Warnings: Every single character is over 21. The reader is also over 21. This post is for mature audiences only. It contains violence, dubcon, and a thin line of noncon. Just pretend there are a bunch of warnings here, and please don't read it if you're under 18.
Characters: Michael Myers, Chucky, Billy Loomis, Stu Macher, Patrick Bateman, Jason Voorhees, Leatherface, Art The Clown, Alex DeLarge, Kurt Kunkle, Brahms, Sweetly Slasher.
He lifted you up, strangling you. You kicked the air, but you didn't manage to hit him. You shook, erratic. His hand, however, functioned like an iron anchor that kept you cornered against the wall. You stopped. Your skin froze in terror and you sobbed, loudly for the first time. Myers tilted his head, amused, observing your tears in detail. Your crying was inconsolable and broken. He squeezed harder, with the pressure of a man who belonged to the shadows. You pushed from your stomach to steal oxygen from the wind, but your throat was already closing, leaving you with empty lungs.
Your captor detached you from the wall. He turned around, keeping you up, held only by his grip. His gaze was always fixed on you, though the mask was an impregnable facade toward his thoughts. He threw you, and you fell onto the carpet. You curled into a fetal position and, gasping for air, recovered the breath that had been snatched away. You cried, hard. He remained rigid, watching you, fascinated. He approached, taking two steps with perfect posture.
With one foot, he pushed you out of your posture, turning you halfway over so you lay in front of him. He enclosed you between his legs; his ankles at the sides of your hips. Him looking down at you. You, below, trembling. He still didn't show his knife. You threw your head back, closed your eyes, and cried. A living scandal you had never caused before. A sadness that emerged from the deepest depths. An unaesthetic and real suffering; with hiccups, with a rasped throat, with a contracted face.
He moved away from you after feeding on your suffering. He tucked a butcher knife into his coveralls and glanced at your figure sprawled on the floor. Weak. He waited; the victims would come soon. But you… you had an explosion inside of you. In the midst of your emotional pain, it would come. You covered your face with both hands, shaking your legs with rage, punishing yourself with pain. He tilted his head again, curious. Silence. You rested your limbs. Your tearful eyes lost on the ceiling.
Slowly, without moving a muscle, you observed his figure. The sadness was palpable. He, still amused, awaited your next decision. From the sorrow, a deep hatred filtered through your pupils. Indignation, rage, shame. Michael straightened his head. In a sudden outburst, you stood up and walked toward him like a wild beast.
You pulled a knife from the wooden block on the counter and pointed it at him. Your hand trembled, but your conviction imprisoned your muscles, your response mechanism, and turned off your ability to reason. With a shaking voice, you yelled so many accusations at him. Many things about what you felt for him, about how contemptuous and cruel he was to you, and how you had been a fool. You squeezed the handle. Ready to profane his body with the edge. Nonetheless, he stopped you. He took it from you in an instant. Without using force. You didn't back down. You didn't look away.
Michael Myers nodded a couple of times and put the knife back in its place. Without slouching, he turned around and walked out into the streets of Haddonfield.
He knew your emotional instability would amuse him for much longer.
Neon lights adorned the walls of the club. People danced in the center, others sat to talk at the tables, and the rest were at the bar with a glass of alcohol, their gazes lost. In that select category, there was you. You stroked the rim of the glass; the liquid vibrated inside the crystal from the tapping of your other hand on the wood. The adjacent chair creaked under the weight of a new visitor.
He looked at you shamelessly, scanning your body with lustful eyes. The bartender served him the drink immediately, sliding it over. He drank, without stopping his observation of you.
“Trouble in paradise?” he asked, leaving the empty glass on top with a dry thud.
You didn't answer. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see his curly black hair down to his shoulders, his carefree posture, and his insistent eyes. He was one of those men, the kind who would caress your cheek and then slap it. You smiled bitterly.
You drank your shot and placed it gently on the bar. He laughed in response to your silence.
“Seems so,” he answered himself with an amused voice. “I’m Charles, and you, sweetheart?”
You leaned toward him, sharing his gaze for the first time. You told him your name in a monotonous voice. He nodded.
