like he's about to cry. you actually feel a little bit bad.

"sorry," you say, letting go. "i just needed to come up with a story." you pull your hair back, sitting cross-legged in front of him. "so, you were fucking me. he came here and tried to kill the both of us. he's all jealous that i was fucking other people—sounds familiar? yeah, well, this time, i kill him with this knife and now he's framed for the murder. assuming, of course, you don't have any incriminating evidence inside your house."

"no," he groans, hands hovering above the handle in wanting to get it out but knowing it should be stuck in. "your cameras are all dead too, by the way. it's been dead for a few days and no one saw the two of you when you sneaked inside from the back door. no one saw me too."

"great!" you promptly pull out the knife and he screams. "sorry! sorry! i just need to stab it inside of him and then call the cops." you put the knife right where he put it in earlier, right between his crotch. if this all goes well, you all go home without a worry. if it goes bad, well, you could always run away, right? you look at the killer bleeding, cock out and cum dribbling down his thighs and squirt on his stomach. you don't think both options are that bad.

"the costume?" he asks, looking down head to toe at himself. you're about to undress him gleefully and play dress-up with a dead body.

written and posted by thefavouritelamb

[urlonelystarrr]

𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒓𝒚

ghostface x reader

GENRE → horror, smut.

SYNOPSIS → you're his killing partner. after nearly messing up while out on a nightly kill, ghostface decides that you're in need of a punishment.

TAGS/WARNINGS → dom! ghostface, creampie, rough sex, slapping, choking, degrading, manhandling, overstimulation, angry sex, no particular ghostface implied, spitting, oral!giving, fingering, knife play, mouth fucking, belt whipping, edging, kinda cnc

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you were on all fours, silently cleaning up the mess you had made. ghostface leaned against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched you clean. your head hung low in shame, as you wiped up the blood on the ground. he hadn't said a word, and you were fucking terrified.

you grabbed a mop, mopping up the floor in a quick hurry - eager to leave the victims house. the body was all taken care of for now, wrapped up like a present in garbage bags and duct tape. the sudden sound of wood creaking drew your attention over to him, as he took slow steps towards you. "why'd you hesitate?" his voice was deep, in control. he wasn't asking to know, he was demanding. "i don't- i don't know." why'd you say that? why couldn't you just tell him that you felt nervous that you had someone watching you? it seemed your mind had gone blank, the response you'd been thinking of suddenly vanishing into the tension filled room.

"you don't know?" he took a step closer, scoffing. you stopped mopping for a second, your hands holding onto the handle for dear life. "i just got...nervous while you were watching me." you looked at the floor, not being able to look at him. "aw, you got nervous?" he mocked you, before shoving you up against a wall. he held you by your throat, the mop dropping out of your hands and smacking against the floor. "if you can't handle me watching you kill someone, how the fuck am i supposed to trust you to do this on your own? am i your babysitter?" he sneered, his grip tightening momentarily. you shook your head, your hands coming up to hold his wrist. he slapped them away, pushing you into the wall harder. "you can't even handle me, how are you gonna face someone else who's bigger than you?" he looked you up and down, his tone dripping in disdain. "you can barely tell the difference between left and right." your brows furrowed, your frustration only growing at his words. "i killed him, didn't i?" you could sense it, the disapproval of your back talk. you didn't need to see his face to tell he was frowning. "you know damn well that's not what i'm talking about. i'm talking about how you couldn't handle your victim. if i wasn't there, he'd overpower you, and you'd be the one bleeding out. if i'm gonna have to save your ass everytime we go out and do this, im gonna take you out to the middle of nowhere and slit your throat open." he let go of your neck, leaving you gasping quietly for air. you held your own neck, the skin burning from his touch.

he walked away, moving to pick up the body on the floor. you watched as he effortlessly picked up the body, tossing it over his shoulder as if 195 weighed nothing. you swallowed, watching as he walked out the door. he paused in the doorway, turning around to look at you. "get a shovel and help me out. don't make me wait."

you were quick to move, following him outside and grabbing a shovel. he loaded the car, shoving the body inside the trunk while you placed the shovel in as well. the two of you drove in silence, and you sat in the passenger seat, anxiously waiting.

the moment you two were done, you could tell you were in a lot of trouble. judging by the way he slammed the trunk and doors - you knew you couldn't get out of this. he made you stay with him, as he couldn't risk having you out of his sight. you took off your mask, glancing over at him as he kept his on. he turned to you suddenly, titling his head. "the fuck are you looking at?" he took a few steps towards you, his presence looming and authoritative. he held your face hard, his fingers digging into your skin. your brows furrowed, and you winced from how hard he was being. "stop acting all innocent...like you almost didn't fuck up tonight. i could kill you, right fucking now, and nobody would know." he looked into your eyes, smirking under the mask as he saw them tear up. "aw, don't tell me you're gonna cry now because i yelled at you. you're so fuckin' sensitive," he rolled his eyes, letting go of your face.

"you wanna cry? fine, i'll give you a reason to." without warning, he grabbed you by your hair, dragging you to his room. you yelped as he threw you onto his bed, forcing you into laying flat on your stomach. before you could even get up, he was on top of you, his hand on your back, holding you down. "wha- what are you doing?!" your face was pressed into the mattress, your eyes squeezing shut as he held your head down. you couldn't see much, but you could hear the sound of him taking his belt off. you started squirming, but he placed his knee on the back of your legs, immediately stopping you. "don't you move." he warned, taking his belt and whipping your ass with it. the leather came down hard, making you grip the sheets, your knuckles turning white. you yelled, trying to move, but he only made it harder for you, using his body weight and strength to pin you down.

he leaned down, the belt still in hand. "i could do a lot worse to you, you know that right? the things i'd do to you, you might not even recover from." he chuckled darkly, slapping the back of your thighs with the belt. you still had your robe on, you didn't even have time to change. your body trembled from the pain, your skin stinging as you cried into the mattress silently, your fingers clutching the sheets. he noticed your whimpering, and slapped your ass with his hand. raising a brow in slight amusement, and something more when he felt your ass jiggle under his palm.

somehow, it hurt more than the belt. your body jolted, your cries becoming more apparent. he pulled your head back by your hair, leaning next to your ear. his body was on top of yours, and you could feel his crotch right against your ass as he straddled you from behind. "you're crying already?" he mocked sympathy, "you think i'll be less mean if you cry? what a baby. your tears mean nothing to me. cry all you want, it won't make me any less harder." you sniffled, wanting to wipe the tears from your eyes so badly. you didn't know what to say, but you figured it would be best if you stayed quiet.

the weight was lifted off of you, and you slowly rolled back over to sit up, thinking your punishment was over. oh, how wrong you were. you saw his belt laid next to you, and his robe was opened enough to reveal his black jeans unbuttoned and unzipped. you swallowed nervously as you looked at him stand there, his heavy footsteps making the wood on the floor creak under his weight. he stood in front of you, looking down at you, before slapping you across the face - hard. you held your cheek, your eyes watering from the impact. he spoke with disdain, crossing his arms as he looked down at you. he appeared bigger, taller, and stronger than you could ever be. "you look like a fuckin mess," he paused, looking at your face. "i didn't know you wore makeup - it's all runny," he spoke like he was disgusted. "though, i knew you always liked attention." his words made you angry, they made you want to bite back. but you knew where that'd get you. his thumb pressed against your bottom lip, and he forced his gloved finger inside your mouth, the pad of his finger pressing down on your tongue. he seemed pleased by how wet your mouth was, and he started to reach down to his pants. you swallowed, pleading for him. "oh my god, please don't," you whimpered. "why? you gonna cry again?" he taunted, pulling his pants down enough for you to see his black boxers. "i've heard people plead for me to not take their life, and somehow you sound more pathetic than they do," he said with amusement. he pulled out his hardened cock, just seeing you in pain and crying made him hard. this fucker- he was big. he didn't need for you to say it, he knew already. his pink tip tapped at your lips, and he forced you to open your mouth by stepping on your foot, making you gasp in pain.

he shoved his cock inside, letting out a hiss of pleasure as he felt his cock be engulfed by your mouth. he rocked gently, letting your tongue coat his cock in your saliva before commanding you to suck. "suck it. no wonder guys don't fuck you, you're terrible at this," he replied as you didn't move an inch, and you fought off the urge to bite. you decided to give in, as pleasing him would only make things better for you. slowly, you started to suck. he watched as you took your time, displeased with how slow you were, he rolled his eyes, growing bored. he pulled his cock out, grabbing your hair and forcing you to look up at him. "you gonna stop fucking around or do i need to smack the shit out of you again?"

his tone was threatening, making you swallow and take his cock back in your mouth. without using your hands, you slowly took it inch by inch, your tongue wrapping around the tip. you sucked on it generously, tracing his veins with your tongue. he tilted his head back, quietly panting. he groaned, looking down at you again, before taking your hair in a fist, and thrusting into your mouth. your eyes teared up from the pressure, looking up at him as he fucked your mouth relentlessly. his breathing was heavy, gasps shuddering as his cock grazed your tongue, the way your lips sucked on his tip made him crazy. it didn't take long for him to finish, for him to fill up your mouth with cum. "swallow it." he held you by your cheeks, fingertips burning into your skin. you obeyed, swallowing it.

he seemed impressed by how you didn't gag, but he wasn't gonna tell you that. you were slightly relieved when he pulled his pants back up, and when he left the room. you wiped your mouth, hating yourself for enjoying it.

you were confused, he hadn't said anything at all in the past hour. you got up from your room, leaving to take a shower. you stood underneath the water, deciding to pamper yourself after what happened. you shaved, used a body scrub, and your favorite body wash. you swore that you heard the door open, but you felt that it was just your paranoia of being in punishment that made you believe that.

you ended up finishing quickly, but you were quick to notice the missing thong from your pile of clothes. you exited the bathroom, going into your room to change. you felt that pampering yourself might make you feel less worse about this whole 'punishment.' you felt slightly disgusted, how many people did he do this do? you rubbed lotion on your arms and legs, jumping when the door handle started to move.

you were barely clothed, just a pair of grey shorts and a little black tank top. he entered your room, looking pissed off again. "you're a bitch, you know that?" he came closer. "making me feel like a fuckin' teenager in heat. you know how many bitches i fucked trying to get you off my mind?" you paused, completely taken aback.

"you're just some dumb bitch i've gotta babysit while we kill people together." his hand runs up your neck, the leather from his gloves caressing your soft skin. your brows furrowed, and you could tell he was smirking under the mask. "dumb girls like you don't even cross my mind a second time after i've came." you looked away, shame and embarrassment burning your cheeks after what had happened. you felt used - like some toy for him to get off on. "if you're feeling used, it's because you are. you fuckin' suck at killing," he paused, his hand sliding up the back of your neck - taking your hair and wrapping it around his hand, "maybe these hands are better for this." his unoccupied hand took your wrist, and he placed it on his crotch. you could feel him hardening under your palm, and you swallowed nervously.

he looked down at you, fighting the urge to smile at how pretty you were. "you're pretty when you cry," he chuckled darkly. "maybe I should make you cry more often, you look so good." you didn't know how to feel, he was being so cruel but so nice at the same time. you couldn't lie, you were eating up whatever compliments he gave - since they didn't come often.

but, his good mood disappeared as quick as it came, and before you know it you were shoved down onto your bed. his hands pinned your wrists down, and he was quick to straddle you. you fought against him, but it only ended up with you getting slapped. he didn't say a word, his hands already abandoning your wrists to travel up your top. you gasped softly as he gently pushed your top up, a finger tracing your abdomen. "look at you, barely fuckin' clothed. it's like you want my attention," he laughed cruelly. he reached behind him, pulling out his hunting knife. he dragged the tip up your stomach, the faintest mark appearing on the soft skin. he watched how your skin dented under the knife's weight, his lips pulling up into a twisted grin that nobody could see.

he ran it up your body, cutting your top open. the knife laid against your neck, and you swallowed thickly. you laid still, as if breathing would get you killed. his hand came down and squeezed your boob, and he leaned down next to your ear. "i usually don't give girls attention like this, but you're different." he sighed in frustration, "you gotta boyfriend?"

"no," you cleared your throat. "it wouldn't matter anyway, id kill him just to have you for myself." he chuckled, his hand running down your stomach to press against your clothed pussy. you jolted underneath his body, squirming slightly. "don't move, girl." you could tell he was looking you up and down, "i'm gonna make this pussy mine." you tried to move again, but he held you by your throat, his thumb digging into your neck. you gasped, and his hand went down your shorts. you shuddered when you felt his finger run down your pussy, his gloved fingertip sliding in between your lips. he watched your brows furrow, and your lips part slightly to let out soft gasps.

you didn't know how to feel. were you angry that he was treating you like this? speaking to you like you were below him? all of that faded as you felt his finger circle your clit. a sharp gasp exiting your mouth, your back slightly arching on its own. you felt him press you into the mattress, his strong arm holding you in place. "that's it, good girl." he murmured, watching as you moved your hips like some bitch in heat. he removed his finger, his hand disappearing under his mask as he tasted you on his fingers. you opened your eyes and looked at him as he tasted you. you couldn't tell what he was thinking.

his legs were spread as he straddled you, but he got off of you, and stood by the edge of your bed. he yanked you to the edge by your ankles, until your lower half slightly tipped over the edge. he pushed your legs up to your chest, a hand under your knees as he traced your clothed pussy with his finger. his breathing had become heavier, and he practically tore your shorts off you. he moved his mask slightly, just to spit in your mouth. he forced it open, dragging his ring and middle finger along your tongue. when he pulled your thong to the side, his eyes glimmered in amusement at how wet you were already. "didn't even need to use spit," he chuckled. "suck it off." his fingers returned to your mouth, and you sucked his spit off of them.

he couldn't wait, he was hard the moment he stepped into your room, and saw how your shorts hugged the fat of your ass. he pressed himself against your wet pussy. the front of his jeans were dampened, and he groaned feeling you pressed against him. in a quick motion, he unbuttoned his jeans. "spread that pussy for me," he ordered. your hands came around your thighs, spreading open your pussy for him. he ran a finger in between your folds, your mouth parting to let out soft pants. he circled your clit slowly, before teasing your hole with the tip of his finger. he leaned down, his ring finger poking at your hole while his thumb caressed your clit. "you're dripping," he sneered. he felt pride knowing you were so wet because of him, and something darker gleamed in his eyes as he heard your soft whines and the sounds of you sucking in a breath. he slowly sunk his ring and middle finger in your hole, watching as you tipped your head back. a soft whine left your mouth, and he picked up his pace seeing your reaction. "come on," he encouraged, "show me how good this pussy is." upon hearing that, your pussy clamped around his fingers, and he looked at you with amusement.

he curled his fingers, making you arch your back. his pace quickened on your clit, and you swore you were going to cum, when he suddenly pulled out. you opened your eyes, shocked to see him laughing. "oh baby, you're not gonna get to cum so quickly." he stood up to his full height, taking his pants off and pulling them down. he pulled out his cock, rubbing the tip in between your folds. you looked at him, brows furrowed as he teased you. "you're still being punished, remember?" he taunted, leaning down to choke you again. you held onto his wrist, and this time he let you. "please," you whined. "please what?" he tilted his head, looking down at you.

"please, put it in. i-i can't.." you squirmed, trying to gain some friction. but instead, he pushed your hips down into the mattress, his voice quickly turning menacing. "stop moving, girl." he warned, his cock resting heavy on your pussy. he tapped his tip against your clit, rubbing it up and down before teasing the tip in. your painted toes curled with anticipation, as you let out a soft gasp as he stuck it in. but he quickly pulled out, leaving you with an empty feeling. just as you were about to protest, he stuck it in quickly, instantly filling you up. you let out a groan, your back arching again as he stood still. "relax, i haven't even done anything yet." he said with contempt, but it was amusing how turned on you were by this. "do you not get dick often? that would explain it," he smirked, loving the look of frustration on your face.

he started to rock his hips, fucking you at a painfully slow pace. but you knew not to disobey, even though you just wanted to move against him. he held open your legs, watching as his cock disappeared inside your pussy, how you sucked him in so fucking good that his eyes rolled back. your breathing was shaky as you tried to handle his slow pace, and to make it worse he added a finger to your clit, rubbing it in all the right places. he loved how your mouth hung slightly open, your brows furrowing as you looked as his cock inside you. your eyes trailed over his body, the distinct v line fading into the carved muscles of his upper half. he noticed you looking, and lifted his robe up to expose more of his stomach, while rolling his hips into yours.

a sharp gasp left your throat, as he started to pick up his pace. he pounded into you harder, yet his pace was still slow. he enjoyed watching you nearly cum all over his cock, and pulled out just before as you were about to. "do you wanna cum?" he taunted, leaning next to your ear while he pounded into you. you couldn't help the gasps and moans that left your mouth, "yes, please let me cum, please.." you begged, your legs sore from holding them up for so long. he suddenly pulled out again, forcing you onto your hands and knees. "I'll make you scream, baby. " he pulled your hips towards him, slapping your ass until it left a mark. he stuck his cock back in, pulling it back out and watching as your hole stayed in the same shape he stretched it. "I'm gonna make this pussy cum," he groaned, fucking into you sloppily. his abdomen was pressed into the fat of your ass, and you could hear the heavy breaths that left his mouth as he pounded into your pussy. his fingers returned to your clit, sloppily rubbing it until your pussy was clenching around his cock.

"be a good girl n' cum for me, show me how much you like this dick bitch." your knuckles were gripping the sheets, your toes curling and your eyes rolling back as he fucked you into oblivion, the side of your face pressed into the mattress as he buried his cock deep inside you, his fingers rubbing at your clit until you were a moaning mess. you swore you've never came so fucking hard - after nearly three times of him almost coaxing it out of you. "oh my god," you tried to move away, a scream leaving your throat as you felt him fuck you past your orgasm. you could feel him filling up your pussy with his cum, and he let out a deep groan, leaning against your body for support. your body collapsed, as you let out heavy pants. your eyes opened in shock when you felt yourself being lifted up, and he slammed you into the nearest wall, pounding into your pussy as if the two of your bodies weren't aching.

you couldn't remember how many times you came. he ran a finger up your pussy, practically fucking his own cum out of you. he pulled out his cum coated cock, and stuck it in your mouth. you licked him up, savoring the taste of him. "you freak bitch," he chuckled darkly, holding the side of your face. you sat on the edge of your bed, putting your clothes on while he pulled his pants up and left. you figured that he'd be the type to do that, and you decided it was time for another shower. but you could only imagine the surprise when you came back to your room, and saw him laying in the bed. he pat the space next to him, and as soon as you laid down he pulled you close to him.

