Latest Posts by whorrorbellee - Page 2

HR Giger’s High - (short film)

can it reject you?

no. you can easily get lost on the way there but it would never shut you out.

Degradation

the lady, the prince, & the sword

[in honor of spooky season]

aemond targaryen x fem!reader

abstract: over one hundred years after the dance, you grow up as a lady in the ruins of Harrenhal. One day, you get a little too curious about the prince and his dragon rumored to be rotting at the bottom of the lake, and awaken something beyond your understanding. 🕯️this fic is inspired by a post from @sapphirevhagar 🕯️ themes: spooky harrenhal, smut, ghost/undead aemond, aemond as a war criminal, forbidden romance if you squint, you are the lady of harrenhal, dark aemond (but like, he's a dark character so I just tried to stay true to who he is), piv & hand stuff

lucy's notes: ao3 link. I tried to make my characterization of aemond as true as I could, but I won't lie it was hard in this scenario!! I don't think he'd be the type to just fuck someone (but maybe he would...who knows), but for the purposes of this spooky halloween fic I tried to make it as realistic as I could. maybe he would if he was pussy starved for a century, so that's what I'm going for. ENJOY!

word count: 8.6k

The sun had struck its highest point in the sky, your very own guiding star to the lake below it. 

From this bluff above God’s Eye, you could see all of what you called home: a boundless land, resilient despite centuries of war that had left each tree as a tombstone watered with spilled blood. And yet, the land was more alive because of it, or perhaps despite it. You weren’t sure which, but you knew just as well as any other riverman that if you listened close enough, you could feel the breath of the land under your feet. 

The rolling evergreens murmured when the winds ran through their branches. Winter was coming, and soon the jeweled blue of God’s Eye would coalesce into bitter sheets of ice. But for now, the first light gusts coaxed the water’s surface into gentle catspaws, still forgiving enough on your skin to welcome you into the lake. There was no barrier between your toes and the grass. Your daily swims were the one time you went without boots, an activity of yours that the Lord of Harrenhal detested. Mud is unbecoming of a lady , your father would say. It was, but so was walking in squelching boots back to your chambers. 

The faint line of sand at your favorite lakeside spot had finally breached your toes. It was better than all of the rest. Much of the lake had no such comfortable entry as this: a large swath of sand perfectly divoted for entry. Silence was a familiar friend here. It was a true silence, unlike the faint drips and echoes that seeped through your walls. 

And so the last thing you were expecting was company. “And what finds my Lady at this cursed corner of God’s Eye?” 

“My good Patrek, I did not expect to see you here.” Hiding your fright was easier said than done. An old family friend of the less noble type, with a face worn by time and a voice weathered by wind. Onlookers were rare here, and you wondered if he had followed you all the way from the keep. 

“You should not be here, my Lady. You know the stories, educated as you are.” 

You did—of how the very burrows of sand that now welcomed your toes were dug by Daemon Targaryen’s dragon Caraxes in a death-crawl to shore after his rider and opponent had perished. Every riverman knew of the tale. 

“I swim here often. If there is a curse, I hope I have been spared it.” Brushing off a stubborn elder was something you were quite familiar with. 

“Then you know the dragon’s blood soaked into the soil, dying where you stand. The very ground you walk on is damned.” His voice gruffed against his throat, but there was no mistaking the concern there. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t believe in the power of such things—as a Lady of Harrenhal you knew very well from your own accord how often things are not always what they seemed. But even some tales were too far-fetched for your own belief.

 Besides, if you heeded every tale and story from your surrounding men, you’d hardly be able to leave your chambers. 

Telling an old riverman what to do was not a task you’d expected to find yourself involved in at this hour. The look in your eye did more talking than your words. “I appreciate your concern, Patrek. But I insist, I am more than alright.” 

With one last stare, he dismissed himself. Thank the gods. 

In front of you, fragile blades of grass dared to peek through the large sand trough. It was a perfect pathway to the water, gently sloping and kinder on your feet than the rocky mud surrounding the rest of the lake was. If this truly was Caraxes’ doing, he had carved such a fine entrance to the water. It had never regrown. Barren, unlike the greater parts of the rest of the lake—perhaps the agony of such a creature reshaping the dirt with its claws, belly dragging and wingless on one side, had scarred the land permanently. You could see it. 

The water lapped at your toes now. Dragons were a far away concept, from a land and world that no longer existed, yet you wondered if their deaths really were something so traitorous to the gods that the land could never fully be right again. 

Stepping further and further inside, the light billow of your dress danced in the water. There were times, like a moonlit night, where you would forgo your dress and let the lake feel you bare. Those moments were rare, and ladies hardly had enough privacy and virtue to spare to allow such brazen activities—but you indulged in them when the moon called. With a final push of your toes, you dove your hands ahead of you and released. For a second, you were flying, letting the water carry you before you pushed against it once more. Smiling came easy here. 

And yet Patrek’s words lingered. None of the information was new. Perhaps it was the graveness of his voice that haunted you. 

Words could melt in the water, and his were no exception. The water held you as your mother might have, or a lover—all over, bringing you a comfort you could find nowhere else. You ran your fingers and toes in the sand below you, feeling it sift in the weightlessness between them. 

The sun had sunk low in the sky when you emerged from the lake, mind and body calm in your daily ritual. 

A new day had brought with it new curiosities—it would be easier to say that getting the tales out of your head was a simple task, but over the course of the previous day, it had proved much more difficult than you’d hoped. 

Sleep had evaded you, and restlessness drew you to the library. Each book was half rotted away from moisture that settled between each page and binding stitch. The candle light in your hand fought a losing battle with the mist, surrendering to a low bruising blue. Even still, you had found what you came there for. 

It was readable despite the poor lighting.  Dragons in the Riverlands were a sore subject—it was not a surprise to find that many, if not all of the manuscripts on dragons were loathsome at best, and near traitorous to your Targaryen overlords at worst. 

Prince Daemon Targaryen and his dragon Caraxes dueled Prince Aemond Targaryen and his dragon Vhagar on the 22nd day of the 5th moon of 130 AC. Dragon shrieks rippled in the wind and dragonfire flamed into the sunset so bright that the sky itself was said to be alight. Prince Daemon is said to have leapt onto Vhagar, plunging the ancestral Targaryen Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister through his nephew’s good eye. Caraxes is believed to have crawled to shore before releasing a dying shriek. Prince Daemon, Prince Aemond and Vhagar’s bones are believed to remain at the bottom of the lake today. 

Portraits of the two men and their dragons had accompanied the passage, with sketches of the battle gathered from the artists and bards surrounding God’s Eye. Long platinum hair framed both men, though Daemon lacked Aemond’s youth and sapphire eye.

  What a peculiar thing, a sapphire eye. Imagining a dragon as large as Vhagar sunk deep beneath your nose was a strange thing, fitting for a strange man with a sapphire in his socket. Trying to imagine a creature, let alone a dragon as big as her, was incomprehensible. If she really was the size of a small keep, how could one command her? 

Aemond Targaryen had—and perhaps that made him one of the most god-like Targaryens of all Targaryens to exist. And now he was damned to spend his eternity bound to the dark blue dungeon that was the depths of God’s Eye. 

Your toes had found the water’s edge once again, among the supposed cursed grounds of Caraxes last breathing place. If one dragon’s death made the land cursed, then surely the death of two doubled it. 

Today was a different venture than you were used to. The sun was even more forgiving than usual, warming your skin before you ever touched the water. It was a compulsion that drew your limbs to swim further from shore, an unexplainable magnetic lord that your limbs gladly obliged. With a hefty suck of air, you submerged your head. The chamber of echoing silence took its hold of your ears as you sank deeper and with a blink, you opened your eyes. The sun rays refracted in planes off of the water’s surface, down to the awaiting bottom. Only on the most clear days were you able to see this far, and yet it still wasn’t far enough to reach its furthest depths. 

Arms and legs tugged on the water. You sank deeper, your hair and dress haloing your floating figure. Long tendrils of curly pondweed and brittle water nymph followed the soft current rippling through the lake. You could feel its light pull, but your limbs were much stronger than the fragile plants that lay there. Swimming forward into deeper territory, large rocks begin to take shape, with their own water thread and algae sprouting from aged cracks. 

It was so faint, you almost missed it. A sparkle or two in the darkness, a trap of sunlight where sunlight didn’t belong anymore, just out of your sight. Another pull of your arms and you were closer: close enough to almost see what could create such a glimmer. Your lungs were calling but you just needed to get one more look—

Despite the near fade to darkness, the shape was unmistakable: a silver pommel, jutting out from beyond the deep. The dragon wings at the hilt were frozen in flight. Realization laid its heavy hand upon your chest and the call of your lungs became too loud to ignore. Frantically swimming to the surface, the bubbles spilled from your lips as the water became warmer as the sun drew closer. Your rift of the surface was punctuated by the loud gasp of your aching chest. Save for your weak disruption, the top of the lake sat as tranquil and undisturbed as you had left it. 

If it’s what you thought it was—

A few more deep breaths later and you were down below the surface once again, heart thrumming with revelation. This time, you knew exactly how deep you needed to go. You don’t know how you didn’t see it before, but the glint was visible even near the surface. It was a distant sparkle in the underworld, as if it was capturing the blue essence of God’s Eye itself. Blood pumped through your ears in the chamber of the deep as your arms tugged, stomach threatening to turn despite your precious conservation of air. 

A sapphire and a sword, each a shining beacon of their own. The skull which held both tilted up towards the heavens. Beyond it, skeletal arms reached forward, nearly upward. Part of you knew that the same buoyancy which allowed you to float was the same that held him, but another part of you wondered if at the time of the prince’s death he was reaching towards the sky in hopeless defiance. His once royal leathers and armor were rusted and torn, ebbing like the eel grass that had taken root. Time submitted all to its will, even princes, leaving only rot behind. 

The incomprehensible became comprehensible with one look downwards: crumpled and black, you realized it was not depth, but dragon bones themselves that seemed to create the darkness of the water that surrounded him. Thick spires of obsidian bone curled around what you could only put together as a rib cage the size of a small keep. Her skull was far from her body, large eye sockets gaping and maw stretched with rows of dagger teeth. The very maw that was the last sight of many in the Riverlands. 

If you wanted to reach the surface, you needed to swim now. But for a few more moments, the urge to swim just a bit further was greater than your want for air. You don’t know what possessed you—it could have been the lack of oxygen, or that you were just fond of shiny things on occasion, but you reached for the bright pommel that was nearly offering itself out to you and pulled. The blade was heavier than you were anticipating, as much of a novice as you were, but you persisted. Drawing your arms tight into your chest and using your whole body to swim against it, you did your best to wrack it free from its hold in the prince’s skull. It felt almost wrong to pull so hard, but you persisted. Bubbles jutted from your mouth in the struggle until it wracked free. 

It was now the second time you surfaced, and your gasp was much louder than the last. The sword was heavy in your arms, wanting to drag you back down to the bottom with it and join the prince and his dragon. There was no particular reason for taking it—it was a beautiful thing, untouched by the same rot and ruin as the prince and his dragon below. A sneaky voice in your head reminded you that a relic like this could pay to fill Harrenhal’s coffers for half the year or more if returned to the Targaryens, yet that is not why you sought it. 

In fact, you weren’t sure you wanted anyone to know what you had taken, and made quick work to wrap it in your swimming dress on your way back to the castle. A large object wrapped in cloth was not subtle, but the impossibility of manning such a monstrosity of a castle worked in your favor. Taking careful steps and hiding in the many alcoves to weave your way back to your chambers without spectacle proved a successful effort. 

The afternoon had come and gone with little affair, besides a light dusting of rain. It rained at Harrenhal often. And often, you found it peaceful. The rain was a part of life, and the wetness with it. 

But as the late afternoon carried on to evening, it became no such rain. The sky had darkened hours before sundown, bright colors and pretty horizons forgotten behind the undulating turmoil above you. The thunder went beyond simple sounds to full-bodied vibrations, shaking you from the bottom of your feet through your ears. It was not a storm, but a wroth sky. You were certain that no castle for hundreds of miles was spared. 

The buckets meant to catch runaway leaks in the stones were overflowing from the violent rain. Wind raided every crevice it could weave through, whistling just to force itself through. Servants and your family alike had begun sheltering the most fragile of belongings: books, letters, artifacts, and wood sensitive to rot. The torches fought against the wind, a harsh back-and-forth that flickered all light around you into senselessness. 

Retiring early tended to suit you better in many storms, though you doubted you would be getting any meaningful sleep. Earlier, you had unfurled Dark Sister. A small bead of blood on your finger taught you that valyrian steel was as sharp as they say it is. The sword rested against your desk, tall and lethal, catching every strike of lightning as it came down through your window. 

Between each bout of thunder and battering of lightning, you managed to find moments of rest. Each time a strike would come down threatening to tear down the walls, you sat up, clutching your down quilt in your hands. And each time, Dark Sister was glinting in the corner, winged hilt spread like a pouncing bird of prey. 

And yet the greatest of your fears lay not with the presence of the ancestral Targaryen sword, but came in your winks of sleep: a figure, tall and eerie, in the corner of your chambers. Each time you had awoken, your eyes flashed across your room, fearing that you would find a creature of the night standing there. 

Luckily, it seemed the shadow had made its home in your head and not your chambers. When daybreak began to glow behind the clouds, your relief came with it. 

This day was much the same as the last, yet there were fewer and fewer channels for excess water to pour away from the hearths. There would be no swimming today, that much was certain; making the walk down to the lake alone would be enough to sink you into mud, never to be seen again. All were set to help the effort to keep what was able to be kept dry, lady or servant. 

“An omen, I fear,” said Mathilda, a favored handmaiden of yours, as she threw another bucket of water through the open window to the yard below. 

“An omen of what?” 

“Harrenhal hasn’t seen a storm like this in over a decade. It went against all folk predictions.” she breathed worriedly,  “A bad omen. Something isn’t right.” 

You had tucked the sword under your bed about halfway through the night when you realized that looking at it only made your stomach churn. There it lay still and waiting, inches from your two pairs of feet. 

But there was nothing you could do about it at this very moment. “Is there anything to do to protect against a bad omen?” 

“It depends on what’s happened. But for most of my knowledge, I am afraid not. The damage has already been done.” 

The pit in your stomach stirred. In the same evening, the thunder was just as fierce and lightning just as fiery. Regret compounded with every shake of thunder for the stolen sword. It was better left under the lake where it belonged—you knew that now. 

Purple cracked the sky in two from your chamber window, illuminating everything once more. Folktale or omen, bad tidings or tall whispers, on the morrow you would return it. 

And yet that was exactly what didn’t happen. 

Instead, it had happened like this: servants had been rushing around the keep all morning, doing their best to keep the rush of water from entering the hall of a hundred hearths and touching the rugs. Half soaked and boots trailing water already, you didn’t make it past the tower of dread before the guards crossed their swords and insisted that you shall not pass. Too much water could sweep you off your feet and carry you away, they had said, pushing you back to your chambers while you discreetly held a covered Dark Sister to your side. 

Tomorrow it was, then. Insistence would get you nowhere. A lady’s requests were either dutifully followed or carelessly ignored. It was imperative that the torrent stopped, or that you were able to more discreetly make your way to the lake. 

The sword could not be by your side any longer. Perhaps you could leak your secret to septa Scully—you knew her folkwoman heart still beat inside her somewhere, and it could drive her to help you. 

This night was no different from the last. Harrenhal and its eerie passageways and mangey essence had managed to frighten you as a girl, the darkest storms holding your fear hostage. It had been years since you had faced the same fear that licked at your erratic heart as it did now, tucked under your quilted down, thunder wracking itself outside. 

It was in your head—the uncontrolled storm, the tales in your ear—they had simply wormed their way deep in your mind. It was a weak consolation, but your heart finally began its slowing. 

A footstep in the darkness, outside your chambers, was enough to jolt it right back. 

Any sense of sleep had left you now, and all of your focus rushed to your ears. Digging yourself deeper in the covers, you exhaled as quietly as you could in wait. 

Just as you feared, there was another, and then another. 

No matter how hard your forced your eyes shut, the fright remained, each boot knocking on the stone outside, coming closer, and closer, until, 

The door creaked open softly, a rumble of storm to accompany it. Each finger, limb, and blink was frozen over. If you were still enough, perhaps whoever had opened the door would leave you behind. Each of your heart beats felt so loud it would give away your very existence. 

The cold voice that met you instead was nearly enough to get your heart to stop beating all together. “You have something of mine.” 

You dared not move, not even at the direct notice of your presence. 

Squelching wet footsteps punctuated in between his words, each one slowly creeping closer to your bedside. “I know you’re here, little lady of Harrenhal. No amount of stillness in the world would hide you from me.” 

With a swallow of fear, you scurried off of your bed to your night side table, hoping to distance yourself from the intruder. Sitting or laying felt too vulnerable for you to stay put. 

“I don’t understand.” Were the only words you managed to choke out to the shadowed figure in front of you. There was no weapon for you to reach, unless you reached under the bed and grabbed—

“How do you not know? You took it from me.” 

He lowered the hood of his cape. Platinum hair spilled down his shoulders over the black leather of his doublet that shined as if made from metal itself. His skin was pale as a soft moon, and a sapphire eye with a dash through his face—it was almost holy in nature, the beam of a celestial spell. Any thoughts of a common thief or crook left your mind. Even still, it did almost nothing to alleviate your fear, for you had recognized him. 

The pages in your books didn’t do him justice. Any gasp that may or may not have left your lips was drowned out by a whip of lightning.  “H-how?” 

“Give me back my sword.” He answered plainly. 

Shaky hands reached under the bed, eyes locked onto his fierce gaze as you gingerly felt for the hilt. Once in your grasp, you dragged it out, the weight even heavier in your arms than it had when you had pulled it to the surface. Your arm, lightly shaking, extended to his, the pommel and blade gleaming menacingly. His own palm lay over yours to reclaim the hilt. It was made of flesh, and warm—a mystery that evaded you. 

You figured he might strap the sword to whatever sheath was on his side and go back to wherever he had come from, but instead, he set it aside. In yet another movement of unpredictability, he stepped closer. 

“You must dive again and put it back yourself, I cannot do it for you.” His flesh eye studied you carefully, stepping forward to circle you. “But, you have given me reason to finally meet you.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’ve had no one but you to keep me company for one hundred years” Now, he was at a distance where there was more familiarity and the details of his face became more prominent out of the shadows. “You swim in the lake almost every day.” 

You watched him attentively, attempting to understand what it was you were seeing. The fear of the unknown and absurd frightened you. It could be another dream, just like the one you had last night—but you were certain you were awake. 

He stepped even closer, daring to reach out his hand and brush it over your cheek, as if feeling the lifeblood that beat beneath it. “Who are you, one that swims in God’s Eye?” 

“I am a lady of Harrenhal” you paused, still trying to gauge his danger with your disbelief. “Who are you?” 

“You know who I am.” His sapphire was a burning blue ember in the night. 

Denial reared its unforgiving head into yours. Backing away, you tried to reason with yourself. “It’s a trick. Harrenhal plays tricks—I know this.” 

“I assure you, I am no illusion. Stop fighting it.” 

“I—” You let it sit for a moment. He stood in front of you, tall and enshadowed even in the faint candlelight. 

A deep exhale was all you could manage, closing your eyes in resignation. “Yes, my prince. Are you going to kill me?” 

“No, my lady. I’m not going to hurt you.” Watching the ground, you could see his black boots stepping towards you once more. “You did take my sword, but more than that, I simply wanted to meet the only one who dared swim down to me and Vhagar.” 

He tilted your chin up to meet his own eye. There was something curious there, almost soft. Aemond’s hand was so gentle it soothed your rabbit’s heart. “Now you see me, made of flesh.” 

Fear, though not absent, was no longer the only feeling that sent your blood pumping. The feeling of being wanted was something that you had coveted, yet always remained outside of your grasp. You imagined every movement of yours in the lake, how you had never been truly alone on your visits, even the ones in the deepest of summer where you shed your dress and embraced the lake with all of your bareness. 

Crafted in the image of the gods themselves or not, you knew it was impossible for every Targaryen to look the way he did; the beauty of him was something unique, you knew it. Another bolt fractured the sky outside, its flash illuminating both of you. It played a trick on your eyes, almost closing some of the distance between you with blinding light. 

“Are you scared of the storm?” Aemond loomed above you. 

“I’m of this land. Storms do not scare me.” 

“Did I frighten you?” 

He had to have known your answer, but you indulged him. “Yes, you did, my prince.” 

“You don’t need to be scared of me, my lady of God’s Eye.” He stepped closer, resting his left hand on your arm. His hair hung above your face now, a tilt of his head altering its course. “Does this frighten you?” 

You felt the soft weight of his palm, fearing breathing for the simple movement of it. “No, my prince.” With a careful pause, you continued. “My apologies for taking your sword. I didn’t know—” 

“You can repay me.” Aemond replied, his voice assured yet tender for your ears. “You have been tempting me in the lake for long enough.” 

You nodded lightly, delicately reaching out for your palm to meet his chest. There was a warmth coming from within, not cold like an undead body might be. The prince, real or not, was closer to you than any other man had ever been. He reached down, gently tugging you into a soft kiss. 

He was warm here too, and wet, much to your pleasure. Your lips opened to his own, mouths deftly sliding against one another. Aemond’s hand smoothed over your cheek, his palm nearly swallowing it whole. You moved together in a gentle sway, mouths delicately pressed together. In an act of boldness, you pressed your own body closer to his, your palm holding his side to steady yourself. 

The tempest outside your windows beat on. Your hands moved to crook in his neck. The skin there was soft like his mouth, and you wondered if the rest of him was just as welcoming. Aemond began walking forward, holding and kissing you through his guidance. Your lower back bumped against your mattress, and you broke your lips apart. 

It was perfection: the softness of this moment and the synergy of your movements against one another. 

Until it wasn’t. Perhaps it was the way the lightning had framed him, thunder dividing you two.  Within its roar came the cries of those he had forced to their knees in this very castle. The fall of wood as the huts of innocents burned to ash, Vhagar’s fire hot enough to meld armor and flesh to one. The scar he ripped across the belly of your homeland still hadn’t healed hundreds of years later, and you laid your lips on the man, or the entity of him, who had done it all. 

Your eyes must have given you away. 

“So you are frightened of me?” His subtle sultriness didn’t evade him, even in the light of the hell he had brought upon the earth. 

“You, Aemond Targaryen—reigned terror on this land,” you recoiled slightly, lifting yourself up onto your bed to inch away from him. 

He looked down, but any semblance of remorse was absent from his face. “I did. The fire that raged could be seen from the wall to Dorne.” 

History was a funny thing—something that becomes more intangible the longer it’s dead, fresh marks haunting only those who lived through it. But Aemond was tangible, here in front of you somehow. To him, did it happen yesterday or did it feel like a lifetime away?

Aemond paused, lifting his eye to meet yours, kneeling onto the floor, holding your gaze. “Let me atone for my sins then, my lady of Harrenhal.” 

Your breath hitched in your chest at the slight of his hands lifting your nightdress. 

Sitting up, you slowly pulled yourself away. “This is wrong. You’re—” 

“A monster?” 

Your lack of response was as much of an answer as anything else. 

“I am much more than that, I assure you.” You tried to pretend like the smoothing of his palm against your calf didn’t feel good. It was even harder to pretend that the man doing so wasn’t the most dashing man you’d ever seen, cursed by the gods or not. 

A lip bite was all he would get from you, uncertain of how to navigate your desire with your morality. 

“I can show you many things.” he hummed against your calf. 

You fell back onto the bed, whining lightly in frustration of the sexual kind. 

“If you only let me.” 

You closed your eyes. 

“Which would you rather do?” His princely voice was a seductor’s poison. 

“I can show you how deeply sorry I am for what I did to your home,” he said with a mocking sorrow as the featherlight warmth of his lips and tongue kissed the inside of your legs, up to the inside of your knee, and to the most sensitive skin on the inside of the meat of your thigh. Any resolve that you had was wafted away by the trace of his fingers. 

He pulled away, watching you carefully. “Or, you can show me how sorry you are for stealing my family’s sword. Which would you have it be?” 

Gods bless your ancestors. You prayed that they were not unlucky enough to bear witness to what you were about to say—the closest thing to treason you could commit. 

“I want to see your forgiveness, my prince.” You said, unsure of his next move but knowing somewhere within you that you would only indulge yourself further. 

Aemond smiled smugly. It suited him. “How about you feel it instead?” 

Hooking his fingers under your smallclothes, he rustled them off of you smoothly. You were exposed, cunt glistening and pooling wetness before him. Yes, definitely treason. 

You wondered what sins those long dead and buried beneath would have had to commit to be forced to hear your moan as one of his fingers entered your hole, ready and wanting. Aemond leaned over you, silver and knowing smile once more falling around your face. Using his thumb, he found your pearl so neatly in between your pillowy lips, touching you there lightly. 

“All wet, for me?” his smirk hung over you once more, satisfied by how quickly you dissolved under his hand. And what a joy it was to dissipate into a syrupy essence soaked mess. 

“Have you ever touched yourself?” he asked, eye observing every rise and fall of your breasts. 

“Well—yes, but,” you whimpered, shame in your gaze. “I’ve never been touched by anyone else.” 

“A good, pretty maiden then.” He added another finger, your body sucking him in and oozing wetness in its own craving. Every brush of his thumb and curl of his digits left your mouth hanging open and eyes pleading at the man above you for more. 

Aemond could act as in control as he wanted, but you saw the embers of greed in his eye and felt his hardness at your hip. 

“I am so terribly sorry,” Aemond started in your ear, his fingers working their way inside of your honey soaked walls and thumb expertly toying with your swollen bud, “for absolutely nothing.” 

The words fell on ears too consumed by the talent of his hands to give a damn. Warmth in your belly bloomed as if he had planted the sun in there himself, your shining juices dripping the length of his palm. You had never been brought to the point of near blindness and incapacity by pleasure before, your own fingers too untrained. 

When the peak of your pleasure came, your arms wrapped around Aemond’s shoulders, moans breathy and full. Your walls throbbed and dripped around his fingers and your body flexed underneath his. Thunder was your friend, drowning out every noise that bubbled from your lips. 

Aemond Targaryen, or whatever was left of him, had been starved of a woman’s taste for over one hundred years. He savored every bead of syrupy sex that dripped from your cunt onto his hands while you panted in the final glimmers of ecstasy. 

It was difficult to help your eyelids from closing—the man had sent you to the hands of the gods and back. All you could do was savor the feel of him under your fingertips, rubbing lightly, until your sleep claimed you without your will or knowledge. 

The dawn broke and you were alone once more, nothing but disorder in your head and gleaming sword under your bed. 

Light thunder beat through the clouds, a solemn sun hidden behind them. The rain had eased a touch, but there had not been enough reprieve to make it any easier for the servants to clean up what was becoming a half-drowned castle. 

Yet the water navigating through the crack in the stones over your head took up the least amount of room in your head. It was real. You knew it was from the echoes of ease in your limbs from the pleasure he played you to. If that wasn’t evidence enough, your slippery juices coated the nestle of your thighs.  

It was wrong—you knew it. What had materialized between you and the prince was highly improper, not only as a lady, but as a lady of Harrenhal, the very castle in which he was partially responsible for the large number of roaming ghosts and of the land which he brought to ash out of his own anger. 

Aemond had said that you needed to return the sword to the God’s Eye yourself. Perhaps you had tampered with something greatly out of your knowledge, and restoration was imperative for your own good and the good of the castle. 

And yet the sword never moved from under your bed. Perhaps you had forgotten, or perhaps, you had conveniently discovered a hundred and one other tasks that needed your attention. And perhaps, the prince would come again. 

You could pray for forgiveness from the river people later. It was your own secret shame to have and to hold, for no one else’s eyes or ears. 

It was last light. Mathilda swept a dollop of water that landed on her forehead. “This storm won’t break.” 

“I was a girl the last time one like this hit.” Of all the many storms that wracked this land, few had the same unbroken rainfall and loud slaughter of thunder. 

There was apprehension and fright in her eyes. Mathilda’s movements were unnatural to anything you had seen her, to the point that it struck its own fear in you . 

“What is it, Mathilda?” 

“There’s only one storm I remember like this,” she started, worrying her hands with another bucket of water. “I didn't want to believe it yesterday. You were a girl, yes.” 

“And what of it?” 

“This land is old. A mass graveyard is what it is. Someone had tampered with something they shouldn’t have.” 

Your stomach sank, and your secret with it. “What happened?” 

“The man was never seen again. And there’s only one place around here people disappear to.” 

The lake. You remembered him, a guard in your father’s command, the storm that tore on, and his disappearance marking the end of it. Everyone had figured he got swept away in the storm, but it seemed that Mathilda, among others, believed something different. Still—there were plenty of cursed objects lying around, perhaps you had gotten a touch more lucky with your object of choosing. 

But perhaps it wasn’t such a dismissive endeavor, and you were more than a halfwit for thinking so. And yet, the night had fallen once more—leaving you with no other choice but to wait and see. 