“The night is boring,” he commented with a shameless half-smile. “Do you have any idea how to improve it, gorgeous?”
You laughed, breaking your facade of seriousness. Your mocking smile gave you away, though he didn't seem to like being made fun of. His attempt at flirting snapped you out of your melancholy abruptly.
“Why?” you asked, narrowing your eyes. “Trouble in paradise?”
His annoyed face changed to one of dark recognition. He nodded a few times, proud. He tapped the glass of the cup twice. The waiter, who was cleaning glasses, waited for his request.
“Two whiskeys, one for me and…” he scanned you once more, fascinated by you, “another for my friend.”
You raised your eyebrows, surprised by his nerve. The bartender served them another round and moved away, sensing the chemistry and danger between the two of you.
“Seems so,” you imitated, not getting an answer. “Did someone break your heart?”
He held your gaze for a few more seconds before taking the drink in a single gulp. He didn't understand how you managed to flip the game. He laughed, a raspy and carefree cackle.
“Impossible, doll,” he denied, matching your amused expression. “That’s not made for men like me.”
You feigned understanding, with a flash of incredulity filtering through your eyes. You bit your lip, preparing your next comment.
“That sounds like the typical comment of someone spiteful.” You let out a melodic laugh and took a sip.
“Seems like you have a very smart mouth, eh.” He took a lock of your hair and tangled it in his finger. “Pity that isn't a virtue here.”
You finished your whiskey. His comment could have unsettled you. Perhaps the alcohol and hopelessness were the perfect sedative. You moved closer to him, staying inches from his face. You smiled, betraying your intention. You turned serious immediately, opening your eyes and fluttering your eyelashes dramatically.
“Oh, but you seem like the type of man who can teach me, don't you? I’m a very grateful student.”
You laughed, thinking he would do the same. However, his eyes seemed interested. You had touched an especially possessive nerve. He let go of your lock of hair and caressed your cheek with his knuckle. Slowly. Taking his time.
“Babe, what did I tell you about talking to your neighbor?” Billy was sitting on your sofa, next to the bed, with the gun on top of the armrest. “You disappoint me once again.”
You left your jacket on the door hanger and approached slowly. His eyes pierced through your skull and perforated your soul. Guilt hit you and preyed on you. Directly. You stopped in front of him, inches away. You didn't respond immediately. You trembled. You feared that one day he would take the safety off the gun and shoot without hesitation, right in the middle of your forehead. Without jealous scenes, without questions. Only with the certainty of a trained and ruthless Ghostface. What would happen the day he stopped idealizing you and projecting his needs onto you, and put you in the same position as the women who deserved to pay for hurting him?
The pain wouldn't be from death, but from losing his favor and falling abruptly from that strategic pedestal he put you on to control you and to convince himself that his attachment to you was necessary.
You stayed quiet. Talking was a bad tactic.
“I asked you a question.” Billy raised his voice and slapped his thigh in rage. “Answer me now.”
You swallowed hard. It was a terrible idea.
“Billy, I…” you tried to say, lowering your gaze.
“And I trusted you so much.” He interrupted, getting up from the sofa and grabbing his gun. “Don't you think you've been unfair to me today?”
“Billy, seriously…” You approached him, trying to touch him with trembling hands.
“Shut up already, damn it!” he yelled, and laughed immediately after, a broken and lunatic laugh. “I hate when you try to talk with that 'good girl' voice after ruining everything.” His voice dropped, becoming intimate and dark.
“B-billy.” You touched his arm, but he shook you off and moved away. “Let me explain.”
“Explain what to me?” he whispered, shaking his head, disappointed. “Do you want to explain that you were flirting with him and make me look like an idiot? Is that what you want?”
“I didn't do that, B-billy. Seriously.” You joined your hands, and your tears slid down your cheeks.
“Why are you crying? Because I caught you? Is that it?”
Billy ran his hand through his hair, stressed. He approached you, lifting your chin with the barrel of his pistol. And he smiled, erratically. And his eyes were hollow.
“This doesn't happen in horror movies, did you know that?”
“I made an exception for you. I kept you because I trusted you.”