"sleep with me," he moved up his mask slightly to kiss your neck (which you couldn't see since you were the little spoon.) you hummed in acknowledgement, laying comfortably in his strong arms. his fingers caressed the soft curve on your side, prompting you to fall asleep.

after that encounter, things had gotten strange. the girls that he'd fucked before you went missing. that or they were brutally murdered. when he heard shuffling around in the kitchen, he rose from his bed with a hunting knife tucked into his pants. "what the fuck?" he muttered, seeing you bloodied. "killing spree?" he let go of his knife, leaning against the wall. you came up to him, lifting up the bottom of his mask just enough where his neck was exposed. you started to kiss the skin, sucking on all the right spots. his hand rested on the small of your back, unsure of what caused the sudden affection - not that he was complaining. then you said something that made him shudder, "this dick belongs to me." oh fuck, he was losing his control. your hand ran down his stomach and groped his cock, eliciting a deep groan from him. "I don't belong to anyone," he panted, knowing you'd get angry. "tell that to them." you looked into his eyes, and his face fell as he connected the dots. but he wasn't afraid of what you were capable of - in fact, he found his perfect match.

────────────────────────────────

authors note: since halloween is coming, I decided I should throw in another ghostface fic cause he's so fucking hot likeee...

[a-sorrowful-tune]

I’m currently obsessed with this tweet. It’s so real

[heartfullofleeches]

[Slasher Reader loses victim Yan in the woods]

Slasher Reader: Damn it...You always make me do this.... [Lifts up their mask slightly] Put your head on my shoulder~

[Nearby] "Hold me in your arms~... Shit"

[Slasher Reader, pulls their mask back down]

Victim Yan, leaping from the bushes: Oh fuck, oh fuck-

Slasher Reader: Squeeze me oh-so tight~ Wouldn't what you'd like me to do to you, sweetheart?

Victim Yan: Yes!-wait- No! Fuckfuckfuck - Why do you have to have the voice of an angel?!

[butterbabyflapjack]

✧˖° Brian Moser x serial killer fem!reader

✧˖° summary:

The Ice Truck Killer’s back in town, and somehow he's stuck babysitting you; Miami's newest would-be killer.

Helping you out wasn't at all his original intention–he'd rather see you dead, you know far too much–but he supposes he could spare an evening to undomesticate that hungry beast inside you. Show you how to really live your life.

In which Brian helps you kill someone who utterly deserves it, and the kill room turns into a horny sex-fueled bloodbath.

✧˖° wordcount (chapter 1): 5k

✧˖° chapters: one, two, three, four, five

✧˖° ao3

✧˖° warnings: serial killer fem!reader, reader insert, explicit sexual content, rough sex, passionate sex, fucking in a kill room, dark romance, dark comedy, canon typical depictions of blood and gore, enthusiastic consent, mutual pining, impact play, playing with your food, serial killers in love, banter, dirty talk, voice kink, trauma bonding, babysitting a serial killer, implied sexual abuse of a child (you're killing this mf don’t worry), torture (you’re torturing this mf don’t worry), Brian is his own warning, enemies to lovers, biting, daddy issues?, blood play, a bit of angst a dash of bloodlust & a heavy splash of spice, Brian loves to fluster you and he won't shut the hell up going about it, Brian survives season 1 in this house

✧˖° author's note:

This is ridiculous, horny, bloody, silly and dark (in essence, a very dark romantic comedy), so please heed the tags!

Starts after season 1, but with Brian escaping. Sorry if there’s any rough spots, I kinda rushed editing this.

ch.1 is from Brian’s POV, and the rest of the story is from yours. And there aren't nearly enough problematic female characters in the world so I'm making you one 😃

✧˖° chapter 1

Hello again, Miami. 

Didn’t think I’d see you again this soon.

What’s it been? Eight months? Since I was your most highly wanted criminal?

Guess I just couldn’t stay away.

Time flies when you’re laying low.

Guess I just missed you.

But really, my reason for coming back to dear old Miami–my home, both my real and spiritual birthplace–has a name, a life, and a face. Your name, if you’re really so curious. Your life. Your face. And I intend to leave what remains of all three of those things behind to the hungry bellies of gators before once more absconding stage left. 

But why, you might ask? Why do I want to kill you? Horrified, scandalized, even. For what reason had you to die by my skillful hand? And the answer to that is simple: death doesn’t need a reason. Death simply is, and I simply enjoy it. 

Though…

Regardless of that irrefutable fact…

I’ll admit. 

This particular death–your death–has a slightly more personal reason. And that reason, or at least its causation, was currently chit-chatting with me on the phone.

“Your plane lands at eight?” Dexter asked, and I didn’t waste time with a nod when he wouldn’t see it. Simply staring out across the coast of Costa Rica, the sunset reflected within the dark shadow of my gaze.

Costa Rica… and I’d really wanted to retire somewhere cold.

Not that this was retirement.

It was more of an… unplanned, involuntary vacation. Just until the heat from the feds cooled down.

Then again, I wasn’t waiting for the temp to drop before planning this little excursion back to Miami. But you’d sorta forced my hand in that regard, now hadn’t you?

“Hope you don’t mind if I crash on the couch,” I said, good-natured, and I knew he wouldn’t object. My brother couldn’t feel much–much more than myself–but I sensed a sort of guilt in him for how he’d previously driven me off those eight months ago. Choosing a fake sibling over a real one, one who actually knew who he was… I’d say the guilt had good cause.

I could hear him at his quaint living room/office combo’s computer, typing away at something. Perpetually Distracted Dexter.

“Yeah–yeah, that’d be great,” he said. 

I exhaled a little sigh whilst listening to the soft waves roll in beside me. “Why do I feel there’s a but coming?”

“No buts,” said Dexter. “I just, uh…” He seemed distracted, but not by whatever he typed. “I’ll just have a friend over tomorrow. She’ll probably be here when you arrive.”

Ah.

The friend.

The one I’d been silently wishing Dex would just kill himself. Grow suddenly bored of you.

Wishful thinking.

He seemed quite fond. 

He wouldn’t shut up about you. Always and forever droning on.

It wasn’t romantic, this interest, or so I’d come to suspect over all these past droning months. I didn’t exactly ask about that, though, half because I really didn’t care and half because of how much the subject of you annoyed me, raised over and over again and ugh, just give it a rest already. 

Dex shouldn’t have ‘friends’. The mere concept a fairytale, a mask to people like us. It should be just he and I, two hunters against the world, hunting whomever we like.

“Ah,” I voiced aloud, with the sugar-flaked pleasantry of someone who wasn’t at all picturing severing your aorta with an icepick. “Your little friend will be there to greet me. How nice.”

Dexter must have misread the edge of sarcasm as some sort of concern. “She already knows you’re coming. Don’t worry, she can be trusted.”

Just more proof that my do-good, misguided brother is far too trusting.

“Well,” I said, as though accepting this point as fact. You really can be trusted with my and my brother's secrets–such relief! “I look forward to finally meeting her.” And carving and slicing and dicing her.

I must have forgotten to include that last part out loud, and thus Dexter had no objection–even sounding strangely relieved by my show of good faith in at long last having this introduction.

“See you tomorrow night,” he said, and my lips formed a little smile–instinctual, without any warmth.

“See you then,” I said, then hung up.

And now; here I am. Back in the ever-enchanting sunshine state. My former playground of frozen, meticulously broken toys, and it feels much more like home to be back than I even expected, with just the small matter of ridding you from these sentimental, familial walls.

Walking the concrete pathway to Dex’s Palm Terrace place was nearly surreal, assaulting the walls of my person with waves of distant memories. I’d broken into his beachfront apartment so many times before. Snooping around, getting to know him. Leaving gifts tied up with little red bows. I was basically murderous Saint Claus.

I had only one bag, having traveled here light–a black leather crossbody, which I thumbed the broad strap of whilst knocking with mild knuckles against the door.

Silence. Then, footsteps. Then–

Dexter throws open the door, a smile formed ear to ear like a big, goofy animal. 

“Brian,” he says, and somehow it melts me. Chips slightly away at all that frigid, cold frost round my cruel, vacant heart. And his eyes dip over the state of me. The longer hair, dark curls well past my ears, now; just long enough to tuck back but not long enough to stay there. The dark scruff which coats my angled jawline in the absence of shaving for so long.

“Dig the beard,” Dexter says. “Quite the disguise. Bet the ladies love it.”

I smile at the compliment, though if he'd hated the look I'd feel much the same. “One does what one has to to effectively blend,” I return. And it’s hard not to feel somewhat warm, somewhat seen, understood, by my brother before me. The only person in this world who accepts who I am.

Well, not wholly.

Thanks for nothing, Debra.

Still. Since the death of our mother, Dex is the only place I’ve ever belonged, and seeing him now I’m abruptly struck with just how long it’s been.

I don’t wait for him to welcome me in–he’s probably too cordially stunted to properly welcome me, anyway. I just step right up and throw both my arms around him, my baby brother, my other half; cuffing him firmly on the back as I breathe him in.

“It’s been too long,” I say, holding him there for a moment, before pulling back.

Dexter’s expression is torn into a million indecipherable things, but amongst them is his affection for me. The brother who’ll always see him for who he really is. Who truly fathoms that insatiable beast inside him.

The bliss of our reunion’s forced to end, however, because this house has a rat problem. And as I hear a small, feminine throat being cleared from the fluorescent-lit depths behind my brother, my curiosity gets the better of me.

Time to finally put a face to the name I’ve been loathing for weeks.

And there you are. Standing before a metal-limbed armchair nuzzled inside the living room, like you’d sat there then stiffly stood up; uprooted at the sound of my knocking. Frozen, now; lingering. Like you’re caught in a trap you don’t know your way out of. Hands fidgeting as they twist at the hem of your shirt. 

It’s like you know you don’t belong here–that this moment is Dexter’s and mine–and for the cleverness of that, at least, I must inwardly applaud you. Though that’s decidedly where all my praise ends.

This is one of those social situations I’ve learned so well to navigate through life in the foster system, masking my aberrance. Awkwardness. Other people’s–not mine. And though I could so effortlessly put you at ease as you stand there fidgeting, I find it more entertaining to draw that part out. For a while, at least.

I must admit, I hadn’t pictured you at all in my head. What you’d look like. Not as anything more than an aggravating, compromising blip I’d soon snuff out the threat of. But if I had pictured you, I wouldn’t have imagined you looking, so…

…Well.

You’re not…

Unnatractive. 

I feel one dark brow slowly raising.

And you’re only a friend…?

Whatever must poor Rita think? Seeing the two of you together?

Dexter. You dog.

My eyes trace your expression as you awkwardly hover there in the length of my speculative pause. Myself perfectly content to allow you to hang there in a noose of discomfort all night, and then some. Though eventually I know one of us will have to say something.

This is our fated and much anticipated formal introduction, after all.

So at what feels like long last, I throw you the lifeline that is my smarmiest smile. Knowing full well you won’t know it’s not real. No one but Dex ever does.

“And you must be the friend I’ve heard so much about,” I greet you pleasantly, my deep voice threaded with warmth. Though, peculiarly, that unsure tension in you remains stubbornly in place. Seems if anything only to grow, despite my intent to disarm it. 

Huh.

Oh well–it doesn’t deter me. Killing you will be so much easier if you don’t see it coming, so I’m keen on you liking me, letting your guard down. Thus, I graciously continue:

“You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to finally having you right in front of me.”

Maybe a bit of truth will lube you up. And I watch as your lower lip’s sucked in between your teeth for just a moment whilst you eye me; the motion drawing my studious gaze like a shark’s to blood. 

“And why is that?” you ask, which admittedly I wasn’t expecting. Such a nervous mouse, yet you’d put me on the spot.

I can’t place your nerves. I’m perfectly charming. And yes, you’re aware I’m the notorious Ice Truck Killer, but I’m not sure why that would be alarming. Not with the company you keep; namely, my murderous brother. So it must be something else.

And I so hate not knowing things.

“So I can be introduced to you in person, of course,” I say, like it’s obvious, and it should be. Striding in past Dexter as he steps aside to allow me in, shutting and latching the door behind us all; a roomful of killers, or so I’ve been told.

Our eyes never stray in my steady approach; not yours, not mine. My height soon towering over yours, which isn’t unusual for me when meeting new people, nor when standing near almost anyone. Offering my hand and a smile I’ve been told is quite dashing. “Dex has had such wonderful things to say about you.” And I’m sure he has, I just couldn’t be bothered to remember any of them.

My smile could melt steel as if it was butter.

“I’m Brian.”

I won’t lie, I expected you to crumble. Most women love this move. The confidence, the approachable self-assurance. But you eye my outstretched hand as though I might pull you into the fires of hell with me were you to take it, before craning your neck to meet my gaze once more.

“Charmed,” is all you say; unmoving.

Something about that irks a small ripple up my nape, but I just allow my hand to drop graciously back to my side. All practiced, svelte charm still in place.

“So,” I say, by all appearance unconcerned by the lack of civility in my brother’s ill choice of friends. “It almost feels like I already know you, what with the way Dexter’s gone on and on.”

Your gaze steals over to Dexter, hovering there in the distance behind us, before you smile up at me again in a way which feels forced. And I suppose you’re not the talkative sort, though why you keep glancing at Dexter as if waiting for something from him, as if he’ll swoop in and save you, I’m uncertain about.

In due time I’ll figure it out.

“But there’s still one thing I’m curious about,” I say, turning to make myself comfortable. It has been a long trip to get here, after all. 

I plop down like a wolf amongst sheep atop Dexter’s hideous couch, legs spread like I own the damn food chain. One arm draped out along the length of its backrest as I eye you somewhat expectantly, still rigid in how you stand. Imagining what you might look like strung upside down by your ankles with a lengthy strap of duct tape kissing those soft lips, holding them shut for me. 

The shadows beneath my eyes pinch.

It’s a lovely image.

Maybe you’ll see for yourself.

“And what’s that?” Dexter asks–bravo, Dexter–at least one of you’s courteous enough to ask. And I tilt my darkly curled head at him.

“How exactly did the two of you get to know one another?” I ask. Watching him. Eying you. Hoping my focus might rattle you–just a little. “I’m sure it’s an interesting tale.”

“I’ve already told you,” Dexter says, and he probably has, at least in his unabbreviated sense. “We work together at the precinct.” He dons his playful tone I often find so silly but right now I find I detest. “The lab geek and the cop~”

“Right. But that’s not what I mean,” I slice into his futile comedy routine, “What I mean, is: how did our friend here come to know you’re one of Miami’s most heinous, uncaught serial killers?”  

The other, of course, being myself; excepting the whole uncaught thing.

Dex is lucky I’m so forgiving.

I put it forth bluntly, with little room for either one of you to wiggle out of answering. And though my radiance of charisma remains, my intensity’s keen. ‘Cause I must admit; now that I’m here, I’m curious about you. Especially when you seem like such a rabbit in a household of jackals. Weren’t you supposed to be some like-minded killer or something? Perhaps I should have paid closer attention whenever the unwanted topic of you had come up in mine and Dexter’s conversations, instead of bitterly tuning you out. 

Strangely, Dexter doesn’t seem to know what to say, and neither do you. Like the story’s too long, too elaborate. As though there's pieces the two of you’d rather omit. 

Fascinating.

“She helped me out,” Dex says at last; monotonously shallow, like the words aren’t even his, like he's rehearsed this. “In a time of need.”

I quirk a subtly mocking brow at him from where I’m idly lounged on the couch. 

“Why do you sound like a generic thankyou card?” Why, indeed. “C’mon, baby brother–I want specifics. You can tell me.” My dusky gaze passes from him to his lovely, curious friend, hovered opposite the ugly coffee table before me. “We’re all friends here, right?”

It would seem that my smile unnerves you. Which might be annoying if it wasn’t so entertaining a thing to see.

Dexter sighs before trying a more human answer, leaning one bulky shoulder against his white, open-backed bookcase that separates his living room from the office attached. 

This whole effectively communicating thing is hard for him.

“It was sort of an accident,” he says, like that’s far more telling. The lacking details seeming to spur you to chime in. 

“It was really just me being in the wrong place at the right time,” you elaborate, with the passive front of one pretending the ice they walk on won’t at any moment begin to splinter. Folding your arms against that pensive look I toss you, which I tilt my head in silent question of. Why so nervous? I’m far from daunting, aren’t I? 

“I was called to check out an anonymous tip,” you continue, averting your gaze from me far more often than one normally does. “Some sort of suspicious activity at an abandoned storage shed near Palmetto. Myself and my parter.” 

You glance at Dex, as if he might continue the tale for you, might rescue you from this, but when he merely quirks a little smile with a similar shrug, you’re forced into proceeding.

“It was supposedly related to a case–which it wasn’t, not that that matters, but…” You let out a breath. Seeming to steady yourself, the recollection, though for all your nervous fidgeting your tone is surprisingly calm. “I walked into the storage shed, it was unlocked, and… And I saw Dexter. Sawing someone’s arm off. Someone who was strapped down to a table in a plastic fucking tutu.” 

You glance at Dex, as he detachedly watches you. 

“Someone I knew from a previous case,” you continue. “Someone who deserved whatever it was Dexter was doing, and much more than that, too. Which is exactly when I shut that fucking door and assured my partner there was nothing to see here, and we left. Left Dexter to do what he does, undisturbed.”

That’s the end of your story, and I picture the scene, all while some predatorily protective part of me insists on clarifying, “So… That’s it? You saw my brother chopping a man into pieces, and were immediately okay with it? Go Team Dexter? Just like that?”

I try very little to hide my disbelief, ‘cause I don’t buy it. In my experience with cops, and I’ve had plenty, you all tend to be such sticklers when it comes to casual bloodshed and carnage. What’s more, your uptick in nerves isn’t exactly selling me.

My lashes lower in my deliberate examination of you. “Why’d you really not turn my dear brother in?”

In lieu of answering, you once more eye Dex, and that look between you says something.

“It’s complicated,” you say at last. Like you’re waiting for Dexter to speak, but he’d rather wait on you.

The pair of you. Really. You’re like a couple of tongue-tied, helpless kittens. Must I string this conversation on for you?

“Enlighten me,” I say, with something of an edge.

Perhaps I should’ve kept the disarmingly fake smile, because if anything you thrust your guard up.

“Look, I don’t owe you a full explanation of what Dexter and I have been through, okay?”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” I viperously put forth, my pretense of pleasantry slipping. “Seeing as how you know so much about myself. And all without my express knowledge or permission.”

An impermanent issue. One I won't leave Miami without personally seeing resolved. You know far too much–you’re an issue. For Dexter’s sake and for mine, we must unfortunately bid you bon voyage.

“I’d say it’s only fair I know a little more about you,” I continue, cordiality slipped back in place. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The delicate line of your jaw tautens, eyes wavered with wariness and doubt. Refusing to spit out any more, though the longer you’re subject to my critical appraisal, the more the twine of your stubbornness unwinds.