The blade seemed to find a light of its own even in the blackness of the storm ridden night, peaking just under your bed. Finding a rhythm in between the bolts of lightning and thunder happened over time, but the past few nights had begun to give you practice. Your apprehension kept you from your sleep nonetheless. 

There was always something more beyond the surface, that much you knew was true, and life was no exception. Gods existed, you were sure of it, you just didn’t know how, or why, or where—but there was something about the thread of actions over the past handful of days that connected pieces together in a visceral way you had never fully encountered.

Through each beat of lightning, the truth of every tale that you had ever heard came into question: the cook turned white rat, forced to eat his own young; the children of the forest and the Green King of the Isle of Faces, Sharra the witch queen and her inability to die. Before now, you had not fully disbelieved, but rather doubted the ability of magic or the whims of the gods to make profound changes in an instant. 

“You did not return my sword.” 

His entrance was silent but interruption swift, or you had been so lost in your own head you failed to notice. There was little shock this time. You had been expecting him. He stood there for a moment in patience, your eyes and finding the details of his trench coat in the shadow. There was much less fright in you now than there had been at his first intrusion, and you swung your legs to sit at the edge of your bed. 

“You disobeyed my request,” Aemond said, “I do not take kindly to those who disobey me. Why didn’t you return it, my lady of God’s Eye?” 

It was a fool’s endeavor, a disregard of any consequences. Eyes wide and waiting, you could do nothing but speak your deepest truth. 

“I did not want to.” 

He crept forward, a creature of the shadows coming to enact its wrath. “Explain yourself.” 

With a swallow of the last inklings of your pride and dignity, you replied. “Because I want more of what you did to me last night.” 

He stood as a relic, everything from his hair and skin and coat shining from within, regarding you with an intensity you had never had anyone offer you before. Time existed nowhere in this room; past and present converged in the tides of thunder that swayed over your heads, and you wondered if the world outside of your door still stood or if there was nothingness. 

“Who would have thought a lady to be so lustful? A lady of the Riverlands, no less.” His boots were off now, making his way to you like an animal preys upon what it desires to snatch in its claws. 

You held your chin in an acceptance of his mockery and all that came with it. Because he was right, and because you didn’t care so long as no one knew of it. Aemond moved to stand in between your legs, and you tilted your head to meet his own eye. 

“I suppose I will make an exception to my usual punishment since you have been so honest,” he reached to hold your face in his hands as if he was holding a holy grail. “Do you promise to make such an exception worth my while?” 

“I promise.” You nodded as well as you could in his soft hold, eyes large and pleading. 

The kiss that followed was soft, just as every other first touch between you had been—but it quickly became emboldened; a drop of satisfaction in a lake of craving. His hands slid down your sides, past the sensitivity of your waist and moving to grip the full flesh that sat on your thighs. 

Chest to chest, you were pressed against him, feeling through every movement and flex of the muscle beneath his flesh. Moving once more, his hand slid down in between your thighs where your smallclothes sat pitifully between your bare skin and his fingers. 

He swallowed your whimper into his mouth as his hand moved once more to play with your bud. Skin holds memory, they say, and you knew yours did of him: his light touch was enough to have you squirming beneath him with little effort. 

“My own little harlot of the Riverlands.” Aemond pulled away, moving to untie the wrap of your nightdress. You watched him carefully, a twing of shyness slowing your movements. 

He took your timid hands into his, holding them to him as he moved his nose to meet yours. “And yet a maiden, all the same.” 

You closed your eyes, savoring the feel of his tenderness. Both your hands moved now to take away what lies between your modesty and bareness. 

“Do I please you?” softly you looked at him, hoping that your shyness was replaced by your attempt to be sultry despite your lack of practice. 

He looked at you as a man starved, deprived of warm fleshy skin to sink into for a century, and there was no pretending in his eye that he hadn’t prayed that you would not return Dark Sister to its rightful place. No matter how powerful the man, beyond swords and war and life and death, the soft skin of a lover would always be a weakness. There was no hiding the membrane of vulnerability and desperation at something so human: the touch and feel of another. 

Leaning down to offer you a kiss, in a near whisper he replied, “Very much so.” 

Hands and lips tenderly felt you everywhere, the blood underneath beating against the glide of his fingers. It was worship of the most holy, or perhaps the indulgence of a sin most foul. The lines blurred and you sank under his want, whether it be worship or sin, you did not care. 

Your hands searched for him, shrugging off his own clothing in the rapture. 

“Whatever it was you did to me yesterday, please, I need to feel it again.” it was more of a breathy whisper in between kisses than an affirmative request. 

“I’ll show you something even better.” Aemond sank to your hips as his right hand did, already weaving slow strokes against your bud. And yet he sank farther, until his head rested between your thighs.

He watched you carefully from there, sliding one finger into your hole. His rubbing continued, and your legs began to weaken once more. You had swung your head to rest your eyes on your ceiling, unexpecting the hot wetness that met your bud. 

It was unlike anything you had felt before—heat on heat, wetness on wetness, his tongue skillfully lapping your clit. 

You fell under his enchantment for him like a man dies gasping underwater: slowly with resistance, until want for release pushes you to frantically search for it all at once. All thoughts of doing anything but taking everything he had to give you had been locked away, perhaps only to be seen again once you had gotten your fill. And you weren’t sure if you could ever be satisfied. 

From this point forward, you would be damned by this memory: Aemond sliding his tongue between your folds, sucking on your sex, and pulling pleasure from you as if he was born a hundred years ago to do it. 

He was determined to feel every drop of your essence sliding down his throat, holding you to him with his hands clasped around your thighs.  Your orgasm came with his lips and tongue never ceasing their worship of you, even as your thighs shook and moans echoed through your walls. 

Even though heavy breaths and dazed eyes of the afterglow, you would not make the mistake of falling asleep so soon, not after the previous night. Your hands lazily reached for him, pulling him closer to you. 

Because you wanted more . There was no clarity and rational thinking bestowed upon your release. If anything, it had driven you further into a wanting animal, a ravenous direwolf seeking to tame its taste for blood. Maiden status be damned, if doing such things with a long dead prince even counted. 

“Eager, are we?” he drawled over you, hands rustling between your bodies. “Shh. Let me take care of you.” 

You felt him on you then, skin to skin, his hard manhood heavy on your stomach. Aemond’s eye met yours as he slid his cock between your folds, gathering the wetness there. 

It was just you two in this moment, one body and another, seeking something buried deep within one another’s skin. 

Face to ear, you whispered about your inexperience and novelty. He did nothing but pull your lips into another kiss, allowing your bodies to slip against each other’s warmth for moments to come. Aemond was a desiring man, or creature—you weren’t sure which, not that it fully mattered to you anymore—and you could feel his own lust for you seeping into each of your kisses and all of his touches, much more wanton than they had yet to be. 

“Let me take you,” he nearly whined in between kisses, “I need to feel you.” 

“I want you. Show me this.” 

Forehead to forehead, Aemond reached between your bodies to guide his leaking cock to your entrance. You knew why maidens and ladies got wet—it would be impossible to carry out the deed without such slipperiness. What hung between a man’s legs was far too large to fit without it. 

Even still, it was always a challenge at first—your own sex squeezing so hard, seemingly wanting to suck his cock deeper inside you and milk it within your walls. As he went to the hilt, moaning was all you had to cope, the noises blending with the creak of the castle. 

“Does it always feel like this?” you choked, more than happy to be full of him but surprised at the feeling.

With his forehead still against yours, his breath fanned in your mouth. “At first, and then it will feel even better.” 

As if to show you, he began long strokes, the head of his cock sliding against the vice of your juicy walls. And you felt it bloom—the deep ember of pleasure at your core, both satisfied and left wanting more by each thrust. 

Your moans and whimpers against his ear were compounded by the thrust of his hips, heavy against your own, pushing his cock to the hilt now in every stroke, the head of it brutally kissing the end of you every time. 

He sat up now, hands firmly on your hips to control the angle of you and the drive of his cock to be right where he wanted them. Moving between your bodies, his thumb danced on your bud again, sending you to reflexively grip him further out of the sheer ecstasy of it. “What would your rivermen think of you like this, moaning like a whore on my cock?” 

It was more of a suffocated squeal than words, chest heaving, not being able to help the way your body was in his hands, moving at the speed he set. “They would think me a traitor.” 

“But you just couldn’t help it, could you? You needed more of me, no matter what I’ve done.” 

Despite you both knowing the truth of it, hardly any shame could touch you now in the throes of your bodies. In between love bites on your ear and kisses on your neck as he took you, there was more than enough praise spilling from his lips: haughty whispers of you take my cock so well and your body is made for me. 

It was as intense as it was pleasurable. Aemond’s platinum tresses locked you into a cage where it was only him: only his body, his cock—nothing else. He was making you into a woman of his own liking, his spell on you binding you to desire and breaking every one of your senses to want nothing but him. 

There was no clarity and rational thinking bestowed upon your release. Reaching the peak of it, your cunt hardly willing to let his cock move inside you and pulsing and pleading for it to be even deeper, you cried out, your own howl into the night. Aemond fucked you through it, seeking his own peak within your walls and finding it in the vice you had him in, milking him for every drop of his own essence to spill in the hot syrupy tightness of your cunt.  

The sedation you felt in your after-pleasure was familiar to the first night—leaving you in a daze, the murky waters difficult to navigate. Fighting it was futile, but you kept yourself awake enough to feel him pull away, save for leaving a kiss on your fingers and hear his final words.

Visit me, my lady of God’s Eye

It would be a selfish thing—you knew—to keep the sword, no matter how badly you wanted to satiate your desire during the night. But the storm raged on, and it was only right to do what had to be done to prevent the entirety of Harrenhal from being consumed by the water raiding every corridor and sieging nearly all chambers and apartments, only the highest of rooms in each tower being spared. 

It was a difficult task, but you had managed. And not hours after the sword was back in the sheath it belonged in, the rain had ceased, to the relief of all in the castle except for one. 

You hadn’t forgotten his last words to you. Sometimes, you swam back to the remains of the dragon prince again, hoping the hallowed skeleton could see you in the angelic light only water could give.  

And sometimes, in the deepest chamber of the lake, you swore you heard whispers in the catches of the currents. 

Hayden talking about being autistic openly and in a positive light has done things for my inner child that I didn’t know I needed. Also makes me think about how she’s the first famous person that I’ve seen talk about their interests in a way that I can genuinely relate to.

Being autistic is hard but fuck I love being passionate and I’m glad someone that inspires me and creates/fuels my creativity feels the exact same way lol.

CHERRYWAVES:TWO

Ghostface! Danny Johnson x f!reader

Danny just had to save you. He just had to save your poor sad life. Knocking your sad frail body against fake plastic tiles. Shoving his fingers down your throat like a kid fishing for pennies. What was it you wrote in your diary? Your shiny white masked knight in a black shroud? Well how cute. Maybe it was time he kept a pet around.Just to play or course.18+ : eventual smut, themes of suicide (reader attempts), selfharm, sexual content, murder, themes of violence

ao3 one masterlist

‘Want to see something gross?’ is spelled out across in blue biro on a post-it note, the bright yellow clings to your computer screen. You look up at Jed whose eyebrow is raised at you. Eyebrows furrowing in return. You watch him spin giddily in his chair, black converse tapping against the floor. You fight the urge to smirk, lips pursing at his actions. Pretending to think about it. 

You shrug and nod. “Come on then”, Jed rises, stepping over to your desk and grabbing your hand. He pulls you over to the dark room and now you're seriously confused. 

You step inside, cloaked in red, he pulls the light switch, squinting as your eyes adjust to the harsh light, you wait in anticipation. Jed smiles down at you and points to the photos hanging over on the wall. You look over. The photos are in black and white so it’s hard to make out what's actually going on. Black spills over the floor. Police are standing over something. It's blackened on the paper and you look up at him. ‘What is it?” 

“Look closer” He pushes your back until your nose nearly hits the page, the smell of chemicals still on the page. You strain your head back. Eyes focusing on the photo’s.

 And then you gasp. Your body tenses. It's a dead body. Blood spilling out like ink spilled over the paper, it's hard to see in the alley way, but the way Jed has shot the photos you can make up the paleing eyes of the victim “Jesus, Jed! Why were you there?” your eyes search the pictures in front of you.

He folds his arms over his chest,“Adam was all uneasy with reporting the murders so Mike asked if I wanted to stop writing fluff pieces and start on real crime” he pauses ,“They think it's him, the killer” 

“Why?”,you shake your head, and then look at another photo, a detective stands at a wall, gloved hand pressing into the bricks, he looks pained, as if he knew the guy.

“Well, the same weapon was used” he mutters, leaning against the wall,“the coroners say the weapon was a knife about inch wide and seven inches long, matches the same stab wounds as the Small brothers”

You sigh, looking at Jed he fiddles with the buttons of his shirt a bit, you take in his outfit. Black Dickies, white shirt, you wonder what he wears when he's home. “Do you think he did this? In an investigative journalist way?”

“No” 

“Huh, why?” your eyebrows raise.

“I'm not sure, I mean first he attacked two guys right outside their house, that seems planned out. But this? well”.You watch as Jed thinks, his hand stroking his chin as his head turns. Your back brushes the cold wall. “I think the killer plans his shit out, he's smart. Why risk getting caught killing some kid in an alleyway? And it is florida, it's probably some gang crime” 

You nod, scraping your shoes against the floor. “So the cafe piece is your last normal, happy article huh?” you smile. 

He grins in return, “oh yeah, time to write about some horrid decrepit loner killer that probably jerks it to porn in his mom's basement”

“Oh! I don't know, maybe he has his own basement”

ANOTHER FOUND DEAD

Jed olson

Junior journalist 

Photo by Jed olson 

See page four for more details 

On the late hours of Friday the 11th. The body of twenty-two year old Jack Stevens was found by a passer by. Jack had been out on run that night, his girlfriend Stella had reported his running route would take him past the same alleyway he was found in. Stella voiced concern about him not coming back that night with a friend over the phone, and was later confirmed to be correct when the police had arrived at her house, “He was always so quiet, he kept to himself, it was just him, the dog and I most nights, unless we played a board game round my mums, it wasn't like him to just run out and not say anything, so when he didn't come back after an hour i knew something was wrong” 

Police have reported the same weapon was used on this victim as the Small brothers, is the work of a serial killer at large? Or are crime rates really increasing in this little town ? 

If you have any information please contact Detective Moore at the RPD +(000) 000 000

Jack’s funeral will be held at Jameson and Jones funeral home at 11am on sunday, any friends and family will be welcome to join. 

“Do you wanna come for drinks on wednesday?” Jed’s leaning over your computer. You're trying to get the brightness right on a photo of girl scouts that raised money for a memorial bench for the Small brothers. The deaths had really affected the small town and the boy scouts had shut down after only a couple of weeks when no one wanted to take over. Now the group had formed into a disjointed version where baking and making crossbows happened in the same hall, inches apart from each other.

“Who's going?” you look around the office.

“Well, Me and a couple of my friends, then Mike said he'd stop by for a beer, and Linda said she has book club at 8 so she’ll stop by for a glass of wine, and then maybe you?” he grins. 

“Yeah okay! Straight after work?” 

He nods. “Great!”

You get home early that night after taking some photos of a new monument set up in the local park for some random pioneer. Your apartment is a mess, you quickly boil some pasta and shove all your clothes into a basket to take down to the laundry room. You change your sheets while you're at it. Then pour some tomato and cheese sauce over the pasta that's been drained off all water. 

You eat quickly, grabbing your keys and a book then cradle the laundry basket to your hip and walk down to the basement floor. The stairs are a pain in the ass when you’re on the fifth floor, but you know it's the reason your rent is so cheap, every other place with an elevator is expensive due to costs. 

The washing machine beats into the wall, you've got about 30 minutes left on the wash cycle and then you can put it in the dryer for twenty. Usually you'd come back up to your apartment, but it had felt like someone was watching you recently, even with your blinds shut, it had felt like someone was so close to you. You could almost feel their breath against your neck. It had only started a couple of weeks ago, the feeling of being watched, and now the murders had started it felt like there was danger so close by. Especially after your little visiter. You wonder if he was stopping by to keep an eye on you or if he was too busy with the murders.

Danny Johnson sits in his black truck, hands beating against the steering wheel as the music thumps through the speakers. Sally Hughes takes a great big bite of a burger and then wipes off the ketchup that has spilled over her son's arm. Danny watches as her perfect blonde hair bounces as she laughs. He takes a big swig of his milkshake and shovels fries into his mouth, he chews quickly. It’s like watching something out of a sitcom, the window in the diner is his own personal TV screen.

“And then this alien comes out of nowhere with this claw ! And rips this girl into bloody bits! And yeah it's stolen from Alien or whatever, but the blood Jed! The Blood wasn't clear or milky and sweet like most B movies, it looked so real. Like it was a deep red and clung to the actors.” Piper chews her burger before carrying on, shes perched against the door and the seat, forcing  her self into the nook of the car so she can get a better look at Jed  “I know you hate that shit and prefer like grotty serial killer, giallo’s or whatever but you have to see it, its like a fucking snuff film, you know? Filmed on a camcorder and CCTV footage.” 

Piper was sort of a plain looking girl, the only discernible quality she had was the long blonde hair that fell to her waist, she was twenty three years old and worked at the arthouse cinema about thirty minutes away. They had met at a showing of the red shoes , it wasn't exactly Danny's kind of movie, but he had wanted to check out the area anyway. The discussion of movies had ended in him walking her home, then they would meet every week for a coffee and a mid-day movie where she worked. He had thought, what's a friend in all this? Might as well get an alibi right? But then she had pulled him in for a kiss outside a book store on main and Danny wasn't looking for anything relationship wise, he much rather save his energy for murder and stalking, not sex. Danny had felt nothing. It was like paper against paper. But a girlfriend was normal. A girlfriend meant the guys at the Gazette would stop asking if he wanted to take their daughters out. 

Danny had soon realised his mistake when he saw you, glossy eyes, someone who wasn't going to chat his ear off about shitty horror movies. Someone interesting. Someone who could love Danny for himself. He hadn't exactly thought about murdering Piper, unless he wanted to get caught, but sometimes after laying beside her soft snoring body he had thought about faking her suicide, something that wouldn't hurt her. As much as he didn't care, breaking up would be far easier.

“Jed? Are you listening?” Piper slurps up her cherry coke, fiddling with her rings “you keep looking over at that kid, are you okay?” Piper mutters, voice hinting at concern, her hand reaches out to his arm. 

“I just thought he was bleeding, but he spilt ketchup down his arm” Jed shrugs, he smiles back at her and then looks at the time.Ten pm, it's not like she had a curfew or anything but Jed had special plans, he had to pop by his little pets home for a quick check up, and then, if Sally was an all clear. He would rip her to shreds on his knife. “I gotta write some stuff up at the office, is it okay if I drop you back?” 

“Yeah, of course” Piper smiles, she collects the garbage from the truck and shovels it into a paper bag. “I'll just pop this in the bin.” 

Jed watches Piper shuffle out the truck, her red hair swaying in the light breeze as she approaches the fry shaped bin, his head turns. Dark eye’s settle on Sally Hughes as she zips up her pink crushed velvet tracksuit, she takes little Joe's hands on her own and wipes them with a wet wipe. She swings her camel purse over her shoulder as she holds Joe’s tiny hand. Pulling him out of the fast food joint and into her white car. 

He watches you through the window, sliding the plastic washing basket on the floor and slumping into the couch. Your hair falls down the side as your leg lifts onto the back, then your other leg. He can tell you're bored. Your phone rings and your head shrugs to the side to the noise, you never really got phone calls. Unless it was important. 

You lift yourself off the sofa and trudge over to the phone. Taking the receiver off the wall, your finger loops round the thick coils. “Hello?” you mutter. Danny can just make out your expression on your face. He doesn't speak as he holds the phone to his ear. 

You look confused. You roll your eyes at the obvious silence. And slam the phone back onto the wall, pulling a cupboard door open and slinking out a bottle of whiskey. It's the same one he saw laying on the floor that night. You pour some in a glass and knock it back. He calls again, watching your angry stomps to the phone, you pull it up to your ear. “Hello?” you sigh and cradle your face. “Jesus christ, just fucking say something” your voice spills out over the phone in a hard hush. 

“Watch yourself” Danny mutters, He hangs up and watches you cradle the receiver against your ear. You look down and then towards the bathroom. The phone falls as you shuffle your feet towards the door, it swings angrily into the wall. You come back into the lounge, knife in hand. A hunting knife, your dads old one. Buck 110, 3.75 stainless steel blade, with a wooden handle, lockback locking mechanism. He had already felt the weight of the knife in his hand, smaller than the one he used himself. Lighter too, he had stood in your bathroom, mask off in front of your mirror and traced his neck with the blade, wondering if you'd ever have the guts to slice his own throat when he would inevitably break in for a quick catch up. 

You pull the blade out and look down at the sharp edge. Walking over to the phone to hang it back up. You pull your jeans down, sliding them over your thighs in a quick recession. Standing over close to the window and then tracing over your thighs with the knife. Danny wishes he had brought his camera. You look out the window. Eyebrows furrowing. Your eyes are searching for something. Him. But Danny slinks into the shadows. His white mask encased in darkness. He pulls out his notepad and writes down something quickly. 

Lips pursing as you shrug your shirt off over your head. You raise an eyebrow and then trace the knife up your arms. Then down your chest. You sigh. Rolling your eyes until you hold the knife against your throat. Gripping tightly. He watches your hands pale around the knife's handle and you push into your throat he sees a dribble of blood fall onto your collarbone. He waits. Your eyes tear up and the knife clatters to the ground. 

You look towards the phone on your wall. Shaking your head and grabbing your clothes from the floor. You walk into your bedroom. Danny stand’s slowly. Clawing at the outside of your window to lift it up. He slides in carefully. Moving with ease against the creaky wooden floor. He picks the knife up from the ground, and pierces the blade through the note, watching blood seep into the picture, He hears your shuffles through your hallway. Taking a quick exit, he watches you from the window standing just in plain sight. You lift the note from the floor. He watches your chest move up and down quickly. Your mouth twitching at the sides as he watches you unfold the letter and close the buck with one hand. Blue ink is smudged across the letter. 

‘Thanks for the show’ 

You don't look up.

where are the long reblogs pointing out every part of a fic someone loved. where are the comments of rejoicement. where are the grand banquets where you share your favorite authors and fics. where are the inbox asks dedicated to the creations you love. where are the complete voluntary lore dives into aforesaid creations. where is the love. where is your PASSION.

I turn off the yellow lights so the bathroom is only red. The sound of the cheap projector spinning, humming quietly, endlessly. I close the door and I lock it and then close the door and I lock it and then I stand under the water. The drugs round the corners of the shower slightly and I'm able to stick my hand through the tile if I want but only if I want. I will always look for a crack in the wall through which to feel it. To touch it. To put it in my mouth and my mouth on it. It's easier when it is dark and when it is cold or when it is suffocatingly hot but always when I'm alone. It does not come to me where other people can see it, unless I take the drugs, at which point no one can see me though I can see all of them. I want to stare at the sun for a while, but not nakedly. Instead I hang up quilt over quilt and watch it try to get through. I want to take more drugs because I want to get high because I want to see it and wrap myself up in it. Maybe I should do drugs before I do interviews. I make all my music high out of my mind, it seems silly to talk about it later while sober. Do I even know what I'm talking about when I'm sober? I'm recounting a memory of an experience I had with God, now with God having left the room. I don't have to explain to you what I'm talking about it, you already know. I don't care who you are, you know. You've been alone at least once in your life so you know. I blacked out every window of my bedroom in the attic in Pennsylvania and I rocked back and forth on my bed with the drugs and I cried asking for it to come to me. I want it all the time. I am so angry that it will let me near but it won't let me stay. It's so cruel. It laughs at me when I realize we are not the same. I'm going to take more drugs and get in the shower and put my hand through the tile. I know you can hear me. It's happening to everybody.

Hello very much :)

I thought about making a video on this topic but I decided to just write it out in a post instead. Either way, I'd like to speak a bit more specifically about a drunk rant I made on a separate account the other day that was not as well put together as I'd like to stand as my viewpoints on the subject.

tl:dr, I just feel as though there's a lack of sincerity in the world these days. I speak from personal experience as an artist putting things out into the world, yes, but also as a human being interacting with other human beings on the regular, and I have had my sentiments echoed by many other friends of mine over the past year or so, both artists and non-artists alike. Most of this will be framed through the consumption of art, because that's my own personal passion in this life of mine, but also the way we interface with each other and process the world around us. Now, don't get me wrong, I love to laugh. I love a good joke, and I love lightheartedness as much as the next person. But I saw someone this morning put it very succinctly in response to my rant, something along the lines of "don't let the joke about it overtake the source material." It feels as though it's a common occurrence these days to take a pinch of something with a lot more weight to it, often a humorous bit, and then run with it. Everyone then gathers around the pinch to ooh and ahh and consume it as a whole. Context is immediately lost, the legacy of that body of work becomes its own caricature, and anyone discovering that body of work via said caricature may forgo a piece of art they would otherwise love because "there's nothing there". And don't think this is me griping at those making jokes at the expense of my art. I make jokes about my own art. But when the joke dies, yet continues to grow, and spread, and finds its way back to me both on the internet and off for months (or, God forbid, years) to come, I can't help but say to myself; what the fuck is happening. Artists have fled the public and all their outlets for personality and expression outside the medium because they feel ridiculed. It's not even just their art. Katya comes to mind, speaking on how she went on youtube live a few years back in literal tears talking about police brutality and the injustices marginalized communities were facing at the hands of the government. Meanwhile, the entire comment section "yass" and "mother"ed her in barrages, not paying attention to anything she had to say. I get asked about when I'm dropping Preacher's Daughter vinyl en masse in response to my Palestine fundraiser links. It's everywhere and it's inescapable. No one can be serious for even two seconds.

This may all sound obnoxious; so be it. I tie strings from this central problem to many other complaints I have heard repeated ad nauseam the past few years. For example; the death of subculture. Goth, punk, whatever, you name it. People who built an underground counterculture movement with a rich history based on a love of art, community, and otherwise misunderstood worldviews and experiences deemed foul or inappropriate. Now we see bits taken from it, the terms and the looks, without any of the meat, spread thin across society as a whole. Words mean nothing anymore. One can rest on history and say they were a part of it when in fact, they did nothing. No appreciation or understanding to be had for the love and passion that built it. No serious interaction with the culture's very real confines and boundaries, just mindless co-opting. This has just as much to do with late stage capitalism as it does with excessive humor in lieu of sincerity, but it's certainly both. Again, this may sound like a silly complaint, but I don't care. The collective ennui we're all experiencing has a very real reason, whether we're ready to acknowledge or not.

In a twisted thread, it's even tied to our lack of care to change the world around us. People cheer on the idea of communism, but who among us is ready to give up the convenience of society as it stands? Amazon prime, doordash, fresh fruit out of season as I saw someone mention in a similar post last week; the marvels of modern technology. Do we really think these things can last in a society that isn't actively destroying the planet? We talk about the idea of something all day long but have very little to do with the actuality of what we're talking about. And don't think I consider myself exempt from this problem. I couldn't even try to claim to be. It seems nearly silly to be complaining, then, about the way people consume the art around them these days as we creep towards what feels like the end of days. But as long as I still draw breath, I must complain.

I miss genuine passion. As an autistic individual, when I'm alone, sometimes I cannot contain myself with how things make me feel. The music I listen to, the video games I play, the books I read. I almost feel the need to run through the house and scream in everyone's face how I'm feeling. It feels good to love intensely. Now, I won't pretend like autistic people haven't been bullied for this since the dawn of time, but there is surely a noticeable lack of passion in everything these days. Everyone can feel it, everyone is talking about it. Everything now is "cringe", or "doing too much", or "not that serious". Actually, it is that serious. Insecurity in one's own deeper feelings may not be a new thing, but a culture that seems to promote this eschewing of them does seem to be a new evil. The tone of the internet has completely shifted. I spent most of my time here when I first discovered it a little over a decade ago on Zelda forums and other chat-based websites, talking about how much I loved whatever fandom I was in at the time and having genuine and memorable interactions with like-minded individuals who felt the same way I do. Now, you have two options; if you hate media, you rip it to shreds, and if you love it, you word-salad it to death and parrot a joke about it that someone else said. I'm not saying people don't still talk seriously in a heartfelt way about the things they love, but it does not seem to be the initial reaction anymore. Do I have a solution to this problem? Of course not. I'm a 26 year old girl posting on a tumblr blog. If I had a solution, this is not where I would be dropping it. But conversation is God to man, and I believe in the ability to change things from the inside out. We make the rules, and we can change them.

Before I go, I'd like to just clarify that I am very grateful for my career, grateful to anyone who has ever given me and my art the time of day, grateful to anyone who has ever come up to me and connected with me over my work, and grateful for a life where someone making too many jokes is the worst part of my day. I do not think I am better nor smarter than anyone on or off the internet. I am simply a girl with big feelings and I enjoy talking about them with other people with big feelings, and it makes me sad when something avoidable or unnecessary gets in the way of that.

All in all, I love to love, and I love all of you, I love my life, I love this record, and mi amore vo- i mean.... oh, whatever.

