#whimsyvixen art 💗

[butterbabyflapjack]

ch. 2

Warning Tags (⚠️): darkfic, canon-typical violence, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, stalking, blood and injury, bondage, bloodplay, manipulation, yandere, kidnapping, b&e, let’s hope the cops find you, knifeplay, coerced and non-consensual explicit sexual content, forced oral sex, throat fucking, rough sex, banter, dub-con / non-con, death threats, teasing, Ghostface is a funny silly murder man, Oh yeah and he wants to fucking kill you, dead dove: do not eat

You’ve been kidnapped by some sick fuck in a mask who goes by Ghostface. Tied with a pretty little bow and strung upside-down in a place you don’t recognize; where your newest, psychotic bestie intends to have oodles of bloody fun with you.

And as far as toxic obsessions go, you unfortunately may be more than just some random fling.

Wherein you slowly unravel Danny, and he slowly unravels you.

The flash of a camera awakes you; singes through your eyelids and forces you to wince your eyes open, one hazy blink at a time.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Danny Johnson x fem!reader

NOW PLAYING >> CHAPTER TWO , total run-time: 8570 words

>> theatre one : tumblr chapter directory

>> theatre two : ao3

tags (💜): @thequeenofsimpin, @samsaurwrites, @whimsyvixen

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Author Notes: Whimsyvixen created the amazing artwork for this chapter! ♡ (and yes, if you didn’t know already, all her art’s amazing! – tumblr, twitter, ao3)

Panic doesn’t quite come close to the fear prickling over you; to the dread that eyeless, ghost-faced stare scrapes across your bones.

And amidst your worn-down wriggling – your statocic, shallow breaths – the last threads of your sanity urge you to be calm. To stay fucking calm, despite the fact that it’s getting harder and harder to think with your pulse throttling your brain. Despite how you’re strung up like wounded quarry, the man who hunted you lying in wait for when you’ll bleed.

Terror has a way of trying to rationalize the irrational, and in its grasp you’re left trying to convince yourself that this is all a joke, that you must be dreaming.

You hadn’t realized you’d been chanting as much aloud.

“Jokes are usually between friends,” the man in the ghost mask muses, cutting your breathy antics short as you stare, torn back to reality by his silky voice, by the way his height towers over you. “A gag between pals,” he continues. “They’re usually funny, too.”

He hums so lightly you almost don’t hear it, as if he’s softly smiling behind his mask as he trails a finger along the underside of your jaw, following along its curve in idled leisure.

“Do you think this is funny?”

You can’t respond. And he’s so, so silent as he waits for your reply. A void of sound, as slowly he slides the flat edge of his knife along your skin, smooth over that trail of goosebumps his touch just inspired.

“Do I sound like a pal to you?”

The air seems to flex around the hush that leaves you in, like he expects you to fill it. Like he expects you to answer him. And yet, even disoriented and terror-lashed as you are, you don’t want to give into him.

This psycho wants an answer? Well, you want cut down from this fucking meat hook.

Yes, you’re terrified. But still, some part of you is seething.

This guy can go fuck himself..!

Still, under the circumstances – which are far from ideal, by the way… it’s like he knows you can’t resist him for long. Can’t deny him what he wants you to do. What he wants you to say. And you can’t. You only manage to keep your teeth ground shut for so long against giving him his answer, and you’re too afraid to be cheeky about it.

“No,” is your eventual, unwilling admission as your body gently sways there, the skin of your ankles burning where those ropes hold your weight up, reluctance sticking to your tongue.

He hums lowly to himself as he watches you. Undecipherable behind his mask. Not saying anything for at time.

“And as for you dreaming, well…” His blade falls off your jawline, and his thumb replaces it. Sliding smoothly along the stinging knife wound he’d gifted you, with you sucking back a sharp breath of pain as he drags across it nice and slow. “Dreams don’t usually hurt this good…”

His disguise does nothing to hide the way his low voice curls like a predator’s, listlessly unspooling the innards of some helpless prey, toying ruby strands along fiendish fingers.

It’s enough to weep fear down your spine, and struggling against devolving into panic, you demand with all the fervency you can muster, “Wh-who are you?”

He sounds to subtly smirk. “I think you asked that one already.”

Lifting his blade again, he lightly drags its tip along the panicked thump-thump-thump of your rabbit-trapped pulse. Seemingly admiring the way it dances for him. “Maybe I don’t wanna give you my name yet,” he says. “Maybe I’m shy.”

You hate how he seems to adore your fear, but you can’t exactly help giving it to him. Tremors and whimpered breaths keep bleeding out of your bare, bound body the longer he lets gravity slowly ravish you. The longer his blade and devilry teases you.

“Please…” you hinge to his mask, hovering over you like a toying phantom. Your eyes owlish, panicked, imploring. Begging. “Please, please just let me go.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he wonders. Amused, as desperation avalanches out of you.

“B-but I don’t even know who you are!” you stammer in hope of convincing him. “I don’t know anything, I don’t want to know anything - just–” Your pleas hesitate beneath the sound of his low, throated chuckle, but you force yourself to waver onward despite it, “–j-just - please, I won’t tell anyone about this - please, let me go, I’ll do anything–”

His knife tip freezes against your pulse, before falling away entirely.