“I… I need someone dead,” you admit at last.

Ah.

There it is.

“And, after seeing Dexter doing… what he does…” You bite your lower lip, as though struggling to recollect straying thoughts. “I need his help. I need his help to kill someone.”

I take my time mulling about your words. Piecing together the part you still aren't saying.

“So… You won’t turn Dexter in, so long as he helps you kill someone. Did I get that right?” 

You bite down harsher–immediately shake your head. “No, it’s–it’s more complicated than that!” 

But by now I’m barely listening. Turning instead to lift a wry brow at my brother, who’s watching this whole fiasco with a can-I-please-leave-yet look plastered upon his face.

“This is the friend you’ve been telling me about?” I wonder vaguely. “The cop who’s blackmailing you into helping her kill someone?”

“I’m a detective,” you cut in, like that matters, like I care, and I feel my eyes already rolling.

“Detective,” I sarcastically amend, with a scathing glance at you. “So sorry to offend, Detective Whoever-You-Are. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m talking to my brother.”

When you mutter back your name under your breath, I make a show of ignoring it.

“So, what?” I instead ask my foolish, good-hearted kin. “You’re actually going to help her kill someone?” 

His lack of answer’s enough. And at his arms-folded silence, I ruminatively tut my tongue.

“Doesn’t seem like you, Dex… Not the edict-ruled brother I know.” I try not to let my tone grow too ingratiating whilst goading, “What about your beloved code?” 

Dexter exhales a stiff breath. Putting forth, “It’s more than that.”

“More?”

“Like she said, it’s complicated.”

“Has the word ‘complicated’ been redefined as ‘indescribably moronic and impossible to explain’ sometime in the last fifteen seconds?” I return, incredulously flat. Eying their strange and stilted silence with dwindling patience. “What aren’t the two of you telling me…?”

You’re biting your lip like you’re biting back words, and I watch, waiting, biding my time for those bit-back words to get the better of you–though surprisingly, it’s Dexter who breaks first. 

“It’s nothing about that, it’s…” He rubs the back of his sand-colored head, roughing his hair up with tense distraction. “Well, it is about that, in a sense. I didn’t know how to bring this up. I just… I have to leave town for the weekend,” he finally gets out. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’m headed out.”

I’m too nonplussed to hide the creeping edge of my bemusement.

That’s what he’s been having trouble saying?

He drops this like it’ll land like a bombshell on our entire reunion, before rushing at whatever my bland expression, “It’s just for a few days. I’ll be back Monday bright and early.”

To be honest, I’m mostly confused about why this seemed so hard for either one of you bumbling idiots to tell me. Or why you’re bumbling about it at all. Why should I care if he’ll be gone for forty-eight more measly hours after we've been separated for almost a year? And for many, many years before that? Does he actually expect me to mourn him till Monday?

“Big plans with the family?” I venture coolly, and Dexter’s broad shoulders bunch into a shrug, as though he’s cornered and a shrug is all that might save him.

“It’s a whole thing,” he explains. “Cody has a scouting trip, then Rita wanted to make a whole weekend out of it with the grandparents–I’ll spare you the details.”

Yes, thank you for that.

Dexter the family man. It’s so sweet it’s nauseating.

“So you’re taking your fake kids camping so you can keep playing domesticated dad to a woman and children who’d hate you if they knew who you really are?” My smile’s so feigned it hurts. “Sounds like a great time.”

My brother, the shrugger, shrugs once again. Doesn’t even try to defend my interpretive accusation. “I gotta be there.”

“Well have fun on your little adventure,” I muse; side-eying him. “Not sure why it took you this long to tell me. I’m sure I’ll find some way to busy myself in the meantime.”

You and Dexter exchange that look again. That look which betrays how you still haven’t shared whatever’s so lodged down your throats and wherever this is really going, and by this point it’s driving me toward wanting to just rip open your necks to drag whatever it is out, myself.

“Well, actually,” my brother begins, struggling once more with saying things. “I’ve already got an idea that’ll keep you busy in mind.”

I steady him in the crosshairs of my vision. Well. Now we might be getting somewhere. And I can’t deny my interest, much like my frustration, is piqued. 

“Oh?”

“A favor, really,” he adds, without elaborating, and I really am going to rip the words right out of him.

“Are you going to tell me what that favor is?” I’m finally forced to ask, before glancing exasperatedly at you. “Or perhaps I should defer to your translator?”

There you go, nervously rubbing that elbow again, though I find myself oddly mesmerized by the motion of it. I can’t say for what cause, other than I’m not blind, and you’re obviously attractive. Watching you anxiously stand there is becoming one of my favorite pastimes.

“I, um,” you mumble, so quietly I almost can’t hear you. A nervous mouse again, one my nature is stirred to chase. “Well. Dexter was going to help me with–you know… What I was saying before. We have everything planned for tomorrow, and it has to happen tomorrow.” You seem strangely adamant about this, and I don’t care enough to question the ‘why’, just as I don’t care for the ‘who’–I’ll take your word for it. “But, um, with Dexter out of town…”

Helpless, as if to say any more’s an impossible task, you glance to Dexter for support.

“Really, the two of you,” I lowly muse. Eyes glistening between the pair of you, alight with my wicked amusement. Stretching out more broadly on the throne of Dexter’s hideous couch. “You could almost put a full sentence together so long as you tag one another in after every breath.”

The taunt’s enough to unlodge wherever Dexter’s tongue’s at. 

“I need you to help her kill this guy while I’m gone,” he finally says bluntly. Arms folded, expression stern, yet hinted by what may as well be him begging me, which in itself, is…

Well. He’s never asked me for anything. Not like this. Though I certainly don’t owe him any favors…

“I know you know how to set up a proper kill room,” he states, and he should–he’s seen my imitation of his plastic-drenched kill room, firsthand. I’ve studied his work more than anyone. Emulated it to perfection, and all for a happily-ever-after he refused to take part of, spat cold in my face.

For a moment, I feel almost human in how I can’t seem to react or respond to this request. Though as I watch the mirrored hope in you both, as the idea of this slowly settles, I find that it doesn’t completely bore me…

My eyes drift to you. Singling you out. Stringing round your anxious expression. And you’ve mettle, at least, to not look away from the barbs of my musing intensity.

So. This is why you’ve been acting so sheepishly inept. You need big bad Brian’s help with something.

It’s laughably cute, the idea of you killing, and already I know I’m going to do it. But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t make you sit in it a little. Take my time in toying with you, first.

“You want me to babysit your blackmailing little friend here,” I say to Dex, with raven-dark eyes still on you, “while she attempts–and correct me if I’m wrong here–her first kill?” 

I can tell you can feel how my gaze is dissecting you. Pulling apart, piecing together, assessing every piece and shape and shade of you. It makes you squirm, and I love it; sparing a moment to slide my tongue over the sharpness of my teeth as I feast on such a beautiful reaction. 

I turn back to Dex. “What makes you think she’s even capable?”

“I’m capable,” you insist, drawing my gaze again. And even through those nerves roused in my presence, you appear quite convinced of it. 

Interesting. 

“I can do this,” you again allege. With such frail confidence, but confidence nonetheless. “I just… need a little help.”

I tamp down the rearing head of my inquisitiveness. Ensure my interest remains vague in how I lackadaisically eye you. 

“Help with what, exactly?” I slowly ask. And it’s not a no, which I’m amused to see is so surprising.

You blink a few times, eyes growing wider, more determined–before you’re explaining, quickly, as though whatever luck this is may run out.

“Getting him to the kill site,” you say succinctly, with all the puffed-up bravado of a fluffy little rabbit pretending that they’ve slayed a fox before, and it really is amusing. “Moving the body. Clean-up.”

I let my watchful silence drag on. Held in supposed indecisive contemplation. Should I? Should I? Until, when I can nearly hear your fretting heartbeat, I feel one corner of my lips slowly quirk up. Watching every minor movement of you like a fox might a meal, might a rabbit, and find I really wouldn’t mind taking a bite. 

“Don’t need help doing the deed, then?” I subtly ask you.

Your eyebrows flicker to a knot. Lips pressing flat, before you shake your head at me. “No.”

“You sure?” I further goad, with silken smoothness. Loving those little cracks of hesitation along your lovely surface so much I’m inclined to hammer in even more of them. “‘Cause I won’t kill him for you. You have to do that, yourself. And what’s more, if you for any reason chicken out on me and can’t follow through with all this…” I calmly smile. “I’ll simply leave you there all alone with whatever maddened mess of whoever this man you’ve left behind.” The idea of it sparks a delicious flame somewhere deep below my cavernous lack of heart. “After ensuring he’s woken up, first, of course. Aware. Pissed off. Untied.” 

I smile my cheshire smile as that resolve in you flickers in place; the smallest glow, so nearly snuffed out already. 

“So?” I spur in your uncertain silence. “Do we have a deal, little killer?”

And still, you hesitate. Seeming to weigh my words with care, along with the cost of your own, which I certainly appreciate. You’re not as stupid as I’d originally believed, in any case.

At long last, you nod, but I don’t move, don’t even blink from how I wolfishly watch you from my throne of Dexter’s couch. Not until you say the words out loud. And you will, if you want my help. You have to.

If that’s a flash of resentment within those pretty eyes of yours, it only causes my broadening smirk.

“Fine,” you say at last, after thickly swallowing. “We have a deal.”

And surely light must dance in my entertained eyes as I bite back just how pleased I am by this answer. 

This should be fun.

✧˖° chapter 2

[slashisms]

𝓦𝓘𝓝𝓝𝓔𝓡 𝓣𝓐𝓚𝓔𝓢 𝓐𝓛𝓛;

ＰＡＩＲＩＮＧＳ: Billy Loomis x Reader x Stu Macher

ＲＡＴＩＮＧ: E

ＷＡＲＮＩＮＧＳ: MINORS DNI, all characters are 18+. dub-con, but not really, spanking, name-calling, overstimulation, (un)protected sex, anal, etc.

ＷＯＲＤ ＣＯＵＮＴ: 6k

ＳＵＭＭＡＲＹ: Billy and Stu have a disagreement regarding your sex life.

Ａ/Ｎ: special thanks to @blackterrae who sent me a lovely ask that pretty much motivated this fic.

Your relationship with Tatum and Sidney was cordial, for all its ambiguity. You challenge anyone to think of a fitting adjective for the person who unknowingly stole your boyfriend, but saved your life in the process because said boyfriend was planning to kill you gruesomely. None of the questions raised by Billy and Stu’s seemingly random decision to dump both their girlfriends one day mattered once the bodies started dropping.

You were supposed to be their first victim, a red herring before Casey Becker’s murder, but after a failed attempt neither of them will cop to– they decided to pursue you instead. The timeline had been notably suspicious and eventually led to your discovery of their ‘extracurricular’ activity.

With the amount of convincing it took to get them to direct their murderous intentions towards Billy’s adulterous father and stage the whole thing as a murder-suicide with Neil Prescott as the culprit, you figure that sort of makes up for your part in the breakup. When Sidney and Tatum got together some time later, you were hoping for an opportunity to move past any lingering awkwardness.

Mentioning it to Billy and Stu was probably a mistake. They could care less about maintaining boundaries with an ex and considering how Stu’s last relationship ended, they probably thought they were doing the girls a favor by giving them a chance to befriend you. It would move them to the bottom of Billy and Stu’s list of potential victims, at least for a while.

A few weeks after you bring it up, they suggest you go to Sidney’s place to hang out. Perhaps you had been a little naive in thinking the two of them would agree to spend time with their exes’ new girlfriend without any hidden motives. Taking one girl’s boyfriend is bad, but taking two is downright sleazy. You should have been more wary of payback, especially since they knew exactly what pushed your boyfriends’ buttons.

Honestly, it would have been less exhausting if they hazed you to hash things out.

It starts after the end of the gore fest Billy forced everyone to watch. You’re too wrapped up in their flirting to notice the way Sidney and Tatum glance at you before sharing a long look. Tatum yawns dramatically, reaching for the remote to pause the credits with a bored expression. “I think that’s enough sex and stabbing,” she says, rising from the couch and wandering to the kitchen. “Let’s do something fun!”

Sidney rolls her eyes as you try to get Billy and Stu to take their hands off of you long enough to pay attention to the blonde. The two finally settle down when you pinch them in the side, fixing them with a look that has them heeling like two trained dogs. She’s reluctantly impressed by your handling and becoming more convinced that you’ll be fine after they’re done stirring the pot. Tatum returns with a bottle of liquor, swinging it triumphantly as Sidney shakes her head in feigned disapproval. “It’s not a party without vodka!” 

Before you can ask her what she means, the doorbell rings. Sidney gets up to answer it while Tatum silences your protests, tugging you out of Billy and Stu’s arms as voices begin echoing from the entrance way. Stu laughs and Billy smirks at the look of betrayal you give them as she pulls you towards the stairs. Your eyes widen at the crowd of people suddenly swarming the front door, catching a glimpse of Sidney speaking with a nervous looking Randy before handing him a twenty dollar bill.

The next thirty minutes is spent fending off Tatum’s attempts to ply you with vodka and put you in increasingly revealing outfits as she applies mascara and lip-gloss to you while lamenting not having any foundation in your shade. 

You compromise on two shots and a tastefully revealing pleated skirt and crop top before she leaves you to arrange your hair to your liking. Billy and Stu are standing outside like two pathetic puppies when she opens the door and Tatum rolls her eyes. You were wasted on these idiots, she thinks before seeking out her girlfriend. 

Stu wraps his arms around your waist while Billy approaches you, tilting your chin as you pout up at him. “Way to give me a heads up,” you gripe. 

Billy tuts softly, moving your head back and forth as he peers at you. “And give you a chance to run? No way,” he replies, pressing a kiss to your glossy lips. 

“Don’t worry, babe, we won’t leave your side,” Stu promises

Unbeknownst to you, Tatum and Sidney were counting on it. 

They hover by your side like two gargoyles for the duration of the party, guarding your drink as you become progressively tipsier. By your third (and last) drink, you’re ripe for the picking when someone exclaims, “Let’s play truth of dare!” 

You tug your reluctant boyfriends along, sitting on the couch with one of them on either side of you. The game is fairly innocuous for the first round, prepubescent memories or equally embarrassing dares before it delves into raunchier topics. Billy and Stu quickly become bored of torturing their classmates, a direct contrast to the lovey dovey way they treat you that Randy points out with accusatory gagging motions. 

“I’ve got a truth for you Randy,” Billy says, a smug grin on his face. “Are you a nerd because you’re a virgin or a virgin because you’re a nerd?” 

Stu snickers into your neck, kissing your skin in a pointedly mocking manner as you fight down the blush rushing to your face. Randy would usually slink away from this confrontation with his tail between his legs or backtrack with his belly up, but he stands his ground with an uncharacteristic confidence. “I’ve got one too, not for you kind sir, but for our Juliet here,” he says, setting you on edge. “Is there a ranking system to your Romeos or are you left twice as disappointed?” 

When you consider Randy’s part in provoking Billy later, you really think he should have asked for more than twenty dollars to take the beating the two of them dole out. You try to stop him when he rises from the couch, but he shakes you off easily as Stu’s playful grin falls and he follows suit, stalking towards Randy. You sigh when Billy grips Randy’s collar and delivers two blows to his face with the back of his hand without a word, pushing him into Stu’s waiting arms. The party goes wild as the two heft him over their shoulders, tossing him into a rowdy crowd surf that ends with him crashing onto the coffee table. 

Yet as the two slink back to your side, the seed has already been planted. You’re guiltily holding back laughter while they size the other up, oblivious to the signals that you should address the issue and drunk enough to believe that kicking Randy’s ass has resolved everything. You miss the silent communication that seals your fate: an annoyed quirk of Billy’s brow, an obnoxious grin from Stu and a glance at you and the exit. “C’mon, let’s ditch this snooze fest,” Stu insists, wrapping an arm around your waist. 

Your protests are quelled by the look Billy gives you, though it doesn’t take long for you to realize something’s up as they silently escort you back to the car. Billy gets in the back with you, barely closing the door before he’s pushing you back onto the leather seat. Stu starts the car while Billy climbs on top of you, hands roaming over your body to grope at your curves. His voice is deceptively calm when he speaks. “Hey, babe,” he says, pressing a biting kiss to your neck. “What did you think about that loser’s question?” 

You blink, brain crashing to a halt as Billy makes room for himself between your thighs. The two were definitely different, but they were plenty skilled at satisfying you that it never occurred to you to compare the two. From the way Billy stares at you, brown eyes glinting dangerously, he’s expecting an answer. “Uh, I think he was pretty stupid to ask something like that without wearing a cup,” you reply, trying to diffuse the thick tension in the air.

He smirks, tilting his head to the side as his hand moves to the edge of your skirt, slipping under it as he hums softly. “Well it’s started a debate that only you can solve,” he says. “Stuart here thinks he screws you better than I do.” 

Your breath catches as he pinches the lace band of your panties, snapping it against your skin. His words ignite a fire in your gut kindled by the thumb he’s swiping back and forth over your pulsing core. He presses a kiss to your mouth before biting meanly on your earlobe. “He thinks he fucks this pussy better than I do,” he whispers in your ear, using two fingers to caress your slippery vulva. 

You let out a weak cry when he parts your lips, rubbing tiny circles over your clit as he sucks a bruise into your neck. “I don’t think words are gonna get through to that type of delusion,” he says, ignoring Stu’s scoff. “So we’re gonna settle this tonight.” 

You have a moment to cope with the dread his words dredge up, the idea of being chewed up like a toy to settle a score makes you wish Randy never opened his big mouth. Billy’s fingertip grazing your entrance distracts you from your thoughts as trails his lips over your chest. “Make sure to keep track, princess,” he orders. “I’ll be taking your first.” 

Your hands grip at the seat as he continues kissing his way down your body before lifting your skirt. He pushes your knees apart, tugging off your panties and tossing them up in Stu’s direction. Billy rolls his eyes when he sees him bring the moist fabric to his face and inhale with a throaty groan. You feel the shift of tires on gravel under your head as the car swerves and Billy curses, striking the blond on the back of the head.

Despite his warning to pay attention, Billy cups both of your tits roughly in his palms and tugs on your top and bra to create an enticing image that threatens to divert Stu’s gaze from the road all over again. The drive to his place feels like it takes forever as Stu has to listen to Billy eat you out. He can picture the way the other is trailing kisses up your thighs—and bites, judging by your yelp, before lapping at your opening, swiping his tongue over your twitching hole.

