‘ what’s your favorite scary movie ?’

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 -> grief and trust don’t mix well. part one of three.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 -> blood, swearing, violence (weapons)

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 -> ethan landry x carpenter!sister reader

ANY FILM BUFF would laugh at her - laugh at how she fell into classic trope of the horror movie survivors moving away to a different city, with delusional hopes of shedding her tragedy and scars.

But, realistically, what sane person could stay where half of her friends — boyfriend included — were either gutted or were the knife wielders themselves? And, the concrete jungle that is NYC wasn’t a stranger to greeting those with ghosts on their shoulders.

Her ghost? The bloodied and bruised shell of a once keen-eyed, ash-brown haired boy who adored her endlessly; killed by a psychotic fanboy who was nothing more than a whiny bitch when she slit his throat for what he had done to that boy of hers.

His (Dalton’s — her therapist said that part of acceptance was to still refer to him by his name, as opposed to some nameless wanderer in her memory) ghost was a companion through and through each day; he’d trace along her shoulder blades as a feathery reminder that he was still there, even as she left Woodsboro with the others.

NYC, once you peer beneath the facade of entertainment wannabes and elitist assholes, was a haven for ghosts of the past and their harbingers. But, anything was better than Woodsboro.

She only felt his ghost fading from its place in her conscious when she met Chad’s roommate; a meek boy with a tousle of brown curls, that didn’t look at her as if she would crumble at any second beneath the weight of the past. Perhaps it was her soul wanting to be relinquished of the crippling grief that had throttled it for nearly a year — maybe that’s why she trusted this boy, Ethan Landry, allowed him after that year to be in Dalton’s place as the doting boyfriend. Not a replacement, never, rather a step towards accepting Dalton’s permanent fate.

And, abruptly, Dalton was just another Woodsboro memory whether she chose it or not, residing amidst all the slashed youths in the small town.

Mindy, per her tendency to hand out cryptic forewarnings based on movie tropes, had told her how it never ended well for the main character who finds a new love interest after enduring tragedy — naming Sidney Prescott with emphasis in her example.

“Who are we to forget what happened to poor Sidney Prescott? Finds herself a new boy toy, and boom, he gets shot. Adore that woman and everything, but once death found her, it latched onto her and fucked up everyone else to make her miserable,” Mindy ranted, her rambles accompanied by the obnoxious crunch of a potato chip. Chewing, she gestured towards Y/N with a half bitten chip, “And, because you’re one of the main characters now in this franchise, you’re not immune to it. There will always be someone after us.”

Y/N decided her forewarning was more of a projection of her thorough dislike of Ethan, as opposed to a semblance of concern.

That’s why, now as she leaned against the doorframe alongside the subtly intoxicated Landry boy, she opted to disregard the squinted glare Mindy cast from the living room.

“Did she just come to this party to stare me down the whole night?” Ethan mused over the resounding bass that rattled the wood grain walls.

“She’s just cautious of newcomers, especially when they’re of the male species,” Tara laughed over the rim of her solo cup, a similar chuckle drifting from Y/N’s mouth a beat later.

“Don’t take it personally, dude. She’ll get over herself,” Chad shrugged, nudging slightly at Ethan’s side with his elbow.

“She might just have to wring you through the hazing process first, E,” Y/N smirked, bright tones of blue and white dynamically moving across the curve of her cheekbones as she smiled at him.

He begrudged an eye roll, the feigned annoyance betrayed by the smile that he reflected down to her. A belittling voice — his father’s — mockingly danced at the rear of his head at this thoughtless moment of adoration, disgusted that this girl was gradually consuming his senses. Ruining the plan.

It was fleeting, interrupted as Y/N’s hand fell upon his forearm, featherlight but enough to cast out the taunting whispers.

“Seriously, she is just quick to assume that everyone who enters our lives is out to slit our throats,” a half-hearted simper wandered across her lips, the gesture never quite reaching her eyes, “It’s nothing against you.”

Ethan hated — or at least acknowledged that he should be — at how an ember of sorrow coiled around the existent knot in his stomach, extending to the tension in his posture as he observed the sadness that festered as a glint in her gaze, as her mind wandered to the sorrows in her memories. The bravado of his father’s contempt for him meanwhile urged him to suppress every last ounce of sympathy he formed for the girl before him; torture him with the recollections of what her friends and perhaps even she had done to Richie.

No, some lovesick - perhaps even delusional - corner of his mind stifled the notion, she did nothing. Not her.

“But, can’t blame her for being so Fort Knox about who’s around us….especially after Dalton,” Chad more or less mumbled to himself, his own caution thrown to the wind by the flush of vodka in his system.

Y/N’s entire posture tensed with a hastiness compared to someone who’s fingertip was met with flame. Whilst this nonverbal response eluded the likes of a muddled Tara and Chad, it didn’t skirt past the attentive eyes of Ethan, whose brewing vendetta for the two teens increased ten fold.