“Anything…?”

That definitely seems to have his attention. And his lowered chuckle curls around you some more at the way you bite back in groveling, like there’s anything funny about it; the deep sound knocking around his chest.

“Baby,” he croons, pinching your chin like you’re some silly, cherub-cheeked child. And though you wince at the sting of it, you can’t seem to pull away. Frozen by even his smallest of touches. “Anything? Really? Tsk tsk… I had no idea you were so cliché.”

Unsure of what to say, of whether he wants you to keep on begging, or whether he’s actually annoyed by you offering something so stupid or if he’s just toying with you, your throat closes around actually responding. And in heedful silence, your captor studies those expressions wracking across your features. Seeming more and more… displeased, to your rising trepidation. The humor slowly slipping free of his resonant voice.

“I don’t like not knowing things about you, puppy,” he breathes at last. “It’s really not my style…” He rolls his broad shoulders once against the tension battling to consume him, the leather of him audibly twisting. “None of this is. Not really. I don’t keep pets. They’re really not my thing. But I couldn’t just… let you get away.”

Like a violent shift in tide, as if the moon’s been plucked from the sky, he’s suddenly not so fond of teasing. And something far more volatile boils beneath his blackness, strangled beneath his skin, like it’s fighting him – until you can actually hear his gloves twisting against the hilt of his blade. Can see the dense, muscled bridge of his shoulders tensing, holding him back from however that darkness seeks to satisfy itself. To sate itself, it seems, with you. And with his knife still in hand, he snaps up your jaw to make you look at him, so sharply you yelp.

“You did this,” he growls, the eyelets of his mask burning like onyx flame. “You. Did. This. And I really don’t like you ruining my plans.”

You can’t so much as blink, terrified by the way his temper seems to know you. Seems to blame you. Seems to covet, to burn, to long to punish you.

“I can’t decide, I can’t decide,” he murmurs, seemingly to himself, nearly rambling, “but… for now… I had to keep you.”

His grip nearly bruises as you struggle not to whimper in panic or pain. Unable to look away as he watches you rigidly. Until, at last – with a low, long, stiff breath – he tosses your face aside. And just as his mercurial wrath so suddenly consumed him, it seems all at once to ease from off the heavy line of his shoulders.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he muses, sing-songed once again. And though he sounds to smile, there’s grit to it, and his grip on your jaw remains vice-like in ensuring he holds every atom of your attention. “We’re gonna have some fucking fun getting to know each other. But where are my manners–” an apologetic hand graces his chest, while his other gives your face a slight squeeze, “–I interrupted your pathetic groveling, didn’t I? You were rambling on and on about something, something… what was it… ah,” he grins, his theatrics slipping away, “that’s right. You were saying that you’d do ~anything~ if I let you go…”

He’s all cruelly sly coquetry, and if you thought you couldn’t regret any fiercer offering an unhinged psychopath something so undoubtedly stupid, you’re proven wrong then. Especially when his grip on your jaw shifts, and he trails his thumb along your lower lip, tantalizingly slow. Eying the way your softness drags for him.

“I could do a hell of a whole lot with anything, sweetheart.”

Any kind of rational thought flees your mind like mice from a kitchen fire, and all that’s left behind are the aches wracking your strung up body and your anxious, inner chanting of: shit, shit, shit-!

It’s like he knows those thoughts inside your head. Like he revels in them. And after a moment more of admiring your rising apprehension, he muses gently, “But I’m a nice guy… So I’ll consider your offer. And I won’t even ask for much.”

Some sickly, recoiling part of you already suspects what he wants before he even says it.

“All I want is for you to open up wide for me,” he muses; so kind as to open your mouth for you already. Pushing apart your lips and sliding his thumb in despite how you try to squeeze your lips shut to prevent him. It doesn’t matter, and you don’t dare to bite him as he languidly strokes your tongue with the flat of his leathered thumb, far back enough that you can’t help but gag around him.

He thrums at the sound of your strained gags and whimpers; at the slick, warm feel of your mouth. The purr of him starved.

“Just open up like a good pet, so I can fuck this pretty mouth and snug little throat of yours…” he says. Teasing, yet grated by lust. “That’s all.” Chuckling as you struggle not to gag with those long, rough strokes of his thumb; like he wants you to choke for him.

“How does that sound, cupcake?” he wonders, and there’s no way he doesn’t know you can’t respond with his thumb massaging the edge of your throat. “That whet your appetite? You hungry for Ghostie?”

A fit of coughing overtakes you as he drags his spit-slicked thumb back out of your mouth, streaking wetness along your lips as he watches the way they slaver and shine.

“Words, sweetie,” he reprimands archly. “Tell me how much you want it. How much you wanna whore yourself for freedom.” He seems to smile. “Beg. And I might just let you.”

With your pulse hammering in your ears, it’s difficult to fathom whether or not you should be begging. Whether you should just give in already and give this psycho whatever he wants.

You don’t want to. You really don’t want to. But as acquiescence dances hesitantly on your tongue, your apprehension stops you from actually saying anything. Because beyond your fear of whatever else this psycho might do to you should you refuse him… what he’s asking for…

It shouldn’t be a difficult decision, should it? Your life might literally hang in the balance, just like all the rest of you. But you’ve never been throat-fucked before. Not ever. Let alone by some guy with a knife while strung upside-down from a fucking meat hook. And for whatever reason, some part of you doubts he’ll gently ease you into it.