He spits on your clit, sucking it into his mouth with a messy slurping sound and licking at you with exaggerated noises. Stu grips the steering wheel until his knuckles ache at your whiny moans and Billy’s encouragement, his cock painfully tight in his jeans as it throbs against his zipper. “That’s it, pretty girl,” he hears Billy murmur after dragging his tongue over your slit for the nth time, groaning at your taste. “Just relax and cum for me.” 

Stu’s doing twenty-five over the speed limit and he’s ran the three last red lights, but it’s worth it when he finally pulls into his stupidly long driveway. Once the car’s in park, he whips his head around to see Billy’s hand moving under your skirt as he sinks his middle and pointer finger inside you to the knuckle. His fingers press into your quivering walls as he mouths lazily at your clit, scissoring you open.

You back arches, overwhelmed by the constant stimulation to your sensitive bundle as his ruthless fingers dig into your body. You thrash weakly underneath Billy as he brings you to orgasm with just his tongue and two fingers, trembling thighs wrapped around his head. Stu grinds his teeth when Billy pulls back, smirking at him triumphantly as he removes his fingers from your body and sucks them into his mouth. “That’s one for me,” he jeers.  

“Fuck off,” Stu says, climbing over the seat and launching himself at him. 

You’re too busy catching your breath to care about the ensuing scuffle, rolling over as they begin trading blows. They don’t pull any punches either, going at it like wild dogs. In the enclosed space, Stu has the advantage and he catches Billy off guard with a hand in his jeans and a biting kiss. He groans as Stu grips his erection, roughly thumbing the head as he pins him to the car door.

The brunet can only watch as Stu fumbles for the handle, nuzzling Billy’s chin with his own and grinning at the mix of fury and arousal in his brown eyes. “My turn,” he whispers, opening the door and shoving him out before locking the car.

“Uh, was that such a good idea?” You ask, glancing at Billy, who’s banging on the window and cursing profusely. 

Stu turns to you, grin stretching across his face. “Focus on me, babe,” he orders. “I’m gonna make you cum so hard, that shit looked weak.” 

Before you can raise any concerns, Stu’s tongue is in your mouth, filling it with the coppery taste of blood. He grips both of your knees and pulls them apart, gazing down at you like he couldn’t care less that you were ruining his seats. One of his hands reaches out to glide through the mess on your thighs, coating his fingers before pushing two inside you. “As if he’s better at making you cum,” he grumbles, hooking his fingers and scraping them along your walls. “Look at how your pussy is sucking me in, she clearly likes me best.” 

You shudder, annoyed at how he manages to make his petulant whining sexy and Stu leans forward, smashing his lips to yours. “I’m gonna show you and him,” he growls. “Who owns this fucking pussy.” 

You gasp into his mouth as he fucks his fingers deeper into your body, smirking when you tighten around him. He leers at your bouncing chest, biting harshly at your nipple and sucking it into his mouth. You dimly hear the sound of the car unlocking as he moves on to the other nipple, but Stu just snickers. 

Luckily, Billy seems to have cooled off by the time he climbs in the front seat, opting to observe the way you fall apart under Stu. The man in question turns to him, pushing a third finger past your entrance with a satisfied grunt. He pounds into you with relentless force, licking his lips as he taunts, “I don’t even need to touch her clit to get her like this.” 

Stu uses his other hand to pin your flailing body down, smirking at the sob you let out when he does graze your clit. “Watch closely and take notes,” he says, the words nearly drowned out by your moans. 

If you didn’t look so debauched, there would definitely be another fight breaking out, but Billy just rolls his eyes, taking in your blissed out expression with an obsessive gleam in his eye. The spirit of competition was at its peak and you were in for a long night.

Convincing them not to completely wreck Stu’s car takes long enough that you’re able to regain some semblance of control. Not enough to stop Stu from tossing you over his shoulder and carrying you inside, but at least he takes you to his bedroom instead of the nearest flat surface in his house. There’s a temporary truce as your boyfriends strip away every article of clothing, leaving you and them bare.

Before they can start arguing about who’s next, you insist they cooperate before you dry up at their incessant bickering so they stick to alternating. Billy hovers over you, thick cock bobbing between his legs as the flushed tip leaks precum while Stu hovers in the back, stroking himself to relieve his tension. “He thinks he’s doing you a favor by ignoring your sweet spot, baby girl,” Billy sighs, giving you an apologetic kiss on your forehead. “Let me show him what that cute little clit’s for.” 

Billy slides down your body, grabbing your ankles and placing them on his shoulders as he moves forward. His hands cup your thighs and your cunt throbs under his stare, legs quaking when his thumbs spread your folds, revealing your glistening bud. His tongue darts out, flicking over it with pointed swipes as you bite your lip to suppress a wanton moan.

It doesn’t take long for him to work you to your peak, the simmering fire in your gut from your two orgasms easily paving the way to a third as he slurps at your clit before nudging at your opening. You let out a moan when he pushes past your entrance, groaning at the way you tighten around his tongue. His fingers come to play sloppily with your clit, the sound echoing in the room as he scoops you open. He hums in approval when you scream his name, pinching your clit between his fingers to make you scream louder.

Billy grinds against the edge of the bed as he gulps down your slick, sealing his lips over your cunt as he inches his tongue deeper. Stu curses as you toss your head back, eyes rolling back to your skull as Billy stops pinching your clit to strike it with a loud ‘smack!’ You whine as he pulls his hand back, landing a wet slap directly to the over sensitive bud. He pulls you further into his face and buries his nose in your mound, watching your tits bounce as you rut your hips against him.

He loves watching you chase your pleasure, forgetting to be self-conscious about how you look the closer you get. Your orgasm catches you off guard, the coil in your gut snapping after Billy delivers three stinging swats to your pussy, heat bursting between your legs as you weep. “Fuck!” You shout, convulsing as you gush into Billy’s mouth. 

Billy moans, slurping your cum into his mouth with his tongue as the rest drips down his face and onto the sheets. He reluctantly pulls away after a few more kisses to your throbbing clit and Stu approaches, staring down at your twitching body with a possessive gaze. Your heart pounds when they switch places, Stu prowling over you as his eyes dart over your face, breasts, and cunt. His fingers swipe over your puffy labia, hooking one inside to feel your walls ripple with the aftershocks.

Normally they would have been fucking you silly at this point, but Stu is determined to eat you out better than Billy, ignoring the painfully hard erection jutting against his belly. Though he can’t resist grabbing your ankles and pushing them towards your ears, lining his body up with yours to nudge his cock against your clit. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he sighs, tongue lolling out. “I’m gonna fucking destroy this pussy.” 

You groan at his words, staring at him with bleary eyes as he pulls back, sliding his hands down to cup the meat of your thighs. He holds you in place as he bends down to press his lips to your vulva, kissing it the same way he does your mouth, forcefully and with too much tongue. It feels like you’re being roasted alive as your ankles tremble by your face, your nerves overloaded as he pays almost punishing attention to your clit. 

After your third orgasm, the stimulation is almost too much. “Please, no more,” you plead. “Just fuck me already.” 

Billy curses behind you, the sound of you begging for their cocks has always been a weakness of theirs. Stu clicks his tongue, squeezing your thighs until you whimper softly. “Just be quiet and cum,” he orders, nibbling at the engorged bud. 

You have no choice but to obey, Stu’s iron grip on your thighs preventing you from moving an inch as he makes out with your clit, curling his lips around it and sucking as his thick tongue swats back and forth, making you squeal. One of your thighs falls onto his shoulder as he slides a hand to your entrance, poking and prodding before pushing three fingers in at once, smirking at the undignified howl you let out as he forces your body open.

He spreads his fingers, moaning at the feeling of your body giving way to his hand. You take in a shuddering breath as another orgasm builds, your clit pulsing against his tongue as he forces it out of you. Maybe that’s why it feels different and your brow furrows as you struggle to gather your wits to warn Stu. “W-wait, it-it feels like—”

You gasp as a hand covers your mouth, gaze flickering to where Billy is hovering over you, preventing any further arguments. You’re less than an active participant at the moment, they just want you to lay there and let them make you feel good. Your eyes squeeze shut as your climax crashes into you like an electric shock, leaving you jerking and squirming in Stu’s grip. 

“Oh fuck, dude, she just squirted,” Stu says with a shit-eating grin, pulling away with your cum dripping down his chin. “Shouldn’t that count for two?”

“Fuck no!”

“C’mon, you scared you can’t make her do it?”

You’re. Fucked. 

Stu cackles, swiping his tongue over the remnants of your cum on his face as Billy pushes him out of the way. “You’re gonna have to replace this shitty mattress,” he threatens as they swap spots.

Billy cups your cheek, glaring down at you like it's your fault they’ve reduced you to an overstimulated wreck. His other hand jerks himself off slowly, eyes moving from your face to your trembling body. “Look at you, cumming so easily after begging to stop,” he sneers. “I’m gonna pound this desperate little cunt until you’re begging for my cock.”

Despite his vicious words, he kisses you gently, pushing his tongue into your mouth until you taste yourself. He kisses down your neck and both of you groan when he braces his arms on either side of you, sliding his cock through your folds with slow rocking motions. “Motherfucker thinks I can’t make this pussy squirt,” he hisses, gripping his cock and pushing the bulbous tip inside you. “Just wait, you’re gonna be gushing around my cock.” 

You’re speared open as Billy sheathes himself inside of you in a single motion, pushing past any resistance with a groan. He sucks in a breath at the feeling of your walls clinging to every ridge and vein of his cock, slipping in easily after Stu’s fucked you open. His fists grip the sheets as he pulls out, slamming back in with a grunt.

His pace is savage as his hips slap against yours, carving a space in your body as he kisses you to smother your screams. Your back arches and your hands slap at his chest, scratching your nails down his skin when he grinds against that spongy knot of your cervix. Billy’s hand comes up to your nape and tilts your head, tapping your cheek. Your eyes flutter open, meeting his piercing gaze. “Look. Look at this greedy fucking cunt,” he orders, until you’re both staring at where his cock is disappearing inside you. “She’s gripping me so fucking hard, this tight little pussy doesn’t want to let me go.”

His hips never falter as he pummels into your body, his thrusts rocking the mattress until it’s creaking obnoxiously in concord with the ‘shlickshlickshlick’ of his cock thrusting in and out of your sloppy hole. It’s impossible to gather a coherent thought as you watch and listen to the symphony of your bodies, but you vaguely hear yourself telling him you love it, begging him to go harder, deeper, to cum inside you so you can feel it.

You’ll say anything as long as he keeps delivering blazing jolts of ecstasy to your cunt, rendering any chance you’ve got at higher order thinking futile. Billy laughs at the glassy, dazed expression on your face as you fall apart underneath him. “Fucking cock drunk already, huh?” He laughs. “I’ll give you every goddamn inch since you want it so bad.”

He nuzzles closer to you to stare into your eyes, pulling your legs around his waist and bringing you in to meet his hips. You shake your head when he brings his thumb to your swollen clit, moaning at the way you milk his cock when he applies the slightest pressure. He squeezes your lips into a pout, shaking you like a rag doll when your eyes start to shut. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, you fucking slut,” he hisses. “You’re gonna remember who’s making you cum like this.”

You can’t even remember your own name, mouth dropping open in a silent gasp as drool slides down your chin and tears pool in your eyes. They spill over onto your cheeks, dark tracks of mascara falling onto the sheets as Billy pinches and strokes your clit. “Aw, you’re such a crybaby,” he teases. “Beg me and I’ll stop.”

“Please, please, please stop,” you comply immediately. “I can’t–can’t take anymore, it hurts.”

“Good girl, you’re so pretty when you beg,” Billy coos with feigned sympathy before drawing in and out of you until it feels like you, or the bed frame. is going to break. You gasp, staring at him with wide eyes when he pulls out to the tip, tapping it against your clit before angling his cock back at your entrance. “Billy, you promised!” You whimper, glaring at him with tear stained lashes.

“I lied,” he says before slamming back in, listening to you cry out. 

He fucks you hard and fast, ignoring your hiccuping pleas as his fingertips glide over your clit mercilessly. Billy grunts with every roll of his hips, covering your mouth as he plants his feet in the mattress and jackhammers against your g-spot, sparks shooting up your spine until your pussy undulates deliciously against every curve of his cock.

Billy curses when your teeth sink into his palm as you finally cum, eyes rolling back into your skull. His hips keep moving even as you clench around him, jaw aching as he fucks you through your orgasm. “C’mon, give it to me,” he growls, brutalizing your walls. “Soak my fucking cock, nasty girl.”

Your fifth orgasm is an out of body experience, your throat scraped raw as you yell against his palm, lower body exploding in a rush of slickness. “That’s it, baby,” he moans, balls tightening as he ruts his cock into your cervix before spilling inside you. 

You shudder at the warmth of his cum, moaning into the kiss he gives you as you come down. Billy slips out of you, reluctantly allowing an impatient Stu to take your place. You blink at the sensation of his shadow falling over you, vision blurry with tears as you look up at his dark expression. “Shit, babe,” he breathes softly, pupils blown as he caresses your overwrought form. “You’re so fucking sexy.”

You would laugh at the idea of being sexy while laying there like a wet noodle if you could manage to gather any air in your lungs. Stu leans forward, nuzzling your chest before swiping his tongue over your nipple. He grabs your trembling thighs and pulls your limp body into his lap, tongue moving over your chest and collarbone, groaning at the taste of your sweat. He cups your face with both of his hands, sliding his tongue into your mouth as he grinds against your pussy.

Stu shivers at the feeling of cum dripping onto his cock, the wet glide of your bodies finally providing some relief to the ache in his balls. Watching Billy fucking you without joining in was torture and his patience is wearing thin. He gives you a moment to catch your breath then slides his hands down to your thighs, lifting you slightly in the air before dropping you straight onto his cock. 

He laughs at the squeal you let out as your head knocks against his shoulder and your body curls into his chest, practically strangling his cock. He grips the globes of your ass, yanking you off and slamming you back down. Stu fucks into you like a rabid animal, teeth pulled back into a snarl as he bites and sucks at your neck.

He grins as you sob into his shoulder, impaling you on his cock with a loud squelching noise before jerking your hips up and down to meet his, shivering at the sensation of thrusting into your cum-filled hole. “Yeah, it’s good, huh?” He taunts. “Then take it, take it–take it all, you fucking bitch.”

He bounces you in his lap like a flesh-light, grinning at Billy as he spreads your cheeks wide enough to reveal your puckered asshole. The brunette’s gaze is drawn to the winking flesh as Stu inches one of his slender fingers towards it, pulling a nervous whine from you. “We should fuck you here too,” he purrs. “A whore like you isn’t satisfied until all your holes are filled.”

You moan softly and Stu smirks, smacking your ass and watching the flesh jiggle reverently. You let out an anguished cry of pleasure when he swipes his hands through the mess of cum dripping from your cunt to slick up a finger and slips it past the tight ring of muscle, curving his finger into your ass. You nearly bite down on your tongue when he sinks in a second finger, scissoring them using Billy’s cum as lube.

Stu groans as your entire body locks up, squeezing around him in a vice-like grip as you’re pushed to the edge from being penetrated at the same time. He hitches your hips into his, grinding deep into your gummy g-spot. You’d never thought you’d despair at the thought of your clit being touched but when he lets go of your hip to paw at the nub furiously, you think you start crying again. 

“Billy was right. You are a crybaby,” Stu coos, swiping his tongue over your salty tears. “Too bad it only makes me wanna see you cry harder.” 

You have to hold onto his shoulders or risk toppling over as he pounds into you, his thighs quaking as he propels his hips into yours. Your entire body is starting to feel like an exposed nerve, overloaded with a depth of sensory information that you can only process by crying out lewdly and drooling onto Stu’s skin. 

“Oh fuck, here it comes,” Stu hisses, informing you of your orgasm before you even realize it’s approaching. “Such a selfish pussy, cumming all by yourself. I guess we’ll see if you break the record tonight.”

You claw at his shoulders, back bowed and cunt pulsing around his cock as you quiver in his lap, drenching his waist as stars erupt behind your eyelids. You barely register the sound of Stu and Billy’s voices, an imploring murmur from Stu and a warning hiss from Billy is your only warning before you feel Billy’s length poking at your asshole.

You let out a weak protest that Stu hushes. “Billy wants to feel how tight you are, sweetheart, just let him put the tip in,” he croons softly, slipping his fingers out so Billy can slide the mushroom head of his cock into your body. 

“Fuck,” Billy sighs, tossing his head back at the heat enveloping him. “I love this slutty body, it’s still so tight even when we fuck you stupid.”

He pauses, a bruising grip on your hip and jaw clenched as Stu rocks your body back onto his. He gasps as you slowly sink onto him, moaning with every jerk of Stu’s length against the thin barrier of flesh separating them in your body. He swears, brows furrowing as you choke back a pitiful wail when another orgasm follows immediately, torn out of you almost involuntarily from their ruthless treatment. “Shit, she’s coming again,” Stu chuckles, pinching your clit as you whine. “I guess we’ll share credit for this one, but I’m still in the lead.” 

Billy kisses his teeth, pushing you further down as his breath catches at the friction of their cocks fucking in and out of you. He kisses your nape before biting at your shoulder. “How many times is that, princess?” He questions, gripping your chin and turning your face towards him. 

They both moan at the spaced out expression you’re wearing and Billy shakes your head to get your attention, waiting for your teary eyes to slide over to his face. “How many times did this filthy pussy cum, huh?” He repeats. “I told you to keep track, didn’t I, princess?”

You shake your head, burying your face in Billy’s palm, mumbling, “Don’t know, can’t remember, please, I can’t take anymore.”  

Billy slaps your ass until his palm stings, cursing when you seize around him. “I asked you to do one fucking thing,” he snaps, relishing in your pained mewl. “Dumb whore can’t even count when we’re fucking her.” 

Oh no. You’re starting to feel like a minor villain about to be conquered through the power of friendship, the preclude to your defeat stemming from the epiphany of two rivals that cooperation will yield better results.

Torturing others was a pastime that brought Stu and Billy together and you were no exception. If your tongue wasn’t heavy as lead in your mouth, you’d try to say something to dissuade them from doing so at any cost, but you can only hold pathetically onto Stu and hope for the best. 

“The fuck does a virgin like Randy know?” Billy growls, gripping your waist and lifting you off of their cocks before slamming you back down. “You love fucking both of us, don’t you? You cum harder when we paint your insides together.” 

Okay, maybe this was an opportunity for a quick resolution. You nod emphatically, eeking out breathless ‘uh huh’s and ‘mhmm’s that seem to satisfy Billy. You can only hope they’ll forget the competition and fuck you to completion together because you couldn’t take much more.

Stu’s breath trembles and his thighs tense as he covers Billy’s hands on your hips and shoves his cock into the hilt, sliding the hand on your clit to your stomach. “Fuck, you feel that, baby?” He moans. “I’m gonna cum here, right in this thirsty womb.”