(Feel free to sound off in the comments and please be nice to each other)

how it feels to have a crush

Cherry Waves : one

Ghostface! Danny Johnson x f!reader

Danny just had to save you. He just had to save your poor sad life. Knocking your sad frail body against fake plastic tiles. Shoving his fingers down your throat like a kid fishing for pennies. What was it you wrote in your diary? Your shiny white masked knight in a black shroud? Well how cute. Maybe it was time he kept a pet around.Just to play or course.18+ : eventual smut, themes of suicide (reader attempts), selfharm, sexual content, murder, themes of violence

ao3 prolouge masterlist

Three months later,

VETERANS MURDERED IN HOME

Adam webbing

Senior journalist 

See page four for more details.

Another violent murder has shocked the small sunny town of Roseville after the body’s of Daren and his brother Edward Small were recovered outside their home in the early hours of the morning. The Brothers fought bravely in the army during the Vietnam war, Darren was a well loved member of the Roseville community and along with his brother they led the local boy scouts on numerous camping trips and charity events, last year raising nearly two thousand dollars for the local animal shelter. 

The witness (who chooses to stay anonymous) found Daren slumped over on a lawn chair with multiple stab wounds, while Edward was found lying outside the trailer door in an obvious attempt to escape with a shattered leg and seven stab wounds to the back. The stab wounds were so brutal it shattered his rib cage and punctured his lungs. The Witness said she saw a man covered in a black shroud and white mask running from the scene before calling first responders. Darren died shortly in the ambulance after attempts to stop bleeding. 

Is this the work of a new killer, or a robbery gone wrong?

If you have any information please contact Detective Moore at the RPD +(000) 000 000

A memorial will be held later today at the Roseville Community Hall at 4pm everybody is welcome to attend.

Your hand traces the words, they're so tiny you could have missed them. White mask. You bite your lip. A month ago you would have called him a knight in a shiny black robe and a white plastic mask. And now you're unsure if he really was a saviour, a guardian angel. When you had thought about it a bit more he had seemed like a vigilante, the violent ones from the comic books, like the punisher, or maybe even Batman. Cloaked in darkness protecting people from rapists by beating them to a pulp, he had reminded you a bit of the crow, your own Eric Draven. 

And maybe he was just a vigilante, maybe the Small brothers had committed multiple offences during their time in Vietnam, you heard the stories. Rape, Looting, collecting ears. You had even heard about soldiers paying for certain commodities with children. But these were just maybes, maybe he was a saviour, a blessing in disguise, but he had also threatened you with a painful death if you would ever try to attempt again. 

And although it was Florida, where crazy crack addicts try to train gators, or break into houses just to watch TV for hours. There was something shocking about the turn of events that had happened in such a short amount of time. You had a near death experience while unknowingly being saved by a masked killer, and then two 50 something year old men the community worshipped on veteran day had been killed, stabbed. 

Shot in the head would've been easier to digest, but the brothers owned guns, they hunted, they had been in the army for god sake, they had killed people. Stabbed? When either brother is able to grab a gun and shoot? This was a completely different story. Whomever had killed them was not someone to mess with. He was dangerous.

And what if you were next, what if you crashed into the guy out of costume and he saw the scars on your arms, or a pot of pills from the pharmacy. What if you cut in line or told him to ‘fuck off’, would you be next, if you even thought about suicide again would he make good on his promise?

The Police thought they were clever, that it was NCIS level shit, the only problem was, when you have a town this small. Every detective or officer was someone you had spoken to. You could spot them from a mile away as they stood ridgid against walls holding candles like batons. The police were so sure the killer was going to be in attendance that you could make out the indentation of handcuffs in the jean shorts that half of them wore.

You walked, arm linked in arm with Aaron. He was on your recently completed college course, and had just landed a gig as a touring concert photographer with some band from the 70s. Made up of fifty year old men. It was high paying, and he actually got to go to like three places in Europe. So it was something worth being jealous over. The only thing you had managed to do was get a job at the paper as a photographer and assistant to the editor, running coffees while snapping photos for the paper wasn't exactly the hardest gig, nor was it the most riveting. But hey, you had bills to pay, and your uncle hired you as a favour from your mum. 

In Fact the only reason you were here at the Memorial service at all was to snap quick photos of mourners, you had shot some photos of candles being lit by the boyscouts hall, along with flowers laid upon each other neatly, swapping from a digital camera to a film camera when you realised you were gonna have to edit either one on the difficult software you had begged your manager to buy. Aaron pointed out different ideas for the paper, but you knew your Uncle would go with the lit candles anyway, so there was no bother. After you had got your shots you head back to the gazette, zig zagging across the crowd of people heading to the memorial. You wave goodbye to Aaron as you sling your digital camera over your shoulder ready to enter the building and suddenly you're crashing into the wall. Or a person. You gaze up at your victim. He's a little shy of six feet, dirty blonde hair swooping every which way. Brown puppy eyes staring down at you, he brings his hand up apologetically, and you watch the way the curves of his lips twitch into a smile. “Im so sorry” 

You squint back at him. “It's fine,” you wave your hand at him. “Really I should watch where im going” you pause, and then force a smile, reaching your hand out to grab the door handle, his hand follows and knocks your own, you both pull back quickly. 

“Gosh! Look at us.” He smiles again, eyes crinkling into a big fake grin, you only stare back. “Well, ladies first.” he nods. You don't look back as you swing the door open, and then pull yourself into the building, not bothering if the door hits him on your way in. “Did you go to the memorial?” he asks, in an odd cheery tone, the kind you put on when you answer the phone. 

“Yep” you mutter back, you're unsure if he even heard you as you turn in a twist of corridors, yanking doors and climbing up the stairs, until you're at the office. 

The Gazette is an odd shaped building, its L shaped, the gap allowing for a parking lot that's scarcely used. The Gazette is on the second floor, underneath a marketing or lawyer firm. It's a three story building at the edge of town, a short walk from your home, and the local coffee shop you hide in. 

Jed waves bye at you as you slip into the dark room, you spend thirty minutes developing the film and bathing it into baths of chemicals. You snip the roll into sections, hang to dry over the sink with film clips weighing each of them down. Then rebottling and labelling the chemicals you've used. You've got about two to five hours to wait-out until they're dry, so you sort the film from the other day into a clear folder, checking Jeds to see if it was dry. Your eyes glaze over the shots of a new cafe that opened up recently. Then you hurl yourself out the door. 

You carefully scan your film into the kodak 35mm scanner, it takes ages to see it fully appear on screen, Then  you work on editing the contrast and changing the photos from sepia to full colour. You finally print the photos for a final go over and head over to your uncle's office. You pass Jeds desk, perfectly organised, he swings around on his chair, you pause. 

“Your films dry in there, by the way” you smile lightly and watch him lean back on his chair before standing, the chair rolls across the floor at a hurdling speed, and you pop your leg out to stop it before walking away.

Micheal Thomas Jones wasn't actually your uncle, before your dad passed he was his closest friend. He helped your mum out financially before she remarried, even offering her a job as assistant when she couldn't work due to health reasons. He's a sweet guy, you remember him swinging you around his garden at a family barbeque when you were seven. You weren't sure if they were actually hiring for a photographer/assistant when he offered you a job, in fact Jed had only been hired four months prior to your appearance and he was already taking photos for the paper. But freshly graduated you decided to take whatever you could. 

You had learnt the office admired Jed, the ladies fawned over his perfect hair and the guys laughed at his crude jokes. You weren't sure how you stood with Jed, he was a seasoned Photographer/journalist that had crashed into the tiny town right next to your little apartment. Part of you wondered why Roseville, why a tiny town? With his experience he could have aimed for somewhere bigger. It felt like charity work, barely minimum wage for beautifully written articles about the intricacies of the town. He made potholes being filled sound like someone had won the lottery. It bothered you slightly, he was put on this pedestal, even a snarky remark had sounded like a lighthearted joke. 

You push the door open to Mike’s office, planting the images on his desk as he smiles up at you. “Do you want a coffee from down the road?” you ask. Mike nods, bald head shining under the light. He stretches out his arm to check over the photos as you grab the company card from his wallet and walk out. You already had his coffee order memorised. You walk around and ask the few in if they want anything. Your feet land at Jeds desk. You purse your lips at the empty chair.

He takes it black, right?Maybe you should check. 

Your arms sway against your body as you pull yourself up to the dark room. The red light isnt on so you plant your hand on the door. Slowly turning the silver handle. “Don't come in,” Jed hisses. You shut the door. Blinking quickly. “Sorry, the lights are off and I don't want to ruin these photos” You furrow your eyebrows, eyes glazing to the now shining red light above the door.

“All good, do you want a coffee?” you ask. You wait a few seconds and lean against the door, He doesn't reply. “Jed?” you wonder if you should leave. You clasp your hands and stretch them out in front of you. 

A few moments pass and you feel the door open, you scramble to balance yourself on your feet as Jed peeks his head out the door. “Hey” He smiles. The scar on his cheek lifting. You step backwards to allow him out the room, head blocking the photographs he's hanging to dry.

“Hi”, you answer. 

You watch him adjust his button shirt, pushing his glasses up before he tilts his head at you. “I'll come grab coffee with you!” He seems almost sincere. You nod your head as he leads you out the building. 

The walk is silent. All you hear is Jeds converse scuff across the sidewalk in quick succession, he walks on the outside of the road and switches over when you cross. Hand pressed against your back as he moves round you. When you head into the Coffee shop they're nearly closing, you're glad you're only ordering four coffees. The whirring of the coffee machine fills your ears, and you sigh into the smell of freshly ground beans. After you order you wait for the coffees by the collection point. 

You pick at your nails, Jeds hands slide into his back pockets and he kicks his feet against each other. “Sorry, I hope I haven't gotten the wrong idea, but do you hate me?”

His question startles you, you feel the wind knocked out of your lungs. It's too confrontational but not out of the ordinary for Jed. “No, what? Why do you think that” 

He breathes a sigh of relief, fingers combing through his brows, “well, I guess it's because we don't really talk and I catch you giving me these horrid looks sometimes?” 

Your eyebrow raises, lips snarling, and then you relax your face. “Look, I don't hate you. I guess I'm just a little jealous, I feel like Mike likes you more than me and I've known him for like, ever~” you watch him digest your words. There's a hint of a smirk on his face. “Maybe I'm just being cynical but it's like, everyone is so captivated by you and I have no clue why you are even here. Not in a bad way, just it's a small town in Florida literally outside Jacksonville, like Miami is right there. Maybe i just think you should aim a little higher, actually get your name out there” 

He turns his head towards the barista, smiling and thanking her for the drinks. He nods at you and you follow him through the door. When you're outside you take out the carton of cigarettes from your back pocket, sliding one into your mouth and turning to Jed, he looks down at you. You feel squeamish on the inside, soft eyes hitting your own, his arm bumps your own in a sweet jokey way. You're starting to get why all those ladies like him at work. Something in his boyish nature takes you back to highschool. With those heart crushing crushes on indie nerds. You feel your cheeks blush. You smile back, it's genuine this time. You hold out the carton to him, he plucks one from the pack, slipping it in the corner of his mouth you bring the lighter towards the Cig, his lips purse as he huffs smoke from the corners of his mouth.  

When Jed Olson waves you goodbye at your door with a smile, he steps into his cramped apartment and his face falls, shoulders arching inwards as he stomps off his clothes. Stepping into the shower, washing away the achy muscles of the day. Fresh scars burning as the water steams over them.He lets his hand run over his hair slicking it back until only a strand falls over his brow. He fishes out a black shirt from a pile on the floor and shoves it over his head. Wet skin sticking to the fabric. He needs a day off. Jed Olson is making him so sick. Keeping up appearances is only so easy when everyone wants a piece of you, he wishes Jed was less likeable. That he didn't feel the need to trap flies into his web with ease and yet he felt you edge closer to the centre of his cage, ready to be coiled into a prison of silk, just like the others. Because if everyone liked him, then Danny would have a far easier job.

Danny pulled out a small folder, and flipped through the number of photos he had taken over the past few months, Darren smoking a cigarette outside, Edward teaching a young boy how to tie a knot. Sally Hughes drinking a glass of wine and watching a trashy tv show and you . 

You're sitting on the couch with your hand between your thighs. Kyle Maclachlan is on the TV drinking a cup of coffee. Another of you crying, mouth gaping open, hand over your throat. Face red from the vice grip. There’s one of you pinching the fat on your thigh. Another biting your finger in a tiny lil leopard print thong in front of the mirror. You're on the floor cutting your thigh with a small knife, blood smeared against your cheek. You licking the knife clean.

He wouldn't have run into you if he had climbed into his apartment that night. You would have been dead, rotting into the sofa. Body inflating. But he just had to save you. Knocking your sad frail body against fake plastic tiles. Shoving his fingers down your throat like a kid fishing for pennies. Pressing the leather into your tongue until you had thrown up. Patting your head as you cried. Threatening you. Saving you poor sad life. He could've ended it all right there, started the chain of events. Pulling you away from deaths edge and then pushing you straight in. He had seemed to convince himself that he would have been caught if you were dead. Apartment ransacked leading to his questioning, he’d never figure out the logistics of it. But he just knew you would be important. 

So he slides himself over to the wall above his tv, pushing pins into the photographs, anyone else would call this a shrine. But really, it was his final plan. 

Danny Johnson dresses himself in a pair of cargos, he pulls his leather combat boots on and ties them up quickly. He buckles up his brand new Shroud and slips on a white mask. He slips out the window smoothly and creeps on to the fire escape, walking slowly along the metal before purchasing himself outside your window. And then he watches.

CherryWaves

Prologue

Ghostface! Danny Johnson x f!reader

Danny just had to save you. He just had to save your poor sad life. Knocking your sad frail body against fake plastic tiles. Shoving his fingers down your throat like a kid fishing for pennies. What was it you wrote in your diary? Your shiny white masked knight in a black shroud? Well how cute. Maybe it was time he kept a pet around. Just to play or course. 18+ : eventual smut, themes of suicide (reader attempts), selfharm, sexual content, murder, themes of violence

ao3 one masterlist

There's something in the air. Maybe it's that time of year. When you feel yourself fall away like thread splitting at the seams. When you’re clutching at the fabric of your knit sweater. Pulling it closer to your skin. Jeans become looser around your waist, you watch them fall around your hips as you push down the urge to throw up. It's normal. It's a regular occurrence you swear! When winter comes round it's like you're dying from the inside. Wilting quickly. Blackened petals folding in on themself. Ready to crumble into a pile of ash. You're just another brown leaf on the sidewalk. Stepped on, splashed over. Melting into a mushy pile like the others. Until spring comes, when you find yourself blossoming all over again.

And maybe you haven't been too careful recently, watchful, cautious. You're in and out of work. The days feel slower and quicker and it's hard to remember what time it is and when you last washed the bra you're wearing. So it's not like you're keeping an eye on things. 

You rub your eyes. Eyeliner smudging underneath, you feel the grit of your mascara rub against your eyelids. You huff smoke. Cigarette hanging out of your mouth as you tuck your hair behind your ears. There’s a slight chill in the air which is slightly unusual for Florida, but you tuck your thin sweater around your chest anyway, numb fingers taking the cigarette out your mouth as you blow a billow of smoke into the air. 

You throw the cigarette on the floor and crush it under your foot, watching the embers escape into the concrete slabs. You check your watch. It's only ten past five, Thursday evening. Someone bumps shoulders with you as you pass by a crowd after work rush. You've only just escaped from a job yourself. You pat down your jeans, wallet gone. You look back quickly and watch someone scurry across the crowd of people, ducking between workers and customers. He was out of sight just as you noticed him. You sigh. Looking up at the pharmacy ahead. You bite your lip. 

You pull yourself into a nook between shops and lean down on the cold gravel. Hands digging into your pockets, you pull out 4 dollars, a lighter and a receipt for milk. You bite the insides of your cheeks. Hands scraping up the wall as you bring yourself back up on your feet. 

The door to the pharmacy swings open, it smells like an air-conditioning unit and pepto bismol, your shoes scrape across the floor as you wander around the aisles, eyes flicking through hair products, condoms, prenatal vitamins, and finally razors. A pack of twelve single blades is a buck. You wonder if you should just tuck them under your sleeve and buy a burger from over the road instead. You wonder if you should buy them at all. But you find your feet shuffling over to the counter anyway, before you can even think for yourself.

Are you really doing this? 

Yes. 

You made up your mind a long time ago. 

You slide the pack across the counter along with a two dollar bill , the pharmacist looks up at you with a smile, it stretches across his face like a mask. Skin shiny and plastic. Against the hard fluorescent lights, You smile back quickly and watch him type up the price on the cash machine, buttons clicking. He looks at you. Eyes tracing over the curves of your cheeks, you watch his lips purse, eyes flicking towards the packet you slammed down on the counter mere moments ago, the bill curling up at the sides, you wonder if it still has coke around the edges. He sighs. “Do you have any I.D?” 

You blink, biting your lip in annoyance. Of course you fucking dont. Your wallet just got stolen. You want to scream. You pat down your pockets, digging into the back ones and then shrug, baring your teeth on one side. “Oh sorry, I think I left it at home.”

He stares back in annoyance. “I'm old enough to buy them though, I promise.” you laugh, pushing the cash closer towards him. 

“You have to be over 18 to buy, I'm sorry if you don't have any I.D I can't let you buy any.” 

“I've bought them here before and you didn't ask for I.D?” 

Plan B it is.

He shrugs, pushing your cash back at you. You blink slowly, hand grabbing onto the dollar bill and pushing yourself away from the counter. He watches you pass through the aisle, and you slip your hand out quickly to grab something before running out the door, your feet thumping against the sidewalk quickly, you dash into an alleyway and pull the object into your line of sight. It's a child's lip balm shaped like some cartoon character, it's dead-stock of some kind because you had the same one when you were about five, tiny cracked lips covered in glitter. Toothy grin.

You throw it on the floor and take out your carton of cigarettes, there's one. Broken, shoved in sideways at the bottom, you fish it out quickly and rip off the end, fishing your lighter out, you bring the cancer to your lips, breathing in as you flick the clippers edge, sparks fly quickly. You bring your thumb down repeatedly but no flame appears. 

You fight the urge to bash your head against the wall. 

You walk twenty minutes down the road, climb a flight of stairs and then settle between the indentation in your cheap sofa, your apartment is inherently hot, even as the sun sets behind the curtains you feel yourself melt into the cracked leather. Skin sticking to shiny fabric. The place wasn't exactly clean, but it wasn't like you were living in squalor the whole time, clothes piled into corners of the room, a couple of empty glasses here and there. A moulding cup of coffee on the windowsill, unopened bills piled next to the door. It was a list of things you weren't going to have to deal with in the next coming days or ever.

When you blink yourself awake it's eleven pm. You smile into your palm. Bare feet pattering against linoleum tile to the cupboard in your bathroom, you pull out the full bottle of sleeping pills. Closing the door and watching your face appear in the mirror, dark circles and gaunt cheeks. You trace your brow bone with your finger, watching the nail scrape against skin, it trails down to your cheeks. Then your lips and then you smother your face in your hands. 

They won't find you till Monday, maybe Tuesday if they don’t realise you’re missing, maybe never, maybe you'll rot into the floorboards till it gives out on the weight of your swollen body and you'll collapse into the floor underneath you, you're a lawsuit waiting to happen. You wonder if the coroner will think you're pretty. Will they judge you for the underwear you're wearing, or will it be sliced off without a thought?  They'll mark it as a suicide the minute they see the scars across your thighs 

Will your Mum even attend the funeral? 

Will he?

You groan against your palms, smile disappearing into nothing. You can't keep doing this to yourself, edging yourself at the thought of death. You shake yourself out of it quickly. Pulling the door open and grabbing the first bottle of liquor you can see. You sit down on the floor near the tv. Running your fingers over the edge of the pill bottle, fingernail knocking against every divot of the cap, you bite your lip as you pull it off. Pouring a couple into your hand, five perfect pills lying neatly in your palm. You tear the bottle cap of the whiskey, shoving the pills into your mouth without care and drowning them. 

You swallow, feeling them go down your throat, nearly scratching the sides. Switching on the tv to some horror movie, you fall into the crevice of the couch.

And now you wait. 

It feels like hours have passed quickly and you're floating, and suddenly the floor is crashing up at you. You're slumped over the toilet bowl as someone's hand digs deeply into your mouth, you gag, fingers leaving a trail of spit as you puke into the toilet bowl, the taste of acid and leather on your tongue. Your eyes are half closed as your cheek rests against the ceramic seat. It feels hard to breathe, you suck in air all jagged. You're breathing all wrong. Something or someone pats your back softly, and then you're throwing up all over again, watching the white pills come up quickly. There's about four in the toilet, only a sliver of them dissolved. Snot runs down your face. It's only been a few minutes since you took them and apparently since some guy has come into your home.

Your hands grip on the floor as the black smudges approach your face again, mouth yanked open as he shoves his fingers down your throat, you feel the bile rise up. And you're chucking up all over again, it’s just pure stomach acid, but the last pill comes up and you feel yourself slump into a pile on the cold plastic floor, tears wetting the hair you're leaning against. The shower curtain billowing against your legs. Your hands feel weak and you can barely grip a fist. You cough against yourself, drooling out your mouth. You run your hands over your face as you curl into a ball. You're hot to the touch, sweating through your shirt. Back sticking to the fabric.

Whoever is in your apartment has ruined your plans. 

You blink as a cool glass of water is pressed to your lips, it tastes so sweet in comparison to the sick, and you gulp down the liquid as someone hushes at you softly. Leather wipes away your tears, you're pulled into a chest and rocked back and forth until you stop hyperventilating, it feels like you’re a child all over again, feeling so small. Half awake in the arms of comfort. You wonder if he’ll bring you to bed, tuck you in and read you a story.

It pulls off your clothes in quick recession, your limp body placed carefully in the bath, he holds your body to the wall as your scrubbed clean of spit and puke. Gentle hands running down your body. You're still so out of it. Eyes half closed the whole time, they feel so raw. The light penetrating through the window feels like they are ripping them out of your head.  

Then your body gets pulled out of the tub, into your bedroom where you’re fully clothed all over again. He chosen the nice pj’s, the ones your mum got you for christmas, fished out from the sale rack of some expensive department store. They're still so soft on your skin, even when you use the cheap detergent. Strands of hair are wiped away from your face as you lie in bed. Your arms and legs are useless, they flop against the mattress as a sheet is pulled over your body. 

You gaze up at the guardian angel. A pale face gapes back at you. Black eyes, a skeletal nose, You gasp. Wetting your lips with your tongue. Your heart beat raises for the first time that night. Your lip quivers into a smile. “Who?-”

“Shh, It's okay. Wrong place and Wrong time. Okay?” his hand grasps around your chin pulling your head into a gradual nod. You blink up at him. Lips parting. He smoothes a hand over the black sheet. He stands up, quiet on his feet as he approaches the door, you meet his gaze as he turns round. 

“Try killing yourself again and I'll gut you” his hand grasps the door, he pauses. “Got it?” 

You find yourself nodding quickly,“Yeah, I got it”.

“Good” He flicks the light off. The room pools into darkness, and he steps into the light of the hallway, whatever is on the tv switches off and the door slams shut after.

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Negotiations With The Devil

Chapter 2: Promises, Promises

Dead by Daylight

Danny Johnson “Ghostface” x f!reader

25.4k words

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

CW: noncon!elements, dubcon!elements (honestly this things a consent rollercoaster, strap in), obsessive behavior, death threats, spanking, oral (m!receiving), knifeplay, violence, unprotected pnv climactic intercourse, degradation, praise, Danny is a whole warning of his own lmao

Part 1

You’re having the most wonderful dream. It’s not particularly thrilling, nor is it lucid. You can’t control it, though even if you could you don’t think you’d wish it to change. It’s not even a dream per se, there’s no fluid plot or story, no basis of events that can be followed. In reality it’s more like a vivid phantom sensation. Just the serene caresses of soft, supple lips ghosting over your brow, the pleasant comforting weight of a warm body melded to your side, the featherlight draw of exploratory fingertips tracing over your skin in lazy passes.

You almost hope to never meet its end, your subconscious leaning into the dream, wishing it to last as long as humanly possible, hoping to fall deeper and deeper into its velvet clutches. Which actually seems to be working as the morning light never seems to seep its nosey fingers into the room to try and pry you away from this little bliss. But one, no matter how enthralled with the otherworldly visions that play just out of reach on the other side of our lids, can not sleep forever. And thus eventually you do begin to stir, and yet somehow it seems as though the dream isn’t quite content with the idea of letting you go. Even as you rise from the foggy depths of your dream it still seems to stick with you somehow, those lips never fade, the warmth at your side never abates and those fingers only sharpen in focus as you begin to wake.

You realize after you come to enough to open your eyes that the morning light had never woken you because you’d put on your sleep mask before bed. The memory of your migraine comes into focus slowly, the remnants of it must be the cause of this hazy fog you can’t seem to shake and there’s this horribly acrid aftertaste on your tongue. You can’t remember if you’d brushed your teeth before climbing into bed, hell you can’t remember what you’d had for dinner either. It’s all blurry and distant.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

The gruff rumble of a foreign male voice in your ear jars you out of the haze. All at once you scramble out of bed and rip the sleep mask from your eyes to stare in disbelief at the source of your rude awakening. He’s propped up by one arm, the palm of which is buried in his chestnut hair, pulling it back and out of his eyes. The other now occupies the space you’d just inhabited, basking in the residual warmth of you still radiating from the mattress where you’d spent the last eight hours, with his palm up and stretched out like he’s reaching out for you, tempting your return. He’s got on a plain black undershirt that covers his toned torso but leaves the musculature of his shoulders and arms exposed, the rest of him is covered by your bed sheets.

It’s when your eyes trail up to his face to peer into his own deep brown orbs that it all comes ripping back to you. The events of the previous night unfurl like the petals of a noxious flower bloom and you stiffen, your whole body going rigid with panic. Horror mounts within you and you aren’t terribly sure if you’re going to pass out or run. Your eyes flash between him and the door in indecision, inadvertently projecting your next move. He makes the decision for you, pulling a knife you are all too vividly familiar with from beneath his pillow, it’s steely edge still stained red with your dried blood.

“Whoa there, doll. While I’m sure you think you're plenty fast enough to make it from here to the door in time to scream for help before I catch up to you, it’s a chance I wouldn’t take. I’m pretty fast myself, and our little game of chase comes with pretty severe consequences for losing.” He flashes the blade in a show of just what those consequences entail and your gall withers.

“Who are you?” His face falls a bit and you’d forgotten just how out to lunch the man who’d broken into your home late last night really is as he draws a hand to his chest, as if wounded. “Oh doll, you’re breaking my heart. You don’t really mean to tell me you don’t remember all the fun we had together?”

The horrors of the previous evening are etched into the stone of your memory so deep and jagged you doubt that even with professional help you’ll ever be able to forget, forever scarred. They loop on an endless nightmare reel on every surface of your mind, flashing by in grainy stills every time you blink. “I’ve got the pictures to prove it if you need me to jog your memory.”

He pulls the covers back to draw closer, sliding out of bed headed right for you with the knife still clenched in his fist, predacious. “Or maybe you need a more physical reminder, I can walk you back down memory lane step by step by step if you want.” You shiver at the thought of letting him anywhere near you again, backing away to keep some measure of distance between you, but the room is only so wide and you jump as the cold grain of the door rises up to meet your back. To your relief he stops, his eyes ride the length of your entire body, up from the soles of your feet to the petrified gems of your eyes. He seems amused by them— that among other things his eyes keep drifting back down to.

It’s then you realize you’re still naked, the memory of your clothes being literally cut away from your body coming back to you with full force as you scramble to cover yourself from his gaze. You look at him accusatorily.

“What the fuck are you still doing in my house?” You husk out, all breathy and hoarse and pathetic. You want to scream it at him, make him feel an ounce of the sheer terror your fragile mind is coursing with, but the implications of the consequences hold you in contempt.

“I promised you I’d be here when you woke up and I take my promises very seriously.” You don’t know why you even asked, his answer would only ever prove to drive you closer to insanity, drag you down into the mouth of madness with him. You feel just on the cusp of passing out, the room swirls in and out of focus and you momentarily lose track of place or purpose or time, if it weren’t for the door at your back you’d have fainted long ago.

“I need to get dressed, I need to- I need to get ready for work, I-“

“You don’t need to worry about any of that, my love. I’ve already called in sick for you. Told them you’d come down with one of those nasty viruses going around, awfully contagious. They don’t want to see your face for at least the rest of the week and only with a doctor's note in hand at that.”

But you’re already moving, inching towards your dresser with your back still pressed flush against the wall. When you get to it you keep your eyes trained on him as you pull a bra, a skimpy night shirt and a lacy pair of panties from the top drawer, the first things your shaky fingers can seize upon and scramble to put them on before he rushes you.

It feels like the walls are closing in around you, your world is getting smaller and smaller by the second. How has your life changed so exponentially in the last twenty four hours? How could it ever have derailed so quickly? You cling to consciousness by the skin of your teeth out of pure fear over just what he may do to you if left unattended with your unconscious body. You can’t even bring yourself to think about what he’s done in the time he’s already had while you were asleep.