It’s almost too much for your overcooked mind to even consider, your thoughts themselves recoiling. So you almost don’t believe you’re hearing yourself as, reluctantly, you waver, “Will… will you let me go, if I…”

You try, and fail, to swallow. Just as you try, and fail, to finish that sentence.

He hums in speculation, the deep sound vibrating in his chest. And as contemplation holds him, his thumb trails slowly off your lips. His hold on you slipping away entirely.

“I dunno,” he idles, casually. Like this is some kind of business deal he can’t be bothered to bring toward any sort of conclusion.

“I could fuck you either way.” His tone takes an edge. “You know, now that I really think about it…”

Carelessly, he shrugs, fingers treading round his knife-hilt. “Nah, forget it. Why would I trade you shit? It’s not much of a deal, really.”

With athletic ease, he sinks into a crouch before you, knees jutting wide. His right-side-up mask staring you straight in your upside-down face as you blink back your startlement at just how swiftly he can actually move.

“I could just fuck you and leave you here, and there’s not a goddamn thing you could do about it,” he says. “Wouldn’t even have to kill you myself. Gravity’d do it for me.” He watches your expression, before chuffing. Giving your nose a playful little boop with a gloved finger. “But I wouldn’t do that, sweetpea – I’m more of an up-close-and-personal type’uh guy when it comes to gutting the ladies.”

Studying you a moment longer, his low breath holds a hidden smile; his ghost-faced mask mere inches away from how you struggle against dizziness to keep his gaze. Before he rises fluidly to his full height once more, soundless as a shadow.

“Then again… well, shit.”

Conflicted, he turns away from where you’re hanging. Pacing back and forth a few steps whilst rubbing the back of his darkly cowled head. “I suck at making these tough decisions,” he mutters himself, almost like you aren’t even there. “I could just slice you open right now. But that’s not very romantic…”

His pacing pauses, and he tosses you a musing, sidelong look. Mask gently tilted. “But… then again… it might be fun to have you willing. Eagerly swallowing me down like a good fucking slut.” Slowly, he seems to grin. “At least at first.”

Fear feels to have frayed you, to have tugged you toward a precipice of being recklessly bold, and without thinking you actually scoff up at him as you hang there.

“Yeah, that might be a nice change of pace for you,” your sarcasm mutters. “I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of willing participants in whatever the hell this is you sick, fuck-ugly freak.”

Your glower catches on the way his black-leathered hands twitch at his sides, the grip on his dagger shifting. Though as you glance up to his face again, his mask is a guise you cannot decipher, especially while buried in inflexible silence. And almost immediately, you bite your lips closed in regret for having said anything.

Gods, you’re such an idiot.

Yeah, your sanity berates, let’s egg on the unhinged psycho. You know, the one who kidnapped you, the one eying you with the giant fucking knife – great survival instincts.

So much silence fills that stained, decrepit room. Thick enough to suffocate anyone within it. With Ghostface leaving you to dangle there in uncertainty, wriggling your painfully prickling toes, fretting more and more over what he might do because you couldn’t keep your big mouth closed.

“That’s not very nice,” he eventually breathes. Tapping the flat edge of his blade against his thigh, like he wants to drag your attention toward it. Like your gaze isn’t hinged enough to the glint of its metal already. “Especially for someone who wants to be on my good side. And just so we’re on the same page, pumpkin–” his boots scuff the pavement as he steps back toward you, with you recoiling as you hang in place, very much failing to get away. “You do wanna be on my fucking good side.”

When he reaches out for you, you flinch and twist your face away as if he might take a stranglehold of your face again. But he simply taps between your breasts with two fingers. Casually nudging your sternum so that your whole body sways from the hook he’s strung you on; even the smallest motion further disorienting you.

“Pretty or no,” he says, “whatever happens to you in here, whatever doesn’t…” You can almost feel his grin curling. “It’s all up to me.”

Grabbing a fistful of your hair to yank your swinging body back to stillness, you choke back a gasp as he roughly steers your face up into looking at him, his ghostlike features swimming. “And you think I’ll let you go with a few measly tongue tricks?” A few, lazy headshakes motion through the fog to chastise you, as gradually your vision clears. “God, you really are dumb…”

“It was your idea,” you blearily contest, to which he fucking giggles.

“Well can you really blame me?” he simpers, coy as a kittycat. Though his mischievous delight is as short lived as a matchstick dying in the dark.

“Sure,” his voice grates along your skin, asphalt on silk. His fingers knotting tighter in your hair, while his other hand draws his blade-tip down from your navel; the point of it raking a raised, rosy line across your skin. “I want to fuck you. I wanna fuck you until every inch of you’s raw from screaming for me. I want you to sob, and beg, and bleed.” Loosing your hair, his knife slipping off you, he dots your nose affectionately with every word that follows. “All. My. Ideas. Fun ones, too.”

Straightening his posture, he taps his plastic chin, black eyeholes staring down at you. Contemplating, as a lax, graveled hum rumbles through him. And lowly he says, “But letting you loose wasn’t. I’m failing to see where I benefit. You get where I’m coming from, right sugarbear?