You take a moment to be grateful for birth control as Stu buries himself in your cunt, pulsing one last time before shooting inside, moaning as Billy’s cock grinds into his from behind. You’re almost convinced that you succeeded in distracting them when they both slip out of you with a groan and Stu maneuvers you gently into Billy’s chest before getting off of the mattress.

Billy shifts your bodies off the undeniably soaked sheets to a dry spot and tangles your legs together. Stu grabs a water bottle from his mini fridge and your eyes open when you hear the twist of the cap. He holds the bottle to your lips until you gulp down half of it before setting it on the nightstand.

Your eyes widen as he pulls out a condom, glancing at Billy who takes it from him with a Cheshire grin. You watch as he tears the packet open with his teeth before sliding the condom over his throbbing cock, gripping it at the base. “We still have to settle this fair and square,” he says at your doe eyed gaze, lining himself up with your swollen pussy. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t lend each other a hand. Every magician needs an assistant, right babe?” 

Okay, so you’ve been sufficiently fucked over by two scheming lesbians, but it’s nothing less than what you deserve.

[ghostiesnightmare]

The Rules We Break

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader Summary: Trapped within the walls of the Heelshire Manor, you thought that the rules kept you safe. But secrets don't stay buried, and Brahms has found yours. Now there are no more lies, no escape, and no pretending– only a reality where desire is control, and submission is the only way to survive. TW: DARK content, dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, rough sex, foul language, choking, spanking, pussy slapping, overstimulation, orgasm denial, abuse, nudity, violence, creampies, manipulation, degradation, paranoia, unprotected sex, and more. Word Count: 8,157 MDNI- NSFW- read at your own risk. A/N: The long awaited Part 2 of The Rules We Keep is finally here! Inspired by this ask. Enjoy ;) [part one]

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The Heelshire manor was quiet. 

In the late hours, there was no familiar shift in the floorboards, no hum throughout the ancient pipes, no groan in the weathered shutters that flapped in the wind– just silence. If it had been a few weeks ago you would have welcomed the lack of sound, relishing in the privacy of the spacious house. 

But there is no privacy in the Heelshire manor– you know that now. Not when he’s there, watching your every move, waiting for you to slip. Always two steps ahead before you even realize you’ve fallen into another twisted game of his. The idea alone of your own personal boogeyman would have made you laugh at the stupidity of it all, but Brahms Heelshire was very much real. 

That godforsaken night in the bowels beneath the manor proved it. Forged in sweat and blood and dirt, a piece of you was forever bound to him– a fact that you knew he relished in. The power held over your head, the fact that your survival entirely depended on a childish whim was a trophy most men would hold dearly. But Brahms was no man– he was something far worse. 

The shrill scream of the kettle jolts you from your thoughts, heart almost leaping from your chest at the sudden noise. Fear was a common occurrence these days. It was if the house itself enjoyed basking in your fear, all too similar to its owner. Trying to slow your racing pulse, you push away from the kitchen counter to attend to yet another chore on the seemingly endless list. 

Wrapping a towel around the handle, you balance a porcelain teacup in your palm– trying to steel the tremble in your hands as you pour the boiling water. Small raised welts dotted the flesh of your knuckles, sending needles of pain shooting through your fingers as you moved. Another token of Brahms’ love, a teaching moment that showed just how particular he was about his evening beverage.

Loose tea, never bagged. Silver spoon, polished to perfection so it gleamed against the dim lighting. A singular sugar cube placed on the tea saucer– just how he liked it. 

The whole ordeal made you want to scream.

Yet, you swallow the anger threatening to tear through your throat, setting the kettle back on the stove top. Some battles are best fought silently– you knew that, learned that from him. The toast pops up from the toaster, one of the only modern appliances left in the kitchen, golden brown and ready to be buttered. Rummaging through the silverware drawer, you imagine raking the blunt knife across his skin rather than the toast, digging it into his flesh so hard it would draw blood. 

Of course, there were no knives sharp enough for you to cause him harm– he made sure of that after your first encounter. You had to beg to be trusted with butter knives, the savor of the win almost shifting you away from the reason you were banned from them in the first place. 

Evening tea ready, you brush your hands on the scratchy material of the apron, your first gift you had received due to good behavior. Placing the saucer and plate on a tray, you straighten– fear wedging in your throat momentarily as you gather the courage to turn. 

The doll sits at the table, like always. Lifeless eyes stare absentmindedly forward, hanging an eerie sense of dread through the air. His assigned chair is pulled back just a bit further than usual, and the doll teeters slightly from the gap. 

Someone’s impatient. 

“Brahms… your tea is ready.”

A pause. The wall opposite of the kitchen countertop rattles oh so slightly as something– no, someone shifts within the passageways. Your jaw clenches, yet you push onwards. “Brahms. It won’t stay hot forever.” The floorboards creak as a section of the wall pushes outwards, revealing a void of black that sends memories flooding back through your mind. 

The tunnels. The fallen beams. Your desperate attempt at escape. Him.

A hand shoots out of the darkness, and your teeth sink into the flesh of your cheek. Planting himself against the wall, your own personal hell emerges from the shadows. Hulking form towering over you with brute strength you knew better than to fight against, Brahms Heelshire crept into the light. 

The porcelain mask almost glowed under the haze of the overhead chandelier, and a knot of nausea settles like a pit in your stomach. That mask– the very object of your nightmares in a way that sends a chill down your spine, no matter how many times you see it. It was too smooth, too perfect to be attached to the monster that hid beneath it. 

Calloused fingers twitch at his sides, and you swallow the lump that had formed in your throat. “Tea,” You murmur, voice practiced– poised. Just like he taught you. Brahms took a weighted step forward, then two. You fought the urge to flinch as he approached. 

He didn’t speak, preferring to drink in your every move– ever the observer. Your knuckles whiten as you grip the tray like a lifeline, offering it to him. You expected a barked order, a tilted head, some sort of reaction as he stalked towards you, yet he simply plucked the tray from your hands with eerie precision. 

Hands folding at your front, you bow your head ever so slightly as a show of feigned reverence. He liked you best that way– small, submissive, perfectly playing the part as a piece to his game. Pretty little housewife, you knew the whole ordeal turned him on like nothing else. 

Brahms sighed, mask lifting as he silently sipped the tea. Chiseled jawline, dark curly scruff adorning his cheeks under smooth, silky skin– if you had known any better, you would have thought he was attractive. Brahms shifted under your gaze, turning to look in your direction, haphazardly chewing a piece of toast. 

There it was– the monster hidden beneath the mask. 

Deformed, uneven puckers of flesh blossomed across the hidden side of his face. Shriveled wrinkles warped the entirety of his cheek, the hollow of his cheekbones almost protruding against the mass of pink and white. The burn scars that reached the edge of his jaw left his beard in shambles, tufts of unruly hair patching across where the scars had partially healed. Your fingers twitch at your sides. 

You knew about the story, whispered between your brief grocery drop offs from Malcolm– the fire that almost engulfed the manor. The fire that was supposed to kill him. Yet, there he stood, a monster born from the flames that only left behind scar tissue and violence. A piece of you wondered what Brahms would have become without that fateful day– the man he was meant to be. 

Deft fingers set the tray back down on the table.

The same ones that wedged their way between your thighs. 

Your mouth went dry at the sight. You feel the weight of his gaze, stripping you of all defences like he knew exactly what you were thinking. Something you couldn't quite place swirled in those chocolate orbs, and it was almost shameful that the sudden flush in your cheeks gave you away. The rapid pounding of your heartbeat was thunder in your ears, and all you could muster was a wobbled, “Bedtime, Brahms.”

It was pathetic, really, to be plagued day and night by the very soul who ruined you. Yet, here you were– a collection of the broken pieces he created molded into his perfect little maid.

If Brahms spotted your little slip, he didn’t show it. Simply tilting his head in your direction before reaching out his hand, mask secured back in place. Tea abandoned on the kitchen countertop, your toes curl in defiance within your boots before relenting. Forcing your feet to drag across the hardwood floor, you slip your hand into his grasp– trying to ignore the shiver it sends down your spine. Immediately, his fingers wrapped around yours, trapping you in his grip. 

Fighting the urge to pull away, you lead him upstairs, each step feeling like a guilty verdict hanging over your head. Though his skin felt warm to the touch, Brahms radiated the cold, an icy sense of anticipation crackling in the air. His presence haunts the manor like a ghost– lurking, watching, entirely inevitable. You feel the telltale chill settle in your bones and wrap around your heart in a vice-like grip.

No matter how much you dreaded it, despised it, you knew what was expected of you. Worst of all, he knew it too. 

The double doors glared at you like the jowls of a hungry beast, daring you to venture closer in order to swallow you whole. The attic laid untouched since your unexpected arrival– a time capsule of your demise, another trophy of your loss of freedom. Brahms didn’t seem to mind abandoning his self-made home, however, more content to have you wait on him hand and foot in the comfort of his late parents’ abode rather than within the walls. 

Opening the doors like a servant would royalty, you drop your hand from Brahms’ hold. The air here was different, tainted with the sins of the Heelshires– a price you were now forced to pay in full. The floral wallpaper had faded over the decades, the mahogany four-poster bed dwarfing the other lavish furnishings in comparison, the desks coated in a fine layer of dust. You weren’t allowed to clean here, the disarray of the bedroom providing Brahms with an unknown comfort you couldn’t quite place. 

The bed was a different story, however. Perfectly made with washed sheets, fluffed pillows, and creased comforters made of the finest goose down– just the way he liked it. 

You go through the motions, anxiety washing away as you take part in the nightly routine that feels much more like a ritual. Pulling back the covers, dimming the lights, filling the carafe with cool water, folding the morning robe with utmost care. Through it all, Brahms sat on the edge of the bed, gaze searing your every move– watching. 

Ushering the much larger male into bed, you fluff the pillows, tucking the blankets around him with almost motherlike devotion. As if tucking a child into bed, your fingers brush Brahm’s shoulder, his skin burning beneath your touch. You fought the urge to recoil.

“Goodnight, Brahms”, you whisper, the words sounding so doting it made your head spin. It sounded so genuine you could have believed there was devotion in them. You knew the final rule, the very one he altered on that fateful night in a way that twisted even your final moments to revolve only around him. Swallowing any semblance of pride you had remaining, you duck down, forehead brushing against the cool porcelain of his mask. 

Waiting, expectant– just like he taught you. 

Brahms pushed upwards, the icy touch of the glass brushing against your lips. Bile rose in your throat– it was sickening. This routine, the role you had learned to play so well. Spine stiffening, you straightened, hands fumbling with the sheets as you smoothed them over his torso. 

Brahms turned towards you, head tilted– the light catching his eyes as he met your gaze. You freeze, hands hovering over the blankets as your blood turns to ice. You knew that look, the one filled with warning in a way that only meant one thing. 

Something was coming. Something horrible, just not tonight. 

Breaking his gaze, Brahms settled into the blankets– your queue to leave. Sharply turning on your heel, you flee the room, relieved of your duties for the day. In your haste to leave, you almost trip over the doorway, stumbling as you slowly close the doors.

You were safe, for now. 

Scurrying down the hallway draped in ornate rugs and antique paintings, you pause at the threshold of the guest room– no, your room. Sighing, you duck past the door, sliding the door into place before locking it with a satisfying click. Only then could you relax. 

Spine pressed against the wood, you took what felt like the first breath in hours. Fingers rubbing your temples, you try to shake the lump forming in your throat. You couldn’t cry– that had stopped weeks ago, resulting in nothing but more lessons. Now all that was left was the breathless terror when awaiting punishment.

Trembling fingers undo the ties of your apron, the article of clothing falling to the floor as you creep towards the only safe space you know– the wardrobe. The mahogany structure towers over you as you slowly open the door, shoving pairs of shoes and papers out of the way in order to reach your deepest, darkest secret. 

Hidden beneath the rubbish, the false bottom creaks as you remove the heavy pane of wood, revealing your journal. The paper crinkles under your fingertips as you hold it to your chest like the most precious jewels in the world– the only saving grace of your sanity. The smell of dust and ink invades your senses as you flip through the pages, filled with the secrets you didn’t dare to speak out loud. 

It was the only place you told the truth, yet somehow as you write under the cover of moonlight, the walls had never felt so thin. 

Like it had already betrayed you. 

__

The morning is eerily quiet. 

The raps on the master bedroom door go unanswered, bed haphazardly made upon forced entry– sheets crumpled with almost laughable amateurity. At first, you welcom the help, any and all semblance of freeing up your busy schedule seeming like a kind gesture. As the morning went on, however, the chill of silence began to creep into your bones. 

The breakfast you tirelessly poured over for an hour sat untouched on the kitchen counter.  Brahm’s favorite morning tea lay forgotten on the porcelain saucer, sugar cube and all. The bathwater you had drawn per usual request had long gone cold. Even the ancient phonograph, recently dusted to perfection, lay silent without a choice of records to pass the time. Through it all, there was no sign of Brahms– no telltale rustle behind the walls, no groaning of the pipes, no suffocating gaze weighing down on your every move.

It was as if he had vanished into thin air. Yet, for some odd reason, you couldn’t place the pit forming in your stomach. 

As the morning turned into the afternoon, your calls towards him to respond, to eat, to do something became more urgent. The initial annoyance at the childish act of a cold shoulder quickly turning sour as the minutes tick by on the grandfather clock, a sense of worry washing over you. Throughout your chores, you catch yourself straining ever so slightly at every sound within the manor, trying to pinpoint whether Brahms had created the sound. 

As much as you hated to admit it, thoughts of dread immediately began to swirl in your mind– each imaginative scenario overanalyzing what could possibly be the root of the strange behavior. 

Did something happen? Had he fallen ill? Was he angry with you?

The silence should have brought you some sort of solace, the lack of constant attention and unyielding amount of chores finally bringing you a sense of freedom. But it didn’t, the daily routine completely shattered, leaving you to do nothing more than wander the very manor you were trapped in. 

Unless…

You pause in your pursuit of dusting off the banister, eyes flickering towards the grand entryway like a child yearning for a stolen sweet. The treacherous voice in your head screamed at you to move, to take the chance now that you were alone and leave this horrid place behind you. But as you gaze past the ornate stained glass windows into the surrounding fields, something roots you in place. 

Was it loyalty– something beaten to submission within you? Had you grown so accustomed to the life you have lived that you couldn’t go forward without it? Or, by some laughable act of fate, did you not want to leave?

Shaking the thoughts from your head, you look down, dusting so furiously that the dark wood gleams back at you. You had work to do whether Brahms was watching or not, there was no denying that there were more important things than planning escape– another rule you learned the hard way. 

Eyes shifting towards a hidden panel in the wall, the hair on the back of your neck prickles as the images of that fateful evening flash through your mind. Those godforsaken tunnels were the root of your very downfall, resulting in far worse consequences than a battered ego and failed escape attempt. 

Consequences you try not to think about when you lay in bed at night. 

Your fists wound themselves around your apron– another nervous bad habit that Brahms hadn't yet broken, knuckles turning white as the scene replayed in your head like a broken record player. It was wrong, so completely lewd to even think about it, yet the shame blossoming in your stomach as you peered into the tunnel was enough to shatter any hope of reasoning with yourself. 

You hadn’t been in the tunnels for weeks, fear seizing your heart as the walls would seemingly shrink around you– caging you in place. The idea alone of being back in them, with him, sends a shudder down your spine. 

If Brahms didn’t want to come out of the tunnels by his own free will, fine. It was less distracting this way. 

Rummaging through the cleaning bucket on the stairs, you produce a worn rag and a bottle of metal polish. Scrubbing the seemingly infinite amount of bronze plaques adorning the walls, you huff– irritation growing as the silence continued to weigh down on you like a wet blanket. 

Maybe Brahms was in one of his foul moods, often ignoring you when things weren’t perfectly set to his expectations. The silent treatment only worked for so long, until he ran out of patience. Your hand pauses in its ministrations, realization suddenly tearing through you like a gunshot. 

Patience– the deliberate, calculated kind he only savoured when he was planning the best way to punish you during another lesson. 

You stiffen instinctively, not from fear exactly– but a sense of adrenaline from the horrific possibility that you were right. The silence became suffocating, the walls of the manor closing in around you as you fought to keep your gaze on the rag in front of you.

You feel it in the air then– something is definitely wrong, and Brahms is waiting for you to realize what it is. Yet for the life of you, there isn’t any semblance of a clue why. 

He knows something. 

Hoping to shake the impending sense of doom, you move upstairs– trying to scrub away the anxiety like the tarnish on the brass and bronze. Legs filled with lead, the trek down the hallway seemed to become more daunting with each step. You had the sudden urge to flee to your room and hide away from it all until it boiled over, only to return and beg for forgiveness after the anger passed. 

The rag falls from your hand as you halt in place. 

Your room– you hadn’t checked on the wardrobe since late last night. Your journal. The one place you dare to let your true feelings show in order to keep sane in order to dream of a life beyond the manor. Thoughts you had written beneath the guise of safety, of privacy. 

But there is no privacy in Heelshire manor– you idiot.

Blind panic short circuits your nervous system, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you bolt to your room. It was a simple slip– just one, a small mistake easily outshadowed by the great feats you had accomplished on the daily to prove your undying devotion. Surely, your only secret was safe from prying eyes. Surely, he hadn’t found it. 

The bedroom door slams against the wall from the force of being ripped open, the sound rattling against your eardrums as you dive for the false compartment hidden within the wardrobe. Trembling hands fumble with the latch– papers, half folded clothes, and shoes scatter along the hardwood floor as you tear the wardrobe apart. 

Empty. 

No crumpled papers, no half-smudged ink drying along the leather-bound journal, no ballpoint pen waiting to be written with– just the mahogany floor of the dresser gaping back at you. A nauseating wave of horror washes over you, denial tightening around your throat like hot embers. Frantically, you dart around the room like a woman gone mad, caution thrown to the wind as you search for the missing journal. 

Sheets are ripped from the bed, duvet overturned. Desk drawers are rifled through with utmost precision. The chaise lounge scraps against the floor, lopsided with the hope of the book hidden between the cushions. But no matter how feverishly you searched, the journal was gone– seemingly vanished into thin air. 

But you knew better. You knew Brahms– the weight of the world crumbling around you as tears well in your eyes. That horrible, sinking feeling in your gut twists like a knife– finally revealing its godforsaken name. 

Retribution.

The sound of glass shattering echoes through the house with the force of a gunshot, sharp and violent. Then, another. Your bones rattle as the crashes clatter throughout the first floor. Something heavy topples, metal screeches, weighted footsteps stomp through the floorboards beneath you. Before you can think you jolt to your feet, legs pumping as panic rushes towards the chaos. 