Before you can go back to the drawer to find anything more than that he’s grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you towards him, catching you as you nearly stumble in your resistance from digging your heels into the floorboards beneath your feet as if it were dirt. It makes you stumble into him and he has to catch you by the waist to stop you from falling forward into his chest. The feel of his hands on your hips is electric, the lace does little to conceal your skin and his fingers span a much wider surface than they could ever hope to cover, but it was all you could grab in the moment.

“What you need is something to eat, doll. You’re looking dim.”

He’s right, you’re teetering but you can’t cook like this and you won’t dare accept anything he makes for you ever again, it’s what got you into this situation in the first place. He pulls you closer and you flinch at his every touch, though he’s nothing but gentle as he pulls you out into the expanse of the rest of the house, guiding you to the kitchen and depositing you onto a stool at the bar.

He announces you need juice and though you watch the entire process from pour to procurment you still hesitate, the memories of innocently downing a glass of water to the last drop only to detect the lecherous bitter after notes of deceit a moment before your world went black sits like a weight on your shoulders, unbudging.

When several moments had passed and you still hadn’t so much as touched the glass for fear of its curses he informs you that he’d be more than happy to siphon it directly from his lips to yours if you’d prefer. That gets you going, well at least gets the glass in your hand and he watches as you slowly bring it to your lips and sip it. You get no more than enough to coat the surface of your tongue actually in your mouth, trying to detect any off flavors or distinct abnormalities.

Though you’re wary, you can’t help the way your mouth instantly salivates as the cool refreshing nectar saturates your tongue. After several hours with nothing to drink you’re quite parched, but you must exercise restraint to ensure you’re not being tricked again. After a moment goes by and you don't immediately pass out or begin expelling your guts from your esophagus, you figure it’s safe enough and end up downing the whole glass like an overeager child. He smiles, sitting across from you pleased as pie.

“That’s a start, but still not enough.” You eye him from overtop the rim of the glass and across the bar as you try to collect the last drops of juice running up towards your mouth in thinning streams onto your tongue, imagining all sorts of ways to maim or kill and flee him but acting out on none of them. You don't know what he wants from you, you’re certainly not about to sit here and break bread with this deranged stranger, though it seems he means for you to do exactly that.

“I’ll put it this way, I need to go to work but I’m not leaving until I see you eat something. So you can either cook us some breakfast or I can get up and whip us both up some real food to eat, I’m sure I can manage something without burning down your cute little kitchen in the process.”

You have half a mind to let him, at least then perhaps the firefighters will come, a truck or two full of trained professionals who may combat him and free you of this never ending nightmare. But there’s so many variables in between the house beginning to go up in flames and the five minutes it’d take for the fire trucks to arrive that it’s a chance you’re unwilling to take. He could do any number of things in that span of five minutes, none of them good.

Plus he’d just said he’d planned on going to work today, which ultimately meant he’d be leaving the house and after he left you could decide what to do from there. Now you just need to bide your time. Bide your time and keep things copacetic. You rise from your chair and find it’s much easier to stand on your own. You head into the kitchen as he takes the chair you’d just been in, sitting down and watching you intently as you get to work. You find you’ve got some eggs left in the carton in the fridge, a little bit of bacon and some bread that’s still soft, so bacon, eggs and toast it is.

You assume he’s not vegetarian, with a man as prone to violence as you’ve seen him be you seriously doubt he’s got any aversion to meat or blood for that matter. You pull out a few pans and get to work, trying not to let the intensity of his gaze get to you too badly. You had really hoped that you could go the rest of the morning in silence, just focus on cooking and coming up with a plan for after he’d left, but you had no such luck.

“Isn’t this nice?” You want to roll your eyes so hard they’ll be stuck in the back of your head for the rest of your days, at least then you’d never have to look at him again. And wouldn’t that be a relief because you find in the morning light it’s hard to look at him dead on. The dark did him no favors, if anything it only masked the real, profound nature of his natural good looks.

You steal little glances at him, bending down to grab the toaster from the cabinet, gathering up the shells to trash them after cracking eggs, grabbing plates from the shelf above the bar. And you think you know now why people can’t help but to stare at car crashes or train wrecks. There’s something inexplicably beautiful in the hauntingly macabre.

And every time his eyes met yours the direct eye contact sent sparks jolting through you. The light spilling in from the kitchen window over the sink catches in his eyes and lightens them, bringing out the lighter, honey-hued smatterings in the wash of deeper, more resolute browns. Each and every time without fail it makes your breath catch in your chest, makes your pulse quicken and there’s this lightheaded, dizziness that’s making it hard to focus.

You should be abhorred or indignant or even enraged and while to some degree you feel all these things, swirling in an emotional cocktail that’s so potent it’s making your head spin; there’s an overwhelming, archaic, dull throb resonating from deep in your greymatter. A hard to ignore conflicting emotion that makes all the rest feel like droning background noise.

You keep getting flashbacks, pleasure stained vignettes dancing across your memory of you pressed up against him, struggling for air beneath the suffocating weight of him, screaming in pleasure as he ravages you all while insisting your objections, even as you cream around his cock. No matter how much you tell yourself you’re disgusted by him, no matter how badly you tell yourself you want him out of your house, the memories of your late night foray has your pussy twitching around nothing as you flip eggs and struggle not to burn his bacon.

“Something on your mind, doll?” You come back to see him staring at you, an all-knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Your eyes widen as you wonder how he can possibly have read your mind, or if perhaps your thoughts now scroll across your forehead in real time, on full display for him like one of those digital Jumbotrons at football games or those constantly updating stock tickers on Wall Street. Your mouth parts in dumbfounded shock as you try to regain control over your short circuiting brain.

“Huh? Me? No. I-uhm... Shit!” Smoke plumes from the mouth of the toaster, billowing black and shouting your guilt to the sky with its cries of negligence. You pop the bread out, the charred surface a dead ringer as you struggle to pull it free from the cursed machine, burning the delicate pads of your fingers as you play hot potato with yourself to get it on a plate.

You figure you must look pretty silly as you simultaneously wave a tea towel around in the air erratically to keep the smoke away from the smoke detector all while trying to cut the heat from the stove to avoid burning the rest of breakfast as well. You haphazardly arrange the eggs, bacon and blackened toast onto two plates as he sits across the bar from you too lost in the pleasure of watching you squirm to offer any kind of assistance.

You huff as you set his plate down in front of him, embarrassed beyond hell at fucking something up as easy as god damn eggs and toast. But you know why you’re fucking up the simplest of tasks, the sole reason for your distractions is sitting in a chair across the bar from you, invading your space and you don’t just mean it in the way he’s asserted himself into your home. He’s much more potent than that. He’s slipped under your skin, permeated the dermis and spilled into your bloodstream. He’s spread to your brain, metastasizing. Like terminal cancer there’s no telling where you end and he begins anymore.

“God, doll. Can I just say I can’t believe we’re actually doing this right now. It’s all just so… surreal for me.” You have to tell yourself to just ignore him, but that doesn’t mean it's easy. He speaks so openly, so freely, so blunt.

“I’ve dreamed of this moment over and over again. Waking up next to you in the morning all huddled up close in your cute little bed.” As he speaks, getting lost a little in his domestic reveries you slip a knife from the butcher's block feigning for a napkin and slide it under the tea towel from earlier, for safekeeping.

“Standing in your cute little kitchen, watching you flip bacon and fry eggs in nothing but those cute little panties of yours.” He’s suddenly at your back and you had never even registered that he’d moved, never heard a sound as he snuck up behind you. He breathes the last words directly in your ear.

Pressed up against you, you can feel the bulge of his stiffening cock rub against you from behind. “Although I’ve gotta admit, in my head there was way more sex involved.” You’re ready for him, picking up the knife and whipping around on him. Though he’s also ready for you, reaching up and grabbing your wrist, stopping you just short of burying the wicked edge into the meat of his shoulder. You struggle against the strength of him, trying to push forward with all your might even despite him, but he’s stronger. “Easy there, killer. Someone could get really hurt with that.”

With a twist of his wrist your hand is pushed to the side and smacks down onto the bar, the knife clatters from your hand as you cry out and he releases. The close encounter ended just that fast. You nurse the pain blooming in your bruised knuckles, not daring a second attempt as he rounds the bar back to his seat and centers his plate in front of him while casually addressing you like he didn’t just thwart a hastily thought up and sloppily executed assassination attempt.

“Let’s eat.” You stop coddling yourself to look up at him as he picks up a slab of burnt toast and munches down on it without care. His eyes rise to yours over the blackened surface expectantly and it gets you in motion as you pull out a drawer to find two forks, sliding his across the bar at him to avoid contact of any kind.

He catches it and sets the toast down to dig into his eggs as you eye up your own plate with a kind of disdain. You don’t really want to eat, but you need to. You tread the open waters between hungry and too offput to eat, never quite finding solace on either side but he’s watching you, that much you can tell and you know if you don’t commit to shoveling food in your mouth soon he will more than likely do it for you.

So you look down at the plate, deciding on the simplest, most palatable item— the toast. It may be charred but you’re not unused to that. You really needed a new toaster but you had much more pressing matters preoccupying your time and so you picked it up and took a bite, letting the bitter, burnt flavor of it ground you as you try to compose yourself a bit.

You needed a clear head to think, to plan, to prepare. No matter how conflicted your mind was, no matter how torn you were feeling, the sentiment stayed the same. You must get this man out of your house, at whatever cost and to do that you must have composure. You take another bite to solidify the fractured parts of you, gluing them together with the chewed paste of burnt toast, united for a higher purpose and feel a bit more energized.

It helps that he’s fallen silent for once, content to eat and stew in his own thoughts. You’re grateful, not even daring to glance up at him should you break the delicate trance he seems to be under. You eat, not only to keep up appearances but because your appetite seems to be cooperating now that you’ve started towards a goal, even if you don’t know exactly what that goal really is just yet.

He startles you from thought as he sets the fork down on his empty plate and it takes that for you to realize you’re just about done as well, having scarfed down the bulk of what you’d prepared for yourself without even really realizing it. You ready yourself for his antics, bracing for whatever crazy shit he’ll launch into next. He rises from the barstool and you’re already flinching, body tensing as you observe him closely, something he doesn’t miss.

But to your surprise all he does is smirk at you from across the bar before heading out of the kitchen and towards the back bedroom. You watch him as he goes, shell shocked at the lack of… well… anything. There were no theatrics, no sweeping gestures, not even a thinly veiled threat to behave. You hear one of the doors in the back close and rush forward to crane your neck down the hall. The bathroom light is on, casting a warm bar of golden light on the floor out from beneath the crack. You stay like that for a moment, staring at it in disbelief with your mouth slightly agape, like at any moment a covey of mimes will come walking out of it, or perhaps a horse sized duck.

When none of those things happen you creep back into the kitchen and lean heavily against the counter using it to ground you in place when it seems the rest of your world has lost all its gravity. You need to think, you have limited time. You pick up the plates and round the bar to the sink, filling one side with hot, soapy dish water and setting to work. Busy hands provoke consolidated thought.

You think first and foremost about escape. Your front door was a brisk fifteen paces from where you’re currently standing and while it’s late in the morning and most of your neighbors have already left for their morning commutes, there’s a chance that maybe— just maybe, you may be able to hail a straggler, someone who’s a little behind the ball this morning.

But even as you let yourself float quietly across the house over to one of the front facing windows and peer out between the slats of the blinds you know they’re all already gone, and while there is a chance you could grab the attention of someone before he’d caught on and caught up to you, you know there’s only one person it could logically be, and that’s Mrs. Forsythe, your eighty seven year old neighbor.

And while you’re desperate for an escape from this hellish situation and you know she’d be awake and even still has good enough hearing to be able to heed your screams, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

Mrs. Forsythe was not only elderly— which made her slow and easy pickings should she become involved in the situation; but she was also extremely altruistic. Which meant she wouldn’t cower away from him in her attempts to aid you and that’d only get her killed, something that if you let happen you’d never forgive yourself for. So you pulled back from the front window and went back to the sink and essentially back to the drawing board.

The next idea was fighting back, definitely not ideal. He was a force to be reckoned with, every attempt thus far to combat him has ended in failure. He’s both cunning and perceptive, both taller and stronger than you and he’s got a weird, almost eerie penchant for seeing through you. The only way to level the playing field is to catch him by surprise and he’d have to really, really be caught off guard for you to have a chance at success.

As you finish up the last of the dishes you think of a million different methods to kill or incapacitate him, they play on and on in your head like an outlandish looney toons montage but none of them are practical or seem within your wheelhouse to execute.

Ultimately you decide waiting for him to leave is the smartest course of action. You had a real chance, an actual golden opportunity to see your way through this, you couldn’t risk blowing that up with half-baked surprise attacks or impetuous escape plans. After he was gone, then and only then would you go out in search of real help.

You hear a door open and are hopeless to do more than turn away from the sink, grabbing the tea towel from the counter and wringing it in your hands nervously even long after they’re bone dry as you press back into the counter, socketing the lip of the sink into the small of your back. You stare at the mouth of the hallway, waiting for him to emerge and when he finally does you can’t peel your eyes away. He walks out into the open and catches you staring, you can’t help it. You blurt out mindlessly, a little in awe. “You look-“

“Different?” He finishes for you and you’re grateful because different isn’t exactly the word you’d have chosen. He’s dressed up in what you’d call business casual. A pristine white monochromatic plaid dress shirt buttoned all the way to the top, its collar cinched with a smart, thin tie. It’s got long sleeves but they’ve been neatly rolled up to the hams of his forearms and buttoned there. The hem is tucked into a dark gray pair of Dickies slacks and are form fitted around his waist by way of a worn black leather belt. He begins to stride towards you in what looks to be a fairly new pair of white, low-cut Chuck Taylors.

As he draws further into your shared space, closing the distance between you, you detect he smells of soap and something faintly spiced and pleasant. His hair looks wet and it’s slicked back like he’s showered. The ends curl back around behind his ears like rams horns, befitting for the devil. No, different is not the word you would have chosen had he left you hanging. Good is the word that sits on the tip of your tongue, just narrowly absolved of falling from your lips. He looked damn good.

“The mask I wore when we met isn’t the only one I must don. Keeping up appearances is important.”

Keeping up appearances is an understatement, he looks like a different man. Granted your views of him are skewed but looking at him now you’d never say the man before you and the one who’d broken into your home and subsequently broken you were the same person had you not known better. They had the same height, the same build but totally different demeanors.

As he is now he does more than blend, he looks unobtrusive, inoffensive, benign. His appearance brings to mind images of coffee machines and printer jams, white picket fences and weekend baseball games, unassuming, all American. He completes the look by slinging a worn, brown messenger bag across his chest, the most beat up piece of his whole ensemble and turns to you with an unidentifiable gleam in his eye.

“As much as I’d like to stay here and spend all the hours of our day together, I do have to go to work.” That snaps you out of your daze and you come back to your senses, suddenly remembering you have a plan to execute and you’re practically vibrating with the anxiety of it. You struggle to hide it as you smile to placate him. “Of course.”

You put the tea towel down, now wrinkled from being wrung to hell and back as you push away from the sink to follow him. Every step he takes towards the door you mimic, closing in to keep him from possibly retreating or changing his mind, each one adding to the building crescendo in your mind, a symphony of anxious agony.

But as he reaches the threshold he spins around suddenly, you back away in surprise but only make it about a step before you collide with the solid wall of the entry arch, his arms reach out to prop against the wall on either side of your shoulders effectively trapping you between the wall and himself, invading your personal space. “There is one more thing, doll.” You try to keep up your cheery, cooperative ruse to the very end, though your heart beats in triple time. You’re so close you can taste your freedom. “Yes?”

“I want you to stay here. All day. Can you do that for me?” Your chest tightens reflexively. You sort of knew he didn’t want you going anywhere, it was implied when he’d taken the liberty of calling in sick for you, but here he was reiterating it again, deliberately like he somehow already knows.

“Of course.” You respond immediately, ready to agree to anything he might say just to get him out of the door, no matter what your real intentions may be.

“Promise me.” That gives you pause, did he just ask you to promise? He waits for your response, holding your gaze raptly as you stare up at him dumbly. You quickly brush it off, no need tripping over the semantics. “I promise.”

He smiles and seems satisfied with your response and you believe he’s finally going to be out of your hair. “I’m gonna hold you to that.” He states melodically in an unserious singsong tone, though you know he means it. Too bad it’ll be too late for him by then if you have anything to say about it.

A brisk wave of his minty breath fans your face an instant before you realize you haven’t had a chance to brush your teeth and get self conscious. To him though, it seems not to matter as his lips crash to yours, pulling you into a deeply sweeping kiss. It momentarily steals the air from your lungs and the thoughts from your brain as your head bumps the wall with the force of it and his tongue slides over the seam of your lips with taunting fervor. His hands roam, one around the back of your neck to keep you in place and the other sliding down the swell of your hip to grip your ass, making you squeak into the kiss. He licks into the crevice of your lips as they part, one last little taste.

Satisfied with flustering you he pulls away, his Chesire-esque toothy grin the last you see of him before he’s out the door, leaving you behind to pull yourself together again. After taking a moment to regain your bearings, you rush up to the door and bolt it. Peering fearfully out of the peephole, you’re met with a distorted, fish eyes view of your front lawn and the surrounding world. There’s no sight of him, but of course there isn’t. That doesn’t necessarily mean he was gone. You just can’t bring yourself to believe it, never daring to feel like you’re rid of him. But he’d left you unattended, unbound, unchained. Why?

A test, perhaps? You wonder what would happen if you pulled the front door open right now. Is he just waiting in the wings for you to poke your head out? Only for him to come running from around the side of the house to spring on you like a lion, slitting your throat in broad daylight. Would he wait for you to take a few tentative steps outside? Let you gain your confidence perhaps before dragging you back inside by the scruff of your collar and slamming the door behind the both of you, never to be seen again.

The possibilities make you fearful, make you consider crawling back into your shell, tail tucked between your legs. Sitting on your hands until his return, like a good girl. But what becomes of you then? What does that make you? Death’s pet?

But that’s just what he wants, isn’t it? Wants you to fear him so resolutely that he doesn’t even have to do anything at all, kept in compliance by nothing more than your fear of the unknown, tucked away snuggly under his thumb.

These downward spirals get you nowhere, one glance at the clock makes you realize he’s already been gone for five whole minutes, your overworked mind running in fruitless circles. If you keep this up for long he really will be back home and you’d have amounted to nothing more than a self fulfilling prophecy, worse than nothing you’d have made backwards progress. You won’t let that happen.

So you crack the door, just an inch at first, just ajar. A wispy breeze blows in through the crack of the door, innocent, deceptive. You pull it open halfway, the sun shines, the birds sing and you alternate between feeling ridiculous and ridiculously exposed. You decide to do a litmus test, he can’t fault you for simply checking the mail, right? It’s not technically a violation of his rules and it’ll tell you if he is indeed waiting to pounce on you the moment you disobey.

You step out your front door on legs that don’t feel like carrying you. There’s an itch to your skin, an irritating gnaw at your neck. A pseudo-physiological reaction to just the memory of his knife biting at your throat that’s bringing on a real, palpable ailment. Like your body's last warning, meant to hinder you from continuing. You push forward despite it.

The sun is warming to your skin as you follow the paved path of your walkway until it junctures into your driveway, past the hulk of your car still in the same place you’d parked it after coming home the previous day and out towards the street to your little black mailbox.

No one is out on your street, the kids are in school, the adults have all gone to work, there’s no joggers, no stay at home moms toting babies in strollers, nothing. You collect your mail, assorted trash and bills and close the lid. There’s no pounding of feet on pavement, no hardened body colliding with yours, no seizing hands arresting you back inside. You feel both vindicated and condemned, both empowered and imprisoned.

You hurry back inside and shut the door, leaning against the sturdy wooden frame to settle your fried nerves. With a small victory under your belt it was time to set your sights higher. It was time to be rid of him for good.

Setting the plan into motion, you immediately jumped into the shower and something about the water cascading down your body, something about the heavy peace you feel when you can finally close your eyes without worry of what happens when you do feels freeingly cathartic, like washing him from your skin. Drying off and getting dressed only solidified it.

With each action of self care you felt just a little better, just an ounce more confident in your shoes, beginning to take back what he’d stolen from you. But as you grabbed your keys and headed for the door, indecision struck again. Not to scrap the whole idea but just about taking your car. You stared out the window at your cute little car with an overwhelming feel of mistrust.

He could have done any number of things while you were out cold. He could have slipped a tracker under the chassis or the wheel well or the floorboards. Could have checked how much gas you had in the tank or even looked at your mileage.

Could have measured the distance between your tires and the garage door or the edge of the walkway or the road. It was all too easy to imagine him out there, stooped down next to the tire with nothing more than a tape measure and a mag light in the dark of night, not even having to jot the numbers down, just simply able to recall them from memory. Approximate. Accurate. Obsessive. A measurement that’d be so tedious to replicate it’d be damn near impossible. A million different ways for him to know you’d gone against his commandments.

You’re descending into paranoia and it’s making you stall. You know if you keep up like this you’ll eventually chicken out. So in a split second decision you decide to ditch your car and walk. The police station wasn’t that far away, it eased all your qualms about taking the car and maybe the fresh air would do you some good. Without sparing another second for your doubts and worries to worm their destructive little fingers into the certainty of your plan you set out, locking the front door behind you and began to head down the drive.

Out on the street, with hard, affirming pavement beneath your feet you began to feel tentatively exalted. It felt like taking back control, manifesting your own destiny. You leaned into that feeling as you rounded the end of your street and merged onto the sidewalk that would take you all the way up Rose Avenue and into the heart of downtown Roseville. It was a bright Florida day, warm but pleasant and you’d expected to see more people on your walk into town. But as far as you could tell, aside from a few stragglers here and there, it was mostly dead.

With a new lens on life you could understand why. Before you’d mostly ignored the news. There were things that you’d heard, scraps of the details passed in hushed tones. Word of mouth is almost always unavoidable but for the most part you felt the news only served to further stress people out, stop them from living their best lives, keeping them suppressed with subliminal worry.

Why dwell on what you couldn’t change? Why come home after a long day's work only to harp over whatever the media wanted you to worry about that particular day? What would drive up their views and keep you tuning in. Why lose sleep over things that mostly never concerned you? Now, in hindsight, you’d seen just how stupid that’d been, how stupid you’d been. You only wish you’d done something sooner.

You never get to see the city at this time of day, always cooped up at work during this hour. It was nothing like you’d expected, but the lonely streets didn’t deter you, you’d be getting your life back today. After thirteen hours of pure nightmare you’d be free again. And there freedom was, just a block and a half away you could see the flag poles stationed out front of the police station, the Florida state flag and the American flag waved proudly in the gentle breeze side by galliant side, beckoning you to justice.

You thought at just the sight of them you’d start sprinting, had imagined walking up the driveway that nothing would keep you from those heavy, metal double doors, but as you neared you only slowed. Standing at the head of the last crosswalk you needed to take before you’d be at your destination you imagined you’d feel nothing but an urgency to get there but now all you felt was sick to your stomach.

There was no traffic to hold you up, no crowds in your way to slow you down, this was an internal struggle, a moment of grappling with oneself. And no matter how much you tried you couldn’t bring yourself to cross the street. Like some kind of fault in your motor function you can’t bring yourself to make that first step. You stand there in agony for five minutes struggling with yourself until you give up and make a right instead, crossing the adjacent street before beelining it straight for the old, worn doors of the Roseville public library.

You don’t know what makes you climb the twelve steps and push into the old, cool building. It’s deserted at this time of day, there’s an older lady at the front desk nose deep in a romantic paperback and an younger one pushing a book trolley around reshelving, but other than that you seem to be the only other soul in the building.

You’d been inside before, though it’d been awhile you still hadn’t expected them to have done any renovations since your last visit. And you found you were correct, the same row of aging computers were right where they’d always been. You take the one on the far end looking around behind you for any book browsers or lookie loos before touching the mouse and swiping away the screensaver to get to the desktop.

Booting up internet explorer and bringing up google, you sit and stare blankly at the screen, the cursor blinking at the end of the search bar patiently, ready to bring up a million search results for whatever inquiry you may ask of it. Something in you moved your fingers for you, striking the keys without even really thinking about it and hitting the enter key before you can think better of it.

In the next instant the page fills with results for ‘The Roseville Ghost’. You read them off one by one. ‘Seven slain at the hand of Roseville's Ghost’ and ‘Roseville continues to be haunted by a bloodthirsty killer, leaving RPD baffled’ and ‘Curfew in effect for the greater Roseville area as body count rises’.

You absentmindedly click one at random, the screen blanks, the cursor buffers and then it takes you to the article, published to the Roseville Gazette website by a journalist listed as Jed Olsen. Your eyes latch onto the words, unable to break away:

You back out of the article and return to the results page, clicking on the next link. It returns you to the Roseville Gazette’s webpage, to yet another article penned by Jed Olsen.

Your heart feels as though it drops from its place nestled in your rib cage and sinks through your feet into the floor. You suddenly recall an errant line of his lunistic ramblings from the night before under a magnetizing new lens, coming to the gut wrenching realization it wasn’t simply idle chatter.

“…until I’m slicing them open by their stomachs and dragging their intestines out to hang from the ceiling.”

You finish the article, unable to rip your eyes away from any of the gory details.

This man is a serial killer, a legitimate apex predator by all aspects of the word. The man who’d broken into your house the night before is the very same man that’s been terrorizing your town for months, the same man responsible for seven previous murders and not only had he picked you to be next but he’d coerced you into sleeping with him as well. You truly believe you’re going to be sick.

You can’t do this anymore, you feel as though you may very well pass out right here in the public of this old, dying library. You go to click off, exit out of the whole damn thing and try to make it to the bathroom before your breakfast, the breakfast you’d stood in your kitchen in front of a serial murderer and cooked for the both of you, came surging up when yet another headline caught your eye. You hovered over the link and felt your stomach churn once more, you gave it a moment to pass before clicking on it and pulling up one last article from the all-knowing Jed Olsen.

Attached below is the aforementioned photograph. It’s dark and blurry and you can imagine he was probably laughed at by his editor for even suggesting they run something so indistinguishable, but you’re not laughing, not one bit.

Just barely identifiable is a figure suited in black, his silhouette almost indecipherable against the shadows but what does stand out is the pale, obtuse oval of his face and the dark contrasting pits of its sad, sunken eyes, hovering above the nonexistent hole for a nose and ending in the long, agape mouth. The very same mask you’d woken up to hovering above your bed, worn by the very same man who’d broken into your house the previous evening and taken control of your life. Your blood runs cold at the sight of it and you whip around to make sure no one is monitoring you.

Satisfied that you’re still alone, you read on.

You can’t do this anymore. You can no longer sit idly by with this kind of knowledge, this is about more than you now. This is about all those that came before you and everyone the sick fingers of this monster’s work have yet to reach out and grab and you won’t stand to see another headline.

You get up from the computer after exiting out and scorching the browser history though you fail to shut it down in your haste. You hustle out of the library and get no more than a passing glance from the woman still nose deep in her paperback at the desk. Pushing through the doors and into the warmth of the bright Florida sun you’d thought you’d feel better, but the gooseflesh that riddles your skin is from far more than chilly library air and thus runs bone deep. You’re unsure where you’re even going but as you look up to see the police station just across the street you know it’s not there.

Even in all your rage, even in all your indignation and hunger for justice you don’t think you can bring yourself to go in there in person. You don’t have the nerve, but you can make an anonymous phone call. You round the exterior of the library and find the little patio nook that was originally meant for librarians breaks and the occasional nature-inclined reader but was used far more often by high schoolers smoking pot afterschool and the occasional homeless drifter in between towns and halfway houses.

You sat on the curved stone bench and reached for your phone before pulling up the keypad with confidence in your fingers. But staring down at the numbers your will weakened, and with your fingers shakily hovering over the number 9, your throat gets tight and your vocal chords constrict. Would an anonymous tip even work in this scenario? Would they even take it seriously? Do you even have enough information to give them?

You can’t think of a single thing to say, can’t think of where to start or how much to divulge. They always say tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. But can you bring yourself to tell them the whole truth? Do you leave out the more embarrassing details so you can just come out with it already or do you have to tell the whole truth? If you don't, will it come back to haunt you later? Could you be looked at as an accomplice?

Will the pictures be used against you if he brings them into play? They could certainly identify you in them and then the whole idea of an anonymous tip went out the window entirely. Could you show your face in this town after it got out that you’d slept with the infamous ‘Roseville Ghost’? You’d have to get a new job, maybe a new place, maybe a new name. Were you prepared for all that?

The little bit of money you’d saved up— what you’d offered him last night in exchange for your life is not nearly enough for you to move somewhere else in this economy. It’s not even enough to sustain you for the rest of the month and your name is on the lease of the house for another seven. What would you do then?

Your screen has long since gone dim and then relocked completely by the time you’d looked down again. You unlocked it once more, only this time you pulled up your browser and typed into the search bar ‘Jed Olsen’. Immediately a bunch of search results, many the same as last time, popped up in a list below the bar.