His antics really aren’t helping with how difficult it is to keep untangling your thoughts from your hammering pulse. But he seems pleased as punch to taunt you with freedom before ripping all hope of it away. Toying until you’re a scrambled, desperate thing for him. And what was once revolting to even think about pales in comparison to him rejecting the offer. To him leaving you strung up here to die like this; or, worse yet, to fuck you like this anyway and then ‘gut you up-close-and-personal’ like he seems more than raring to do.

Cold sweat leaks up along your naked spine, sparks of panic trailed behind it.

You’re going to have to be smarter than mindlessly begging or needlessly pissing this guy off if you mean to escape all this. And you definitely mean to escape this fucking psycho. So, swallowing the anxiety lodged in your throat, you will yourself to sound braver than you actually feel. Forcing a coquettish inflection you hope will sway him, or at the very least amuse him long enough to let you keep living.

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

That seems to temp his attention. His head tilting just so as he peers down at you.

“Oh?”

Blinking past a flurry of wooziness, you force yourself to meet his blackened gaze. “My tongue tricks - they’re… they’re really good ones.”

A lie - you have no idea what you’re doing. And, fuck - you didn’t mean to let your voice tremble like that. But really… how hard can letting him use you be? I mean, it’s like he said… right? You just… ‘open up wide’, and… and…

Fuck, what the hell are you doing?! You shouldn’t be negotiating anything with him, especially not some fucked up, BDSM blowjob. Yet at the same time, what choice do you really have? You’re not exactly bountiful with fucking options here.

His silence washes over you. Buries you. Though his black eyes never seem to leave yours.

“Cocky,” he eventually purrs, honey-dark with delight. And though he’s oddly gentle about it, you still flinch as he reaches out for you again, carding gloved fingers through your weightless hair. Admiring. Studying. Contemplating.

For a moment, he simply strokes you like the pet he claims you to be, and it’s like your lungs are glass. Like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“Alright,” he breathes at last, and you actually tremble beneath his touch as pent-up anxiety and relief wring from your nerves. And you hate how his fingers pause within your hair, for just a second, before teasing along your scalp again. How he seems to revel in his every effect on you.

“Let’s see what your talented tongue can do.”

Unweaving his fingers from your hair, the tip of his hunting knife replaces that touch so gentle, ghosting along your hairline as you struggle not to pull away from the steel of it, afraid if you wince he might cut you. Shuddering as his other hand smooths up along your hip, pawing at your softness. “And if you manage to impress me like a well behaved, topsy-turvy little pet…” The blunt of his steel taps your cheek; an unspoken reminder to keep on looking at him. “Fuck it. I’ll let you loose.”

His tone’s as edged as his knife. But still, a tiny bloom of hope takes root within that ceaseless pit of dread inside your stomach. Hesitance leading your words as you question, “You… you will?”

He hums with a faceless smile, hidden as always behind his screaming mask.

“Cross my heart,” his hand slides off your hip, as slowly he signs across his chest, “hope to die.”

You can do nothing but stare as he releases you. Twisted up inside, desperate and throttled by nerves. That anxious knot in your gut pulling tighter as you watch him brush aside the length of his heavy coat with the back of a languid hand, thumbing open a tactical holster strapped to one thigh, easing his knife in with practiced deftness.

The fact he’s so well-versed with that knife only further unnerves you.

The sound of his belt buckle unlatching echoes with finality. The slide of his zipper spelling your undoing. And suddenly this is far too real – notions and actuality clashing violently in your head, spiking your already rapid heart rate until you fear your ribs might break.

“I-I…” you stammer. Staring. Wide-eyed. Completely fucking terrified. “I… I… I-I…”

His fluid motions ignore you. The back of one glove brushing the tip of your nose as he hooks a thumb into his loosened waistband, slowly dragging his pants and boxers down.

“I… I’m…”

Off they slide. Down the ridge of one hip, and then the other.

“I’m… n-not…”

“Not what?” he wonders lowly, and you don’t dare tell him. Don’t dare to vocalize, I’m not ready for this, I lied, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Don’t dare to tempt whatever else might be the alternative.

One of his leather bracers grazes your cheek as he works his pants down below the curve of his ass, carved muscle sliding into view. The firm V of his abdomen leading your apprehensive gaze downward, following a trail of sparse hair trailed beneath his navel. His warm, bittersweet musk, rough with notes of cheap cologne and leather, breathed across your senses.

You’ve never heard whatever-the- fuck sound you make when he drags out his semi-hard erection, stroking its girth in one lazy fist, but it’s like some dying, terrified animal snuffed out in your throat. Because his fucking dick is the biggest you’ve ever fucking seen, and even half-mast it’s already more than enough to choke you.

Yeah, you’ve definitely gotten yourself in way too deep with this.

For a second you forget he’s even standing there, stroking his inhuman cock mere inches before your bewildered, terrorized face. Until his hoarse chuckling at whatever your expression betrays snaps you out of it, and you stare past that veined pillar in his fist to the ghost of his face towering far above it. That halo of light behind his cowl making him appear like some sort of shadow risen from hell.