In your haste, you almost trip over the cleaning bucket in the hallway– now discarded. Lurching down the stairs, blood pounds in your ears as you approach the destruction. That telltale saying engraved into your very being plays like a broken record in your mind. 

Break a rule, pay the price. Break a rule, pay the price. Break a rule, pay the–

As you round the corner into the foyer, the breath is ripped straight from your lungs. 

The floor is littered in torn pages, every surface coated in paper and ink. Your words, your secrets, once scrawled within the false comfort of your room were now displayed like war trophies across the room– each screaming one word: guilty. 

Sentences you never imagined to see the light of day were underlined in crimson, at least– what you prayed was red ink. Words torn from the deepest recesses of your mind stare back at you, a cruel act of vengeance on display. 

“I hate him. I wish he were dead.”

Below it, another. 

“He treats me like a slave. He’s a monster.”

The words taunt you, coated in a laughable cruel twist of fate. The scene made you sick. 

“The punishments are the closest thing he will ever get to love. It’s sadistic.”

“He looks at me like he owns me, yet for some reason I can’t shake that feeling from my mind.”“I dreamt of the tunnels again… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to scrub the sins of that night from my skin.”

“I hope he rots in hell.”

“Why do I ache to be scolded? The silence is the worst of it all. What is wrong with me?”

And the final nail in your coffin, the passage you wrote just hours ago– your confession.

“I hate that through it all, I like it. I like him. It’s disgusting– what does that say about me?”

You almost choke on your breath at the words. You had written that in the still moments of the early hours, when you were faced with nothing but the truth. Now, it was being used against you. 

The gutted leather of the journal meets your gaze, turning your blood to ice. There, in the center of the foyer’s fireplace, stabbed through by a rusted poker like a slaughtered animal. It was a crime scene, your fate held in the balance by the judge, jury, and executioner– Brahms Heelshire. 

Your knees wobble, legs threatening to give out beneath you as you gape forward. This wasn’t just an act of revenge, it was a message. A twisted celebration of your betrayal, now on full display. It wasn’t about the journal– it was about what you said. He had read every word, and now?

You had to pay the price.

Lips trembling, the silence of the manor feels stifling. The walls seem to close in around you, much more akin to chains– caging you in. Fists clenching, you turn on your heel, fully prepared to flee the scene and pray for forgiveness later. 

His voice cuts through the silence: cold, low– halting you mid stride.

“So that’s what you really think of me.” Brahms emerges from the hallway, light glistening across that haunting mask, fingers twiddling around something as he set the stage for your downfall. Your pen. Stalking into the room with calculated steps, you shrink against his gaze– dread weighing you to the floor like prison shackles. 

“You think I’m some kind of monster,” He seethes, ragged breaths so strong they shake his broad shoulders. “-some thing you hate.” Fingers flex, the subtle notion too terrifying to interpret as his fiery gaze sears your skin. He’s relishing in your fear, you realize. Basking in the blind panic like a predator stalking its prey. 

“You’re mine!” A fist crashes into the wall, punching into the drywall and rattling the foyer. You flinch, heart leaping into your throat at the weighted words. You want to cry, want to beg, want to fall to your knees and pray for forgiveness and swear you would never do it again– but you can’t. You know there’s nowhere to run, you’re trapped. 

Stepping forward, Brahms snatches the nearest page to him– jutting it towards you like a court verdict. “Do you remember writing these things?” His voice drops to a whisper, words strained. “Do you remember thinking them, practically saying them out loud?” You swallow thickly, response dying on your tongue as you fight back tears. 

“I know you meant it– every word.” Closing the gap between you, Brahms towers over your trembling form. The cool porcelain of the mask brushes against your forehead as he leans closer, breath fanning across your skin. “-Now, I’ll make you prove it.”

You don’t know if he means your hatred, your desire, or both. 

With that, Brahms crumples the paper between his hands, tossing it towards the fireplace. There were no flames, but you swear you could feel your soul burning before your very eyes. Turning towards you once more, calloused fingertips wind around your forearm, pulling you into his chest. You stumble, fumbling as you try to pry your eyes away from the chocolate orbs that burned with something you couldn’t quite place.

Something like anticipation. 

“No more games,” Voice dropping, the grip on your arm tightens with a bruising force, causing you to flinch. “-no more pretending.” Brahms moves at that, stalking out of the room and pulling you in tow. Ducking towards a false panel in the wall, your eyes widen– knees locking as the panel is opened and the darkness of the tunnels stare back at you. 

Oh god, the tunnels. 

The tears fall at the sight, dripping onto the hardwood floor as you thrash in his grip. Broken pleas fell from your lips as you squirm, begging to go anywhere else. You sob out apologies, praying for forgiveness you knew would never come. Brahms paid your outburst no mind, simply digging blunt nails into your skin so roughly you were sure he drew blood– like he was marking you. 

The dark swallows you whole as you are dragged into the tunnels. Your pleas fill the space as if it would save you, but they drown in the void. The tunnels seem narrower now, the smell of dust and sweat and mold raking through your lungs as the walls threaten to reach out and grab you. You try to shake the memories that hang on the tattered walls like a coat of wet paint.

The chase. Fallen beams crushing you in place. Your jeans caught around your ankles. Brahms ruining you for all others. 

Breaths coming out in shallow huffs, and you try to slow your racing heartbeat. The air was damp, sending a chill straight through your bones– any semblance of comfort abandoned within the bowels of the manor. Each step dragged behind Brahms, your legs struggling to keep up with his pace as he expertly navigated the tunnels. 

The very tunnels he fucked you in. 

Heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to memorize the twists and turns through the narrow passageway. It wasn’t until the familiar creak of the narrow stairs that you realize where you are. No– not here. 

The attic. 

Brahms pauses at the threshold, the door swinging open as you lock into place. The blood drains from your face as your gaze is met with the gloom of his hidden sanctuary– the very place you first met on that fateful night. Dust coats every surface like ash, casting long shadows across the rotting wooden floor. Your stomach lurches as the bed comes into frame. 

“Remember this moment.” he mumbles, the words weighing heavy in the dim room. “This is the moment that you stopped lying to yourself. The moment you admitted how much you really hate me.”

He doesn’t wait for your response, shoving you towards the bed so quickly you crumple onto the mattress in a heap of twisted limbs. Squirming like an overturned bug, you try to push yourself upwards onto your elbows only to be forced back down. The warped bed frame groans under the weight, the mattress dipping as Brahms crawls on top of you– knees effectively locking you into place as he straddles you. 

“You write that I am a monster. That I hurt you– scare you.” He taunts, any and all reason stripped away as a finger ghosts your cheek. You try to fight the flinch rising in your spine, dread mixing with the chill of his words. “You don’t get to lie and keep secrets,” he continued, bitterness stabbing into you like a rusty knife. “-Now? I’m going to show you exactly what it really means to hate me.”

A hand wraps around your throat, and it’s shameful how your cheeks flush at the touch. Your silent betrayal only eggs him on, grip tightening– not so much to hurt, but as a reminder of who exactly you belong to. “Don’t lie now,” He hisses. “You wanted me angry, wanted this.”

You shake your head weakly, a final plea for mercy. It goes unanswered. 

“Tell me the things you wrote. Out loud… I’m sure you remember.” You blink at the order, guilt scrambling your stomach into knots. “Brahms, please–” “Tell me. You wanted to confess so badly, so now you will.”

Trying to ignore the hand shifting from your throat to the collar of your shirt, your lips tremble as you think of the gutted pages in the foyer– the ones that damned you.

“I… I hate him. I wish he were dead.” you whisper, fingers scraping against your clavicle as your buttons are hurriedly undone. 

“Louder.”

Voice cracking, you obey– reciting every horrible thought, every twisted confession. Every word exposing you in ways you wished you were never seen. Even as you fumble, you could practically feel Brahms’ smile through the mask as he absorbed your corrupted betrayal. 

“Say the one about the punishments… I liked that one.” You swallow thickly, hot tears trailing down your cheeks, throat burning with shame. Your tears are wiped away with such devotion it mocks you, shirt undone and exposing your trembling torso. 

“I hate that through it all, I like it. I… like him. It’s disgusting– what does that say about me?” 

Porcelain rubs against the column of your neck and Brahms leans down, sending goosebumps down your spine. “What does that say about you, hm?” He murmurs, voice too soft– too calm, breath wafting along your skin, dripping with less than pure intentions. 

“It says you’re mine– and that you were always going to be punished.” You know you should protest, fight the ridiculous notion, but deep down you know he was right. “So now, little liar… I think your lesson is long overdue.”

A yelp tears itself from your throat as your wrists are forced upwards, something metallic winding around them– binding you to the bed frame. Insticintly, you tug, struggling against the thin wire securing them in place. 

You’re shaking now, blood simmering as your wrists go raw from the friction, the prospect of escape dwindling as the pads of Brahms’ thumbs draw slow, calculated circles into your lower rib cage. If you had known any better, you would have considered the action soothing– but as his gaze burned into you, it felt anything but. 

“Comfortable?” He’s mocking you, hidden smirk dripping in pride. His touch feels like ice, but you jolt as if you were burned. You shake your head, breath catching as you tug on the restraints— but he only laughs, the sound coated in bitter disappointment.

“Still lying, like you hadn’t dreamed about this before. But it’s alright– after tonight you’ll never be able to lie again.” A hand lazily palms at your clothed breast, the chill in his touch stiffening your nipples. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to slow your breathing as your bra is ripped away from your chest, straps digging into the flesh of your back before snapping from the force. 

Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you suck on the flesh for comfort, willing yourself to not squirm as the frigid touch brushes your nipples. Brahms sighs in contemptment, the sight of your undressed torso unexplored territory. 

After all, he would actually be able to see your reactions this time. The thought alone sends electricity sparking through the air, realization dawning on you as your nipples are roughly rolled beneath his fingertips. 

You jolt, trying to twist away from the borderline painful touch, but Brahms continues his methodical exploration of your breasts. Thumbs tracing the underside of the mounds of flesh, his hands seem to swallow you whole. A taunt whimper slips, and you want to sink into the mattress and disappear forever– embarrassment heating your cheeks. 

Brahms pauses, fingers frozen above your skin. You glance upwards, blood turning to ice as those chocolate orbs swirl with an idea. Brahms shuffles, producing a long strip of fabric. Your eyes widen as he leans forward, tying the fabric behind your head– effectively cutting off your sight. 

No.

The memories of the tunnel come flooding back. The dirt needling into your knees as you clawed at the floor, the ache in your ribs as they scraped against the fallen beams. The feeling of Brahms’ nails digging into your hips as he defiled you. 

Darkness coats your vision, and you strain against the fabric. “Brahms, please–”

Something rough scraps against your shoulder, curls tickling your jaw. Uneven, puckered skin brushes downwards towards your breasts, and you shudder at the sensation. Oh god, he wasn’t wearing his mask. Stubble needles into your skin, followed by something wet. 

Brahms breathes against your skin, burrowing his face between the valley of your breasts. You cringe at the feeling of his scars digging into you, lip trembling as his mouth latches onto one of your peaks. Teeth sink into your nipple, and you whimper– jaw clenching as his tongue flicks across the sensitive skin. 

“No more pretending to be good, you want to be punished. You wrote it countless times, so now I will.” He murmurs, barely audible as he peppers your breasts with heated kisses. It was so wrong, the mixture of the roughness of his deformity and the softness of his tongue sending heat flickering through your stomach. 

Exposed, humiliated, and completely at his mercy– just the way he taught you. 

Spit coats your chest as Brahms drools over you, hands tenderly gripping your breasts before giving them a harsh squeeze. Your spine straightens, and Brahms chuckles at the reaction. Eager in the pursuit to enjoy your skin unprohibited by the mask, fingers trace down your sternum, creeping towards the edge of your waistline. 

The fabric of your jeans catches on your hip bones as they are pulled down, gathering around your knees. You shudder as the cold air sinks into your naked skin, stomach clenching as you go gooseflesh in the chill. Dexterous fingers press onto your unclothed pussy, and you gasp. 

“Poor thing,” Brahms muses. “What happened to that pesky backbone of yours?”

Fingers slip into your folds ever so slightly, and you pull so hard against the wire the bed frame creaks. “You’re wet– disgusting little liar. Pretending you hate me while you drip on my fingers.” Course pads swirl against your clit, and you moan. “Say it. Say you want your punishment.”

You clamp your jaw shut, refusing to give him the benefit of your words. A sharp sting jolts through your pussy, causing a pained cry to rip from your chest– he slapped you. Tears threaten to fall as Brahms rubs the tender flesh. “Say it.”

A pause. “I… I want it.” You swallow thickly, surprised at the submissive tone in your shaky voice. 

“You need it.” 

“I–” You hiccup, snot running down your nose.. “I need it.”

Two fingers plunge into you so abruptly you whine, stretching you uncomfortably and scissoring. There was no tenderness, but something much worse– cruel indulgence. You clench around his fingers as they fuck into you. Sinking further into the mattress, you try to slow the merciless pace Brahms set for you. The hand that wasn’t making you soak his fingers digs into your waist, nails sinking into your flesh and leaving red crescents in their wake.

You shudder, hips twitching as the brutal pace massages your gummy walls. The cloth digs into your temples as you squirm– hot, heated breaths quickly filling the space as the telltale warmth grows in the pit of your stomach. 

“I own your body, your mind. Even your pathetic fantasies– there’s nothing left that’s yours.” Brahms growls, jaw scraping against your collarbone as he sinks his teeth into the column of your neck. A broken moan tears from your throat, saliva coating your skin as Brahms laps up the assaulted flesh. You clench around his fingers, stomach tightening as his fingers sinfully plunge knuckle deep. 

Lewd squelches, another betrayal of your body, ring in your ears. Your cheeks flush as the pads of his fingers drill against the spongy spot that makes your head spin, fingers twitching within the bonds of the wire. Your hands were going numb from the pressure, tingling spiking its way down your spine with every rough thrust of his fingers. Your knees burn, scraping against the scratchy material of your jeans due to your incessant squirming. 

The stoked embers within your stomach only grew, heightened by your shame. Every movement, every sound dilated under the darkness of the cloth covering your eyes. You strain your ears to hear something, anything that could distract you from the growing ache between your legs. It felt as if you were on fire, a sheen of sweat coating your skin and  dripping down the valley of your breasts. 

It was all too much, too hard– your pussy clenching around those godforsaken fingers in a vice-like grip. His fingers claim you in a way that your own could never fight against, pushing within you so desperately that your eyes flutter behind the makeshift blindfold. A third finger slips alongside the others, and you feel like you’re going to burst. 

“Brahms, hah–”

“That’s it.” He breathes, “-Make those sounds for the monster you hate.” As much as you want to burrow your face into the mattress and crawl within your skin, your body falls into the dizzying feeling of falling from grace. Brahms, ever eager to coax more noises from you, thrusts his fingers upwards abruptly, thumb drawing hard circles on your clit.

Oh god, you were going to squirt at this point. 

“Brahms, I’m sorry, please–” Toes clenching, your spine straightens, head knocking against the bed frame as your back arches, hips begging to chase the high that was threatening to spill over. You were so close it hurt, breath coming out in strained huffs– another low, needy moan escaping. 

Then it was gone. 

Brahms retreats his fingers right before the climax comes crashing down, any sense of relief spoiled as you clench around nothing. Your eyes widen beneath the blindfold, forearms aching as you wriggle against the wire, knuckles white as you bite back the sour taste of dissatisfaction. Trying but failing to stifle the groan of anger building in your chest, your jaw groans from the pressure of choking down your pride. 

“What was it you said?” His voice cuts through the air, “-that my punishments were… sadistic?” 

The blindfold feels cold and wet against your face, and you realize you were crying. The punishment was clear now, he was going to have you fall apart on his fingers only to take away the release you craved for– and there was nothing you could do about it. 

Just the way he likes it. 

The cycle began after that. He wouldn’t ask, or coax– just claim you with his fingers, dragging your body to the depth of hell so you were begging for him, for mercy. Bring you to the tipping point just to rip away your climax, only to start over again. Tears turned to screams, prayers to begs, yet the cycle would just repeat itself. 

Over, and over, and over. 

You couldn’t even count the amount of times he had tormented you at this point, certain you had blacked out after the first four cycles. Wrists hanging weakly from the wire were red and raw from your struggles. The blindfold was soaked through, a mixture of your tears and sweat clinging to your feverish skin as you blankly stared into the darkness. Throat hoarse from your pleas, you could only let out a strained croak as Brahms’ fingers slid out of your convulsing body once more. 

“Please, no more.” You sob, entire being full of  an ache you knew only he could fix– yet you knew better than to beg. “Please, I can’t–”

“Tell me you hate me.”

You freeze at that. Fingers dig into the fat of your ass so roughly you cry out in pain, but Brahms only sighs.

“Tell me you hate me.” He repeats, fingers moving dangerously close to your aching pussy. Terrified of another torturous cycle, all you could do was obey.

“I…” you swallow. “I hate you.”

It was true, you did hate him. You hate how through all of the pain and the hurt and the betrayal, you still crave nothing but him. It disgusts you. Worst of all– he knows it too. 

“You wrote that I ruin you– let me finish the job.” Hands grip your hips, effectively flipping you over with utmost ease. You groan, arms twisting uncomfortably in front of your head as your shaking knees meet the mattress. Trying to push yourself up on your crooked elbows, the crown of your head is shoved into the pillow, the taste of mildew and sweat filling your nostrils. You squirm uncomfortably, taking in greedy gulps of air against the damp pillow– trying to ignore the brush of Brahms’ hips meeting the fat of your ass. Without warning, Brahms drives forward, spearing you on his cock so quickly a pain-riddled gasp falls from your lips. 

Allowing you no time to adjust, Brahms steels forward, rocking his hips against you so vigorously the bed frame rattles against the wires– forcing you to bow against him. The ache in your pussy screams against the much bigger intrusion, and with every thrust short, quick gasps melt into the pillow beneath you. 

Toes curling at the force of the brutal pace, your jaw slacks– drool running down your neck as Brahms filled every inch of space you might’ve used to resist him, hate him. You flutter around his incessant thrusts, trying to alleviate the pressure that had been building within your stomach for the past few hours. 

“You know, sometimes I hate you too.” A rigged smack against your ass jostles you against the mattress, pain needling down your leg as Brahms rubs the inflamed area. Continuing to bully his way into your sore walls, Brahms groans at the sensation of you falling apart due to his ministrations– how ironic. 

“I hate the way you lie to me.” A strike.

“I hate when you smile at me like you aren’t scared of me.” Another one. 

“I hate that you look at the walls instead of me when you speak.” His breath is hot against your lower back, feeding the fire growing against your skin as another strike rings out through the attic. “-Like, mmh– you’re thinking of ways to escape.” 