He squeezed harder, his cracked smile betraying him for a few seconds. The door slammed open.
“Dude, that idiot screamed and screamed. He ran and fell down the stairs. It was so, so iconic.” Stu interrupted, throwing his gloves somewhere.
Billy looked at your expression. One gesture of sadness for that idiot of a neighbor and you were history. But there was nothing. Only fear of him. Nothing else. He lowered the gun, put the safety on, and tucked it into his back pocket.
“What an intense scene!” Stu waved his arms, excited. “I haven't seen such originality since 1980!”
Billy didn't laugh, and neither did you. He only observed your trembling and your tears and shook his head.
“Not as much as you think,” he replied to Stu, shrugging his shoulders.
“Gorgeous, that was a blast, seriously!” He clapped, lying on the bed, watching you. “How can I support you? I’ll give you everything I have!”
You laughed, taking off the shirt he had given you without answering your question about where it came from. You threw it in his face and sat on your knees at the foot of the bed, flattening the mattress with your weight.
“What a phony you are! You say that to everyone.”
Stu tossed the shirt to the floor and in one movement he wrapped his arm around you and pulled you toward him by the waist, let you fall, and climbed on top of you. He looked at you; his large eyes pierced you. Then he laughed, realizing your fear.
“That’s part of my dark past.” He fluttered his eyelashes with feigned sadness. “I was a lost man until you arrived.”
“Don't joke!” You laughed out loud at his drama and cheap flirting.
“Oh, it’s the pure truth.” He became unusually serious, though the playful glint in his eyes gave him away. “You’re the one who runs the best, the one who screams best in fear, the fastest. You’re a spectacle.”
“Stu, enough!” You laughed despite your indignation. “This isn't a love story, it’s a horror movie.”
“Sweetheart.” Stu stood up feigning surprise and took a knife from the shelf. “You were running too fast! I couldn't catch you.”
Stu put himself in an attack position and fought the air, receiving imaginary attacks and writhing in pain in response, showing off his acting skills. Then he threw the knife at the wall, embedding it. He winked at you and smiled broadly. He walked slowly toward you, theatrically. He pressed you against his body, taking you by the waist. You held onto his shoulders so as not to lose your balance at his abrupt movement.
“Aren't you playing with me?” he murmured against your lips, grabbing your waist tightly, leaving no space.
“Stu…” you whispered, hearing your nervous heart beating loudly in your chest. “No one wants to play with you, you’re a danger.”
Your tone of voice was light, but he smiled widely. He loved when fear filtered into your skin. He let go of you unexpectedly, and you fell onto the bed. You sat up on your elbows.
“Your loss, gorgeous.”
Stu pulled the knife out of the wall and paced around the room like a lonely dog in need of affection. You laughed and approached him, stopping his path. You tilted your head to one side, a complicit smile sketching across your face.
“Without the voice changer.”
Stu pulled the device from his pocket and pressed it to his lips. Quickly.
“Oh, you were very scared last time,” he said with an exaggeratedly masculine voice.
He threw the voice changer onto the carpet, where it lay forgotten for the night. He caressed your cheek with the flat of the blade, seducing you with what was coming.
“Tell me… do you like Ghostface or Stu Macher better? Be careful with your answer.”
You looked at the ceiling, pretending to think. You walked through the room with a perfectly acted doubtful face. You approached the door, taking steps backward.
“Find out when you catch me.”
You escaped. Stu followed you immediately. You really did run very fast.
“He didn't even remember my name, you know?” He took a sip of whiskey and smiled at you sarcastically.
“Well… no one looked at me and I was right next to you, you know?” You responded softly, showing him a grimace of resignation.
Patrick raised an eyebrow and scanned you with his eyes. He left the glass on the table, stood up, and paced around the apartment.
“Yes, but in your case, I can understand why,” he admitted, without looking back at you. “But to me… seriously?”
You breathed deeply. You covered your hand over your face and laughed quietly. You rested your elbow on your knee and leaned your head in the palm of your hand, with a slight smile of tranquility, observing how he overflowed with indignation.