“Are you waiting for an invitation, or…” his mask angles to look down at you. To watch as, unthinking, you bite your lips fiercely closed. “Baby, don’t tell me you don’t want this cock in your mouth…” he broods whilst eyeing you, “you were so damn eager a second ago.”

When still you hesitate – attempting to somehow, through the force of your panicking mind alone, create a black hole for yourself to slip away in, his tone lowers to a husky growl.

“Open your fucking mouth.”

He’s lost of patience. And worried what that might bring you, you try to do as he says. Truly. But your jaw won’t budge. Like it knows you’ve bitten off far more than you’re ready for.

“I can reward you for playing nice,” he muses amidst your turmoil. “Or I can find a creative way to punish you for wasting my time.”

It’s enough to stab through your apprehension. And, slowly, your lips nervously part for him.

He’s not exactly timid in smearing the swollen head of his cock along your lips, a dewy bead of precum slicking across them as you whimper like a cornered animal.

His other hand comes to grip the back of your head as he uses your lips to massage him. “Wider than that,” he purrs. “C’mon, I thought you were trying to impress me with that tongue of yours.” His voice leaks with honey the longer you resist him. More and more as you try to twist away, though his grip in your hair won’t let you. “You do want me to let you loose, don’t you?” he wonders lightly. “Hm… Maybe you changed your mind…”

Too overwhelmed to speak, too terrified to disobey, you merely try not to whimper as you finally give in, doing exactly what he wants. Opening your mouth for him. Feeling far too vulnerable. Only to flinch back against the hand cradling the back of your head and almost accidentally bite him as he slips a few gloved fingers into your mouth, firm along your tongue, the tang of leather overpowering.

You gag on instinct, though he shushes you.

“Hey, hey, shhh,” he cooes lowly. Stroking the slick, reluctant muscle of your tongue. “I just wanna feel that pretty tongue you’re so braggish about. Come on.” Slowly, his hand in your hair guides your lips further down the length of his fingers. “Give my fingers a taste…”

Nerves sparking like cut wires, you eventually force the warmth of your mouth to close in around him, working your tongue to wet his fingers as they curl and massage and stroke you. Sucking him as deep into your mouth as you can without gagging around him, which admittedly isn’t very far, but it’s still more than you’re used to and you really don’t wanna die right now.

He purrs like a prowling beast, so low it verges on a growl. The black chasms of his eyelets fixed to the way your cheeks hollow.

“Mmnh…” he hums, mesmerized for a moment by the way your tongue weaves around him. “Maybe you’re not all talk…”

There’s an almost pacifying effect to sucking his slowly stroking fingers. And you gasp down a sloppy breath as he slides them out from your mouth, trying to ignore how your head is spinning. Watching as he teases up and down his cock with the hand you’ve wet for him, while his other fist knots tighter in your hair, coaxing your lips closer.

“Go on,” he murmurs, steering your mouth to the rosy, swollen head of him. “Have a taste.”

The black chasms of his eyelets seem fixated to the way you force your tongue out. To the way you hesitantly lick up a rivulet of precum glistening along his head, the bittersweet taste of him tinting your tongue. And his breath hitches behind his mask at the way he drags his cock across your opened mouth for a moment, watching the way your tongue and lips shine, how their plush gives beneath his girthy weight.

He lets out a low, sawtooth sigh as you force your tongue to lave over the swollen head of him again; wincing at the bitter, masculine taste. And even though you don’t like it, even though you hate it and you definitely hate him – for some perverse, unthinkable reason… the heavy feel of him against your tongue makes your belly tighten.

“That’s it,” he breathes, and an uncomfortable, provocative flare lights up between your thighs. His fleeting praise prickling heat throughout you. “Don’t be shy.”

His fingers shift in your hair, and you almost think he’s going to force your mouth deeper – though he relaxes somewhat, groaning instead as you suck a few taut, veiny inches into your mouth, cheeks hollowing as his cock twitches against your tongue.

“Fuck, baby–”

Lust and longing make his voice thick, make him sound that much less cocky, and you hate how your body responds to it. Tightness and heat mounting in the base of your spine.

You tell yourself it’s because of how disoriented you are. Because of how much you hate him.

His grip in your hair coaxes you to keep going, his breathing going rough against the inside of his mask. A shudder rippling through the cords of muscle hidden along his forearms while you worship his cock like you’re lapping up summer-warmed cream off the cone. Hoping it's enough to appease him. That he won’t shove the rest of his girth down your throat.

You're really not sure you could take it.

Though any semblance of that hope shatters the very second every instinct you have, or should have, suddenly decides to betray you. Every shred of supposed sanity you possess slipping free from you entirely. Because for some fucked up reason you absolutely refuse to think about, him using you like this is somehow turning you on. And as your arms shift uncomfortably behind your back, tugging against the ropes that tie them while your wrenched-back shoulders ache, a small, breathy moan vibrates up your chest and through the way he guides your lips along his cock.

You blink in surprise at your own outburst as he continues fucking your mouth. Woozy, unable to think straight, hanging upside-down like this – that’s why you sound like that. Your wires are fucking crossed. That’s it – every other possibility is forcibly shoved from your overwrought mind. And the bastard actually laughs as you burn up with embarrassment, suddenly trying to spit his cock from your mouth so you can think, so you can rationalize, so you can breathe, though his grip won’t let you. His hold in your hair keeping you bobbing halfway along his length just as you had been.