It’s under the article you’d read previously ‘The Ghost Face Caught On Tape’ that you found what you were looking for. You hovered over the number listed at the end of the article, reading the numbers over a few times impulsively as you solidified the decision in your mind before you clicked it.

It brought the number up instantly on the phone, all you had to do was press ‘Call’. Maybe Jed Olsen can do for you what you can’t do for yourself. It’s not like he was getting nothing out of this, you’re sure he’ll write a whole article, maybe even a whole book on how he single-handedly brought down the Roseville Ghost. Solved the case that had stumped law enforcement for months all on his own. After taking a deep breath and blowing it out, you hit call.

It rang and rang and rang, and you’d almost given up when a voice answered from the other end, what sounded like a young woman. An intern or receptionist perhaps, not who you were looking for. “Roseville Gazette.”

At first the only thing you could say was “Um.” And then the fog of your brain cleared as you closed your eyes and shook your head before continuing. “Yes, umm.. May I speak with Jed Olsen, please?”

You got back a prompt “One moment please.” before the line went dead. After a moment of measured silence someone on the other end picked up and this time it was a male voice that answered you. “Roseville Gazette, what can I do for you?”

“Jed? Jed Olsen?” You paused, bringing a hand up to your mouth and picking at your lips while you waited for confirmation, an old nervous tick. For some reason you didn’t feel safe to relay the information to anyone else. It had to be him.

“Speaking, can I help you?” He seemed a bit impatient, probably in the midst of another article or something else more important to him, you wonder if he’ll act the same after you tell him what you have to say. You don’t know how to beat around the bush, not really sure how any of this is supposed to go, so you just say it.

“I have information on Roseville’s Ghost.” There was more measured silence, but when he eventually did answer again it sounded much more like you had his full attention.

“I’m listening.” You’re still not sure where to start or how much information to give him, what did you really know about the guy, you could identify him and you knew his name, or at least the name he’d given you, was that enough to go on?

“I know who he is. I- umm.. I met.. him.” ‘Met’ is absolutely not the right word but you have no idea how else to put it without putting yourself in a bigger, shittier boat.

“May I ask who I’m speaking with?” No, no you can not, you think to yourself.

“I’d like to remain anonymous, like an anonymous source, the kind you write about all the time in your articles.” You hold your breath and hope he’ll leave it at that.

Before he’d sounded anxious, urgent, almost nervous maybe. But now he sounded calmer, cooler, back in control. Maybe he was starting to think you were pulling his leg or something. You couldn’t risk that, couldn’t risk this man not taking you seriously, he was your only hope.

“Yes, anonymous sources are certainly something we use to protect the identity of individuals when we receive information from them, but that’s to protect them from the public, I need to know you’re credible. I need your name.” You squeeze your eyes shut and pinch the scrunched bridge of your nose, you really had hoped that wasn’t something he would need. You had really hoped to be able to keep yourself an arms length away, but at this point you don’t think that’s gonna be possible.

“Do you promise I won’t be named?” When he answers he sounds smug and you’re starting to wonder if this is some kind of mistake, Jed Olsen is not turning out to be the saint you’d imagined him to be. “I promise.”

You’re not usually one to take a stranger on their word but you don’t exactly have much of a choice and he does sound sincere. You give him your name and there’s a long moment of silence where you worry that the call had dropped or maybe he hadn’t heard you. “Jed?”

“What exactly do you know?” You deflate a little at that but you’re here now and you have to tell the man something so you tell him all you know.

“His names Danny...” And that’s about the extent of it, you want to add on.

“Danny what?” You knew that was coming.

“Well, I don't know, he didn’t exactly give me his full legal name and social security number.” You can’t help but be a little snippy, what did this guy expect? “Look, he’s white, tall, 6.. 6’3 maybe, he’s got dark brown hair and dark brown eyes…”

He cuts you off. “And how exactly do you know all this?” You bring a hand to your head to shield your eyes against the sun, scanning around to make sure you’re still alone. “I told you, I met the guy, he… he broke into my house last night, ok?”

“And he didn’t kill you?” You’re beginning to get annoyed again.

“I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?” He sounds amused on the other end of the line and you just know he’s not taking a lick of this seriously.

“And why is that exactly?” Your breath hitches in your throat as he adds. “… I mean, what makes you so special?” He’s in love with me, is why. You can’t say that but it’s the truth.

For some reason he’d picked you to imprint on, set his sights on you just how he claims he always had— seemingly at random. But when it came down time to deliver it seems he had other plans, much more tender, intimate plans. The thought makes you shiver and you know he’s waiting for an answer and your silence is probably nothing but damning. “I- I don’t know why, ok? He just didn’t.”

“Have you told anyone else about this?” He inquires.

“No, not a soul.” And that’s the god's honest truth, you’re surprised you’re even able to tell him this extremely modified version of events, you hope it’s not in vain.

“Not the police, nobody?” He seems to almost not believe you and you’re just about sick of his hesitations.

“Just you, now can you help me or not?” You were getting antsy, this was taking far longer than you’d like, the sun looked like it was beginning to sink in the sky and you were very much ready to go back home.

“Ok, I’ll help you.” Your heart does a little vertical leap in your chest, it makes your voice rise in pitch. “Really? You will?”

“Yeah, I will.” You can’t believe your ears, your troubles finally seem to be over, it doesn’t feel real. You don’t even know what his help will entail. Will he tell the police? Will they go after him immediately? Could they even with the limited information you’d given them? Would they actually be able to arrest him? Oh, who gives a fuck? He said he’d help and that’s the best news you’d heard all day.

“That’s-.. that’s great! Oh my god! Thank you!” You’re unable to hide the excitement in your tone, it feels like a huge weight has been lifted off your shoulders and you could scream you’re so happy. There’s silence on the other end and you don’t know what to say. You briefly pull the phone away from your ear to check and make sure he hasn't hung up, but it still says he’s apparently on the other end of the line.

“What uh.. what happens now?” You ask, kind of wanting to get to the end of the conversation to hang up and go home.

“I’ll be in touch.” And the line goes dead, just like that. Something about the tone his voice had taken in those last moments gave you pause. It made your brow furrow, the words echoing in the hollows of your mind for a moment longer than they should have. Something about it you just couldn’t quite place made it stick out.

You pull the phone away from your ear again and look down at the screen to see the call has been disconnected. Your wallpaper stares back at you with programmed patience and you’re left almost in limbo but you don’t dwell on it for long, already sweeping the errant thought from the forefront of your mind in your excitement and rush to get home, already beginning to forget what had concerned you in the first place.

You get up from the stone bench with a much lighter heart than you’d sat down with. You feel like you’re floating in your shoes. You’d done it. You were on the up and up.

You hurried home. You weren’t exactly sure they’d get him right off the bat. You just couldn’t believe that would be possible. You certainly didn’t want to get your hopes up but, in all reality Roseville was a relatively small town and really, how many Danny’s could there be?

Before you knew it you were turning onto your street and you felt like sprinting for the door. You hadn’t had the good mind to ask Danny where he worked or when he’d be home but judging on how he was dressed you figured he probably worked some boring standard 9-5 and it was already 4 o’clock. Which gave you an hour to sit on your haunches and worry.

Just as easy as your elation had risen, making you feel ten feet tall with its ascension, here was the crash, here was the burden of not knowing, here was the waiting game.

And that’s about all the next hour and a half of your life had amounted to, waiting. You switched the news on, expecting a flashy ‘Breaking News!’ segment to dominate the feed, but it was still the same old stuff they roll in the off hours, puppy videos and traffic jam reports.

You had imagined after hanging up the phone with Mr. Olsen, that he’d have taken some sort of immediate action. Done some digging, made some calls, alerted the authorities, rallied the calvary. But it seems whatever he’d done, if he did anything at all with your information, it had at the very least not been newsworthy. You couldn’t lie, you were disappointed. Now you just had to wait and see if the psycho was going to show up at your door again tonight, and what you would do if he did, at that.

You thought about calling someone to come over, your parents were out of town and your brother lived so far away there’s no way he could get here in time. You wouldn’t subject any of your friends to something like this, with or without their knowledge and consent of the situation, it was a risk you were unwilling to take. Maybe you could invite an old boyfriend over, say you’re trying to rekindle things, you didn’t exactly mind duping one of them into something potentially hazardous, especially a few on your blocked callers list, you thought you even had a few who wouldn’t hesitate to jump at the chance, but in the end you decided against it.

Then you had the idea to try and barricade yourself inside, board up the windows and push furniture in front of all your doors to keep him out. Lock yourself inside like some kind of princess in the highest tower of the most impenetrable castle. But if he had some way in you didn’t think of or if he still managed to force his way past your blockades somehow you couldn’t imagine what he’d do to you once inside.

No, the best course of action was probably the simplest, you’d done something today, made headway in one direction. Maybe, one last night in hell would be all you had to endure. Maybe you play nice, placate him and be the sweet, little doll he wants you to be until the swat team comes busting down your door. When there were six police officers pinning him to the floor and cuffing his hands behind his back then you could plant your foot on his ass as a little treat, one last ‘Fuck-you-I-win’ and claim victory.

You had given Jed your name, you surmise he could easily find your address with just that alone, maybe he’ll show up to ask more questions. The road to fame and fortune isn’t without its risks of course, if he wants that Pulitzer he’ll have to work for it.

Hell for all you know, they could already have picked him up. Just waiting on technicalities, or red tape, or maybe the FBI to come take it from here. Murders in the multitude of his caliber are almost always certainly handled at the federal level, you would think. Maybe he won’t show up at all.

Just then you hear the minuscule sound of metal scraping metal over the blare of the tv and your heart sinks. The door cracks and like something out of a 50s sitcom he calls out to you from the entryway, his voice sinisterly chipper. “Honey, I’m home.” Imbued by your new knowledge of him the sound sends a wicked chill ripping down your spine. You try to suppress the full body shudder it sends through you from your place on the couch.

You half turn in his direction. It is indeed him and he is indeed in your home. Standing in the entryway he looks less immaculately put together than he did when he’d left that morning. His slicked back hair had become a bit disheveled, a few errant locks hung down low over his brow in rebellious defiance. He raised a hand to his throat to tug on the knot of his tie, loosening it from its chokehold around his collar before pulling the messenger bag he’d left with that morning off of him and dropping it into the lone armchair set off in the corner that you used from time to time as your reading nook.

He strolls into the living area and sits down on the couch, though you’d slid over to the far side giving him ample room he takes the liberty of plopping down right beside you, his leg skimming yours as he settles into your personal space. The seating arrangement is extremely unbalanced, with more than two thirds of it empty and unused on the far side of him, and you have to hide the uncomfortable shiver that runs through you with both the intimate details of his track record on the forefront of your mind and his immediate proximity. The spiced aroma of his cologne wafts up to your nostrils and you could have sworn that the first fragrant wisps smell as if they’re laced with the pungent, malodorous coppery notes of shed blood.

You try to hide your surprise at his arrival, but you can’t possibly suppress every impulsive reaction so in your attempt to make small talk you blurt out the first least offensive thing to come to mind. “How did you get in my house?”

Not exactly smooth or inoffensive but it is certainly the most nonvolatile thing you can think to say, and you are curious. “I snagged your spare key on my way out the door.”

Of course he did, you think to yourself. You need to redirect this, it’s already erring on the wrong side of the tracks and it’s important to keep him as docile as possible. It shouldn’t be hard for you to pretend for just one more night that you can be hospitable. The easiest way you can think of to keep things light is what you lead with, you hope he’s not suspicious of your sudden change in behavior.

“How was your day?” You say as sweet as you can manage with what you hope he perceives as a warm, genuine smile in his direction. He seems to be buying it as he returns your smile in spades, beaming at you with not only adoration, and an intense, almost cloying sense of it at that, but also something that feels like pride radiating off of him in waves.

He doesn’t even need to say it for you to know this is somewhat of a dream come true for him. It brings back memories of his little domestic fantasies this morning. You think to yourself that probably for him the only thing this is missing is a prefixed drink in your hand and not a stitch of clothes on your body. You hope you aren’t overselling it.

“It was good, a bit boring at first but then the day just kept getting more and more interesting.” You felt your heart stiffen and nearly stop in your chest. What the fuck does that mean? It’s so vague. Interesting in what way? Did someone approach him in regards to your call? Was he stopped by the police? Did they let him go already? You almost want to inquire further but you’re also almost too scared to ask. Before you can even decide if you should or shouldn’t he adds on.

“But enough about me. I wanna hear about your day.” And if your heart hadn’t stopped before, it certainly had now. You instantly forget all about what he even said in your panic. You hadn’t thought of that at all when you’d started your ‘light small talk’, even though it was completely natural that he’d ask you the same thing. You try to politely brush it off as best you can. Even laughing a bit to try to make it seem like not such a big deal and ease some of the mounting tension in your nerves.

“Oh you don’t wanna hear about that.” He even laughs a little with you and you think maybe he’ll let it slide, but then he says. “Try me.”

Your stomach twists into knots. Of course in all your trickery, in all the conniving and scheming against him you’d done today, in all your caution to cover your tracks you hadn’t even thought to make up some kind of cover story. You feel ten inches tall and overwhelmingly stupid but you have to tell him something and the longer you remain silent the more you just know he’s scrutinizing you. You really wished you had prepared better for this.

“Well… after you left I went and took a shower and got dressed and then I watched tv for a little while..”

He cut you off to inquire further. “What’d you watch?” You both faltered and scrambled. “I- uhh.. I just watched some shitty tv show, I don’t even remember what it was about really, just whatever was on, it wasn’t any good.” He maintains eye contact and nods for you to continue.

“And then that got boring so I read for a bit-“ Once more he interjected. “What’d you read?” With each further inquiry into the minute details of your day you felt cut in half. You can’t believe you could let something this stupid, something so minisculely trivial in the grand scheme of things be what trips you up, and after all that time you had to sit and do nothing but worry too. You hope it’s not a fatal mistake.

“Just a book I’ve read before, one from the shelf.” You halfheartedly point towards your bookshelf but he doesn’t even turn to look where you’re pointing, just nods twice like he understands and you don’t know what to do from there. You certainly hadn’t said enough to fill your whole day, so you just keep going.

As you speak, prattling off random, hopefully innocuous yet convincing enough things that you want him to believe filled the time slot between when he’d left and his arrival, he’s studying you intensely. Far more intensely than you’d like and there’s an ominous foreboding in the glint of his gaze, it gleams with the same promise of pain his blade does. If you’ve seen it, it’s already much too late.

But if he knows anything about what you’ve actually done, if he’s detected any of your passed off lies he says nothing, content to let you continue rambling without interruption now and you start to actually believe you’d maybe gotten away with it. You actually start to feel like you may be in the clear, though you find it surprisingly difficult to look at him as you lie to his face.

You can’t imagine why, you should have no trouble lying to this absolute fucking psychopath, nay, sociopath, you remind yourself. But it’s not like you’re some kind of pathological liar, this is not normal or easy for you in any sense, none of it is second nature. You’d never even cheated on a boyfriend before, something that for some reason feels like an accurate comparison to this, though you decidedly resign not to look too closely at that fact.

You couldn’t even remember to come up with a cohesive story to sell him, just mishmashing random things together that you hope he’ll blindly buy into. And yet somehow even that seems to be working out for you as he continues to listen and you think you may be better at this sneaking around shit than you’d thought.

That is until you bear a look in his direction to notice he’s pulled his leather gloves from somewhere while you were purposefully looking away and now as you continue, he’s putting them on, slowly.

Your words begin to taper, dropping in volume and cadence before they falter and lose their confidence altogether until you’re mumbling, and then your mumbles wither away into whispers.

You can’t help but stare as his digits perfectly fill out the fingers of his gloves, his free hand tugging tightly on the hem at the heel of his hand to pull them flush against the tips. So tight like a second skin it steals the breath from your own lungs. You stare at each other like that, you with the egg of your folly still hanging off your lips and him across from you, with all the barely restrained violence of a precariously set bear trap, poised to snap. And you know that he knows.

You suddenly feel as though you’ve been skating by unscathed only to look down and realize you’ve ventured over a patch of thin ice. His eyes like the waters beneath the fractured surface. Dark, gelid, just waiting for the moment you shift your weight in the wrong direction, like the whole world is collectively holding its breath. It's when you realize you’re holding your own breath that the brittle ice breaks.

The trap snaps down onto your paw, his gloved hands seizing your wrist in an iron grip. You jump into action, leaping from the couch and trying to sprint out away from him around your side of the couch and hopefully, out the door to scream as loud as your lungs will permit— what you should have tried this morning when you’d first leapt from bed and had what you would consider, at least a decent head start. To try to do so now was more foolish than attempting to deceive him in the first place.

But it seemed today you were throwing caution to the wind as you pulled as hard as you could away from him, surprisingly succeeding in the first aspect of your plan and broke for the gap between the end of the couch and the coffee table as a rabbit will leap for the protective mouth of its hole away from the treacherous jaws of a chasing fox.

But unfortunately for you, you didn’t share quite the same deftness as the rabbit and only possessed about a fourth of its speed and you felt his arm wrap around your waist, the jaws of the fox clamping down around you.

The next moments played out in slow motion for you as he hauled you backwards. Pressed back against his stomach as you were, you could feel the muscles there flexing as he did, pulling you back away from the freedoms of your rabbit hole and into the perilous throne of his lap.

“Where do you think you’re going, doll?” He asks mockingly. His voice calm and smooth as silk a stark contrast to the way he wrestles you into place, rather easily to your dismay.

You bucked and kicked and even bit but nothing deterred him as you felt his glove clad hands pull and tug at the waistband of your jeans, grabbing solid purchase and ripping both them and your panties down your waist, over the swell of your ass and down your thighs in three quick, hard jerks.

Your eyes widened as you realized he’s starting to undress you. And so in turn, you screamed and kicked as your struggles renewed but with the tight, bunched fabric of your jeans encasing your thighs, you didn’t make very much progress, your legs imprisoned by a denim cage. And to make matters worse, as he positioned you just as he wanted you, with your lower abdomen and crotch laid vertically across his lap, you could feel a prominent bulge stab up into you from the seat of his pants, he was enjoying the struggle.

Distracted by your realizations, you’re caught completely off guard as the first smack rains down on the soft, bare skin of your right cheek. His glove covered palm bouncing smartly off the round, springy flesh with an audible crack. It gives you rise, making you rebound off his lap as you try to escape, but with an arm secured over the small of your back you’ve nowhere to go as the second smack follows the first.

Cracking forcefully across the opposite cheek in a precise blow that makes you let out a yelp so shrill it vibrates your vocal chords, making them burn to life in your throat. As you’re still catching up to the predicament you’ve found yourself in he asks you in a casual yet authoritative tone from behind you, as nonchalant as he’d inquired the first time, as if nothing between you had changed.

“What did you do today, doll?” He waits for an answer but you’re too preoccupied to indulge him, choosing instead to continue to thrash in his grip, hellbent on escape. Your hands whip around behind you to try and grab his face or his hands or his stupidly hard cock and scratch or claw or squeeze for your dear life, reduced to squabbling in his clutches like a raccoon rife with rabies.

He catches your hands easily, swiping them out of the air in a single move and pinning them to the small of your back with the same arm that’s held you in place with ease since the struggle began so he can return to your punishment.

As soon as you’re secure his hand cracks down across your ass again, in a trio of successive attacks that leave you with little room for recovery as you hardly have time to react to one before the next one lands. Pain blooming in delayed shockwaves radiating from the ground zero of his palm. You flinch at each, your body trying to shift away from the pain but only serving to somehow rise to the occasion and receive each new blow like you’re keening for them.

You whimper as he stops, the sound emitting from your throat beyond your control as you squirm against him trying to soothe your burning flesh, and you have a terrible feeling he’s only just begun. He calmly repeats himself, asking you again what it is you’ve done today. You hear him but you can’t even begin to process what he’s saying to you as your mind reels to comprehend how you’ve let yourself come to be in this kind of compromising position.

It takes the next round of smacks; two on each cheek and then a particularly heinous blow that falls on the underside of both for you to smarten up. It connects with the rounded peaks of your peachy swells and takes a sort of sweeping motion that drags the pliant flesh with it on its follow through. Pulling at the quickly heating flesh and magnetizing the sting so that it spreads throughout your body in tingles that reach all the way to your toes as you shout in agonized protest.

You scramble to answer as soon as you’re able, your brows knitting together as you fight against the whine that resonates from the heart of your throat in an attempt to speak. Though stubborn as a mule you persist in your plea of the mundane, swearing to him on all that you hold holy that you’d done nothing more than you’d already told him.

And you start to whine in desperation in the recesses of your mind as you try to remember even a single one of the things you’d told him to try and reaffirm your shoddy alibi and find that you can’t as two more devastating blows land with planned precision in almost the exact same spots as the last and it scatters your thoughts to the four corners of the wind as you cry out sharply into the echoing expanse of your living room, the sound bouncing off the walls and back to his ears like sweet birdsong.

“I’m losing my patience, doll.” He chides from behind. Asking you again, this time with an emphasizing smack on alternating cheeks punctuating each calmly stated syllable.

“What. Did. You. Do. To. Day?” You writhe and hiss like an agitated alleycat pinned to his thighs but out of fear of the consequences of the truth you hold your tongue, opting to hand feed him the same bullshit you’d offered him up the previous times, praying that if you believe it hard enough, if you can just sell it with enough conviction, then he’ll have no choice but to believe it too. Though you're really unsure just how much more you can take. You’re fairly certain, if the lights were to go out at this very moment, your ass would glow.

“I’ll give you a hint, doll. Since you seem to be struggling with it. I already know where you’ve been today.”

Before that moment your body had been as rigid as a board, your back had been perpetually stiff, your hands under the shackles of his palm had been balled into fists, the tendons at the base of your wrists taut as tightropes, even your toes, hanging off out of the way at the ends of your bunched calves were curled and rigid the entire time.

But as he breathed those words into being, as soon as he let the pen drop, your body broke loose of its tension. As if you’d been holding your breath the entire time, as if you’d been holding out for this, he felt the exact moment you fell in defeat and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t sate something in him he never stopped being hungry for.

So that’s it then. For all your worries, for all your efforts, for all your obsessive precautions, you’d failed. Somehow, someway you had simply overlooked, he knew. He knew you’d left when he’d implicitly told you to stay. You felt humiliated, and somehow even more so now than before.

For some reason you could take degrading punishments, literally being bent over his knee like a child and still feel an ounce of self respect but something about trying your hardest to elude him, to cover your tracks and sneak around without him knowing made you sick with shame. And you swear you feel him swell with pride beyond you, like he senses it.

Your silence is deafening and he knows he’s almost got you so he leans down over you to whisper in a low warning, his tone incensed and laced with threat. “So help me baby girl, if you lie to me again I’m gonna get upset.”

That breaks you. If this isn’t upset, you truly don’t believe you’ll be able to handle whatever him getting upset looks like. Out of a pure need for survival, in a final bid to stave off serious injury or death or perhaps something in between far worse than either option, you spill.

“I- I went to the library!!” You shout up at him, your head dipping down to rest against the arm of the couch as you tremble with defeat, the only silver lining in sight being that now, surely the punishment is over.

“Ohhh babygirl; you are in sooo much trouble.”

SMACK. Your head lifts from the couch on impact, a surprised cry flying out from between your lips as you turn as best you can to try and look at him, try and plead with him to stop, but his hand comes crashing down again and again and again. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK!

“Stop!! Stop!! No more!” You cry out, the sheer burn of your ass too intense for you to be too proud to beg. “Please!!”

To your surprise he actually does heed your cries, his hand stilling overtop of your heated cheeks after one last resounding smack and he smooths over the top of it, admiring the warmth it now exudes as you recover and you feel disgusted with yourself for actually letting yourself be soothed by it, but you can’t help it.

When your breathing evens, he asks. “What’d you do at the library, doll? I don’t see any checkouts lying around.” You swallow thickly but the dam is broken and it’s fucked beyond repair. You don’t think there’s a point in holding back anything from him at this point, he probably already knows, but there’s one thing, one single fact about today that you’ll seize upon with all the strength left in the paws of your will and clutch tightly to your chest, shielding it from review. You will not tell him about your little chat. He will have to drag that out of you with the force of god.

And you know from experience that lies tend to thrive best when they’re grounded in the soil of truth, so you’ll tell him all about what you’ve learned today, you’ll spill about everything you’d read and maybe, just maybe, you can stroke his ego enough to keep the conversation between you and Jed Olsen a secret for as long as possible. So you start, weaving your deceit into the patchwork of your story beginning with the threads of truth.

“I had to get out of the house, I just couldn’t stay here. After you left it got too quiet and I felt like I was starting to lose my mind. So I took a walk, I didn’t know where I was going, I just needed fresh air and then before I knew it I was standing in front of the library and for no real reason at all, I went in.” You pause and he continues to stroke his gloved palms over the heated flesh of your ass, waiting for you to continue, not offering a morsel of support or encouragement, just letting you fend for yourself as you inch further and further out on a limb, wondering if your story will hold your weight or send you plummeting to your death.

“I went back to the computers and… and I looked up articles on Roseville’s Ghost.” You feel him tense a bit beneath you, shifting a bit at the mention of his moniker and it makes your stomach churn, your eyes squeezing shut where he can’t see as you sit uncomfortably across his lap, wishing to be literally anywhere else.

“And what did you find?” He implores and while it only serves to freak you out more, it’s a small victory. If he’s interested in listening to you regale him with the tales of his grotesqueries then maybe your plan to stroke his ego and distract him may be picking up wind beneath its sails. You just have to keep feeding it, but you’re nervous and you have to stop yourself from shaking in his hold. You hope he’s receiving the tension in your body and the uneven tone in your voice as fear of him and what you’ve learned he’s truly capable of and not fear of being found out.

“I… I read about the murders.” You begin sheepishly, still terrified out of your mind, but you take a deep breath and begin again, you have no other choice.

“I read about you.” You state boldly, almost spitting out the phrase at him in disgust. Though you’d like to pride yourself and call it a ploy; a subtle way to make him believe you’re being completely transparent by showing him real raw emotion, it’s not.

You simply let the mask slip for a second, not shying away from the disgust you’re feeling but more so leaning into it. Dropping your fear of him for a moment to truly be able to express the disgust you harbor for him and his misdeeds. You simply just can not feed into the bullshit— his bullshit, knowing all you know.

This is where the curtain drops, this is no act, this is the truth. You are nothing but utterly disgusted by what you’d read today, the thought of it makes your skin crawl and your throat tight, making it harder to continue, but you press on all the same.

“I think I read the counts up to eight now.” You can’t bring yourself to look at him, like there needs to be a sort of visual barrier between the two of you to even speak of such evil, like a confessional. Though you’re unsure who should be confessing to who in this scenario, they’re his crimes but it’s your transgressions.

“Julie Andrews, Mark Recosta, Donna Blaine…” You’d memorized their names, how could you not, you’d nearly been one of them, an exclusive club of poor souls with seemingly nothing in common. Living normal, contributive lives that, of no fault of their own— besides maybe living a bit too unguarded, were ripped unjustly from them, many before they even knew it. You continue.

“Claire Richards, Thomas Steiner, Edward Steltz..” Your voice wavered on the last two as you recall the way the article stated Mr. Marsh was so brutally mutilated, the way his remains were… disturbed. “James Marsh, Henry Lancaster.”

He speaks and it startles you from the trance-like state you’d fallen under as you mourn for people whose circumstances of their connection to you are almost too vile for you to take. Like he’s plucked the thought from your brain he adds your name to the list, letting it audibly hang in the air just adjacent to the others, like a reminder it’s not too late for you to catch the train and join them and it makes you squeamish.

“You know, if you wanted to know more about me you could’ve just asked, doll. I’d have told you everything and more than you read through in those articles today. What was it that solidified it for you? Indulge me. Which part did you read that made those cute little hairs on the back of your neck stand on end when you realized I was telling you the truth, hmm? Which details really set it in stone for you?”

You hesitate at his words, you felt like you had been building up momentum to berate him, gathering the courage to confront him and maybe even shame him for the things he’d done and in one fell swoop he’d toppled it.

“Or was it the picture that did you in? I bet it was, wasn’t it?” His voice rises in pitch, just an octave above his usual purr but you can pick out the giddiness in it, not needing to even see him to know he’s smirking, it leaks into his tone, tainting it.

“Just a passing glimpse, not much more than a blur really but you recognized me in it, didn’t you. You recognized my mask.” You want to shiver on his lap, his ability to oh so easily settle on the truth never failing to unnerve you. It’s just like he’d said the night before, his voice echoing in your ears as he claimed he knew you, and here he was proving it over and over and over again.

“I really caught hell over that one, took some serious ass kissing to get it published but it worked out in the end, we sold out every single printed copy in half a day.” Your breath hitches in your throat, your ears piquing at his words. Drawing wiry, crisscrossed connections between your current knowledge and your continuous new discoveries until your mind was tangled to hell and back in red yarn.

Your eyes widen as a thought occurs to you and then like a freight train, it slowly picks up steam, building and solidifying until it’s too exigent, too deafening. A dawning epiphany on the horizon of your mind, a roaring abomination rearing its ugly head that refuses to be ignored.