You’re sobbing now, knees wobbling as blow after blow ripples against the fat of your ass, no doubt leaving it an angry red. “I hate that you wrote about running away– about leaving me like I wouldn’t find out.” A strike so heavy it almost topples you lands, and you scream. 

“I hate that even now, you’re pretending you don’t want this.” He presses deeper with every word, rutting against your cervix– making your eyes roll back into their sockets. “-That you don’t want me.”

Another strike.

Babbled apologies rattle your rib cage tainted with shame and guilt, prayers of gentleness left with no response. “But worst of all, I love the way you hate me.” He shudders, wrapping a fist around your hair and forcing you to arch against him. Teeth sink into the unmarked junction of your neck as he bottoms out inside of you. 

“It means I’ve ruined you the way you’ve ruined me.”

You break then– a silent scream filled not with relief, but shame. Sparks fly across your vision as you orgasm, overstimulation racking through your limbs and shaking you to your core. Head reeling, your nails dig into the flesh of your palms, drawing blood. A scream echoes through the room, raw and heated and divine– and you realize it was coming from you.

Brahms devours it, the essence of your ruin sweeter than any other victory. Hips stuttering against you, his nails dig into your hips– holding you against him as he climaxes. Thick, hot ropes of cum coat your sore insides, and you clench at the feeling. Shallowly thrusting his orgasm into you, Brahms lets out a sigh of relief before stilling completely. 

You flinch at the sensation, overstimulated pussy screaming for solace– for mercy. Yet, Brahms Heelshire is not a merciful man, opting to reach over you and undue the wires holding your wrists taunt. Limbs free, you all but collapse onto the mattress, earning a chuckle from the male behind you. 

Mirroring your movements, Brahms pulls you into his arms– the very ones that tormented you for hours on end. Spooning you in bed, Brahms refuses to leave the warmth of your pussy, another testament to your punishment. Holding you with the reverence of a lover, the blindfold is stripped away from your gaze, revealing the dark gloom of the attic once more. 

A thumb wipes away a stray tear, drawing circles on your cheek as if you were the most precious thing in the world. The action makes your stomach lurch with dread. “You’ll learn to love me properly now, without the lies.” Brahms hums, tucking his scarred flesh into the crevice of your neck. 

A pause. 

“...the way I love you.” He finishes. If it was a threat, you didn’t care. You were too tired, too broken to think about anything other than the dull ache between your thighs. A hand intertwines with yours, held over your stomach where you could still feel the outline of him buried inside of you. If you knew any better, the action almost seemed holy– a vow, a promise to you. 

“From now on, no more pretending. You’re mine– forever.” You know he doesn’t mean romantically. He means you’ll never leave this godforsaken house, never have a single thought that doesn’t already belong to him, never leave him alone again. 

As you lay in the attic, the air still smelling of sex and sweat, darkness begins to overcome you. While Brahms nods off in the late hours of the night, the sweet release of sleep doesn’t come. 

Because when you sleep beside a monster in a house that holds no secrets, you learn not to dream.

[part 3]

[cece693]

Could I request some Hannigram for a reader who operates on a backwards schedule? Like eating breakfast at 9pm and dinner at 7am.

Anytime they’re seen during the daytime they just look exhausted, lol

My Morning vs. Your Night

pairing: hannigram x gender neutral reader tags: hannigram are worried, your job is vague so it's up to your interpretation, you look dead and are exhausted, caring hannigram

You didn’t mind the hours at first. Working through the night suited your quiet nature, and the city seemed more peaceful under fluorescent lights and moonlit streets. You liked the dark, the hush it carried, and the way no one needed anything from you except your job’s unrelenting demands. But even you had to admit it was taking a toll.

You could feel your body fraying at the edges. Nights had become days—your sun rose while others slept, and your “good morning” was usually a mumbled greeting at 7 p.m. Then, when the world was waking up, you were crawling under the blankets.

Will was the first to notice the strain. He always noticed things—something about the way your eyes lost their usual spark, the way your head would loll forward in the middle of conversation. He’d be sitting at the kitchen table, feeding the dogs in the early morning, while you stumbled into the house just before dawn. His brows would crease in that concerned way, the same gentle worry he wore when coaxing stray animals to trust him.

Hannibal, in contrast, observed you more subtly. He measured the dark circles under your eyes, the slump in your posture. He noted the times you arrived too late or too early for a meal, rummaging for breakfast at nine in the evening. He witnessed how exhaustion made you forget to eat proper dinners, your last substantial meal too many hours in the past. Their worry was shared—spoken in Will’s gentle voice and in Hannibal’s carefully worded suggestions.

Hannibal was a blur of precision as he artfully arranged your plate—a culinary masterpiece that qualified as breakfast by your schedule. Hash browns with a fried egg, a delicate drizzle of sauce that smelled faintly of herbs. He placed the plate in front of you, leaning in with an elegant posture. “You must eat,” he said softly, voice like silk on porcelain. “Your body needs care even if your hours are reversed.”

You tried to give him a small smile of gratitude, but your eyes slid closed for just a moment of rest. It felt like even blinking took more energy than you had. “I am eating,” you replied, forcing cheer into your tone. You sank your fork into the food, and as always, it was divine. This didn’t escape your notice, but your taste buds and Hannibal’s cooking had begun to take a backseat to pure fatigue.

Will hovered by your side. He still wore a sweater with a few dog hairs clinging to the sleeves, and the usual shadows of his own weariness had nothing on the purple bruises beneath your eyes. “I’m worried about you,” he said, gently patting your shoulder. “This isn’t healthy. You’re coming home in the morning and not even sleeping properly. You hardly rest before you go back out again.”

Your gaze shifted to him, and your heart clenched at the genuine concern carved into his expression. “It’s just the nature of the work,” you said quietly. “I can’t exactly turn it down. They need me.” Will exhaled, and Hannibal placed a hand on Will’s shoulder as if reminding him to tread carefully.

A week later, the inevitable crash came. Maybe it was a double shift that turned into a triple. Maybe it was the pounding headache that refused to relent. You wound up driving home while the sun was already high in the sky—past 7 a.m., well into your typical “dinnertime,” but you’d missed all your usual signals.

You stumbled into the house, tears of frustration threatening to fall. You kicked off your shoes, ignoring the annoyed whine of your tired muscles, and almost collapsed in the foyer.

Will was there in an instant, arms catching you around the waist. “Whoa, easy,” he said, voice thick with concern. “Let me help you—just breathe.”

Hannibal appeared like a shadow, as swift as a heartbeat, pressing a gentle hand to your forehead. You saw the flicker of alarm in his eyes. You must have looked truly terrible. Your eyelids fluttered, the world turning blurry. “I’m so tired,” you mumbled, as if your exhaustion was something new and shocking.

Will and Hannibal exchanged a look above your hunched form, and Will gently scooped you into his arms, carrying you to the couch. You sank into it like a wilted flower. Before you could register it, Hannibal disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with a glass of water. No one spoke until you took a few sips, water dribbling down your chin. Your hands shook so hard it was difficult to hold the glass.

Then Hannibal, with a low, steady voice, said, “We can’t watch you do this to yourself any longer.”

Will nodded. “We talked about it and we think you should quit this job. Please. For your own sake.”

It wasn’t an easy decision. You’d put so much into this job. But you remembered all those times you nearly passed out at your desk, times you neglected meals, the nights you promised Will you’d be home by dawn only to arrive in the bright glare of midday. So you stood in your supervisor’s office the next afternoon (evening, by your internal clock) and handed over your resignation. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over you—fear, relief, regret, and anticipation. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen a proper sunrise while wide awake.

Stepping out of that building for the last time, you felt lighter. Your phone buzzed with a waiting text from Will:

We’re so proud of you. Come home safe.

It took a while to reset your routine. At first, you still found yourself awake at bizarre hours—your stomach growling at midnight, craving what it had learned to call breakfast. But now, when you emerged from the bedroom at odd times, you were greeted by Will in the living room, dozing lightly, as though waiting for you. Hannibal often had a small snack prepared, an elegant amuse-bouche to tide you over while your body adjusted.

Some nights, Hannibal would read aloud from a book of poetry while you rested your head in Will’s lap, focusing on the cadence of Hannibal’s voice to soothe your restless mind. Will’s fingers combed absently through your hair, grounding you. Slowly, you found yourself drifting off earlier and waking closer to what most people called “morning.” You’d have breakfast around nine—actual nine in the morning. Will smiled at you over a cup of coffee, and Hannibal offered you a plate of fresh fruit and delicate pastries.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had breakfast with both Will and Hannibal in natural morning light. It felt surreal, a luxury you hadn’t realized you’d been missing for so long. The kitchen was bathed in a gentle glow from the rising sun, and for once, you didn’t have to squint against it, half-conscious from a grueling shift.

“How do you feel?” Will asked, sliding you a cup of tea.

You paused, steam rising into your face, the warmth of the mug cupped in your hands. “I feel…rested.” The word sounded alien, but it made you laugh a little. “I forgot what that was like.”

Hannibal, perched elegantly across from you, inclined his head. “It is good to see color in your cheeks again. You have a natural glow this morning.”

Will’s foot nudged yours under the table, an affectionate gesture. “Not that you aren't handsome/beautiful, of course,” he teased in his soft, playful way, “but you did look like a ghost for a while there.”

A shy laugh escaped you, and you reached across to squeeze his hand briefly. “It’s strange, but i’m glad I quit.”

“Good,” Hannibal responded, his smile as subtle as ever. “Because your well-being is paramount. To both of us.” A comfortable silence settled among the three of you. It was only broken by the quiet clink of silverware on plates and the soft hum of the dogs in the next room. You took in the moment, letting your shoulders relax in a way they hadn’t in ages. The day stretched ahead of you—not night, not the sleepless hours, but a real day full of possibilities and the promise of healthy routines. Will winked at you before biting into a piece of toast, and Hannibal sipped his coffee with measured elegance.

[macabrebatz]

HOW YOU MET THE SLASHERS PT. 2

Author's Note: Hello, everyone! I'm currently moving some of my old fanfiction onto here. These one-shots/drabbles are old (some are far older than others) so some of the writing is very short and in my opinion, not as great as some of my more recent stuff. But I have a soft spot for all of this since I know my younger self was working hard lol. So here’s a mini collection of my old “How You Met” series.

Characters: Brahms Heelshire, Otis Driftwood, Tiffany Valentine, Jack Torrance, Pavi Largo, Art the Clown, Billy Lenz, Luigi Largo, Will Graham

Warning/tags: Canon typical violence mentioned, occasional use of (Y/N) (I tried to get rid of some but there's still a few), not beta read

Word count: 6.1k

Brahms Heelshire:

You were hired by the Heelshires to take care of their son. When you arrived at the home you were shocked to find a doll instead of an actual person. You decided to shake off the strangeness of the situation.

You followed every rule. You were getting paid so being in a spooky situation wasn't going to deter you away from a good paycheck.

After a couple of weeks, things started to get more strange. A couple of your t-shirts had gone missing, leftover food disappeared, and you could have sworn you heard footsteps walking on the creaky wooden floor at night.

One night you heard a knock. It was faint but it didn't go unnoticed. You got out of bed and put your ear up to the wall. You could hear shuffling.

"Someone's in the house," you thought to yourself.

You made your way to the bedroom door and stepped out into the hallway. The door to Brahms's room was closed. You could've sworn you left it open.

Stepping closer to the door, you gently placed your hand on the nob. You turned it quickly, opening the door. And there he was.

A grown man sat on the end of Brahms's bed. He had a mess of black hair on top of his head and his face was covered by what appeared to be a porcelain mask. You squinted your eyes. The mask resembled the face of the doll that you had grown fond of taking care of. No, it can't be.

You stepped back in shock. Fear and confusion clouded your mind. You wanted to run but your legs were frozen.

"Please don't be scared," the man pleaded.

The voice was gentle and soft. Your mouth fell agape.

"Brahms?" you questioned, stuttering his name.

The man nodded his head.

"So...you are alive."

Otis Driftwood:

You lived down the street from the Firefly family for years so you've known Otis early on. As you got older you started to stay over at their house. Baby Firefly was your best friend and she could tell that you had a crush on her brother.

"You know he likes you too," Baby said as you sat behind her, braiding her curly hair.

"I highly doubt that," you mumbled.

Every time you came over, Otis would shut himself in his room. He never seemed to even be remotely interested in you.

You finished Baby's braid and she turned around to face you.

"Don't believe me? Go talk to him," Baby insisted.

"Go talk to him? About what? We've barely ever spoken to each other," you said.

She took you by the hand without saying anything, dragging you upstairs. The two of you busted through Otis' door uninvited. He sat there watching an episode of The Munsters.

"What the fuck are you two doing in here?" he said aggravated.

You turned to leave but Baby caught you by the arm, pulling you back.

"We want to watch TV since there‘s not one downstairs," Baby said, flopping down on Otis' bed.

You stood there, looking down at your feet.

"Gonna stand there all day or are you gonna sit?" Otis asked, peering up at you.

You hesitantly sat down on the bed by Baby.

"I'm going to go get something to drink," Baby said, hopping back up from the bed.

Before you could insist on going with her, she was gone, leaving you seated by Otis.

"She's not coming back," Otis mumbled.

"Oh, then I probably should go after her," you said.

"Nope. You're watching TV with me," Otis said.

It sounded like an offer, not just a statement.

You nodded your head and sat watching TV with Otis for the rest of the night.

Tiffany Valentine:

You sat down in one of the last couple of seats in the movie theater. It was late at night, 11:45 to be exact. Every year on Halloween night you found yourself sitting in this theater, patiently waiting to watch the annual midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Most years, you would have had someone come with you. Your friends usually would tag along. But this year you were alone. You didn't exactly mind. The energy of the other Rocky Horror fans made up for it.

You had a small bucket of popcorn sitting in your lap, along with a grab bag full of props. The theater would pass them out since audience participation was always encouraged at the showings. You took a sip from your drink and sat it back down in the cup holder on the seat. Glancing around, you took note of how full the theater was. Almost every seat was filled, besides a few seats here and there. One of those empty seats was right beside you.

"Hi, may I sit there?" a voice asked beside you.

Looking up, you saw a woman with wavy blonde hair. She wore a black leather jacket with a bustier underneath, along with tight black pants.

"Oh, of course," you said.

She sat down beside you.

"Thank you," she said with a smile.

"You're welcome."

"If I would've known the theater was going to be packed I would have left home sooner," she said.

"I got here just in time as well," you said with a chuckle.

"I'm Tiffany, by the way."

She reached out her hand and you shook it. You told her your name and smiled.

After the movie had ended you found yourself walking out of the theater with Tiffany, talking about movies as the two of you made your way to your respective vehicles.

“It was good talking to you,” she said, slipping a small piece of paper in your hand.

You looked down at the tiny note, which had her phone number scribbled on it.

“Give me a call sometime,” she said with a wink.

You watched the blonde saunter away to her car before hastily adding her number to the contacts in your phone.

Jack Torrance:

"Is this seat taken?"

You turned to see a tall man who looked rather scruffy. His eyes were dark and there was some red puffiness around his eyelids.

"Nope," you said, offering him the seat.

The bar was rather empty. Only a few stragglers were inside, including you. You needed a late-night drink. Something to clear your mind. Or fog it up. You just needed to forget.

The man beside you ordered a Scotch and didn't hesitate to drink it down quickly.

"What brings you here?" he asked.

He then ordered another drink. This time he asked the bartender to just leave the bottle. Either he was going through a tough time or he was just an alcoholic.

"I had a bad day. Needed a drink," you said, "What about you?"

The man was silent for a bit as if he was struggling to answer.

"Divorce," he stated simply.

His voice was quieter than before. It seemed as if the divorce was rather fresh. His face dropped a bit and he looked as if he wanted to throw his glass across the bar.

Hesitantly, you patted him on the shoulder. It was a kind gesture. You didn't need to know the details. You could tell that this man was hurting. His outward expression was one of anger, but somewhere deep down you could tell that he was upset.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly.

"Don't be. It was a long time coming," he said.

A long time coming. You could say the same thing about your current situation.

You had just cut ties with your ex. A part of you was relieved. The other part of you was enraged that you hadn't ended things sooner. But now it was time to move on to new and better things. And why not start by making a new friend? You took a sip of your drink and then turned in your seat towards the man.

"I'm (Y/N), by the way," you said, sticking out your hand.

"I'm Jack," he said, shaking your hand.

Pavi Largo:

You had known Pavi for a little over a year. You had worked with Amber Sweet before, making her dresses and personalized latex corsets, and she had introduced you to him.

After that, Pavi soon fell in love with your talent and hired you as the entire Largo family's official personal stylist. The last one had to take a personal leave after a violent encounter with Pavi's brother, Luigi. You on the other hand found your job to be much safer than anticipated. You knew beforehand that taking a job working for any member of the Largo family would be a risk. But after a few months passed you started to have fun.

"My sister wants you to make this," Pavi said, entering your workshop.

He opened up a magazine and sat it on your desk, revealing a model in a latex mini dress. You walked over from your workstation and went over to the desk, picking up the magazine.

"She's really getting obsessed with latex and vinyl, isn't she?" you mumbled, taking a closer look at the picture.

For the past two months, almost everything Amber had asked you to make was made from shiny black vinyl, PVC, and leather.

"Almost as obsessed as she is with going under the knife," Pavi laughed.

You glanced up at Pavi, taking a good look at the woman's face he wore as a mask. You squinted your eyes as you noticed the skin was starting to look rather splotchy.

"Pavi, you need a new mask," you said.

"No, I don't," he said, sitting down in a chair in front of your desk.

"I think you do," you insisted.

He simply shrugged and put his legs up, resting his feet on your desk. You sighed as you watched him do so.

"You can go now."

"And why would I do that? It's much more fun in here watching you work," Pavi said.

Pavi had a habit of doing this. He'd come in with a minor request and then find an excuse to stay. It didn't bother you all that much but today was a busy day. You were making two outfits for Amber, a suit for Luigi, and a dress for some guest who would be arriving at Gene-Co for an event.

You didn't have the time to entertain him.

"I have to work, Pavi," you said sternly.

"Take a break. Talk to me," he said, pouting his faux face.

"I don't have time."

"Alright...alright. But may I make another request?"

You rolled your eyes. There was already so much work to be done in such little time.

"Yes," you said.

He stood up and walked over to you. His hand reached up and caressed your face, grazing over your skin.

"Come with me tonight and help me find a new face," he said.

It wasn't much of a request. It was much more of a statement. A demand.

You nodded your head in agreement.

"Consider it a date," he said with a smile.