"What was that?” he teases, working your wet lips up and down him as he fucks your blushing face. And your hands tighten into fists behind your back and you try not to moan again.

Beneath his lust, he chuckles low and sonorous, before murmuring, “You almost seem like you like this…"

Grabbing a firmer fistful of your hair, he pulls you down his cock until you gag. His length kissing the back of your throat every time he drags your mouth along him, and still you haven't taken all of him inside. "You don't mind if I take the reins, do you baby?" he questions over the sound of you choking for breath, strained tears springing like pearls to wet your lashes. "Not that you aren’t doing a hell of a job, but… fuck, your mouth just feels real fuckin’ good.”

Each time he guides your lips rougher around him, he drags himself deeper and deeper down your throat, and though your neck muscles tense reflexively against his size there’s nothing you can do about him using you, your mouth, and your throat however the hell he wants.

“I can't promise to be gentle," he breathes, more and more rasply as you’re forced to strain and gag and swallow more of him down, "but I think you're gonna like it anyway."

Strained tears stream up your cheeks as he fucks into your mouth more gruffly, though he doesn’t force himself past those tightest muscles constricting in the back of your throat.

"Don't give up on me now,” he toys thickly, seeming to revel in the way your wet lips stretch around him. A shudder running bodily through him at the feel of your wet, warm whimpers, wrapped so snug around his length. “You were doing so well a second ago…” His fingers grip harsher in your hair. “C’mon, open your throat… be a good girl for me…"

Despite being barely able to breathe, his voice sends waves of terrible heat curling through your veins. And convincing yourself you don’t have a choice, you fight against every instinct you have to try and relax your throat like he wants you to. Sliding your tongue along his cock as you stick it out of your mouth for him, giving him more room with which to fuck you.

He groans as he thrusts in deeper, rutting into the motion of him dragging your mouth up and down his cock. And your wrists and ankles twist against their binds, thighs squirming as he bottoms out inside your throat, holding your face flush against his taut groin for a moment to savor the tight, slick feel of you struggling to swallow him down, your throat flexing and gagging in waves. The way he makes you helpless, makes you his, making you mewl and whimper along his cock despite yourself, your insides sticky and twisted and hot.

What the fuck is wrong with you?!

“There’s a good girl….” he purrs, and all your worries melt. His fingertips stroking your scalp as you swallow the full length of him down, throat straining each time he thrusts deep into your drooling mouth, dragging your lips to the base of him with every assault. “That’s it… Fuck… Just like that…”

You can’t seem to help your breathy moans spilling around him as your vision swirls from lack of oxygen, and his responding groans send jolts of unwanted pleasure between your strung-up legs as he continues fucking into your throat, pumping harder and faster and deeper. His gruff and barely audible, “Ohh, fuck–” making your cunt clench around nothing, desperate to be filled by him just like your throat is.

You’re too fargone to question it any longer. Too disoriented to fight what some part of you might want.

“So fucking tight,” he growls as you struggle not to gag. “Keep going baby, keep – fuck – keep swallowing me down,” he demands, dragging your mouth more roughly around him, thrusting against your tongue faster. “Just like that. I’m gonna cum right down your fucking throat. Swallow me up like a good girl, kitten. Every last drop.”

And whether because he’s forcing you to, or because some twisted piece of you might like this, you gulp him down like the good fucking girl he wants you to be as his cock surges harder and throbs against your tongue, your face dragged into his groin as he bucks more urgently inside your mouth.

His climax tears through him with a hoarse, jagged moan. Hot cum spurting deep down your throat in pulsing waves as his fingers tighten in your hair, cock spasming as you drink him all down.

“Fuck,” he grits, the eyelets of his mask fixed to the way your throat bobs over and over as you suck and swallow everything he gives you, with you moaning and whining for more, reduced to nothing but disastrous need.

You’re at last able to choke back a haggard breath as he finally slides his wet, semi-hard cock from your abused throat; cum trailing like strings of sugar glass from your puffy, gasping lips.

"Fuck," he moans again, admiring the slavering, panting mess he's made of you. He runs his thumb along the spittle and cum coating your lower lip, as if admiring the way it marks you, the way it claims you. "That was fucking good, baby," he breathes, smearing himself further into you, and you have to remind yourself that you hate this, to convince yourself not to suck the fluid off of his thumb. “So fucking good.”

Still massaging your lips, his other hand slowly unweaves from your hair, tugging his pants back up, not bothering to immediately cinch them closed as they instead hang loose about his hips. The metallic clink of his belt buckle biting through your mutual, unsteady breathing. And not a second later he’s thumbed up the guard of his knife, taking its hilt and bringing the blunt of cold steel to kiss your hipbone.

With a slice that shears across your skin, so close yet not quite cutting, the snap of fabric and elastic echoes throughout the room, and your panties are suddenly wrenched off of you, with you gasping and twisting your thighs tighter together against the sudden, vulnerable chill left behind. And before you can even think to protest, Ghostface has one strong arm wrapped around your waist, tucking his blade away at his thigh and holding you as easily as if you weighed nothing; finally relieving that rope-burned aching that’s made your feet and ankles go numb. Though before you can feel too grateful for it, your face slams against his groin as he hugs your limp body more snugly to him, and you sputter against his opened zipper as you feel the muscle of him shifting, feel him grabbing for something from one of many cargo pockets.