The curly-haired boy seldom knew anything about Dalton; anything he was aware of came from media coverage about last years Woodsboro murders. A golden boy, track captain who died after running in between Y/N and one of the Ghostfaces, ultimately enduring the wrath of the blade meant for her.

“You really can’t handle your alcohol tonight,” Y/N only sighed in spite of the tension exuding from every vulnerability in her facade, “I’m, uh, actually gonna go get some air.”

Tara, with a frown that cast a discomforting tightness around her mouths, glanced at her sister with pity in her doe-eyes, “Y/N/N—”

“No, it’s fine. I kinda can’t stand being around a bunch of frat fucknuts in Ghostface masks, anyway,” the other girl was prompt to interject, sounding profoundly frustrated, something that bubbled painfully beneath a front of nonchalantness. She discarded her nearly empty cup to the adjacent side table, then hastily retrieved her dorm keys from her purse, “See you back at home, T.”

Tara’s mouth shifted as if to continue her actively failing effort to make Y/N stay, choose to ignore or even berate Chad for his loose tongue. Ultimately, however, she held onto reluctant silence as her friend quickly turned her back, agitation in her gait as she departed through the open front door. The younger Carpenter girl blinked away her concerned gaze from the distancing figure of Y/N, and to the Landry boy who spared no second before pursuing her into the October evening before she could.

—

SHE GAZED TIREDLY AT THE VAGUE STARS that simmered through NYC’s light pollution, having settled onto the curb a few houses down from fraternity house; the devastating combination of vodka’s numbing grasp and Dalton’s mention, throttling her sense of direction and desire to be alone.

With her side cradled against the lamppost’s slender pole, arms tucked in a cradle in her lap, her intoxication was bordered by an impression of forebode — as if the ghostly, sweetly bloody fingers of a boy who was failed, raced delves info her rigid shoulder blades. They were ambassadors from a misery far away from the comprehension of the sane, from her friends — Ethan — still in the house behind her.

For a fleeting moment, she screwed her eyes shut away from the flicker of streetlights, replaced by the distinct sense of being in Woodsboro; the blinding white fear of being chased like feeble prey through the corridors of Amber’s house…of being harshly pinned to the bathroom floor by Richie as he tinkered the honed tip of his blade in her Amber-inflicted wounds, only for Dalton to tackle his weight off her bloodied chest….of heaving in a crumpled mess on the floor as Richie brutalized Dalton….how she clawed her mangled self off the bathroom mat, grabbed the scissors from the marble counter and slit Richie’s own throat. How Sam assumed the responsibility of his murder so she would be spared the media scrutiny.

All memories that the acrid anodyne that is vodka couldn’t touch with its palliative influence.

Cramped fingers shakily reached to apply pressure to the wounds she could see within the dim light projecting from the hallway. Dalton subtly gasped through gritted teeth, his blood now painting her hands and her own wounds distanced in her mound of worries.

“Come on. The ambulance i-is on its way…Sam and Tara are w-waiting downstairs,” Y/N urged through the agony that trembled through her frame as she attempted to propel him off the tiled floor. He quickly thwarted her limp effort by bracing his hand against her forearm.

“I think I just…I think I just need a second, Y/N/N,” he almost panted through his clenched teeth.

Glancing up in his flurry of pain, he could see her with horror petrified amidst the lacerations and tears on her face, it being no different than the feeling devouring his chest as she begrudgingly nodded at his words.

“Y/N!”

The pale hand that sought to extend through the hopeless, burdensome gloom of Death retreated at the presence of Ethan’s voice.

Her eyes dubiously opened to allow reality to resume, Ethan’s lanky frame bounding into her periphery. A low oomph split from his lips as he dropped himself entirely onto the vacant side alongside her on the curb, their knees fleetingly touching in his maneuver.

“You didn’t have to leave the party,” she mumbled, an exhausted gesture towards the residence that still thrived with drunken twenty-something’s and questionable music.

“And what kind of boyfriend would that make me?” the corner of his mouth faltered with a half-hearted quirk, observing as her head bowed, chin coming to a lean against her chest as she toyed with the hem of her costume.

Stress stretched a horizon beneath her ragged eyes as they shifted tiredly towards him, murmuring of a vague appreciation, and his reluctant hand reached forward to ease away the flyaways that dropped away from her updo.

“Do you want to talk about it?” a previously stifled morbid curiosity fell through the cracks in his caution….a question perhaps his father or sister would have fashioned into this conversation. His discomfort with the fumbling in his thoughts prompted a quick amendment, nervous hand snapping away, “You don’t have to or anything though, just wanted —”

An intense stare then bridged between their eyes as his agitated hands eased into a heap on his lap.

“I know,” her chest deflated with waning misery, her response subtly slurred amidst the breathy alleviation, as the fabric of her costume was dampened by a few lithe tears.

Y/N sucked in her cheeks, the teary glint in her subtly bloodshot eyes betraying her on every front, her bottom lip now gradually quivering as she looked down. A burrowing ache washed over her like the long laggard waves on a beach, the ache clashing with the alcoholic temptation to just lay everything out, reveal to Ethan just how fucked up she is even if he could already see it.