Your voice starts softly, a whisper that grows louder in tandem with your horror. “No. N-no. It-… it can’t be. you’re-“ You trail off, unable to finish it, unable to utter it aloud.

He leans down over your back, his body eclipsing you as he crowds in to get right up close behind your ear. With his breath hot on the back of your neck, goosebumps rise from the pores of your skin like the dead from their graves.

“I told you I’d be in touch didn't I, doll?” He muses smuggly from just behind you. The all too familiar phrase falls from his lips and your hopes and dreams of ever escaping this hellhole you’ve found yourself at the bottom of falls with it, crashing and burning down around you in a violent blaze that scorches all in its path, consuming you whole.

“You know, when we got off the phone initially, I was pretty pissed, I can’t lie. I had half a mind to make it a half day and come home early, but I really don’t like doing things out of anger. Things done in the heat of the moment almost always end up laced with regret, so I made myself wait all day and by the end I was actually rather impressed with you.”

“It takes a lot of balls to do what you did, it’s just too bad I suppose you didn’t have the brains to save yourself all this trouble.” He adds at the end, slapping you with the backhanded portion of his compliment.

“You see, if you’d have done half as much research on Jed Olsen as you did on Ghostface you’d have known then what you know now. Hell if you’d have just gone to the homepage of the newspapers website where you got my phone number from, you’d have seen a big ole picture of all the newspaper staff right there on the front, including yours truly.”

You had honestly thought you were at the bottom of the pit in terms of being freaked out, you honestly believed he couldn’t possibly surprise you any more than he already had but like rotten russian nesting dolls, each horror only encased a smaller more vile atrocity lurking beneath the surface.

And here was the next horror to set your teeth on edge, causing each individual vertebrae in the column of your spine to shift and contract until they were as straight as an arrow. Here were the many layers of the rotting onion, each pulled back to reveal a fresh, new face of decay smiling up at you from beneath.

You still deny it, unaccepting of the truth that sits heavy on your shoulders like a crushing weight. “No. No, that's impossible. You can’t-“

“Can’t be committing the crimes and reporting them too?” He cuts you off, almost giddily. His voice is elevated now, dripping with the excitement of your revelations, a showcase of the intricacies of his carefully crafted cogwork.

“Oh doll, it certainly is possible. Ever heard of Vlado Taneski?” He waits patiently but just as he’d expected there’s no answer from you, not positive or negative in response, only silence, which he doesn’t mind, it gives him a rare teaching opportunity.

“He was a serial killer from Macedonia. He killed three women over the span of three years and he wrote freelance articles reporting on their deaths. As you can imagine, that's something that I just could not get over. It’s… brilliant.”

“It’s not weird or strange to keep the articles written about your murders like trophies if you’re the one who writes them. They just call that a portfolio.” You can feel the confidence rolling off of him in waves, he thinks he’s so clever.

“But he made one fatal error. Can you guess what it was?” You squirm in his lap, not wanting to give into his little games or weird fucking pseudo-educational lectures.

After a moment of silence he grows impatient and you raise your head in alarm as you suddenly register he’s lifted his hand off your ass only a second before you feel it slap down again on your tender cheeks, making you yelp and become lively again, bringing you back to him before he continues.

“He got caught…” He pauses, emphasizing his words impatiently. “…because he used details in his articles that the police did not release to the public.” He reveals, smoothing over the heated skin of your perched ass like one might stroke a curled up cat.

“A stupid mistake that was easily avoidable.” He talks like there’s a manual for this kind of thing, rules laid down and etched in the blood of those who had failed before. A field manual meant to guide the future generations to follow, to learn from their mistakes and make them more effective, more deadly, more elusive.

That sick feeling in your stomach from earlier is churning again and it marinates the back of your throat in a bile so thick you feel like you’ll choke on it, it makes you bold, lets you speak your mind.

“Are you fucking telling me that you do these things, this… sick fucking shit and then wake up in the morning and go sit at a desk all day and write about it? Just… just fucking pretending to be normal and good and shit?”

While he’s not thrilled with your attitude about the situation he’s not stupid. He knows this probably comes as a bit of a shocker to most and he will give you credit for being at least open to discussion on the topic, so he indulges you.

“This isn’t the movies, doll. The world isn’t as black and white as they’d have you believe. There’s a whole world, a whole infinite spectrum of grays in between, toeing the line on both sides. What I’m doing is not new or abnormal under any circumstances. You do realize that, yes?”

You squirm in his lap, you can’t help it. What he’s suggesting is fucking insane. That everyone just oozes dirty little secrets. Like the general public is all walking around with a gaggle of skeletons trailing behind them, just a side effect of the wicked little ways we find to kill the monotonous, obtrusive, overbearing weight of our boredom.

“No. No fuck you. That is not true. Not everyone fucking kills people. You’re fucking sick. You’re fucking insane!” Your voice rises in pitch as you get a bit manic towards the end, coming a bit undone at the seams and to your dismay he only seems to grow more confident and composed as the conversation continues.

“You keep telling yourself I’m batshit crazy but you wanna know the truth?” He leans in close, his hot breath fanning over your neck and ear. “You’re just as batshit as I am, doll.” Your brows furrow, your eyes minutely flick back and forth with your flitting thoughts as you try to decipher just what the hell he’s talking about.

“Bullshit. I’m nothing like you.” His hand comes smacking down on your ass again and it makes you scream. A barrage of unfettered attacks that make you cry out weakly, your ass growing numb from the repetitive abuse.

“These are for lying to me. You say you’re nothing like me but That is bullshit and you know it. I know the sick shit you’re into.” His voice takes another upsweep in tone towards the end and you know he’s smiling above you again.

“You can fucking lie to yourself all you want but don’t try and sell me the same bullshit.” His gloved hand smacks down again right before he makes it clear to you just what he’d meant earlier.

“Every tumblr reblog, every ao3 bookmark, I’ve read them all.” Your body goes rigid beneath him at the mention of your more private social media platforms, the type of content they contain far different than the stuff you post onto Facebook and Instagram for your family and old high school friends to see.

“Porn is porn doll, physical video or written word it doesn’t matter. In fact, I find the latter to often be far more nefarious than the stuff you’ll find on the first page of pornhub. And some of the stuff you’ve been looking into? Well.. I bet you’d shame the shit out of the devil in comparison.”

He chuckles darkly above you as you come face to face with the extent of his knowledge of your dirty little secrets. Everything you’d ever clicked on, every story you’d read through, every indulgent fantasy you’ve ever subscribed to. You don’t know why you thought there were any secrets you could claim to hold sacred against him, he’d probably watched you masturbate to each and every one of them, there was no hiding from him.

“As much as you cry and beg me to stop, I know the truth.” He states plainly, squeezing the heated flesh of your ass just to hear you squeak, just to make sure you’re still with him. “The truth is you fucking love this. And that’s your real punishment, isn’t it?” It makes your blood run cold which only serves to intensify the burn in your ass as it spreads from your cheeks down into the crook between your thighs to your horror.

The laundry list of subject matters you’d perused through in your down time ran on and on in your brain. A growing list of kinks and fantasies, the most private bits of personal information held so close to your chest you’d never even tell your closest friends about and there wasn’t a shred of it he wasn’t privy to. Your mouth hung agape in a shock that ran bone deep, an embarrassment you’d never recover from.

To emphasize his point he started up again, raining smacks down that, emboldened by the new understanding between the two of you, you felt on a whole new level of torment.

“Oh, what am I gonna do with you, doll?” He muses as he continues, doling out smack after smack after devastating smack.

“If I can’t trust you to behave I’m gonna have to do something drastic.” Your eyes widen in alarm, this man’s definition of drastic could mean anything. You can only imagine what fate may befall you if he commits to something he deems drastic. Hell, you’d broken a promise, a verbal agreement held sacred to the authority of five year olds. Legally binding on account of the fact you’d crossed your heart and hoped to die, and now you were being bent over his knee, your ass spanked ruthlessly raw until his handprints were seared into your flesh like brands.

The thought of this man’s definition of drastic frankly terrified you and you caved. “Yes!! Ok, fuck!! I’m sorry! Please! I’m so sorry!” He didn’t stop right away, a few more stinging smacks laid out in perfunct succession across your blazing skin for good measure. “Please!”

Your tears had overtopped the levees of your lash line, warm tributaries that spilled down your cheeks and fell away in fat drops to land somewhere into the abyss between his lap and the cushions of the couch.

“Do you promise to take your promises more seriously?” He asks tauntingly, his smacks landing further down, right overtop the sensitive, unabused skin of the backs of your upper thighs. A blow you knew was intentional, a blow meant to bring you to your knees, meant to bring you to heel. It had the desired effect.

“Yes!! Yes, fuck!! I promise! I fucking promise, just please! Fucking please!!” Your chin trembles as the pain of his punishment rattles you, radiating out from your terribly sore ass and pulsating throughout your entire body in waves. The next time his palm grazes your flushed skin it’s far more gentle and you can tell even through the numbness that’s starting to settle in that he’s removed his glove, choosing to feel the heat of his afflictions without the barrier of the leather.

“Now you need to make it up to me.” Dreaded words you can’t even begin to imagine the exact extent of, but you’ll do anything for him to stop. You can’t possibly bare any more.

In a shaky, uneven tone that sounds pathetic even to your own ears you croak out a soft and almost unwilling “How?” There’s a silence after you utter the single, measly syllable. One that swells and expands until it fills the ambient space of the room around both of you like a vacuum, sucking the air out and leaving behind a greasy miasma of boundless, insidious opportunity in its place.

You can’t stand it any longer, you’ve stared down into the arm of your couch for so long you’ve memorized the way the threads in the fabric weave together, singed into your retinas by the shock of the pain and the burn of your tears. So you chance a look at him, turning your head to get a peek at his face when the anticipation grows too suffocating to stand any longer.

You look up to him, still draped over his knee, your ass throbbing. The tides of pain have started to recede, leaving nothing but alternating waves of heat and arousal in its wake. His smile widens at the sight of you, so quick the plump skin of his bottom lip catches in between his teeth as the idea of exactly how you can make it up to him graces him with its enlightenment. His loose locks hang down over the smooth cliff of his brow and down in front of his bright, gleaming eyes, glinting deviously with malicious excitement.

“That depends, doll. How bad do you really wanna make it up to me?” He asks in smooth jest, confident that he’s got you right where he wants you and ready to capitalize on the fact.

You scowl up at him; dark, hateful thoughts beginning to swirl in the space just behind your eyes. Something he catches in that same instant and all it really takes is lifting his offending hand off your ass and up into the air to correct it. You scramble and shift back, wiping the sour look from your face to replace it with a supplicating pout as the words fly from your puckered lips.

“No!! No! I- I wanna make it up to you. Please! Please let me make it up to you!” It does the trick, he lets his hand sink back down out of the air slowly and settle over your ass again in a soothing swipe, as if to say ‘that’s what I thought’.

He’s not fully broken you just yet; he can tell. Behind the simpering, docile little thing you’re masquerading as there’s an ember of defiance burning in the back of your brain and it pleases him to see it. He’d be a bit disappointed if you were subdued so easily. But there’s something else burning there, a fire of a different kind, one that burns slower. More smolder than outright blaze, and he can see that too, it only stokes the flames of his own desire knowing he’s the cause of it.

It makes his next words fall from his lips in a smooth, pleased purr. “Get off my lap and stand in front of me.” It’s a simple command, but it’s the unspoken commands that sit just behind it that makes you slow to comply— that and the humiliation of having to slide off his lap in the first place.

You swing your legs out off the side first and put your hands on his knees to push yourself up onto your feet. It’s the way your eyes never leave his as you do it that makes something low and dark in his chest stir. Probably unintentional on your part, just wishing to keep your eyes on the threat in the room but it has an effect on him all the same. Once you’ve done as he’s instructed his next command is as simple as the first, yet far more degrading. “Strip.”

Your eyes closed momentarily, you knew this was coming. It wasn’t enough to best you, it wasn’t enough to figure out your simple deceits, it wasn’t enough to humiliate you for them by bending you over his knee and then promptly humbling you by making you beg him for mercy. He wanted all of it, the full monty.

You shifted from foot to foot, thought for just a brief moment about trying to run again before succumbing to the fall of your pride and beginning to strip. You made it no slow, sensual theatric. Simply pulling your clothes off and throwing them to the side before modestly crossing one arm over your chest and the other in front of the apex of your thighs to subtly cover what little you’re able.

Saving yourself the ridicule of stopping halfway only to have him clear his throat and goad you into finishing the task and the mortification that comes with it. If you’re to subjugate yourself to him you may as well be brave about it. Hold your head high and look him in the eye while you do it, even if it’s just an arbitrary display of faux bravado to ease the ache in your already shattered pride.

He’s shifted since you’ve risen from your place on his lap, he takes up the whole of the couch now, sliding over from your side until he’s perched in the center of it. His arms are stretched out, resting over the back on either side, taking up most of its breadth with his impressive arm span. His legs are similarly positioned, his feet set flat out in front of him on either side, man-spreading far and wide with his feet planted into the low pile like he owns the space.

His eyes are currently preoccupied, slowly sweeping up the length of your body from the floor and trailing higher until his dark, lust-blown irises meet yours. A smug, pleased smirk tugs at one corner of his lips.

“My bag is in that chair behind you.” He says, barely lifting a hand up off the backrest to lazily point in the direction he means. “In that bag is my camera, I want you to go retrieve it for me.” Your heart sinks at the thought of more compromising photos, you think for a moment about begging him for an alternative but you’ve had just about as much groveling at his feet you think you can stand for one evening. So instead you turn to make your way towards the armchair in the corner when he stops you with an arrogant, almost melodic “Ah ah ah.”

You stop in your tracks but don’t turn back to him just yet, having to soothe your loathing for him that surges to the surface and taints the features of your face.

“Crawl.” He corrects, and you do turn back to him then, if only to gauge the seriousness of his command but his eyes brook no argument. And so, begrudgingly, you kneel, before settling down on your palms facing away from him, keeping your legs as tight together as humanly possible to try and conceal as much of you from his sight line as you can. It works mostly, until you start to move and then as one of your thighs shifts forward to start your crawl towards your destination and all is revealed. He makes it known by the low, approving growl that sounds from where he’s sat on his throne behind you.

You try and not think about it too hard as you shuffle as quickly as you can to the chair and reach into his bag for the camera, the bulk of it’s not hard to find and you pull it free from the confines of the old messenger bag as you turn to sort of kneel-walk back towards him when he stops you again.

“You can’t carry my camera in your hands and crawl, babygirl. You’re gonna have to find another place to hold it.” He can’t be fucking serious. You chime in at that point, your voice simultaneously light and coquettish while also dark and ground out between the grit of your teeth.

“And how exactly do you expect me to do that?” His answer comes after a soft yet smug smile that tells you he knows exactly how you’re meant to do just that.

“Put the strap between your teeth. That should free your hands up nicely, don’t you think?” If there was ever a single solitary moment in your existence where you could wish to kill someone with just a simple look, now would be the time you’d choose. Glaring daggers at him you’d love nothing more than to watch the tips of sink into the soft fleshy pits of his eyes.

You bite down on the strap and let it hang down from your lips as you resume your trek back towards the couch and if you thought the trip to the chair was the most embarrassing part of the whole ordeal you were dead wrong. There’s something about having to watch him watch you that is oh so much more degrading. The way his eyes keep trailing down to watch where the camera dangles as you sway, the pertinent position of it in relation to the rest of your body.

You watch as he adjusts himself at the sight of you and as much as you loathe to admit it, it sets you aflame. His obvious desire for you, the way he doesn’t even try to hide how he fixates on every aspect of your body, never skipping over the rough or unshapely parts of you. He drinks you in greedily like he’s got a thirst he can never quite quench and it sets your nerves alight with desire despite everything.

When you reach him he reaches out and plucks the strap from between your teeth with a satisfied smirk and you have the audacity to think it’s over when he brings his hand to his forehead animatedly— like he’s just remembered something he can’t believe he’d be so stupid as to forget.

“I almost forgot, doll. I’m gonna need you to get one more thing from the bag for me.” You just stare up at him in disbelief as he explains.

“On the back of the bag in a separate pouch you’ll find my knife, I need you to bring it to me.” You sit in front of him for a moment longer, the shame of your defeat rising in the back of your throat and you let it burn you, hoping that the memory of this will deter you from ever letting this kind of thing happen to you again.

You turn away from him and start to make your way back to the armchair when the telltale flash of his camera illuminates the wall in front of you, the sound of the shutter going off accompanying it along with a new sense of shame for you to wallow in. There’s no getting these images back, they’re in the world now, in his possession and always would be. That thought alone threatens to make you sick.

The shutter clicks off a handful of times behind you again before you make it back to the chair. You flip the bag over and after searching for a minute, you find the separate pouch in question. It’s hidden along the seams and doesn’t look original to the design, after opening it you stick your hand in and pull the cursed thing out into the light before turning back towards him.

It was much bigger in your hand than you’d imagined it to be. The sheath covered blade juts out from the end of your fist, a wicked extension of it. You turn it over a few times in fascination, gripping it proper as you choke up on the hilt, cool to the touch against the web of your hand, and something clicks into place.

It’s when your hand wraps around the curvature of the handle, when the phenolic resin melds against the swell of your palm that a most devious idea pops into your head. Here was the moment at hand, here was another golden opportunity. You had his knife and he had nothing but a camera.

You could saunter over to him and stick the thing right into his neck or go for the lager target and jam the blade right through his chest, lots of vital bits in there, or better yet you could just let the blade bite right into his thigh, let the tip nick his femoral artery and he’d bleed out in minutes.

His voice pulls you from your plotting. “We won’t be needing the sheath, doll.” You couldn’t agree more.

You hear him but don’t look at him, mesmerized as you grip the leather covering the blade and pull, feeling it slide smoothly up and away until the steel beneath is slowly revealed. Its surface is polished and you can’t help but to run your thumb along its blood groove and down along the upsweep of its clip point.

You look up at him and he snaps a shot of you at just that moment, one he can’t help but go back and review. A still of you staring up at him in all your naked glory, his knife gripped in one hand as the other toys with the tip. He thinks to himself it’s probably the single greatest photograph he’s ever taken and he’s going to cherish it for the rest of his life, make a million copies of it so the world will never be rid of it, eternalize it forever.

He’s still staring at it when he orders you. “Bring it to me.” He seemed caught up in the moment which played to your advantage, maybe you could work with that. You flipped the knife around and brought it to your lips. Parting them before settling the cold spine of the knife between your teeth and biting down, holding it in place as you settled back down on all fours and looked up at him from beneath your lashes as you crawled back towards him.

The low, sultry groan he lets out is like music to your ears and you tried to focus on that and not the fact that the blade between your teeth has been saturated with the blood of his victims, people you now knew the names of.

Julie Andrews, Mark Recosta, Donna Blaine.

Claire Richards, Thomas Steiner, Edward Steltz.

James Marsh, Henry Lancaster.

You.

You have to shut your eyes against your overactive imagination as you swear you can see it flowing through the fuller and dripping off the tip just out of your peripherie, swear you can taste the coppery, metallic tang of it on your tongue as you stare into his deep, brown orbs while you crawl towards him. Hellbent on letting him feel the bite of his own blade for once.

The flash of the camera goes off. He’s snapping pictures of you again. Pictures of you stark naked with his blade caught between your teeth, crawling towards him on your hands and knees. He was wrong before. This is the single greatest photograph he’s ever taken.

He swears it’s the most erotic sight he’s ever laid his eyes on. No playboy he’d ever snuck peeks at as a boy; no pornstar— illustrious or otherwise, holds a candle to how you look crawling towards him right now. Not even Helen of Troy could compare to the sight he holds in his viewfinder at this very moment.

The beating of your heart is so erratic against the cage of your ribs you worry it bulges out from your skin with every beat, your palms sweaty against the nap of the carpet beneath you, trembling as you draw near. You’re an arms length away from him now. Now is the time to strike if there ever was one. You stop in front of him, sitting back on your heels but before you can move he’s reaching out and wrapping one deft hand around the handle of the blade, beating you to the punch.

You stare at each other like that, peering into each other's souls, intentions spread bare for both to see plainly. In fact, you’ve never felt more in tune with the man who now torments your life than you ever have. There’s a real, raw understanding between the two of you. There is no deceiving him. There is no escape from him. This is your life now, that’s just how it is until further notice.

He pulls and you release for fear of the edge and its razor kiss and just like that the opportunity is gone. All the anxiety. All the build up. All for not.

He sets the camera aside for now, seemingly done with it at the moment as he takes the blade into the palm of his left hand and stabs the tip down into the armchair of your couch, resting it there as he peers down at you knelt between his thighs.

He makes the next move, just letting you watch as the hand not wielding the blade falls to his lap and begins to smoothly pull at the end of his thin, black belt. Tugging it through the loop and out of the buckle with one practiced hand. With it undone he resumes his lax position, throwing one arm back to rest leisurely over the back of the couch as he looks to you expectantly.

You know what he wants, it’s pretty obvious but you can’t bring yourself to do it on your own anyway. You just sit there and stare at the prominent tent of his dickies, your eyes wide. He knows you need encouragement so he twists the blade against the fabric of the couch, making a crater in it and capturing your attention with the sound of the steel tip ripping the fibers free.

“Don’t make me make you, doll.” He sounds amused but you know the threat behind the statement is real so you force your shaky hands forward against their will. One hand finding one side of the buttoned garment and curling your fingers overtop the hem to grip it and the other finding a similar purchase on the other side.

His flesh is warm and tight against the backs of your knuckles as you maneuver them deftly to unbutton his pants. With the button undone the individual seams want to part away on either side, held only in place by the zipper still tugged to the top of the junction. You grip it with your left hand and pull it down, the low buzzing of it as it rides the track down and separates is loud in the otherwise quiet of the room.

With them loose, he lifts his hips for you to shimmy them down his thighs a bit, which you do with a dour expression but without fuss. He sits now in just his boxers before you and they barely constrain the bulge of him yearning against the fabric for freedom. You look away from the bulk of him for a second to look up into his eyes and when they land on his you know it’s a mistake.

They hold you enraptured with the intensity of their gaze, the brown orbs darkened so considerably they’re almost black. You have the whole of his attention and you’ve never seen someone look more hungry. You have to look away.

You can’t handle the anticipation any longer, it only doubles by the second so you just reach forward and find the seam at the fold of his fly and pull it to the side, it’s all it takes for his cock to spring free and into view, the rigid pillar of him out in the open now right in front of your face.

Your eyes scale the length of it and you gulp. He’s girthy but not overwhelmingly so, it’s the length of him that has you clutching your pearls. You consider the next logical course of action and approximate you may be able to fit half of him in your mouth realistically, any more than that is going to be a challenge. One you’re unsure you’re ready for.

You had had him last night in all his fulty, but under the bizarre circumstances and with all the adrenaline pumping through you, you were sure now that you hadn’t understood the extent of his glory. You must be projecting your astonishment because he chuckles, a low, deep sound that resonates from his chest and snaps you out of it.

“Is something the matter, doll? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He lilts at you, mockingly. His shitty pun is not lost on you, you’re just still too dumbstruck to react to it. That’s when you feel the tip of his knife under the cleft of your chin, lifting your eyes from his cock to his face so you get the full jist of his words and their weight. All too familiar with its edge, you let it carry your gaze to him, unwilling to feel its bite just yet if you can help it.

“You’re not getting out of this, babygirl.” He reminds you sternly, his tone erring on the more serious side now. You know he means it too so you close your eyes as you feel the tip pull away from your face after one last dangerous caress and try to gather yourself.

When you open them again you turn your attention back to the task at hand and reach forward tentatively to wrap a palm around his length. He’s warm and twitches at your touch. Both of you share a sharp inhale at the contact and you can feel his eyes burning holes into you from above as you scoot up as close as you can until you feel your knees bump the skirting before you’re leaning in. You brace your hands on the curved planes of his thighs, your eyes fixating on his tip as you draw nearer before you draw them closed as your lips part and you pull him into your mouth.

He’s contrastly hard against the soft slide of your tongue, like velvet over hardened steel and he tastes clean as you run your tongue experimentally along the hardened ridge of him. You keep your eyes closed as you go and it helps, you find yourself getting into a kind of rhythm, something you’d thought would be impossible to achieve given the circumstances.

His mouth drops open as your tongue runs along the bottom of his shaft, the feel of it grazing against him has his arm drawing forward from where it rests on the back of the couch to caress the back of your head instinctively.

You squeak out in surprise around him at the unexpected touch and while he knows the vibrations that ring out from the sound are unintentional they feel heavenly all the same, and it pulls a groan from low in his throat that grows into a growl towards the end.

You’ve never heard a man get so vocal from a blowjob before. The men you’d blown in the past weren’t exactly silent during, but it’s like every move you make, every drag of your tongue against him pulls something from him and that kind of knowledge, the kind of power that it instills in you has heat pooling low in your belly. Igniting the low burning embers of your arousal from where he’d had you bent over his knee earlier, and that thought alone has you digging your nails into his thighs as you allow his cock to sink down your throat a little further than you’d been letting it.

He feels the head of his cock hit the back of your throat and tighten down around him reflexively, that paired with the way your nails are digging into the flesh of his thighs threatens to make his eyes roll into the back of his head and he knows he can’t take much more of this.

He thought he’d have more self control but the longer you go the more he feels like he’s slipping. He knows what he needs so the hand that’s been caressing the back of your head pulls away from your crown to cup your cheek, which makes you flinch a bit as you’re pulled from your thoughts, but it also makes you open your eyes and instinctively look up at him.

His brows are furrowed, collected in a pinch set above the piercing, brown orbs of his eyes that bore into you and you freeze. They’re dark as they gaze into yours but they swirl with something not immediately identifiable.

It takes a moment for you to realize that in the vast pools of his abject desire, resonating around the edges of his hunger is the soft glow of adoration, something that almost bridges on love. It holds you there, gazing up at him with his cock socketed in between your lips and you watch as his face contorts with pleasure just at the sight of you.

You find you are at odds with yourself again. You know what this man is capable of, you know the deep evil that festers below his augmented surface. The kind of inexcusable rot that makes you toss out even the most polished of apples but the growing swell of your need has you tempted to sweep the facts you’d read through today in great detail under the rug. It’s where this is so clearly headed anyway, there’s no getting out of it. And with the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the sole object of his desires, like you’re the only woman on the planet, you’re having a hard time not letting that have an effect on you.

Just the intensity of his gaze makes your thighs jump, an unexpected spike of need pierces through your unease and it sets you on edge. You start to move again, as more of a distraction against your own bodies reactions than for his pleasure but the choked moan it pulls from him has the opposite effect on you and you have to mime like you’re readjusting just so you can rub your thighs together discreetly, the sound shooting straight to your core.

He’s not having it, the palm on your cheek stiffens and it stills you. Pulling you off of him with an audible plop as he lifts your face from his lap to look up at him again, though he notes how you won’t look him in the eye this time. Just when you feel your resolve beginning to slip, like he already knows he speaks, like he’s plucked the words right out of your thoughts.

“Are you wet for me, doll?” He asks in a pleasure strained voice, his tone low and overwhelming seductive to your chagrin. Though try as you might, you can’t get anything past him it seems.

You can’t bring yourself to answer him, too mortified by the fact to even process it let alone speak. But he doesn’t need you to. He can see it in the desire emanating from the blown pools of your pupils, the way your thighs shift uncomfortably, the way your hands tense in his lap.

“Show me.” He commanded. And as if you’d been hexed one hand slides off his thigh and down your body to the juncture of your thighs, slipping deftly between them to paw at the slick heat of your sex. You pull it back up to the light and hold it before you, both of you examining it before you feel his hand grip your wrist and lift, pulling you up til you’re kneeling in front of him as he leans down the rest of the way. He’s inches from you now, the space between you just large enough to house his hand gripping yours.

You watch on bated breath as he brings your slick coated fingers up to his face and draws them into his mouth, enveloping your index and pointer fingers between his lips and sucking them clean of you right before your very eyes and the sensation of it paired with his intense eye contact has you stifling a moan in the back of your throat.

When the spell breaks he pulls your fingers free from your mouth to pull you up off your knees. He takes his hand off his blade, the tip stuck down into the turf of the arm of your couch like a planted flag long forgotten for bolder claims as he hoists you up with both arms and up into the seat of his lap.

You feel the hardened length of him against the inner crook of your thighs as he seats you into straddling him. You forget about your revulsion, forget about your punishment, forget about his knife just within arms reach as he braces you, splaying a hand at the small of your back as he grips his cock with the other and positions it at the entrance of your slick pussy, never breaking your eye contact.

If he’d had said anything in that moment, if he would’ve hesitated or made you speak it probably would have snapped you out of the haze and things would have gone down differently, but he didn’t and that made all the difference. He simply lets your body weight drop, spearing you open on his cock and making you both moan out together as he fills you.

Your eyes widen in response to the pain, that first sharp pinch of being split open and he hasn’t even drawn flush against you yet. He grips the swells of your hips in the palm of his hands, noting how they fill them perfectly as he drags you down onto him until he’s finally filling you to the brim. Your cries are tinged with discomfort as those last few inches plunge deep and he stills as you both adjust to the stretch.