Glancing blearily upward, you wince against the fluorescent light above his dark, cowled outline, blinking until you see his free arm angling a camera high above you both, poised for the perfect fucking selfie. And when you balk in alarm and try to twist away, not exactly feeling up for a fucking photo op, he gives your body a rough, punishing shake that has you hanging limp and obedient for him again.

“Say cheese,” he simpers, as his arm wrapped around your middle flashes a peace sign up at the lens. The click and flash of that awful moment being captured forever rending you momentarily blind, firelight branded across your vision.

He doesn’t wait for your eyes to adjust before he’s wielding his knife again, and those ropes cinching off circulation around your ankles are abruptly slit clean through – his hold on your waist keeping you from tumbling directly down to the hard, littered floor beneath. Though, once again, before you can feel too grateful for it, your psycho prince-charming lets you fall out of his grip like a sack of old potatoes, with you unable to catch yourself with how your arms are still tied behind your back.

You collapse in a rough, awkward pile on the floor; pain shooting through the shoulder that catches you.

Groaning weakly, you curl into the fetal position amongst the dust and filth as your head gradually stops ringing. And when your captor’s visage swirls into clarity once more above you, you see him standing like a black cloud. Like a phantom-faced tower. Holding your sliced panties to the slitted nose of his mask.

“Mmmmn…” he thrums, twisting wet fabric betweenst gloved fingers. “Positively drenched… You’re such a whore for Ghostie, aren’t you?”

Revulsion rises like vicious bile; disgust with him, with yourself, burning through whatever tightness still pulses through your core, as with vehemence you sputter, “N-no! I… I–!”

He inhales the scent of your underwear deeply through his mask again, exhaling with a starved, “Sweetness doesn’t lie.”

Your insides pull into uncomfortable knots, with you struggling to clamor, “Give them back you fucking bastard!”

“You know, I think I’ll take them as a little souvenir, but thanks for the suggestion," he muses whilst tucking your sliced and soaked panties away. The eyes of his mask never leaving you. "And before you get your lack of panties into any more of a twist, don’t worry – I’ll stop by your place to nab you some more tonight. Don't want you suffering without panties.” You don’t have to see his face to know he’s rolling his eyes. “Spare key’s under that cute little froggy planter nestled on the balustrade, yeah?”

Walking a bit away from the meat hook he’d so lovingly left you on, he kicks a metal bucket at where you’re currently crumpled, with you wincing and shirking away from it like a stricken dog.

“Commodities for the princess. See how much I spoil you?”

Bare heels digging into filthy concrete, you lift yourself up enough to kick and scramble away from him as best as you can, until your back and bound arms press flat against the wall behind you. Your knees tucking tightly to your chest - your bare, trembling legs the only shield you have against him.

“C-can I at least have my clothes….?” you waver pitifully, hating yourself for the way you sound. “Where are the rest of my clothes?” Every emotion you have is run ragged, leaving you some nauseating cocktail of pissed off, fearful, and far too desperate.

Your captor stares. Unreadable. That pale, silent scream scarred forever on his face. But even if you can’t get a read on his expression, the eventual, leathered flex of his dense shoulders strikes you as less than amused.

“Spoiled. Rotten."

Coming toward you, you choke back a shriek whilst attempting to kick further away from him along the floor, even with the wall pressed flush at your back – and he grabs you by the throat to stop you from scuttling too far away, yanking you roughly back toward him. Shoving your face down into your lap so harshly you can’t breathe as he reaches behind you for something. And you hear the rattle of metal against concrete as he grabs a length of chain from somewhere off the ground nearby; what you barely manage to glimpse of it shining much more vibrantly than anything else you've seen in this rusted, god-awful place.

You can’t see how, but you know he attaches it to the tether of your forearms wrenched behind your back, and the air is pushed from your lungs again with how carelessly he moves you about. Tying your chain to the nearest metal beam like you’re some kind of dog he doesn’t want straying.

"Listen here, princess," he says over the clashing of chain; and after giving your bonds and metallic leash a good tug to make sure they're solid – that you aren't going anywhere – he grabs your jaw and jerks your face up to his, leaning down to breathing beside your ear, the plastic of his mask and heat of his words skimming over you. "Just because I cut you down doesn’t mean I’m giving you whatever you want. I much prefer you like this, for the time being. Bare. Pathetic. Adorably helpless. Fuck, you really are cute."

His grip tightens until you whimper in pain, feeling like his fingerprints might bruise. His mask brushing more against your skin as you hear him suck down the scent of your hair. "And here’s the important part–” he growls against your ear, “–it really doesn’t fucking matter what you want. So be a little more grateful and shut the hell up."

Tossing your face aside, he leaves you slouched against the wall as he rises once more to loom over you. "Plus, c’mon… I couldn’t exactly leave you in what you were wearing, could I?” You can hear his cheshire grin. “Be hard to tie you up in all that.”

As you glower up at his ghostly face, a mirthful scoff escapes him at whatever vitriol twists your expression. “Don’t give me that look – I didn’t get rid of it. It’s still around. Who knows, we might even play dress up with it later. It’d look better painted red, anyway. How about that, hm? You’d like that, right puppy?”

