KILLER QUEEN

it’s all about appearances, but this far from the campfire makes you certain enough that you can let your guard down.

he grumbles that he wasn’t about to watch you undress without asking, and you remind him that you never take your clothes off if there’s another set of eyes.

blatantly untrue, but he smirks at the lie.

you look like hell. it fills him with rage and melancholy, the sight of you bloodied by a hand other than his.

it isn’t right to want to do harm to you, and he doesn’t, but it’s all about appearances. at least he knows how to do the least amount of damage.

your skin would be so mottled with scars and fresh wounds if they persisted beyond each trial. but you’re spotless in that respect and no other.

you chime that he can wash your back, now that he’s here. caleb rolls his eyes when you insist on returning the favour.

but he looks a sight, too. it must be worse to see him as clothed in viscera, he wishes he could promise that no one had to suffer to get this way.

here there are no bullies, not as he knew them at home. here, no one cares for his past and the shapes he saw of his tormentors have gone up in smoke. he’s been lied to, he bides his time.

like you, he survives on hope. he refuses what he can from the entity, feeling the bloodlust grow thicker in him with every kill.

that is, until you touch his face. you hold his cheeks between your hands and coax his line of sight to your strange eyes.

his are like long tunnels, with just a hint of warmth at the end. you apply gentle pressure, and remove his hat.

you call him handsome, his gut swims with guilt and desire.

he’s told to forget the trials, and you produce a bar of soap from within a creaky first-aid kit. he’s never seen you without it.

the water is cold and uninviting, but you’re enough to tempt him into it. you pull at his waistcoat and shirt, shucking clothes onto the riverbank and baring his skin not bloodstained and dirty to you.

you wait to kiss him, wait until your clothes have joined his on the grass. leaving you to run, nude, into the water.

you complain about the cold in a high-pitched, giggly whisper. caleb thinks that on anyone else it might be annoying, but he can’t fight a grin as he watches you writhe.

you take him in your arms when he’s close enough, clinging tight and trying to find any warmth in him to steal.

the kisses come soft and often, making him groan into your neck when he stoops to press his lips against your pulse.

he feels your hands rubbing his shoulders, coaxing tightness from his muscles. it’s freezing, but he can forget the cold when he focuses on how you touch him.

distantly, he hears you ask if it’s good. if it’s good enough.

it always is, but he only grunts to answer you. caleb knows that most of his answer lies in the fact that what you do for him is enough to keep him coming back.

after every painful trudge through blood and dirt, he returns to you. 

he can’t feel the pain in his leg, or the way some of his scars feel so close to opening again when the entity is displeased.

you’re quick to sit him down, knowing his insistence about the ache. caleb surprises himself when he holds fast to your hand, staring at you above him. 

he presses a kiss to your now-bloodless knuckles.

he doesn’t prefer you running from him, certainly, just out of reach. if he could, he would grab you tight.

he’d push you against the wall, press himself against you and revel in your inability to escape. he’d drink your fear, making you wait to see where he would put his blade.

michael never stops his chase in his dreams, only when it ends does he consider what he’d do if he caught you.

and without fail, when he wakes he’s confronted by the throbbing in his crotch.

his trousers feel tight, as does his chest. he cocks his head to the side, considering the sensation and why it only chooses to visit him when he thinks of you.

he unzips his fly slowly, almost robotically. his body has never felt wholly his own, and self-pleasure only a mechanical form of release. michael’s found better ways to deal with an excess of emotion.

but this feels nice, he can admit it. he shifts up on his cot and takes himself in hand. 

he considers again your face should he grab you. would you be shocked? afraid? or would there be only that unreadable expression in your eyes.

oh, michael, he imagines you saying, finally.

he’s kept you waiting, perhaps. and you’d press yourself against him as firmly, your hands touching parts of him left ignored his whole life.

he closes his eyes, his breathing coming hard underneath his mask.

would you kiss him? he’s disgusted that he hopes so. but his hand never stills, not as he imagines you’re the one stroking him instead.

he wants to growl your name in your ear, but he stops himself just short of speaking. it’s easy enough to imagine what you’d say, but so difficult to picture what he would.

so he skips to the bit where his name comes soft and breathless from you instead. he can hear the curve of your smile in the way you sigh, it makes his heartbeat pound in his ears.

his fist squeezes tight around his cock, jerking up and down at a brutal pace. 

that’s not how i’d touch you, your voice in his mind is gently mocking. it shocks him, like ice water poured over his head. he stops, squeezing his cock at the base and feeling it throb in mindless want.