“Maybe… they know your name, but they don't want to show it so you don't realize you're better than them?” you commented, with a doubtful voice.
He stopped. His eyes were indecipherable. You remained impassive, nodding your head, without showing weakness. He shook his head, theatrically.
“Don't do that.” He sat beside you, crossing one leg over the other, resting his arm on the back of the sofa without touching you. “Is that what people who go unnoticed do? Do they whisper complacent lies in one's ear to be seen?”
You let out a loud laugh. His paranoia made him hard to fool.
“How do you know Paul Allen isn't doing it on purpose?”
Patrick kept his eyes on you without blinking, his fingers behind your shoulder tapping on the velvet. A grimace of disgust crossed his face.
“What is it that you want?”
You acted out a look of dramatic indignation, playing with the situation a bit. Afterward, you returned to your seriousness. To your honesty. You lowered your gaze, a gesture of vulnerability born from that pressure in your chest you experienced every time you saw him.
“How is it that you don't realize?”
Bateman burst out laughing, hitting his head against the back of the sofa. He turned toward you. His breath of whiskey and toothpaste clashed with your lips.
“That you're crazy about me? Yes! You and plenty of others. But… why do you think you're the right one?”
Patrick looked at you, feigning interest in your answer. He was playing, clearly. He wanted to scare you. He considered average people to be far out of his league. However, you were in his apartment. This could end very well or very poorly. You thought for a moment.
“Did you change your perfume? This one is sweeter than the other. I think it improved.”
Patrick’s smile faded slowly. He sighed a couple of times. He observed you with reproach, as if you knew something about him that he didn't even know yet.
“Did anyone else notice?” you asked, avoiding his gaze.
Patrick stood up without answering. He took out a glass, placed it on the glass table, and poured whiskey. He held it out to you, imperturbable, nodding his head while looking at you with a fearful interest. You received it from him, without drinking. His eyes didn't detach from you. He saw that you weren't drinking, that you were waiting for him to say something else.
Undoubtedly, it could be you.
The machete went through your captor's head, splitting it in half. The body fell forward, opposite to you. You trembled; you covered your mouth, suppressing a scream. You started looking from the shoes, his legs, his machete, his torso, and finished at his hockey mask. That strange man from the woods had saved you. He observed you from his position. He walked toward you. You startled and crawled backward, hitting the tree. You shook your head, fearful. Jason hoisted you over his shoulder and carried you toward his cabin. You kicked, begging him to let you go because of the pressure, but his strong grip on your legs anchored you. He kicked the door and, upon entering, closed it with his heel. He dropped you onto the bed and you got off immediately. He pushed you hard. You didn't move anymore.
“W-what are you going to d-do to me?”
He let his machete fall to the floor. You swallowed hard. You nodded. He left the room, leaving the weapon on the floor for you. You heard his footsteps move away. You got down, silent. You walked on tiptoes, crouched down, and took the machete. Your hand trembled; you grabbed it with both hands and looked at the weapon. You walked out hunched over. You looked around. It wasn't that hard, right?
The wood creaked under your shoes. You whispered pleas in a low voice so he wouldn't hear. You peeked through a door, and there was no one. Only many old objects and firewood scattered throughout the space. You kept searching. The wind outside the cabin hit the material. You headed toward the exit. It was easy. Just go out and run. Without looking back. As you crossed the frame, you looked to the sides, breathed deeply. And you escaped. The camp, that cabin, and the mangled bodies on the floor were left behind. Your legs ran fast. The weight of the machete was nonexistent in your hands.
You fell sideways, letting go of the machete out of fear. The same man, who lay behind you, skillfully picked up the weapon and stood up. You sobbed, without stopping. This would be your end. You closed your eyes, covered your face, waiting for the worst. Silence. The wind slowing its force. Crickets chirping around. Minutes of silence. You peeked out and opened your eyes slowly.
He was there, motionless. He took two steps toward you. He grabbed your wrist and lifted you with an impulse; you lost your balance as you stood up. He threw you over his shoulder for the second time and walked back in the same direction.
He kicked the door open and closed it with his heel upon entering. He dropped you onto the bed. You didn't do anything. You leaned against the headboard and waited.