You try to catch your breath perched astride him but he fills you so completely there hardly feels room for air, like the very length of him pierces into the bellows of your lungs and fills them too. But then he readjusts his grip on your hips and pulls you back up off him all the way to the tip before he guides you back down onto his length again and the pain gives way to pleasure.

The mind-altering, breath-stealing kind that has your eyes fluttering closed and your mouth falling open, the kind that you have to brace yourself against the intensity of and just take it.

When he gets hold of the reins in regards to his own pleasure he starts to move in earnest, his eyes concentrating on the way your face twists and contorts with each subtle movement. Your hands reach forth and find purchase by way of grabbing bunches of his dress shirt in your fists and cling to him as he rocks his hips up into you from below while the hands on your hips guide you ceaselessly up and down his hardened length.

Your vision blurs around the edges and you can't help the noises he pulls from you now, it’s lost on you to care, let alone try to stifle them. Your world begins and ends with each thrust and while it had seemed before that you’d had the upper hand, now that was clearly not the case as your back now maintains a perpetual arch, your moans never quite cease and since he’d pushed into you, you seemed to have long forgotten anything you’d learned today. Your head empty of all thought, as your focus shifts to the feel of his cock dragging in out of your tight, wet heat. He can’t help but to comment on the fact as he coos up at you from below, mockingly.

“Does that feel good, doll?” He snarks up at you from below as he thrusts up into you with just a fraction more force than before, eliciting a low, almost pained groan from you as you clench down around him.

“It’s ok, babygirl. You don’t have to admit it out loud, I know it’s hard. The way you’re gripping my cock tells me everything I need to know.” He keeps up like that, holding you in a pleasured daze until your eyes start to lose focus and your jaw goes slack, but no matter how much he enjoys watching you lose yourself with him buried deep inside you, this is still a punishment and you’re still meant to be making it up to him.

So while you’re blissfully distracted he pulls the tie from around his collar and loosens the knot until the neck is loose and wide. Reaching up, he throws the loop over the top of your thrown back head and lets the soft silken fabric catch around the column of your neck before pulling it taut by the end and jerking you down until your foreheads touch, forcing you to look at him as he stills and watches you pout as the heavenly sensations cease.

Your pleading eyes peer down into his piercing ones as he commands you with a single word that has you moaning low in your throat and complying instantaneously with the authority behind it.

“Bounce.”

Your hands relax their grip on his shirt to brace against his shoulders as you set to work, picking up where he’d left off and trying to find the rhythm he’d set previously with your own movements. It’s a pale comparison but after a moment you find that mind numbing pleasure again even if it feels drip fed instead of a constant flow.

“You know what, doll?” He quips from below you as he watches you set to work while he lounges back into the cushions. “I think you did this on purpose. I think you wanted this.” He lets the statement linger in the air for a moment, collecting weight before he continues.

“What kind of a girl in the kind of situation you’re in gets a chance to be free, a whole five hours while I was at work and you were all by your lonesome— and instead of calling a friend… or a family member… or even the police, you called me.” He chuckles then, a dark, hearty rumble that you can feel resonate through him where he’s buried deep as it vibrates into you.

“You must like being the victim, doll. You’ve done nothing to get out.” His words get to you, you can’t help it. They penetrate your concentration and reverberate, bouncing back and echoing off the walls of your mind because as much as you loathe to admit it, there’s a ring of truth to them. Why hadn’t you called the police? All those doubts you’d had, all those worries about what would happen if you talked to them, were they really the reason you never pulled the trigger? Or was it something else? Something deeper and darker that you just can’t bring yourself to face.

Your eyes squeeze closed at the thought as you drop your hips down onto him and still, your eyes rolling beneath the lids as his tip nudges a spot inside you that steals the breath directly from your lungs. You hear him growl below you before you feel the all too familiar sting of his hand slapping down on the flank of your ass, making you cry out in pain as your eyes fly open to meet his.

He’s leaned forward again, this close you can really see the way the lust clouds the varying hues of his eyes, muddying them together into a dark rich brown that holds you hostage with their intensity. It lets you feel the heat of his breath against your lips and you feel like you’ve got the answer to your burning questions when you find your eyes shifting down to his plush lips wanting to push forward and close the gap between you to taste them.

“Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

You lift your hips and get to work again as he sits back into the cushions and denies you the pleasure. He holds onto the tail end of the tie like a leash to keep you right where he wants you as you pick up the pace again. With the way his hips are angled now that he’s sat back relaxed, his cock drags along your walls every time you lift your hips up and it punches up into that sweet spot every time you drop down, making you gasp without fail as it stabs into it.

You can feel it, the pit of pleasure that pools low in your belly just behind your navel and you know you’re not gonna last much longer. It swells into a cresting wave, one catastrophic in nature that threatens to decimate all in its path and leave you drowning in its wake. Like a suicidal surfer you chase it out to sea, slamming your hips down against his as you start to reach its peak.

That’s when you feel him jerk on the tie around your neck, tightening it until he’s got your attention again. And when he speaks he sounds utterly unbothered, still completely in control as you teeter towards falling apart all over him. Relishing the cock drunk state he’s reduced you to and being this up close and personal to witness it.

“What’s the matter, babygirl?” He taunts, voice dripping in faux concern. “Are you getting fucking close for me?”

Your brows scrunch even further in frustration at his teasing, wishing to both simultaneously throttle him and grovel for your release. You want to shut your eyes against the effects of him, want to shut him out and regain your composure, want to resist this but he grabs your hips again and takes the helm, thrusting up into you from below in a way that leaves you wide eyed and gasping. Your answer is delayed but it’s dripping with desire, born directly from a place of burning need. “Yes!”

But you should have known he wouldn’t let you off that easily. “I don’t know, doll. You’ve been an awfully naughty girl today. If you wanna come I wanna hear you beg me for it.” He growls out as he feels you clench down around him at the sudden shift in dynamic between you.

Your hands ball into fists that dig into the shelves of his shoulders as he drives into you from below and coaxes you towards your release. He knows you’re close so he slows to a crawl and it makes you throw your head back and whine, a beautiful sight that tugs on the floodgates of his own release.

He uses his thrusts to punctuate his points, driving up into you on each word to express the gravity of them. “Beg. Me.” You moan as each one drives home deep and it breaks you as you quake in his grasp.

“Please!! Fucking please!! Let me come!!” You’re past the point of shame, over the humiliation of the position you’re in, all you care about is the precipice of pleasure you’re just out of reach of. You fucking need it, you’re desperate for it, you have to have it.

“Look me in the fucking eyes then.” Your head falls forward and he can see the desperation burning brightly in them, can see the submission yielding in your blown pupils. When he has your full attention he continues, digging down deep one last time to the heart of the problem, to the root of the cause of this entire predicament.

“You broke a promise to me today. I need to hear you say you’re going to keep them from now on.” There’s a part of you, lost deep below the sea of your pleasure that hears his words and knows this is fucked. Out of everything you’d done today he’s upset that you didn’t keep your promise? A promise made in haste to get him— an intruder who’d broken in and terrorized you out of your home as soon as you possibly could. You’d have said anything in that moment to be rid of him.

And what kind of person in their right mind expects a victim to keep promises made under duress to their captors anyway? A person who doesn’t see the situation under that light. That’s who. You keep forgetting. Somehow you keep forgetting this man is obsessed with you, a violent career criminal who’d singled you out as his next victim and then took it a step even further and decided to not only relinquish you of your life but allow you to keep on living it, worse than death he’d hijacked your existence and made you his pet.

But that part of you, that part submerged at the bottom of your pleasure, drowned out by it— that part didn’t currently have the microphone. That part sat at the bottom of your mind living off a lungful of air while the rest of you crumbled and remolded itself into the docile little thing currently perched on his lap with his cock buried to the hilt and his tie cinched tight around your neck as you begged him for more.

“I-I’ll keep them. I swear. I promise.” You stare down into his eyes from above and hope your voice carries the conviction you need it to as it’s strained from the exertion of your cries, both of immense pleasure and bristling pain. Your pussy twitches around him impatiently while you wait to see if he’s satisfied. You get your answer in the form of his hips starting to move again and it pulls a soft, sweet moan of relief from your chest as you cling to him.

He picks the pace back up in earnest, not holding back and the pleasure that courses through you singes the very walls of your veins and threatens to set you alight. His fingers dig deep into the plush flesh of your hips so hard you have no doubt you’ll still be able to feel them tomorrow. Phantom fingers you’ll relive the bruising grip of when you skim your own over the top for days to come.

He’s ruthless, on a path now to see you fall apart for him and he’s not far behind as he drives his hips flush with yours on every thrust, making you feel every single inch. It’s when you lock eyes with him again and in the softest, sweetest drawl he’s ever heard, plead with him one last time.

“Please, Danny!! Please don’t fucking stop!!” It’s in that moment he knows all is not in vain. Right then he wholeheartedly commits to never letting you go as he wraps the slack of the tie around his fist, dragging you down to smash your lips to his. It’s only a second after that that you both fall apart together, you convulsing hard around him as he thrusts up as deep into you as he possibly can and stills, filling you full.

When your bruised lips pull away from him he keeps a tight leash and waits for your eyes to flutter open again. When they do, he whispers heated promises low against your lips where only you can hear.

“You’re mine, doll. You can keep denying it and keep fighting me and we can keep playing these little games with each other if you want but the end result is always gonna be the same. Whether you choose to accept it or not is your prerogative but I’m not gonna stop cause I know…” He breathes low against your lips, chasing them as you pull away in feigned distaste of his words, even as you pulse around him where he’s still nestled deep inside your walls.

His nose brushes yours softly before he continues. “…I know the truth. I know you want this.” He leaves it at that. Letting you stew on the thought as you straddle him, suspended in the haze of a day that’s left you just as lost at the end as you’d been at the start.

But even later on, as you placidly let him help you cook dinner before ultimately retiring to bed together for another night spent with a man who’d forced himself between your sheets, even as he pulls you close in the dark of your bedroom and into the warmth of his arms you know this has only just begun and it’s not over until it’s over. You’d never been one to go quietly into the night.

the devil i know

chapter one: god you've got the blackest eyes

(repost)

fic tag | fic playlist | fic masterlist

pairing(s): crossroads demon!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: To summon a demon at a crossroads, simply cast a circle, make an offering, and recite an incantation. What happens from that point on is subject to your desire… and the demon’s.

cw: explicit, smut, dubcon elements, making a deal with a demon, inspired by american and european folklore, sacrilegious themes, horror, witch!reader, reader is 21+ in modern day, eddie is immortal, coercion (a bit), sex pact, marking, possessive behavior, animal death, trauma, reader is ostracized by her very religious hometown, dark comedy, tfw your accidental boyfriend is a demon who is obsessed with you bc he doesn’t know how to be normal about anything ever, dead dove: do not eat

please check masterlist and individual parts for content warnings before reading. this fic contains dark themes. your media consumption is your own responsibility.

a/n: Hi folks, for the month of October this year I'm going to be reuploading all the chapters of this fic onto tumblr, this time hopefully for good. I apologize for the time that it's been taken down. Genuinely, this fic has garnered so much kindness and support and I think of it as one of my biggest accomplishments. I hope you all enjoy it just as much the second time around as the first.

ALL OF MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

Through me you pass into the city of woe, Through me you pass into eternal pain, Through me you pass among forsaken people. Justice moved my exalted creator; I was wrought by divine power, Supreme wisdom, and primal love. Before me all things created were eternal, And eternal I endure. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. -Dante Alighieri, The Inferno, Canto III

The book you’ve used for ages now, since late in your junior year of high school, has only one page in it that you haven’t utilized. You don’t know how much faith to put in it– you’re a little short on faith, these days– but, the spellbook lays it out simply, so you follow its directions to the letter. 

To summon a demon at a crossroads, go to a place where two paths meet on the dark moon. You find peace and quiet in the woods, deep where you know no one walks at night but two paths cross in a small clearing banked with trees. It’s your favorite place to go when you want to do a spell– ritual– and you don’t want to be bothered. The whole thing can’t be more than twenty feet across. Above the overhang of trees, there’s no moon in the sky, only stars.

Cast a circle of protection. That took more research than just the book in your hands, but years of collecting information have given you learned knowledge– there are a million ways to cast a circle, and different circles for different purposes. You do your best to create one for protection. You draw a literal circle in the dirt with a stick, fill it with salt, and walk around the circle three times clockwise to cast it. You light candles to give yourself some light, and to free up your hands of the flashlight you carried to see your way through the woods. 

Make an offering of copper. Your hand pauses on the copper dog tag in your hand. You’d thought of just offering a penny, but you remembered reading somewhere that pennies barely contain copper anymore, and you didn’t have anything else that was entirely made of the one metal. 

You run your finger over the embossed name on it. Lacey. Your pet’s old collar feels heavy in your hand as you remove the tag from the leather strap and bury it in the earth, you guess, to reach the… Underworld? Hell? You can’t honestly say, considering the text you’re referencing only calls it the Otherworld.

It’s a big sacrifice. It’s personal. But, you guess, that gives it more meaning. Making a deal is personal business, and you have your reasons.

Recite the summoning incantation. A stanza of words you don’t understand. You don’t think it’s in Latin, but you try your best, all the same. You read them from the book before you, and feel your blood rushing in your veins as you do.

State your desire out loud in a clear voice. Well, that’s a little more difficult. What is it that you want?

You take a breath, go to speak, and then stop. You don’t know how to start. You don’t know exactly how to describe your pain. You don’t know how to voice your anger well enough, you just know you need to… you need to get it out, somehow. This is a very crucial step in the ritual, you have to do it.

“I came here to make a deal,” you speak frankly, clearly. “I’m prepared to do anything. I’ve run out of options. I’ve been hurt too many times, by too many people who didn’t care what they did to me. I’ve lost everything I genuinely loved. I’m… I’m angry, and desperate, and I’m frightened. And I feel so alone. It’s eating me alive, and I just… I just want the ability to make things go my way, for once.” Good enough, you hope.

Wait for an answer.

You do. You listen intently, to the song of the leaves in the trees rustling in the slight breeze, to the crickets chirping in the grass. You wait long enough that you start to rethink your approach. 

It could be that things will turn around if you just wait another month, or another month after that. Maybe you’ll get the car back. Maybe you’ll get the promotion that was given to the newbie that you trained. Maybe your ex will stop coming around your work to intimidate you. Maybe you’ll get a new dog to take the place of the one that he killed. Maybe the evangelical town you live in will stop shunning you and calling you a witch, like something out of the middle ages.

Unlikely, that last one.

Just when you swear it’s a failure, that you should just pack up and leave, that’s when a strong gust of wind rips through the clearing out of nowhere. The candles blow out– and then, oddly enough, relight themselves. There’s a slight scent of smoke on the breeze, and you look around to make sure none of the candles fell over in the wind.

They’re all perfectly fine. There’s nothing amiss, it seems, until you hear a cough and movement across the clearing. You look forward, and see a pair of black combat boots in the stream of light from your flashlight. You follow the boots up to a pair of legs, clad in dark jeans, and then further up, to a torso, and a head, and a pair of sparkling eyes.

“Hi.”

You stare at him, probably looking like a fish out of water with the way your mouth opens and closes. You’d fully expected the traditional scary depiction of a demon– maybe horns, goat hooves, et cetera. But the man that answered your call is… just a man. A pretty one. He has long, curly hair, which falls over his broad shoulders and stirs in the wind. His plush lips curve up in a relaxed, cocky smile, as he takes in the sight of you in return. 

He quirks an eyebrow at you. “Are you just gonna stare at me all night?” 

“Sorry, hi. Hello.” You shake your head. “Can you believe I honestly thought I’ve been doing it wrong this whole time?” 

“I can believe a lot of things. You know, there’s a reason why the demon summoning ritual is first in that book.” His voice is soft and resonant. You get a mental image of heat waves radiating from tar-black and glowing magma, rolling slowly over lava beds. The image disappears just as soon as it flashes into your mind.

“Well, to be completely honest, I wasn’t sure how I felt about making a deal with a demon first thing,” you explain, looking away shyly. “But I’ve tried all the spells in this book and not a single one of them worked. Just seems like everything is getting worse all the time.”

He doesn’t look away– rather, he keeps staring at you, unblinkingly. Like you’re the most fascinating creature he’s ever seen. He leans up against the tree that he appeared beside, his leather jacket falling open to reveal a shirt with a demon’s head on it. Fitting. He takes a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. 

“So, now you wanna make a deal with little ol’ me, huh?” He grins, a gorgeous smile that flashes bright, sharp teeth at you. He lifts a cigarette to his mouth and bites it gently between his teeth. He doesn’t pull out a lighter. Instead, you watch him light up with a small flame that erupts from the tip of his thumb. 

“Depends on who you are,” you retort, eyes following the movement of his hands. They’re weighed down by large, silver rings that reflect the light of the flame before it snuffs out. “What’s your name?”

He makes a short noise in his throat, shaking his head abruptly. He doesn’t look nearly as intimidating as you feel he should– more like he’s trying to warn you against something you don’t want. He peers at you from beneath his wavy bangs as he pulls the cigarette from his mouth and uses it to point at you. “Names are really powerful things where I come from, babydoll. Best not to bite off more than you can chew yet. Once we cut a deal– that’s when you get my name.”

You make a face as you mull that over. “So what do I call you, in the meantime? Demon daddy?” 

“You could,” he chuckles. The demon rocks to the side, crossing his legs at the ankles. “If you really wanted to. I wouldn’t mind, it’s flattering.” 

You grunt. “I think I’ll pass on that, actually.” He tilts his head with a sicker, watching you with an amused smile while you shift in place. “So, do I– I mean, you need to know what I want, right? Is that how this starts?”

“No, I know what you want.” He exhales a stream of smoke from his nostrils. “You want power. To get a fair shake, find your place, change your life. Defend yourself against the assholes making that life, well. A living hell.” As he spits out the words, his voice rings sharp through the trees, like the strike of a hammer on glowing metal, shooting sparks off into the air. 

“I want to take all this pain and just… return to sender. Give it back to them, y’know? I never wanted any of it,” you justify. Your voice is too small in comparison with his. “Maybe then I’ll be able to fucking breathe.”

For how little space you allow yourself to take up, he seems to consume the rest of it. He nods slowly. “That’s a fair request, sweetheart.”

“It’s selfish, I know.”

“Making a deal for power is inherently a selfish thing,” he shrugs. “Own it. I’m certainly not judging.”

You let out a shaky breath. You’re still so nervous, being so near him– ten feet away and growing closer every second, it seems, even though neither of you have moved. You feel like, no matter how far you pull back, the flow of fiery lava he seems to embody will keep creeping towards you until you’re burned alive.

His dark eyes glow like coals in the night as he looks you up and down, and then he quickly pushes himself away from the tree. You startle at the abrupt movement, and watch as he swings around it like Gene Kelly on a lamp post. 

When he rounds the tree, he uses the momentum to throw himself toward your circle. You flinch, and he frowns, but continues moving toward you at a slower pace, holding his hands out innocently. “Wanna know a secret? About how all this,” he twirls a finger in the air, indicating the ritual you’re in the middle of, “works?”

You nod, gazing up at him shyly. If you felt at all powerful while casting the circle and starting the ritual, he’s managed to take the wind out of your sails. You can feel the power radiating off of him in waves.

He smirks at you. “You make your petition– when you say the words in that little book,” he points at the volume at your feet, “and that petition is answered by whichever demon caters most to that desire.” He points at himself emphatically, his eyebrows raised. “Me? Infernal majesty of freaks and misfits. I’m your demon daddy.”

You finally giggle, and it makes him smile fondly, like that’s what he’d been gunning for all along. He backs up a step and puffs his cigarette. 

“I’m here to help you, sweetheart.” He regards you for a second, like he’s thinking things over. “That is, as long as you agree to my terms.”

“Terms?” You echo, but you were sort of expecting that. Nothing for nothing, right? “What are the terms?”

“Ah, they’re simple. Very traditional,” he waves his hand like it’s frivolous. He holds his hand out in midair, and just like how he’d conjured the flames, he produces a weathered book. It looks like a composition book that has scribbles and doodles all over the front of it– the same demon head that adorns his shirt. “You sign your name with your blood in my little black book, you hop on one foot with your hand on your head and pledge your undying fealty to the dark lord Kthulu, and then you meet me on the sabbath to kill a child and make them into soup.” 

He smiles, fluttering his eyelashes at you innocently. 

“Are you fucking serious?” You blurt. 

“Of course I’m not fucking serious– what is this, the dark ages?” He snorts as he lowers the composition book. “Nah, we don’t do human sacrifice on the sabbath anymore, it was getting too difficult to evade the witch hunters.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He flashes you a disarming grin. You can feel yourself halfway smirking as well, incredulous but somehow enjoying his humor. Then he shakes his head and says, seriously, “No, you do have to sign my book, though. And then meet me back here on the full moon to fuck.”

You blink at him, reeling from the whiplash of that. “You… I’m sorry?”

“I find it best not to sugarcoat it, y’know.” He shrugs, “Think of this as a marriage, of sorts. I give you the power to smite thine enemies, live deliciously, blah blah blah, and then you meet me at the crossroads every full moon to be my whore and we fuck like bunnies all night. Simple as that.”

“That’s far from simple.”

“It doesn’t have to be monogamous, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he continues frankly, “except on the full moon. I won’t compromise about that– you’ll be all mine, and I’m all yours. No takesies backsies.”

“No– that’s not–” You exhale, holding your hands over your eyes. “I’m just… not promiscuous like that…”

“Sweetheart.” He waits until you’ve lowered your hands to look at him, and he hums, with a saccharine smile that reminds you of the power you’d felt sweep through the clearing when he arrived. “You won’t be the first good girl I’ve broken, and you won’t be the last. If you’re worried about promiscuity, well… I answered your petition. I know what goes on in that pretty head, and it barely scratches the surface of what I’ve seen and done.” 

The toe of his boot barely nudges the edge of your circle, and a spark crackles in the dark from the impact. The light dances in his eyes longer than it remains in the air, like they caught the spark and ignited. 

“Trust me,” he says, drawing you in with the low register of his voice. “I can give you more than power. I can give you protection. I can give you real happiness. Karma’s a fucking bitch, so I can be, too. This is just such a little thing in return. And who knows… you may even like it.”

You shiver at that, even though his presence feels hot, like his stream of lava is surrounding you, crowding you in, boiling you where you stand. He’s right– you absolutely might like it. 

Because there’s just something magnetic between you, isn’t there? You can sense it, more than any heat and any sort of primal fear you might have instinctively at his presence. There’s a certain pull you feel toward him, emanating even through the salt barrier on the ground. 

You want to wrap yourself in him. Boil you alive, burn you to a crisp, destroy you– you don’t care.

“Or… is it that you don’t like this body?” He wonders aloud, striding backward two steps. He turns, his hand lifting his seemingly ever-burning cigarette to his lips. “Figures– y’know, I can be anything you want me to be, babydoll.”

Confused, you watch as he transforms in front of you. In the length of two steps while he paces across the clearing, his face and body stretches and contorts, until you’re not staring at the same visage anymore. He stops, and he turns to you with his palms up, like he’s waiting for your approval. 

You’re looking at Tom fucking Cruise. 

“Oh, no, absolutely not,” you shake your head vehemently, scowling. You wave your hands demandingly, “Put it back. You were so hot before– please, please go back to the way you were.”

The demon grins and turns his head, throwing the cigarette away. His hair grows back to its previous length, his face morphing as if made of clay until you meet the same pretty smile you’ve come to enjoy looking at. 

He chuckles, grabbing a lock of his hair and drawing it across his lips. “You think I’m hot?”

“Of course,” you murmur, but you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he can hear it. His eyes are embers, blazing at you from beneath his bangs. “Is that what you normally look like? Is that your true form?”

He makes an iffy sound. “It’s what I looked like when I was human. My true form has more horns and unhinged jaws and claws and all that. You wouldn’t like it.”

“I thought you said you could read my mind. Do you know how much monster porn I’ve consumed? That’s hot as shit to me,” you argue, and he snaps his head towards you in surprise. You point at yourself. “Freak and misfit.”

He laughs, and it sounds like the roaring of an out of control fire, burning up everything in its path. He kicks his heel on the ground and steps up to your circle again. “I like you, baby. I really do. What do you say?”

“How do I know that I can trust you?” you ask, an annoying lump forming in your throat with the question. You’ve been burned before by people far less powerful than this demon, yet who still hold so much power over you. However much they have.

“You can’t,” he answers, more honestly than most would. He tilts his head with a crooked smile. “Not to get all preachy on you, but even if I wasn’t a demon… trust is built, not a given. ‘The devil you know,’ right? Better than the one that you don’t.”

“Yeah,” you agree, your voice coming out breathy and winded the longer you gaze up into his eyes.

“Trust me to be… intense, I guess,” he shrugs. “And probably impulsive. But I’ll always deliver on our deal. Be my witch, my wife, my whore– whatever you want to call it, but be mine. I think we’ll have so much fun together.”

“Yeah, I think– I think I will.” You’re nodding, and his smile grows with yours. “I want to.”

“Let me in, sweetheart.”

Your toe scuffs the boundary on the ground, breaking the circle. Immediately, your senses are assaulted by smoke, not just the tobacco he’s been smoking but the scent of a wildfire, of cities burned to ashes, of desolation and destruction and pyroclastic flow and roaring, exploding volcanoes. 

Your demon crosses the line you’d drawn on the ground with ease, producing the worn composition book in his hand again. The cover reads Hellfire Club in chicken scratch handwriting. 

“Are there others?” You ask, prompted by the word Club on the front as he flips open the book to a middle page. An agreement is already written out in red ink. “Do you have more than one, um…”

“Consort?” He whispers in your ear. Goosebumps rise on your skin, and your stomach flutters. “Not for a long time. I’m very picky about my partners. They have to be just as much of a freak as I am.”

Your heart thumps loudly in your chest, although the admission makes you feel… better, in a way. You squint in the dark, but with the exception of the candles around your circle, there’s nothing to allow you to properly read what’s written on the page. 

He sighs, shifting on his feet beside you. “Are you one of those people who’ll read the whole contract?”

“Absolutely I am,” you hum. The book feels heavier in your hands than it should. “Can you give me a light?”

“Jesus Christ.” He produces a flame from his forefinger just as you turn to give him a confused look. 

“Shouldn’t you, like… evaporate after saying that?”

In the yellow glow of the flame, he just blinks at you, looking amused. “Things aren’t as black and white as you think they are, believe me.”

You snatch his wrist and yank his arm closer to the page. His body collides with yours, and he grunts in your ear as he wraps his other arm around you, embracing you from behind. You’re engulfed in the scent of smoke and the heat of his flames, impossibly hot and comforting all the same. 

His hair brushes your shoulder as you read his contract. It’s just a few lines, but the weight they hold will seal your fate. 

The agreement made this night of the dark moon shall henceforth be enacted from the signing of this document, that hereby renders the human party’s soul bound to the infernal party. Witness that the first party must appear before the second party each full moon to lay in matrimonial fashion, and that in return the first party shall be protected and given the powers of the second from here until the human’s mortal passing. 

“Aww, that’s sweet,” you coo, tracing the red ink with your fingers. 

The demon over your shoulder rolls his eyes. “It’s a fucking pre-nup.”

“Doesn’t seem like a fair trade, though, does it?” You murmur. “I mean, I get the power to change my circumstances and you get– what– sex once a month?”

His hand tightens on your waist, and you pause. You turn your head to look at him, and his eyes flicker dangerously, so close to yours. They aren’t just glowing coals- this close, you can see the small details. You can see the swirling, the churning of lava within them.

“It’s not just sex, is it?”

“What do you think making a deal with a demon entails, sweetheart? Read the fine print.”

You look back at the page. There are no other words on it, save for the ones you’ve already read. “I don’t…?”

“It’s your soul, honey,” he mutters, pointing at the word. His mouth is muffled against your shoulder as he peers over it. “I won’t ask anything of you other than the sex, as long as you live. But right now, you’re offering up your soul. And once your life is up, you get to be just like me. Understand?”

“I… yeah. I understand.” You let go of his wrist, but pause over the pages of the book. “I don’t have anything to sign with.”

Wordlessly, the demon takes your hand. You let him caress your wrist, feeling your pulse with his thumb. Then, before you realize what’s happening, a sharp sting makes you yelp as he cuts your skin with his pointed thumbnail. 

He shushes you, letting the blood well up on your skin. “I did say you needed to sign with blood.”

Your voice shakes when you hold your dripping wrist over the page. “I thought you said you were joking.”

“Not about the book. Rules of the trade, I can’t change it.” Your blood splatters the notebook, dripping into the crease of the page. Once he’s satisfied, he lifts your wrist to his mouth and closes his lips around the small wound. It heals in a heartbeat. 

“Is that it, then?” You ask, mesmerized by the sight and feeling of his mouth on your skin. “Don’t you have to sign?”

Your demon kisses your wrist gently, his lips soft, inviting. “This is going to hurt,” he warns, and you nod. The heat of his breath makes your skin tingle, all your nerves on high alert. 