his instincts are animal, to grab and take until he gets what he wants. you’ve only ever challenged that want.

when he touches himself again, at your lilting instruction, michael is far gentler with himself. he imagines his rough palms are as gentle as yours, rubbing him and searching for when he’s most sensitive.

he draws his fist up, focusing just under the head of his cock. like he’s shown you where to undo him, where to make him melt.

and you’d giggle, he thinks. you’d laugh softly at his spread legs and his mask clinging to his sweat-soaked face.

and completely inexperienced, much to your delight. what you have, you share with him and revel in the way he reacts.

you don’t wish he could speak, he says volumes with his noises. bubba’s endlessly fascinated by how much you know, and what other things you can do with your mouth.

there’s so much to learn, and he trusts you completely.

you could put a collar around his neck with how he follows you around, so eager to experience new things.

and when you guide him to sit in his favorite chair, bubba makes it known that he’s excited. confused, bewildered, and so excited.

you sink to your knees, he cocks his head to the side. it makes him look like a quizzical beagle.

his mask shows the deformed skin of a beautiful woman clinging to your lover’s face. he wanted to look pretty for this.

you coo about what a good boy he is, rubbing his sore knees and up to his thighs.

his legs part almost without him needing to think about it, and you spare a gentle tease for how easy he is.

bubba’s glad that you can’t see his blush, but you can hear it in his squeak.

especially so when your hand moves up his thigh and between his legs, over the smooth fabric of his dress pants.

his short, fat cock has been throbbing since you whispered for him to follow you. he squirms when you smirk at him, reassuring him that this will feel very good.

you press your tongue flat against the head of his dick, tasting salt and precome. he whines and his knee jumps next to your face, but a few, gentle pats makes him settle.

poor thing, so easy to overstimulate. you occupy yourself with sucking on the tip until he’s accustomed to it, stealing glances at his face when you pull back to give him a break.

you stop with a start when you see he’s crying. fat tears pool at the eyes of his mask, spilling over the grimy cheeks and leaving tear tracks.

your hand on his knee is comforting, soothing him and reminding him to nod if he needs it to stop.

he shakes his head. he wants more, he’s just never felt anything so good.

 your breathing comes slow, the hand over your mouth helping to quell the terrified retching feeling in your stomach. if you make a sound, he’ll stir.

you’re reduced to waiting, unable to find the strength to give chase. you can’t do it again, you ache to your very bones.

peeking through the slats in the metal, you watch the hulking man’s chest heave as desperately as yours does. then, his breathing slows until you’re certain he’s fallen asleep.

cracking the locket door open, you wince at even the smallest creak. part of you, you’re shocked, is simply loathe to wake him. do your tormentors sleep otherwise? or do they struggle with fitful nightmares the way your friends at camp do?

you get your answer when the great beast shudders. his helmet clangs against the locker, but he does not wake.

he looks cold, barely clad and this close to the freezer. his arms, chest and torso are well-toned, dirty with blood and sweat.

you watch him, transfixed by the sight of a brutal murderer who’s as unable to find rest as anyone else.

this is hell, no one gets to dream.

without thinking, you crouch in front of him. part of you likes to imagine lifting that heavy blade, swinging it without mercy. but you’d never be able to get it off the ground, he barely does.

pyramid head lurches again, stuttering on the edge between wakefulness and sleep. you freeze, but then reach out to put a hand on his knee.

you’re going to die, and it will be soon. but you begin to hum that odd, little lullaby you’ve heard the huntress singing. 

the words escape you, but in time with the melody you trace small circles on his bruised kneecap. you’re gentle, gentler than you’d be even with someone more deserving of it.

he sees you, then, unbeknownst to you. you’re cold, bleeding and afraid and you’re touching him.

but it’s nice, and so is the song. it took him front a dream of long, spidery limbs pressing their sharp tips against his stomach.

it’s difficult to kill in anything other than the name of justice. he serves brutally, but it is still a service.

you, kneeling at his side, caressing his leg to help him find sleep are entirely blameless. he’s killed you before, tried to snatch at your hair as you’ve rushed through the gate and just out of sight. but you’re helping him now.

this isn’t what he was meant to do, neither sleeping nor the slaughtering of hapless innocents. there is a reason his knife weighs so heavy on him since he came here.

pyramid head is careful not to move, not to disrupt the song. sleep threatens to take him again and he gives into it.