He went out and closed the door.
“No!” You jumped off the bed, ran, and pounded on the door, which was being locked from the outside with a chain. “Please, no.”
You let yourself fall to the floor and begged for mercy between hits to the door. Until your wrist throbbed with pain.
“Please,” you begged one last time in a thread of a voice.
You stopped hitting. What did he want? In the distance, on a sheet of paper, a name was written. 5 letters.
“Jason,” you repeated, exhausted. “Jason…”
“You guys are ruining my business!” Drayton chased them, complaining loudly.
They sat at the table. Bubba was already there, staring at you with a fascination that filtered through his skin mask. Chop Top was laughing maniacally next to you. You were heating a wire with your lighter, while he waited for you to give it to him.
“Behave, you idiot!” Drayton yelled at his brother and stopped at you. “And as for you, sweetheart, do you want Bubba to show you his saw?”
Bubba shook his head and grunted, observing you, almost as if he were begging you to behave.
“Relax, cook! We’re just having fun. Go check your chili!” Chop Top snatched the wire from your hand and scratched around his plate with it.
“Shut up, moron!” Drayton yelled at him. “And you, I’m serious, don't pervert this place, young lady. Behave or you’ll see.”
Chop Top burst into laughter, Bubba smiled, and you bit your tongue to keep from mocking his words as well. When he looked at you annoyed and impatient, you returned to your facade of seriousness and understanding. You nodded a couple of times and took the chance to put the lighter away to avoid tension for a few seconds.
“Cook, you’re in bad shape!” Chop Top stood up abruptly and squeezed Bubba’s shoulders from behind as if they were comrades. “Music is life, brother!”
“What are you talking about? What is that?” Drayton approached the two of them, narrowing his eyes.
Bubba received pats on the shoulder from Chop Top, who laughed uncontrollably in his ear.
“My friend is history now, brother!”
For the first time, your smile vanished. Drayton glanced at you, despising you immediately. They were referring to you, it was clear.
“What the hell are you saying?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, shifting your discrete gaze to the door.
“Don't get tense over that, my friend! Music is life!”
“Shut up and speak, idiot!” you spat, hitting the table.
“Stretch has softened Bubba Boy’s chainsaw. Didn't you see?”
Bubba stayed still, as if your offended gaze couldn't reach him easily.
“Oh, so your immunity is over, sugar!” Drayton exclaimed, laughing from his stomach.
Bubba stood up, shaking his head erratically, and walked toward you, extending his hand to touch you. You moved away, running. He chased you with the same strength with which he chased other victims.
He caught you easily, lifting you by the waist. He dropped you to the floor. You were going to escape, run. But he shook his hands, agitated. He grunted, moans of desperation. You stopped, you sat to observe him. He walked in circles, shook his head abruptly, and avoided looking you in the eye.
“So it’s true,” you murmured, swallowing hard.
He stopped and looked at his feet. Shit. You looked at the place without him noticing. You were screwed.
“Are you going to kill me?” you asked with a broken voice.
He startled and denied with both hands, while grunting loudly from his throat. You breathed out, releasing a burden. You nodded.
Both of you returned to the others. Bubba was downcast at your side.
“Do you want help with your chili?”
Drayton made a face and sighed, surrendered.
Art rocked in a chair. You were on his lap. Vicky, or what was left of her, was in the bathtub, looking at the ceiling. Downstairs, on the first floor, someone opened the door. It was a few men, perhaps police officers. Art squeezed your thigh, hard. You stood up, following his order. You were in torn clothes. The bruises, scratches, and bites suggested you weren't having a very good time. You went down the stairs and stopped halfway.
“H-he’s up here.” You held onto the railing, pretending you were struggling to stay on your feet.
A man with a flashlight went up first, the others followed. He stopped and shone the light on your face.
You told him your name and broke into tears.
Without looking away from you, he gave orders to his partner to take you to the patrol car, to which you intervened immediately.
“You must all go, there are many of them, I escaped by luck!” you whispered, looking up terrified.