But then that tingling turns into a burn, that turns into a searing pain. You feel like your skin is on fire, an invisible hot brand held against your wrist. You cry out as he holds you close, letting you bury your face into his neck, holding you up as your knees threaten to buckle. 

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs to you as you whimper. He holds your arm as the pain fades into a throbbing ache, cradles your hand against his cheek as he coos into your hair. “You’re so strong. Not many people can handle my mark, you know. Fate works in funny ways.”

Your demon holds you until you can stand on your own, until your breathing evens out and you can compose yourself. He shushes you quietly, rocking you from side-to-side with a soothing hand stroking your head. Then he holds your face, and kisses your tear stained cheeks. The touch of his lips stokes at flames beneath your skin.

“I’ll look forward to our time together, little witch,” he whispers. And with a quick, chaste kiss to your lips, he disappears entirely. 

You stay in the circle for a while, clutching your throbbing wrist and crying frustrated tears. You wonder if you made the right decision, and yet, you don’t understand why you just want him to come back. You miss the comfort of his presence, even if you don’t know enough about him to justify it. All he did was hurt your arm and take your blood and kiss away your tears and make you a witch. 

It’s too late to go back on your decision now. There’s an all-encompassing fire you can feel burning in your veins, emitting from the pulsating wound on your wrist. His power. His fire. 

You pull your hand away from your wrist to finally inspect the mark that he branded you with, declaring you his in the same chicken scratch that had been on the cover of his book. It’s small enough that a well placed bracelet would cover it, but you don’t know that you’ll want to.

Eddie.

Your demon’s name is Eddie.

Happy October 🙏🙏, Danny comes for a visit:)

Repost to save an artists life🪽💕

'Somna Triptych' by Tula Lotay.

12" x 22.5" archival pigment print on 290gsm cotton rag paper, in a numbered TIMED Release edition.

On sale until Wednesday April 17 through DSTLRY.

(Image edited for social media)

rhaenicent but it's The Phantom of the Opera

I watched Jennifer’s body recently and thought about making my own character inspired by how Jennifer transforms, she has no name currently. Here she is!!

Reblog to save an artists life 🙏🙏🖤

𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗎 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝖺𝗒 ♡

𝗏𝗂𝖺: 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗅_𝗓𝗈𝗈

OH IM GOING INSANE

In a animation mood🙏🖤

Reblog to save an artists life 🙏🙏🙏

this is my type i fear

ewan mitchell as a bloody/beat up metalhead is something that is so special to me

no lube, no protection, all night all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the church, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, doggystyle, sydeways, frontwards, backwards, upside-down, 360 degrees, skin on skin, in the living room, in the bedroom, in the fridge, in the closet, on the ceiling, on the walls, in the bathroom, on the couch, in the car and in the street.

Please do not pass. Stop, watch and post. I need your help and support for me. If you cannot donate, post to your friends. We need you. We are in Gaza. Our situation is catastrophic. We no longer have a home 🏚or a source of livelihood.You have destroyed all our hopes and the dreams of my children. Please help me spread the donation campaign..

Blonde Danny :))) haven’t posted ghostie art in ages

If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.

You are Aemond’s possession

Masterlist

Taglist

English is not my first language, please be kind

Modern!MafiaBoss!Aemond x fem!Reader

•Warnings: p in v, oral (male), fingering, smut, kissing, taking of sexual themes, orgasm denial, gun play, murder.•

{Request: What do you think of modern maffia with aemond being maffia boss ? And verryy angsty}

It was unfair, really.

You jumped on the bed, your eyes staring at the marm ceiling. You squirmed on the bed, kicking and throwing punches at the mattress to let all the anger out.

When you stopped, you felt a bit better.

Just a bit.

It was enough that you basically lived confined in his house, that no matter how big it was, it was always filled with people, bodyguards or clients.

You had no peace, no freedom.

And he wasn’t a guy for parties, except when he was basically forced to go because of some clients. He rarely brought you, and you hated it.

He spent all the time working, not even looking at you once, and then he didn’t even let you go out dancing?!

But…

He did bring you along tonight. 

“I want to dance!” You whined as you dug your nails in his arm.

“Then go, for fuck’s sake, just stop annoying me.” He growled as he pushed your hand away, turned, and went up the stairs to meet his clients at his table.

You smiled and immediately threw yourself on the dancing floor, swaying your body at the time of the music, dancing even with other people you didn't even know.

Then, after some refused guy approaches and a few drinks, you decided it was time to finally go back to your boyfriend.

Your sweaty skin sparkling under the lights of the club, your make up a bit ruined, you made space for yourself to reach the same stairs you saw Aemond going up to.

You looked around and saw two bodyguards standing in front of a table.

You guessed he was there. 

You approached the bodyguards that both put a hand on your shoulders.

“Go somewhere else, doll.” One of them grinned.

You crunched your nose at the pet name.

“My boyfriend is there.” You pointed at the table. One of the guards looked behind, his body moving enough to give you a clear view of Aemond… with a girl in his lap, her arm around his neck as he talked to his client.

Aemond’s hand rested on her thigh, his thumb moving on her skin.

“That one over there?” The bodyguard turned back to you, a mocking smile on his face. You slowly nodded as your eyes filled with tears.

You stayed there a moment, the image sinking in, when suddenly you saw one of the guards feet moving. You looked up and saw him giving you a sign to go. You immediately looked at Aemond and saw him looking at you, nodding once, silently telling you to go to him. YYou walk with your head low, sitting beside him, as the girl from his lap did not move away.

Aemond kept talking to his client, as you stayed there, covered by the girl on your boyfriend’s lap, humiliated.

“Go get us a drink.” You heard Aemond say as he slapped the girl butt. The girl moved away as you saw another girl go to Aemond’s client, distracting him.

Aemond turned towards you with a harsh glare.

“Crying? Really? Are you a fucking kid?” He growled as your eyes got immediately wet again.

“I–I’m sorry… but– but you….” You sobbed, but Aemond harshly gripped your jaw, stopping you.

“I did what, uhm? Get yourself together.” He pushed you back and you looked away, trying to hide your tears. You clenched your fists as you got up again.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Aemond looked at you. You showed him your perfect smile.

“To get you a drink, love.” You turned and walked away, going down the stairs again, straight to the dance floor again.

Aemond will be so pissed off by your lie.

You knew, and you forced yourself to ignore the thought.

He loved you, in his own way.

You made your way to the middle of the dancefloor.

You loved him.

You started dancing, swaying your hips, moving sensually, as you tried to lose yourself in the music.

He always took care of you.

You moved your hands in your hair, moving them back as you kept dancing, closing your eyes.

His hands, his grip so possessive on your hips as he tugged you back against his body, as he lowered his lips to kiss your neck, as one of his hands moved up to your stomach to your breasts, squeezing your boob as he let out a groan…

“Aemond…” You whispered, as you felt him behind you, his lips close to your ear.

“It can be my name if you want it to.” The guy said. You immediately opened your eyes and looked up at the guy as you both kept dancing.

He wasn’t ugly at all, he was handsome, actually. Not like your boyfriend, but handsome.

Not Aemond.

If he could have a girl on his lap, then you could have a boy for you as well, right?

You turned towards him, and grabbed his face to pull him into a kiss. The guy wasted no time to wrap his arm around your waist and squeeze your butt with his hand, deepening the kiss, slipping his tongue in your mouth.

It was strange, different.

It was not Aemond.

Suddenly you felt something grabbing your arm.

You were harshly turned around and saw Aemond, his hand gripping your wrist as his eyes burned through you, his lips pressed together, and his jaw clenched.

He was angry.

He was furious.

He gripped your waist, pulling you harshly against his chest, his body pressed behind yours.

His hot breath hit your ear as he growled.

“You’re a bad liar.” He growled as his other hand moved to your hip, fingers digging into your skin. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He asked in a low voice, as he pulled you closer, the heat of his body against yours. 

“You– You had… a girl on your lap… you humiliated me!” You tried to defend yourself, his eyes only darkening.

“We're going home. Now.” He growled, pushing you away from the people, but the other guy grabbed your hand, stopping you.

Aemond glared at him, then at you, then again back at him.

“You two have a problem?” The guy asked with a harsh glare, his hold on your wrist getting tighter.

Aemond got closer, his body right behind yours as his hand moved to your stomach, gripping you possessively, forcing you against his chest.

“She’s mine. She’s my problem, not yours.” He growled as you tensed.

The guy looked you both up and down, letting out a scoff.

“I don’t see any ring.” He teased, as his eye moved down on your body.

Aemond’s grip on you got tighter, his other hand letting go of your wrist to place it on your hips, squeezing it possessively, making you let out a whimper.

The guy clearly noticed, and smirked as Aemond’s glare hardened.

“Looks like you're pretty useless.” The guy mocked, eyeing your body again.

“Watch your mouth, or I’ll rip your tongue out.” Aemond growled, his hold on you getting even more possessive as he pulled you back against his chest, his breath on your neck, making you shiver.

"I'm gonna pull a bullet between his eyes, is that what you wanted, baby?"

He whispered in your ear.

Your eyes widened at the threat, but your body shivered a bit. It was not the first time he did something like this.

He was dangerous, possessive… and you knew that.

You bit your lip, trying to not give in, but Aemond smirked as he saw you biting your lip, his eye lowering on your mouth.

“You like when I say that, baby?” He teased, now in a softer tone.

One of his hands moved again to your hips, sliding under the fabric of your dress to your skin, caressing it with his thumb, making you shiver again as you felt a wave of heat wash over you. You immediately shook your head.

"A–Aemond... don't please..."

“Don’t?” He repeated in a mocking tone, his body now pressed against your back.

His grip on your hip tightened, his thumb rubbing your skin under the fabric.

He looked back at the guy standing in front of them.

"You knew every guy that came close to you didn't end up well."

He smirked.

"Why shouldn't I kill him for what he did?"

You swallowed hard, the shiver increasing at the feel of his body pressed against you, his breath on the exposed skin of your neck, his lips now so close.

“Please. I’m begging you. Don’t.” You whispered, grabbing his hand on your hip and squeezing it.

His eye darkened even more.

"He kissed you. I'm gonna kill him."

You closed your eyes at his words, the wave of heat increasing as Aemond’s words sent a spike of heat through your body.

You knew he was dangerous.

But at the same time it turned you on the way he growled and threatened everyone if they tried to take you from him. Nobody ever did it. Everyone knew who Aemond was and he was never one for sharing.

And clearly now he was furious.

"Just… please don't hurt him, please, I’m begging you..."

He clicked his tongue.

"No. He tasted you, I'm not letting anyone live knowing how you taste."

He gave a sign to a distant bodyguard, indicating him the guy. 

Aemond pulled you away again as the bodyguard grabbed the guy, both going on the back of the club outside.

“Your punishment will come home right after his, baby, don’t worry.” He smirked as he pushed you outside.

You clenched your jaw as you saw a group of bodyguards circling the guy that had been forced on his knees.

You gasped as you looked away, your eyes getting wet… along with your core.

You always hated how Aemond’s possessiveness turned you on.

“No, no, no, baby.” He laughed, standing behind you and grabbing your chin. “You’re gonna watch, alright?” He chuckled as he forced you to look at the guy as Aemond grabbed the gun.

“Aem… Please…” You sobbed, gabbing his thigh. He only smirked more. as He looked at the guy.

“You’re mine.” He growled in your ear as he shot the guy between his eyes. You gulped and screamed, closing your eyes immediately, turning around to hide your face in your boyfriend’s chest. 

He wrapped his arm around you, as he started to walk you to the car, along with a bodyguard, the others staying behind to clean up the mess.

In the car, you couldn’t look at him. You were well aware of Aemond’s life, his job and his rules. You found it out too late when you two started dating, when you were already too engulfed with him, that you decided to live with that.

You never asked about his day, he never told you anything, and you tried to live… serene.

As much as you could.

Still, he had no right to do what he just did. To traumatize you like he just did.

As soon as you got home, the house was strangely empty, no bodyguards or anyone, Aemond pushed you against the wall, making you hit your head on it.

You whined as you looked at him, the anger that started rising in the car now showing.

“What the fuck was that, huh?!” He growled as he grabbed you by your hair, making you tilt your head back.

“You humiliated me, you whore.” He tugged at your hair harshly, making you cry out loud. “Right in front of my client, I— I swear, if it wasn’t for your pretty face I would have already beaten you up.” He shoved you away, letting go of your hair.

You stumbled, not falling for some miracle on your heels.

“And what the hell is that outfit, uh? You wanted to show your asshole to everyone?” He kept screaming. “Do you even ever think about what you do!?”

“You humiliated me!” You spat back. “You… You had that girl on your lap, you touched her! You fucking slapped her ass!” You yelled back. He looked at you, amused by your jealousy.

“Is this what this is about?” He laughed, clearly still angry.

“No! Well, yes! Is this why I rarely come with you? Because you fuck other girls? Y–You go there… your clients offer whores to you?” You yell back, your jealousy burning in your chest.

“You’re fucking crazy, you know that?” He laughed at you.

“Oh, I–I’m the crazy one?!”

“You went off kissing some dude because of a slap on the ass? Are you fucking serious?!”

He yelled at the top of his lungs. You gasped and stepped back, suddenly scared of him. “Get the fuck away from my sight, NOW!”

You ran upstairs, wiping your tears of frustration as you hid in your bedroom.

Now here you are. You got up from the bed, and opened the large drawer to find something to sleep in. 

Or…

You smirked to yourself, getting rid of all of your clothes, going in the bathroom to take a quick shower.

This wasn’t definitely one of your best ideas, considering how mad Aemond is.

It was rare for him to actually hit you. It was most common for him to just push you around or pull your hair, like he did before.

You were aware, though, that if you’d push him enough, he wouldn't be able to restrain himself to hit you.

But you don’t want that, do you?

You used your most strong scent of shampoo, body scrub and soap, to clean yourself, then the most expensive creams, just his favorites.

You dried your hair and body, and went back to the bedroom, laying on the bed that was positioned right in front of the entry door.

You widened your legs, bending them on the knee, the cool air hitting your core sentinel a little wave of pleasure, as you moved your hand between them, your fingers moving over your clit. You let out a long sigh, as you slowly started to massage your clit in circular motion, pressing your fingers just right, letting out a loud moan. 

The mix of Aemond’s possessiveness and the alcohol you drank enough to make you a mess down there.

You moaned again as you slowly massaged your clit, grabbing your boob with your other hand.

You didn’t care about being loud, you didn’t care if he could hear you.

You wanted him to hear you.

To know how good you were feeling without him.

He could go fuck his whores if he wanted to.

You were fine by yourself.

Right?

Then you heard it. The door opened, but you didn’t look. You closed your eyes as you started moving your fingers faster, moaning out loud.

You could feel his eye on you.

Eyes, maybe.

God, you hoped he didn’t have the eyepatch.

You kept squeezing your boob as you felt the climax building. You kept masturbating yourself shamelessly, knowing his eyes were closely studying you.

You kept moaning, knowing his ears were registering every sound you let out.

But you refused to give him the satisfaction of your reaction if you’d open your eyes to see him.

Because you just know, you would moa just at the sight of him looking at you touching yourself.

You started to move your fingers even faster, more dirty thoughts coming in your mind, as you felt his quiet steps, barely giving you an idea of his position.

Then you suddenly felt two of his fingers pushing inside you.

Your body arched immediately as you stilled for a moment, as you whined.

“A–Aemond!” You opened your eyes immediately, looking down at your boyfriend, catching him as he crawled on top of you, pushing your hands over your head, keeping them there, as he kept his fingers inside you, without moving them.

“You like to act like a whore?” He looked down at you, his eyes full of lust, his sapphire reflecting your image. He retrieves his fingers harshly, making you gasp and squirm a bit.

“Tsk…” He pushed his fingers in your mouth as you pouted. Making him chuckle coldly.

“You wanna play hard to get, baby? Are you sure?” He put his legs over your to immobilize them.

You groaned and sucked his fingers, as he looked at you pleased. He pushed his fingers further in your mouth, making you gag, your hands clenched into fists, as you tried your best to not pull back. He smiled as he moved back, standing and pulling his pants down.

His cock will always be a sight for you.

Hard, long, pale, thick and veiny.

Perfect.

Just as the rest of him.

Sadly, you haven’t been able to properly take all of him.

There was a noticeable size difference between you two.

“Get on your knees, now. You have a lot of things to be forgiven, baby.” He said as he stripped himself naked.

You looked at him, sat on the bed, your mouth already watering, but you were not gonna give him that satisfaction.

“I have nothing to be sorry about.” You stated with your head high, and a courage that you’ll regret founding.

Aemond narrowed his eyes at you, his scar creating wrinkles on his cheek and forehead.

“Come here immediately.” He growled, his voice warning you.

“No.” You answered, swallowing with difficulty. He only looked more pissed.

“I won’t ask again.” He warned again.

“Then don’t.” You had barely the time to finish your sentence when Aemond started walking towards you, you quickly got off the bed, trying to get over him, to the door, but he grabbed your arm, pushing you back. You stumbled but did not give up. You tried to side step him, but this time he grabbed you by your throat, squeezing the sides and he backed you towards the wall, despite you kept trying to get away.

“Stay. Still.” He growled as he pushed you against the wall. You got goosebumps as the side of your face and your chest made contact with the cold marm. 

“I should get you handcuffed next time.” He pushed you once again, then he kept you still, shoving his hand on your butt, the slap making you gasp.

“You like this, uh?” He got behind you, pressing you even more against the wall.

“D–don’t touch me…” You weakly said back.

You obviously didn’t mean it, but you had to at least play the part, right?

“I’m the only one who gets to touch you, do you hear me?” He gripped tightly your hip, digging his fingers in the soft skin, surely leaving marks behind. “I’m the only one who gets to do anything to you, whenever the fuck I want to.”

“You killed someone.” You stated again, but he simply chuckled, slipping his hands between your legs.

“You say that, but there is quite a mess here baby…” He groaned as he moved his fingers over your slip, finding you embarrassingly wet.

He chuckled again at the redness that covered your cheeks.

“You’re mine. I’ll repeat it to you all the time if you need me to but—“ He kicked your ankle, making you widen your legs, he bent down to be able to slip his cock inside you. You whined and clawed the wall. “But I think I know a better way to not let you forget it.” He pushed most of his cock inside you in one motion.

“Ah! A—Aemond!” You pressed yourself against the wall, trying to escape him, and the uncomfortable feeling of his cock stretching your walls at their maximum.

“Sh, shh…” He looked down, grabbing your buttocks and opening you up to see his cock almost completely inside you.

“I think it’s time to go deeper don’t you think?” He brushed his hips over your temple as you looked at him horrified.

“W—what? No… N-no— I—I’m not… I’m not ready Aemond… Fuck!” You whined out loud as you felt him getting deeper, so deeper, as he kept your buttocks spread apart to see his cock disappear finally inside you.

“This is so much better baby…” He groaned as he rested his forehead on your shoulder.

You were panting, the line between pain and pleasure getting thinner.

“You squeeze me so good…” He pressed himself against you, stepping closer as you tried to escape, trying to melt with the wall. “So tight…” He gasped, as he slowly started to rock his hips against yours, moving slightly his cock deeper.

“Ah— A—Aemond…” You checked out.

“Shh, sh… You’re ready for it, baby…” He grinned as he slipped out almost to the end, only to push it all back in, making you almost scream as he kept going with his usual fast, hard speed.

“A—Aemond… slow… slow down… too much!” You whined as he grabbed your hips to pull you back so you bent over, your face still pressed against the wall.

“Too much? Is this too much?” He asked arrogantly. “Almost as it was too much to fucking kiss a guy for a slap on the ass to another girl is it?” He slowed down, but only to give strong firm thrusts, making sure to push his cock as deep as it could go.

“Almost as much as accusing me of fucking someone else.” He grabbed you by the throat, pushed your head back, forcing you in an uncomfortable arched position. “As if I could ever fuck another pussy that is not yours?” He thrusted again, harder. He gripped your boobs with his hand, squeezing them harshly. “As if I could even imagine…” He whispered as he pressed his cheek against your temple as he started speeding up again. “… to find someone better that you…” He groaned as he let go of your throat, letting you lean on the wall again, he moved his hand down between your legs, brushing his fingers over your pearl.

You moaned immediately, feeling your legs weak, so you grabbed his arm.

“You wanna cum baby?” He pressed his fingers on your clit, moving them precisely how he knew you liked. 

You closed your eyes shut, as the pain mixed with the pleasure clouded your mind, you found yourself on the principle of the strongest orgasm you’ve ever felt coming.

You let out a long moan as you just felt it building up, Aemond’s thrusts merciless along with his fingers.

“A—Aem… Aemond…” You whined, ready to be shattered compl by your orgasm, when he suddenly… stopped.

“What..! A—Aem…?” He looked behind you, Aemond was standing with a grin on his face, his hands by his sides.

“Why…?” You panted, as he only grinned even more.

“I told you, you would have your punishment once home.” He chuckled, seeing the desperation in your eyes.

“No— Please… I—“ You started thrusting back, trying to get that friction to bring yourself over the edge, but Aemond grabbed your hips, stopping your movements.

“Get. On your knees.” He pulled out and slapped your ass again, grabbing you by the back of your neck and pushing you down, forcing you on your knees. He shoved two fingers back in your mouth, not so gently, making you gag repeatedly, but he kept your head from jerking back with his firm grip.

“As I said. You have something to be forgiven for.” He growled as you looked up at him, your face a mix from anger and frustration. You couldn’t help but let the tears come to your eyes at the horrible denial of your orgasm. That only made him chuckle.

“You gonna cry? Uh?” He fixed your hair back, pulling them into a ponytail, his fist as a hairband. “We can make a deal.” He smirked as he tilted his head to the side, looking down at you. Even his sapphire glistened with mischief. “You do whatever I tell you, and take whatever I give you… and I’ll let you cum,  yeah?” He smirked as he saw the hesitance in your eyes, but in the end, you did want to cum, so you just nodded your head.

“Stay here.” He chuckled as he moved away for a moment. “Close your eyes, baby.” You did as he said, closing your eyes, keeping your hands on your knees, waiting to feel his presence again. After a moment, you felt his fingers back on your lips, his thumb pushing to part them, so you complied, sucking in his thumb and licking it.

“So you know how to behave, don’t you?” He groaned as he slipped his thumb out and bent to slap your ass again, making you wince.

“Keep your eyes closed, and stay still, alright?” He said again.

“Y–Yes…” You waited there, feeling something cold against your lips.

“I know you need a lot of preparation for my cock, princess…” He pushed the cold hard, metal past your lips, and you hesitated for a moment. You moved your tongue around it and you had to restrain yourself from opening your eyes.

It was a gun.

“Something wrong?”

A fucking gun.

“Feeling something familiar?” You heard him chuckle, as he pushed the gun further. “Your friend liked it.”

The gun he used to shoot the guy.

“Look at me, princess.” You immediately looked up, seeing his smirk as he held the gun in your mouth. “You’re learning the lesson, aren’t you?” He pulled the gun out as you nodded. 

“Mh.” He looked down at you, then he threw the gun to the side, grabbing you by your neck. You immediately put your hands on his, whining, as he made you stand and pushed you back on the bed.

“You better fucking do.” He slapped your butt as you fell on the bed, he immediately grabbed your thighs, keeping them up, to put your legs at the sides of his head. 

“Aemo– AH!” You moaned and grabbed the sheets, trying to find something to hold on, to get away from him as he pushed his cock back in, to the very end.

“You’re mine.” He growled. “I want you, and I’m keeping you.” He hugged your thighs, as he started thrusting ferociously like an animal, your grip on the sheets only tightening even more as you cried out.

“Aemond! Ah– t–too much…” You whined as he kept you firm against him, his eye fixed on how your breasts moved up and down by the force of his hit.

He let go of your legs, leaning forward, wrapping one of his hands around your neck, and the other grabbing your boob, squeezing as if to taste its softness.

“I’m gonna break this fucking cunt if I have to.” He growls in your ear, his lips brushing on your neck. “I’ll break it, if this is what you need to fucking behave.” He sucked your neck, leaving a trail of hickeys down to your collarbone.

He raised his head to look at you, your face red and some hair glued to your face because of the sweat, Your eyes tear stained, and your expression mirroring the word ‘pleasure’.

“So beautiful…” He groaned as he sped up, going impossibly faster. You let out a high pitched moan feeling your climax building up again, quickly, but your moans were followed by a groan of desperation when he pulled out again.

“Aemond!” You sobbed as he picked you up in his arms. 

You cuddled up on his chest, as he sat on the bed, his back against the headrest. Your legs were shaking by the second denial, and you were at your limit.

“I’m sorry…” You whined as you let your fist fall on Aemond’s chest, sobbing. “I–I won’t do it ever again, I promise, please!” You let your hands roam on his chest, covered by sweat as well, only making it more attractive. He looked at you with a smirk as he caressed your cheeks gently, wiping your tears.

You started kissing his neck trailing down to his chest as you moved between his legs, as you kept sobbing.

You grabbed his hard cock, directing it in your mouth and quickly sucked him inside.

“Fuck– Baby…” Aemond groaned as he slipped a hand in your hair, pushing your head down. You took as much as you could and more, starting to bob your head, your lips and tongue massaging his girth as your hand worked the rest of him. You arched your back, knowing how he likes to see your ass up in the air as you suck him off. You moved your other hands down to his balls, massaging them in your hands.

“Jesus… Fuck baby that’s it… That’s how you behave…” He moaned as you moved your head down, your tongue pressing on the skin between his asshole and under his balls, making him gasp, as your hand kept working his length. You raised your head again, taking him back in your mouth as you let him guide you with his hand on your head, pushing you down until you gagged and your eyes filled with tears. Still you didn’t give up.

Your hands on his thighs, you pushed your head down completely, somehow, talking all of him in his mouth. You tried to stay there as long as you could, the loud groan coming from Aemond like music to your ears. You finally pulled back, gasping for air and looked at him.

He smiled at your messy face and hair.

“Ride me.” He ordered you, and you complied immediately.

It was one thing to give him a good blowjob as you half laid on the bed, but now, feeling how weak your legs were, you hoped you could keep going enough for his liking.

You crawled on top of him, raising yourself as he aligned his cock to your entrance. He looked up at you as he put a hand on your hip, guiding you down.

It just kept going. 

The moment you resisted a second, he tugged you down.

“Behave. Fucking sit on it.” He growled as he pushed you down completely, making you whine out loud.

You leaned forward, putting your hands on his chest for leverage, feeling him somehow deeper than before.

“A—Aemond…” You whined, but when you looked at him, you found him smiling, looking down at your stomach, as he pressed a hand there.

“Can you feel me baby?” He looked back at you. “You know no one can make you feel like this, right? No one but me.”

He thrusted up once, as a hint to make you start moving, and you did your best, really, but it was all too much for you.

The feeling of his cock so deep, the denied orgasm, not even the desperation to cum could help you move as fast as he would have liked. Still you tried your best, grinding on his cock, occasionally raising yourself to fall back down.

“Have I already fucked you that stupid? Uhm?” He clicked his tongue, as he grabbed you by the back of your neck, pulling you down, your faces side to side, as he grabbed your ass to keep it raised as he started thrusting up from beneath you.

Fast and hard.

You held on to his shoulders, every bit you took making you whine. His hands gripped you harder, his fingers digging painfully in your skin, so you tried to reach back with a hand, but he stopped you before you could even touch him, bending your arm on your back and immobilizing it there.

“Ah! Aemond— I— I need…” You moaned loudly, as again you heard his chuckle.

“I know what you need, princess.” He smirked as he slowed his pace, only to go harder. “But should I give it to you?”

He murmured in your ear, and for you it was immediate panic.

“Aemond please!” You sobbed, too fucked up to even care. “Please I—I will never ever ever let anyone else touch me other than you! I’m sorry I—I swear please I need this! I’m begging you!” You cried out, sobbing and stuttering between one thrust and the other.

“You’re that desperate, princess? You want it that much?” He asked you as he started picking up the pace again, and finally, finally you felt it again, that strong orgasm, one that you’re sure will completely lash you out.

“Yes! Yes— yes please… please… Ah! Ah—Aemond!” You were right there, so close… you were just about to cum, you just needed the last few thrusts.

“I’ll let you cum, baby… Then I’ll cum inside you, okay?” He groaned as he felt you squeezing him like a vice, as you were on the edge.

“Please… Ah— Aemond…” You almost screamed as you finally came, waves of pleasure washing all over your body, you legs started shaking uncontrollably, as you just collapsed on Aemond’s chest, hiding your face in his neck, as you barely registered the feeling of his cock that kept pushing inside you until he finally came with a low groan.

“Shh… shh you’re fine, princess…” Aemond patted the top of your head as he rolled on his side, bringing you with him, carefully holding you close.

You kept sobbing,as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“You’re okay, I forgive you.” He kissed the top of your head, moving your hair back as he pulled your head back gently to look at you. “I love you.” He whispered.

You smiled weakly, and kissed him softly.

“I love you too.” You answered as he wiped your tears away. “I’m yours.”

“I know.”

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