Art the Clown:

It was the middle of the night on Halloween. You stumbled on your feet as you made your way down the sidewalk. The air was proceeding to get colder as time passed.

You weren't sure what time it was. Your cell phone had died hours ago at the Halloween party you had left.

You couldn't drive home. You were far too intoxicated to do that. Plus, you didn't have a car of your own. Your friend had picked you up before the party. When you went to leave the party there was no sign of her or the car. Figuring that your friend had ditched you for a late-night hookup, you decided to tread back to your house.

Your outfit wasn't providing much warmth either. The clown costume you had picked for the Halloween costume was cute but it was made out of thin fabric. Cursing to yourself, you looked around.

Across the street from you was a pizza restaurant. The open sign still glowed and the lights were on inside.

"I could go for some food," you thought to yourself.

You walked across the street and entered the restaurant. A feeling of warmth cascaded over you as you stepped in.­­­

"Welcome! Great costume! What can I get you?" a man greeted you from behind the counter.

He was heavier set with tan skin and dark hair that was slicked back with styling gel.

You looked over the multiple options of pizza behind the glass of the counter. You ordered a slice of your favorite pizza and sat down at a booth.

As you ate, you heard the bell on the door chime. Glancing up, you noticed a tall figure dressed in a white and black clown suit with an alternating pattern. His face was painted white, and his face was covered in what you assumed to be prosthetics. In his hand, he carried a black bag.

For just a second, you forgot it was Halloween, and a chill ran up your spine. The feeling disappeared quickly as you assumed he was in a similar situation as you. Either going to or coming from a Halloween party.

The stranger sat down at the booth closest to the door without ordering anything.

"May I help you?" the man at the counter asked the clown.

There was no answer; the clown just looked away.

You decided to ignore it and continued to eat your pizza. It was Halloween after all. All types of people were bound to be lurking around.

As you ate, you couldn't help but feel a strange sensation. Goosebumps were forming on your neck. You glanced over to the clown. He was staring at you. Almp began to form in your throat and a part of you couldn't help but stare back. You couldn't tell if you were scared or just annoyed that someone was staring at you while you ate.

You decide to wave at him. A small gesture to break the ice. He smiled back at you.

You turned back to your food and finished your pizza rather quickly. The clown's smile wasn't necessarily a comforting one. You went to get up from your booth and couldn't. A small gasp left your mouth as you looked up. The clown stood in front of you, peering down as he blocked you from exiting. You hadn't even noticed him get up or walk over.

He put up his finger, gesturing for you to hold on. With a few dramatized miming motions, he reached into his bag and slowly pulled out a flower. He held up a singular rose, and you hesitantly took it.

"Um…thank you," you said quietly, smiling a little.

He tipped his hat and walked away, leaving the shop. It wouldn't be the last time you saw the mysterious clown.

Luigi Largo:

The repossession of organs was a regular occurrence in the city. By the year 2052, everyone's body seemed to begin to fail. Organ transplants and regular cosmetic surgery became the norm. Hell, even you had had a few organ transplants yourself to save yourself from an early death.

And with the new way of life, a new set of rules had to be made. Organs were now a rental property. If you didn't pay, they could be repossessed. You understood the rule, and you never missed a payment. Even when you didn't have the money, you still found a way to have the cash by the time payment was due.

You were good at keeping your payments, but you couldn't say the same about other people. When Gene-Co came knocking on your door months ago, you didn't know what to expect. It's not every day that Rotti Largo comes down to talk to civilians. You had seen him and his children on TV. His daughter was around your age. They lived a glamorous life, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to know that they were a mess.

Rotti offered you a job that day. He wanted to hire you as an assassin. There were fuzzy details about the current Repo-Man betraying his trust. He mentioned that it was good money and an easy way for you to pay off your organ payments. He even said that the company would give you grace periods to pay. Blah. Blah. Blah. Long story short, he wanted you to be his new "Repo-man".

At the time you weren't fond of the idea. Not many people lived through repossession. It essentially would kill a person each time. Also, really? The company that was paying you would just be getting the money back from you anyway. It didn't make much sense.

But that was months ago.

The past version of you would be absolutely disgusted with the present version of you.

Oh well.

Currently, you had your hand shoved into a man's chest. Normally you would have brought someone like this back to your home. It was much easier to cut the entire chest open to retrieve a heart. But you didn't have time for that right now. You were on the clock.

You had tracked this guy down as quickly as possible once you had realized you were late for drop-off. You had quickly stunned him, causing him to pass out.

And now he would never wake up because you were elbow-deep in his chest. You carefully pulled out the man's heart. You didn't care too much about properly cutting arteries. If Gene-Co didn't care about the condition of the heart then why should you? They just wanted to be able to cross a name off their list.

You placed the heart in a bag and then in your small ice cooler. Looking down at the guy you couldn't help but feel sorry. If only he had kept up with his payments. You started making your way down the streets.

You had on a respirator and tinted goggles. Not only did it help with keeping your identity sealed but it also helped protect you from the ungodly amount of pollution. The air was so thick with smog that it always looked like as if there was a haze of smoke in the air. You hadn't seen the stars in years. Just the cloudy light from the moon.

You remember your mom telling you what it was like when she was your age. She had been born in the early 2000s. She turned 18 around 2020. Your mom had grown up in a rural area, full of green fields and forests full of trees. You could tell that it made her sad.

None of that existed anymore.

Her home had been replaced with parking lots and skyscrapers. By the time she had you, she was 30, and there wasn't much grass left in America. Not many trees either. Most plants were grown in greenhouses now. They wouldn't survive the outside conditions. Now you were in your twenties, and you wished your mom had gotten pregnant sooner. You wished you hadn't had to grow up in a time where Earth had been wiped of nature and replaced with chaos.

As you walked down the sidewalk, you could see the glowing Gene-Co sign from down the street, looming over the city. It felt as if a giant eye was watching over you.

Although you worked for them, you didn't know much about the Largo family. You just knew what you saw on TV and the news. And based on what you heard, the family was nothing short of dysfunctional. You had never met any of them other than the patriarch, Rotti Largo. Your business was usually with Genterns and receptionists, not the Largo family.

You entered Gene-Co, pushing past the big glass doors. The building was an odd combination of a hospital and a business. On some floors, there would be operating rooms and Genterns. On other floors, offices and meeting rooms. You reached the front desk and looked at the blonde Gentern behind it.

God, you hated their uniforms.

The red visors and scrubs that looked like a mini dress bothered you for some reason. Maybe it was the fact that you always got a face full of their rear ends that irked you.

"Delivery," you said behind your mask.

She picked up her desk phone and pressed a couple of buttons.

"The repossession delivery is here," she said to the person on the other end of the line. She nodded her head and hung up the phone.

"You know where to go. They'll buzz you in," she said.

You walked away from the desk and made your way down the hall, entering a back room. It looked like a loading dock but was used for organ storage. And by the looks of it, very poor organ storage. The room wasn't even cold. No wonder people's organs were still useless after surgery.

As you walked past the shelves of unkept organs, you heard a group of voices arguing.

"What the hell?" you thought to yourself.

You knew it couldn't be Genterns arguing. These were two masculine voices.

You turned the corner of shelves and saw two men in suits arguing as Genterns looked on.

"You think you could run this company? Are you mad?"

"The only mad person here is you! God, look at you! You think that fake face looks good on you?"

You then realized who the men were. You recognized them from the news. The Largo brothers.

One had medium-length black hair and wore what appeared to be the face of a woman. The other man's shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a chest full of scars. In his hand was a knife. It took you a second to remember their names.

Pavi and Luigi.

"Ahem," you coughed.

Everyone turned to look at you as if you weren't supposed to be there.

"Ah, is this our new Repo-man," Pavi said.

"I've been working for this company for months. I'm not new. Here," you said, handing the heart-filled cooler to the closest Gentern.

"You're new to us," Luigi said, stepping closer as he buttoned up his shirt.

He circled around before stopping right in front of you.

"What's this for?" he said, tapping his knife on your respirator.

"To filter out pollution," you said. Honestly, what type of question was that?

"And these?" he asked, poking at your goggles. His fingerprint smudged the lenses, causing you to have to take them off and clean them.

"I wear them so I don't have to make eye contact with people. Thanks a lot for messing them up," you said, frustrated.

"You're welcome," Luigi said.

He walked away from you, going to stand back by his brother.

"Well, goodbye. I'm sure you have more repossessions to do," Pavi said, smiling.

You stuck out your hand, waiting for the Gentern to pay you.

"What do you want now?" Luigi asked.

"This is the part where a Gentern normally pays me," you said, annoyed.

"Oh, I got you covered this time," Luigi said, walking back over to you. He took out a wad of cash, and you could tell it was way more than your usual pay. You expected him to go through it, but he just sat all of the money in your hand.

"Wait, this is too muc-"

"Keep the change," Luigi said, winking at you.

Billy Lenz:

You slumped onto the couch as you listened to music. It was Christmas break, and the rest of the people in your (fraternity/sorority) had gone home to their families. Only you and a couple of the other members had decided to stay for the holidays. You were left alone in the house while the other members left to go to the bar.

The music played at a low volume and echoed throughout the house. You closed your eyes as you listened to it, droning off as you finally began to relax. The past few weeks had been stressful due to finals, but now all the tests were finally over. It was also the first time you had been alone in months. You could feel the weight of the tension leaving your body. It was a great feeling that you hadn't felt in a while. It wasn't often that you could just sit down and relax.

Just as you began to get comfortable, the house phone rang.

"Damn it," you mumbled to yourself.

You got up and walked into the foyer of the house, picking up the phone with a sigh.

"Hello?" you said. Instead of an answer, you were met with fuzzy garbling.

Strange noises came through the phone. Screams and whispers flooded through the phone.

"Hello?" you said, again, getting more frustrated.

"Billy...." a voice said, drawing out the syllables.

"There's no Billy here. You've got the wrong number?"

"What are you doing, Billy?" the voice whispered with a growl.

"You got the wrong number, man. Goodbye," you said, hanging up the phone.

"What the hell was that?" you thought.

You gritted your teeth as you went to the kitchen. Grabbing a glass, you began to pour yourself something to drink. As you did so, you heard a creak upstairs. Your head shot up. You were on edge due to the strange phone call, but you decided to brush off the feeling. The (fraternity/sorority) was old and would sometimes creak in the middle of the night. You were sure that was all it was. Your nerves, plus the old house, were just not getting along.

You went back to the living room and turned up the music in an attempt to get back to your relaxed state. Right before you sat down, the phone rang again. You paused for a second, contemplating whether you should answer it.

You took a deep breath and made your way back into the foyer, picking up the phone slowly and bringing it up to your ear.

"Hello?" you said.

This time you could tell your voice was more frustrated. And your frustration got worse as you heard the caller on the other end. Once again, you were met with more grumbles, screams, moans, and whispers.

"Hey, man. I don't know who you are, but stop calling this number!" you said. You slammed the phone back down on the receiver.

Almost on cue, you heard a creak come from upstairs again. This time, you could hear it more clearly. It sounded like the floorboard creaking under the weight of someone's foot.

A shiver ran up your spine as you were suddenly struck with a dreadful feeling of fear.

"Who's there?" you called out. Maybe it was just one of the members of the (fraternity/sorority). Maybe they had come home from the bar while you were in the kitchen.

"Guys, are you home?" you asked. You hadn't moved from the foyer, too scared to even budge. Your eyes were glued to the stairs of the house.

Suddenly the phone rang again, causing you to jump at the sudden noise. You turned away from the stairs and brought your attention back to the phone.

"Look, man. You're really starting to piss me off," you said.

"What are you talking about, (Y/N)?" a familiar voice said on the other side of the line.

It was your mom.

"Jeez, I'm sorry mom. Hi, how are you?" you greeted, taking a sigh of relief.

"I'm fine. I could ask the same about you. Why'd you answer the phone like that?" she asked.

"The house has been getting some weird phone calls, and I'm the only one at home right now. I'm just a little scared is all," you explained.

"Have you called the police to see if they can track the number?"

"No, I don't think it's that serious," you answered.

"Well, please be safe. I was just calling to check up on you and tell you we miss you," she said.

"I miss you too. I'll see you guys once spring break rolls around," you said.

"Okay. And (Y/N)...." Your mom trailed off a bit.

"Yeah?"

"Please be safe," she said.

"I will. Bye, Mom. I love you."

You hung up the phone putting it back on the receiver. You turned back to the stares and let out a gasp. Your body was tackled to the ground and suddenly you were struggling to breathe. You looked up and saw a man with brown hair and a dark green sweater.

His hands were around your throat and your breath was becoming more and more restricted. You clawed at his hands and kicked your legs.

After missing a couple of times, your knee hit the man in the groin, causing him to loosen his grip. You then raised your legs, kicking him back with both of your feet. The man fell back, giving you enough time to get back on your feet. You quickly grabbed the heaviest thing around you which just so happened to be a weighted candlestick sitting on the foyer table.

The man stumbled back to his feet. You gripped the candlestick, just waiting for an excuse to use it.

"Who are you?" you asked.

He smirked, and his eyes glanced over at the house phone on the foyer table.

The realization hit you like a bolt of lightning. The mysterious caller was in the house standing right in front of you.

"Man, you got a lot of explaining to do."

Will Graham:

You tapped your fingers on the desk while you waited for Jack Crawford. The door to his office had been open, so you were sure he would return soon. On his desk sat a stack of folders and papers.

If you weren't in a professional setting, you might have not resisted the urge to snoop. But alas, this was your work setting, and you had a great level of respect for Jack. Your eyes pried away from the papers and looked elsewhere around the empty office.

Over the past month, you had been hospital-bound after a nearly fatal encounter with an active shooter. You were just a criminal investigator. And all though you had a firearm on you constantly, most of the time you didn't need it. Crime suspects rarely came back to the scene of the crime. But this one did, and he had pulled out his own gun before you had time to react.

You were shot four times and, you were lucky to be alive. After a grueling recovery phase, you thought it was about time you got back to work.

"I expected you to be home, (Y/N)," a voice said from behind you.

You turned around in your seat. Jack stood at the doorway of his office. There was a small smile on his face. You could tell he was happy to see you.

"I got tired resting in bed. I need some excitement, I guess," you said.

He walked into the office and sat down at his desk.

"Are you sure you're up for it? Your leave technically hasn't ended yet. You still have time to recover," he said.

You shook your head.

"I'm done with recovery. I might need some therapy, but other than that, I'm good," you said with a laugh.

"I can recommend you a good therapist," he said. He was partially joking, but he seemed sincere.

"I might have to take you up on that offer," you said, "So what have I missed? Got anything for me, boss?"

Jack's hand made its way to one of the folders on his desk. He slid it across to you.

The front tab was labeled 'Minnesota Shrike/Chesapeake Ripper'. You opened the folder up and started reading.

"We've been called out to Minnesota to investigate a series of murders. All of the victims so far are all teenage girls. As you can see most of them look rather similar," Jack began to explain.

You flipped through the contents of the folder, reading about each victim and examining their photos, mainly the ones that were taken post-mortem.

You wiggled out a picture from underneath a paperclip that had been taken at one of the crime scenes. A girl was sprawled out in the sun in what appeared to be a grassy field. She was nude. Her skin was very pale and had begun to turn greyish-blue. Right underneath her breasts were two apparent puncture wounds. And what was coming out of those wounds made you squint to make sure you weren't seeing things.

She had been impaled with deer antlers.

"What does this have to do with the Chesapeake Ripper?" you asked.

"There may be a possible connection. We have to search every lead," Jack said.

You nodded and continued to look through the folder.

"And what do you want me to do?" you asked.

"One, get ready to go to Minnesota. We just got the call about an hour ago that there's been another murder," Jack said.

"Really? Man, whoever this guy is he's resilient," you said.

"And two, do me a favor and take these down to Will Graham at the Academy."

Jack took the stack of papers and folders and sat them all down in front of you. You closed the folder you were looking at and put it on top.

"Who's Will Graham?" you questioned.

"Your new investigation partner," Jack said.

"Well, I guess I should meet him sooner than later," you said.

"I agree. I'll see you later, (L/N)," Jack said.

You got up from your seat and took the paperwork into your hands. You exited the office and made your way out of the FBI Crime Lab.

Instead of taking your car, you decided to walk to the academy. It was only a couple of minutes away, so the walk would be rather short.

The leaves on the trees had almost all turned dark shades of orange and yellow. Leaves fell on the sidewalk as you walked down the sidewalk. The changing color made you realize just exactly how much time had passed since the shooting. You remembered how the air had felt that day. It wasn't necessarily hot but it was warm. Warm enough to wear all you wanted to wear was a t-shirt and jeans. But now the air was crisp and cool. In a couple of weeks, the temperature would be in the freezing temperatures. Time had changed so quickly.

You approached the front doors of the FBI Academy and entered. You weren't sure where to go. You figured Will was a teacher but Jack hadn't mentioned what he would be teaching. Now that you thought of it, you had no idea what the man would even look like.

You walked down the hallways, peeking into the open doors. You weren't really sure where to even look. You heard faint talking and footsteps down another hall and decided to follow the sounds.

As you turned the corner you saw what you knew to be students based on their uniforms.

"Excuse me, guys. Do you know where I can find Will Graham?" you asked as you approached them.

"Oh, yeah. We just got out of his class. Down this hall, third door on the right," one of the girls said, pointing down the hall.

"Thank you so much," you said.

You walked down the quiet hallway and turned at the open lecture hall. It was a smaller class with a large projector. You saw who you assumed was Will Graham facing towards the projector, looking up and examining it.

You looked up and paused. It was the same picture from earlier. The girl was impaled by deer antlers.

"In all of my years as an agent, I've never seen anything quite like that," you said aloud.

The man jumped a bit at the sudden sound of your voice and turned around. He had wavy brown hair that cascaded around his head. His face dawned a good bit of short whiskers and he wore dark glasses that rested on his nose.

"Neither have I," he said, "May I help you?"

"Will Graham?" you questioned.

"Yes, and you are?"

"(Y/N) (L/N), Jack Crawford sent me," you said. You walked over to him and offered him a handshake, which he took without hesitation.

"Jack sent you. So you're not a student?" he asked.

"No, I'm an agent. I've been out on medical leave, but I just got back," you explained.

You handed him the pack of paperwork. He took it in his hands and sat it down.

"Welcome back," he said.

"Thank you."

"So what are your thoughts on...all of this?" Will questioned, gesturing up to the projector.

"I'm not sure yet. I guess I'll come up with a better opinion in a couple of hours. I'm coming with you and Jack to Minnesota," you said.

"Oh, you're going with us?" Will said.

"Mhm, it's time for me to get back out there in the field. I'm glad I won't have to do it alone. According to Jack, it sounds like we're partners now," you said.

"I guess so," he said with a small smile.