The man looked back. It was strange. He didn't follow your advice. He let the last one in line take you. The man didn't handcuff you, thinking you were a victim, so he just walked behind you watching you. The others walked straight into the lion's den. Upon entering the door, screams were heard immediately. Of pain and agony. The man behind you was about to draw his pistol, but you hit his head with a vase from the table next to the stairs. You went up immediately. If the police had seen you with Art, everything would have been complicated. It was better this way. You weren't even immortal like the monsters you were with. Art looked at you, smiling sadistically. Killing had opened his eyes.
“Now I know why you like this bitch!” said that demon in Vicky’s body, approaching you and looking at you closely. “With that victim face, she gets everything, right?”
Art looked at her bored. He went to the door frame and indicated with his head for you to follow him. You did. He shoved you into the bathroom. It was dirty and destroyed. He didn't care. He put you up on the sink. Both below and behind you, glass shards embedded into your skin. You let out a scream of pain while he pushed you more and kept you there. In one thrust, he entered you. You struggled with the glass stuck in your back and your butt. And also with him, profaning you. As if you were a toy. He turned you halfway around; you gripped the porcelain while he penetrated you without any preparation from behind. The clash of his hips against your buttocks was aggressive, like a splash. He pushed your head down to wound your cheek with the sharpest piece of glass. You maintained your resistance, holding onto the sink. You cried. His strength was superhuman.
If he started with your face now, it would never end. Your arms trembled from the pressure you were exerting. The edge was centimeters from your cheek. One movement and your eye would be in danger. No, no, no.
The moisture you felt from his orgasm saved you. Without tidying you up or bothering to do anything else, he let go of you. And he went to the other room. His semen slid down your thighs. Your arms held up.
“Please…” you said to your friend, crossing your arms. “Let me be the one to welcome the new guy.”
She looked at the other girl and let out a melodic, mocking laugh. She leaned against the fence and filed her nails. She pretended to think, keeping silent. She looked at you, narrowing her eyes with a slight smile.
“Fine…” She permitted, approaching you and tucking the file into her back pocket. “Do it today or screw you.”
You nodded. She went back to leaning on the fence and with a flick of her head pointed to the new neighbor in town. You looked at him, heading to the public restroom that was on one side of the main square. You were thankful for living in a tourist spot. He went in; his posture of superiority indicated he wasn't afraid to walk at night. Grave error. Your friend raised an eyebrow and hurried you with a warning look. You looked at the surroundings and went in since there were no witnesses. Another of your friends followed you. Upon entering, you turned around and looked at her, indicating for her to stay at the door. You went in, stepping softly and looking under the stall. Noticing the one that was occupied, you leaned against the side of the adjacent one, waiting for the door to open. You played with your fingers. It was the first time you had done it.
The latch sounded, you startled and rested your hand on your waist. He opened the door. You grabbed it immediately and stood in the way. He observed you closely and sketched a smile. His blue eyes seemed curious.
“I am Alex, your humble servant, and what is the name of this beautiful devotchka?”
You entered the stall, pushing him, and closed the latch behind you. Alex waited without moving a muscle, watching you with bright eyes. You pulled a switchblade from your back pocket and lifted his chin with the edge, cornering him against the wall. He raised his hands, relaxed, laughing a little.
“You’re the new guy, right?” You caressed his neck with the edge. “It’s time for your welcome.”
“The welcome?” Alex asked, lowering his arms.
“To the town.” You traced his torso with the knife until you pressed against his pelvis with enough force to threaten him. “The one who’s going to give it to you is me.”
Alex looked at the edge on his pelvis with an impassive face. His breathing was relaxed and his hands remained still.
“Is it a Christmas pranizco for your friend Alex?”
You frowned, but returned to your imperturbable face immediately, not wanting to show weakness. Usually, they cried or showed themselves guiltily interested. You wondered what the others would have done. You smiled cynically. You moved the knife up to his chest and made a cut in it, slowly.
“It’s a baptism.” You whispered, smearing your finger with his blood and licking it. You covered his mouth. “Shhh, enjoy your gift.”
You pressed hard against his member. Alex, for the first time, closed his eyes. The threat of the edge against his private parts was a real threat. Even so, he opened his eyes and smiled. The transgression set fire to his veins. Both of you looked at each other. A hint of fear and perverse pleasure.