You have no fucking idea why he keeps referring to your clothes as an ‘it’, beyond that his playful inflection weaves through you an unknown trepidation. And as he watches incomprehension rise across your face, slowly overwriting more and more of your anger, you can almost feel his lengthening smile settling in on you, hidden away behind his mask.

“Wait…”

Suddenly, he sounds much more amused.

You really, really don’t like that.

“...Don’t tell me you don’t remember yesterday?”

It only takes a split second for your whole body to tense against answering him. To resist admitting to him and, even moreso, to yourself, that… no. No, you don’t seem to have a fucking clue about whatever happened to you right before you woke up in this nightmare.

Panic floods through you at the realization, overwriting all of your senses, though you fight not to show it, not wanting to give this bastard any more reason to be amused. But after your stiff, rebellious silence drags on several seconds too long, he can’t seem to stop himself from laughing, anyway.

“You don’t…?” he wonders, with an undercurrent electrified by joy. “Not where I found you..? Not what you were wearing..?” You can hear his sharpened grin, edged sharp enough to slice. “Nothing at all?”

God, he’s like an elated, murderous puppydog.

“What about the day before that?” he wonders slyly. “Hm?”

“Fuck you!” you spit at him, fighting against the waves of anxiety fighting to overtake you. Because no matter how you claw at your brain, trying to wring it free of even a drop of memory, you can’t seem to remember what happened to you yesterday. And, worse still… some sickly writhing piece of you feels like you might not even be able to recall the past few days; though, under the circumstances, you’d really have no way of knowing.

For all you know, your memory could simply be missing a single hour…

Or a single day…

Or a single week…

It’s all a disorienting blur. And the fact that you really have no idea just how much time’s gone blank for you is absolutely, overwhelmingly terrifying.

Ghostface cackles while he watches your inner turmoil, feigning sympathy as he cooes, “Oh, baby…”

He slips out his camera again and snaps another pic of you before you have time to recoil away from it.

“Here’s a new memory for you,” he croons as you blink away the flash, and even through disorienting fear you’re somehow able to glower up at him like a sodden, bristling alley cat. Wishing you could bore holes through his head with the heat of your glare alone as his mask tilts to one side, admiring the photo of you half-naked and chained, cowering and captured on screen. “Remember that time you didn’t remember anything?”

“You’re psychotic!” you bite at him, hoping to insult him, to hurt him as much as he’s hurt you; though he simply hums with a slow and steady grin. Hidden, as always, behind his ghost-faced mask.

“Better watch that mouth,” he cautions idly. “I don’t pander to brats. Though I'm finding I really don’t mind teaching you how to behave.” He chuckles lowly to himself as you force yourself to keep on glaring, no matter how tremulously. "And if those sweet little sounds you were trying so hard to hide with my cock buried down your throat are any indication…" his tone carries an artful grin, “you probably won’t mind either.”

Sliding his camera back inside his pocket, he grants you a small shrug. “But alright. You caught me – I admit it. Knocking you out wasn’t an exact science.” Lifting a hand, he waggles a few fingers as if dispelling all of your many problems. “But I’m sure the drugs’ll wear off sometime, and you’ll get your precious memory back.” Behind the mask, he sounds to smirk. “Probably. And if not, well… I’m happy to paint you a new set of memories. Better ones.” His hand drops, his tone dragged with it. “Ones with me.”

With that, he saunters away, with you tensing in alarm that you’re apparently being left here – being left wherever the hell this is he’s decided on leaving you, without clothes or food or water or even your most recent memories. And as you twist against your chains as if to try and follow after him, you’re quick to cry out in his wake, “You said you’d let me go!”

“You’re a really bad listener.”

He pauses at the doorway, turning to watch you over one broad, black shoulder. One hand listlessly tapping along the doorframe beside him, like he’s being forced to impatiently coddle you while having much more important things to do. “I said I'd let you loose if your tongue impressed me. Which it did.” To your chagrin, he sounds to smirk. “It very much did. But I never said I'd let you go. No, you're stuck with me, sweetheart.” His voice flexes possessively. “Mine, for as long as I please.”

His fingers cease to tap the longer he watches you watching him, with you caught somewhere between spiteful and pleading.

“Don't worry,” he says. “You won’t miss me for long. I'll be back real soon to keep you company, honeybear. But if you wanna practice your operatics in the meantime – you know…” he gestures, listless, noncommittal, “maybe call for help a little, beg for someone – anyone – to please, please, help you, save you!” His hand drops again to his side as he continues with a devil’s amusement, “Long story short, feel free to scream your fucking lungs out. No one will hear you.”

Turning away again, something catches his attention enough to make him pause a moment more. Before he glances back to add, “Well, no one who can help, anyway. But it'll definitely give my cameras a show.”

Without wasting another glance, he ignores your screams of protests that he come back. That he let you go. That he’s a sick, twisted, demented bastard.

Meanwhile he saunters out into some sort of hallway you can’t see from the leash he’s left you on, strolling without a care in the world, broad shoulders lax and weightless. The rockslide of him chuckling to himself echoing about the walls as he does, along with his sing-song, parting afterthought:

“Nighty night, tiger.”

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