“But this night is miserable enough,” was her ultimate decision as she dryly chuckled. Mindful of her costume, she steadied her knees against her chest, leaning her cheek against her kneecap.

The moonlight cast a grayish, silver lining onto her features as she peered towards him with a lopsided smile encouraged by the alcohol in her system.

That deranged whisper of macabre desire wilted beneath the smile she cast towards him, vanishing into a recess of his mind where everything that could ruin this — her — resided.

And that’s was how it was most days; a thrashing tug-of-war between the instilled desires of his family and those of a boy who adored a girl he could never be worthy of.

“I should probably get home before Sam finds out where I am…and throws away the key after locking me in my room,” she exhaled with exasperation, shifting herself to the curb’s concave edge to stand up. The movement up from the curb was ultimately cumbersome, telling of the dregs of alcohol that stirred in her system still.

Stifling the bitterness that cooled in his veins at the mention of his brother’s assumed killer, Ethan reflected her movements as to ease her subtle swaying by settling his hands on her biceps.

“Whoa, whoa, you good?” he murmured, breath fanning over the rouge and silver tears on her cheekbones.

“Is that a rhetorical question?” a dampened smile accompanied the slurred facet of her voice, hand clasped around his wrist that relaxed against her shoulder.

Beyond his own control, crimson flushed against the collar of his homemade knight costume — adequate conversation was always an embarrassing shortfall of his, a flaw his father prided on deriding him about.

“You don’t have to answer,” Y/N teasingly rolled her eyes, a light nudge spared to his arm upon regarding the scramble for a response within his chestnut eyes. Her hand then rose to brush away at his tousled hair beneath his costume’s headpiece, “Walk me home?”

He nodded, the gesture nearly too earnest, “Always.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭/𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬

one -> “let go of me.”

two -> “i won’t let you do this.”

three -> “it’s over. you lost.”

four -> “you can’t protect any of them.”

five -> “give me your hand!”

six -> “you can’t help me. not anymore.”

seven -> “i won’t give up on you.”

eight -> “stay here.”

nine -> “get down!”

ten -> “what’s wrong with you?!”

eleven -> “that’s enough!”

twelve -> “i don’t want anything to happen to you.”

thirteen -> “people like us don’t get to decide when we’re done.”

fourteen -> “can you at least look at me? please?”

fifteen -> “you wanted to be left alone, right?”

sixteen -> “i’m sorry that i can’t save you.”

seventeen -> “you already know how this all ends.”

eighteen -> “i’m not ready to lose you yet.”

nineteen -> “get out of my way.”

twenty -> “i can’t stand you.”

twenty-one -> “you’re not worth my time. trust me.”

twenty-two -> “i can’t do this without you.”

twenty-three -> “why are you avoiding me?”

twenty-four -> “i don’t need your permission.”

twenty-five -> “it should have been you.”

twenty-six -> “she made me feel safe…even when i hated her.”

twenty-seven -> “find someone else to kiss your ass.”

twenty-eight -> “that’s not on me. it’s on you.”

twenty-nine -> “you’re upset and looking for someone to blame.”

thirty -> “you’re not a bad person.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟/𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐨𝐫

one -> “you got guts, I’ll give you that.”

two -> “i trust you. it’s okay.”

three -> “i’m…i’m happy you’re here. i am.”

four -> “i’ll keep you safe.”

five -> “we’re a team.”

six -> “i’m not ever leaving you.”

seven -> “i’ll be right here. by your side.”

eight -> “this is stupid, so… goodnight.”

nine -> “can i walk you home?”

ten -> “you think you’re smarter than everyone else?”, “i don’t think i am…i know i am.”

eleven -> “you sound pretty hot when you shut up.”

twelve -> “are you flirting or starting a fight?”

thirteen -> “he’s always been there for me when i needed him.”

fourteen -> “hey…” [hesitates] “be safe, alright?”

fifteen -> “you said to be honest — stop hitting me!”

sixteen -> “if i’m so stupid, then why are you smiling?”

seventeen -> “i just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

eighteen -> “is that blood?”, “….no?”

nineteen -> “all right, miss high and mighty.”

twenty -> “the flirting was to distract him.”

twenty-one -> “i’m proud of you.”

twenty-two -> “stop being so stubborn!”

twenty-three -> “i don’t get paid enough for this shit.”

twenty-four -> “you did the best you could.”

twenty-five -> “you really can’t take a hit — can you?”

twenty-six -> “you’re my best friend. i’ve always loved you.”

twenty-seven -> “and the prodigal asshole returns.”

twenty-eight -> “i just…i don’t want anything to happen to you.”

twenty-nine -> “you’ll be with me, right?”

𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐦𝐢𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 ↓

- direct message

- ask box

𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 ↓

- ethan landry

- chad meeks-martin

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 ↓

- smut

- depictions of sexual assault/violence

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𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐲 ↓

[ 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 ]

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐦𝐞 (𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐦𝐞?)

➥ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞

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