“I promise you that you’ll never forget me,” you sentenced.
You were sitting in the passenger seat, Kurt was sitting in the back seat, and the driver was driving impassively. His indifferent face contrasted with the deep laughs the two of you gave while commenting on nonsense. You were recording with your phone, in a live stream that was being strangely successful. You rolled down the window and stuck your head out while flirting with the people walking by, shouting obscenities or bothering couples who were too much in love. You pulled your head back in, as if it were nothing, laughing at the driver's lack of reaction. You looked at the camera.
“Guys! Our friend is very serious, don't you think?” you asked with a surprised, dramatic face and superficial effusivity. “What do you say, Kurt?”
He approached you with a jump.
“You’re boring!” he exclaimed, looking at the comments. “You know they want a different kind of show.”
You feigned sadness and directed the camera back toward you, looking at them disappointed.
“Oh, but I could give them a good show!” You looked at the driver with an exaggerated hunger. “Or do they just not like me that much anymore?”
“Look how they’re responding to you!” Kurt yelled excitedly.
“Oh, so they do like me.”
You gave the phone to Kurt so he could record you. The car stopped; they had reached their destination. When you heard the lock click open, you climbed onto the driver's lap, straddling him.
“What are you doing?! Get off of there,” the driver exclaimed indignantly, not knowing how to get you off without being perceived as inappropriate by the people watching them.
“So you weren't so imperturbable after all! How exciting!” You patted his shoulder.
You took off your shirt and threw it out the window. You started dancing to the music on the car radio and leaned against the backrest. You moved your hips back and forth, with the support of Kurt and the fans of the live stream. The man tried to push you and get you off of him, but your grip was strong.
“Do you have a girlfriend? Is that why you're indignant?” You laughed loudly, making him push you more. “Send her my regards, I hope she’s watching us.”
“What’s her name? Tell us!” Kurt recorded himself for a moment to emphasize the excitement.
“I send regards to you, Frank’s girlfriend, our driver for today.” You bounced on top of the man's lap. “I hope you don't get too jealous.”
“Finish it already, give them what they want,” Kurt ordered, frustrated.
You rolled your eyes and in one movement you pulled your knife from your pocket and slit his throat. Kurt screamed excitedly and spoke to his fans on the verge of ecstasy. As you dealt with the blood, you sat back in your original seat, looking at the scene with disgust. Though you laughed again at Kurt’s happiness.
“Get him out now, Kurt. He’s ruining my view.”
He got out, opened the driver's door, and threw the agonizing man onto the pavement. He got in, put on his seatbelt, and placed the phone in the holder. He accelerated, startling some people on the way.
“You guys say, say it in the comments and don't forget to like it and tell your friends!”
“Brahms, go now!” You stood firm, crossing your arms.
He startled, but he remained in his position. He approached you, staying inches from your face. You tried to hold his gaze, striving not to show weakness. You raised both eyebrows, a sign that you didn't plan to yield. He didn't move.
“Brahms, out.” You lowered your tone of voice. “Seriously. Out.” You emphasized your words.
He moved closer to you, his mask brushing your neck. He tried to smell your scent through the plastic. He liked it. You swallowed hard. You breathed deeply. His hand caressed your forearm. You looked down.
He stopped touching you. But he didn't move. You heard his breathing in your ear; your scent called to him. He took small steps, to which you backed up until you hit the kitchen counter. You rested your hands on top and leaned away without moving, arching your back. He squeezed your hands, hard. His body pressed against yours. You were trapped between his arms.
The touch of his mask made your skin crawl. He faced you. He moved closer to you. His plastic lips against yours.
He cornered you even more against the furniture. Both hands approached your waist, slow and trembling, as if he were aware that he was crossing a line.
You opened your eyes. He stopped. The tremor. The damn tremor in your warning. He had gained ground. You took advantage of his surprise and slipped out to the side in his moment of weakness. You ran through the house. He chased you. Your heart beat against your chest. He was very close to you. You were going to lose. He grabbed your arm and slammed you against the wall. He lifted you by the neck. The veins in his hands were bulging.
You dug your nails into his fingers, without success. Your heels kicked against the wall.
You coughed toward the floor, clutching your neck. He looked down at you. You looked up. There was no trace left of the person he showed you at first. He perceived you as weak. His bright eyes screamed it at you.
You got up slowly. As you reached his height, he brushed your cheek with his knuckle, soft and conciliatory. He went down to your neck. His breathing was fast. His chest rose and fell rapidly. He grabbed your arm and dragged you.
“Brahms! What are you doing?” you yelled, overflowing and trying to break free from his grip.
He entered the room where you were staying and threw you onto the bed.
“Stop! I’m serious.”
He blinked. Only that. He lost respect for you. How were you going to take the reins if he found out you were afraid of him? He pinned your wrists against the mattress. He kept inhaling your perfume. His eyes were closed, peaceful, enjoying the contact. He put his leg beside you, trapping you between his body and his arm. You swallowed hard. You touched his mask, pulling to take it off, but he stopped you by the wrist. You let it go. Your breaths synchronized. You didn't know his expressions, but you were sure he was smiling under his mask. You sighed, tired. He had won.
“Can you stop doing that?” he demands, hitting the machine and approaching you. “You’re irritating.”
“What have I done, Quinn?”
“You look at me as if I were pathetic,” he responds, shaking his head with an incredulous smile. “Do you remember what happened to the last person who dared?”
“Quinn, seriously?” you defended yourself, frowning. “I don't even know how that machine works.”
“It’s not that!” he yells, pacing around. “You think I’m pathetic for being in this for twenty years. Accept it. You’re like all the rest.”
“I don't think any of that!” you bellowed, took your cell phone, and went to the door. “I’ll see you when you’re calmer.”
Quinn slammed the door shut before you could leave and grabbed your arm tightly.
“Who do you think you’re playing with?” He pushed you against the door and grabbed your wrists. “Do you think I’m your damn high school boyfriend?”
“Quinn, you’re hurting me…”
“Are you serious?” He laughed mockingly and turned serious a second later. “Think I’m a loser again and you’ll pay very dearly.”
“Quinn, I didn't think anything.”
“You’re lying!” he yells, right in your face. “All of you despise me! You’re just like all of them.”
“Don't compare me to them,” you whispered, with tears stinging your eyes. “You know I’m not the same.”
He laughed out loud and let go of you. He writhed with laughter. The intensity gradually faded and when it ended, a second later, he returned to his serious face. Deception. Resentment.
“You would have rejected me. And do you know why?” He approached you again, pressed his body against yours, and circled your neck with his hand. “Because you like me being mean to you.”
“Quinn…” you interrupted, your voice breaking from the friction of his knee against your crotch.
“And before, I was pathetic and weak.” Quinn pushed his knee higher against your crotch, earning a moan from you. “You disgust me.”
He pulled away from you, making you lose your balance. He sat in front of some blueprints, concentrating on the plan.
“I’m finished with you today.”
“At least try to teach me again. I’m bored.”
Quinn raised an eyebrow, smiling at your audacity.
“You’re a pathetic manipulator. I know what you’re trying to do.”
He wasn't yielding. You swallowed hard.
“Quinn, you know I noticed you because of that in the first place…”
“Don't say another word,” he warned you, pointing his index finger at you. “I’m serious.”
“But if it’s true…” You took short steps, as if you were approaching a lion on a leash. “You talked about very strange things and I felt so foolish.”
He looked at you, shaking his head, unable to believe how much of a sell-out you could be. You reached his side. He sighed. He narrowed his eyes. He couldn't deny that it was true.
“Fine, but I won't explain anything twice. Sit down.”
You nodded. And you sat next to him, brushing your legs against his. He closed his eyes and breathed a few times, returning to his center. He started explaining the concepts quickly because he didn't want you to understand. When he finished, he scolded you for your questions, saying they were too foolish. One comment of yours, however, made him give in.
“How foolish I am. What would I be without you?”
He had to shut your filthy, poisonous mouth. You were usually very quiet after he touched you.
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