#another ghostface

The idea was that you are supposed to take a movie trailer and edit it, so it looks like it fits into a different genre, a great project you would have normally jumped at were you put with anyone else. The first three days were spent arguing over which trailer from the list to go with, you took so long that all the other options were snapped up, and you were left with the last one, forced to take it, and Jason didn’t take any blame for the fact the slim pickings you were saddled with were his fault. He said, “We gotta make it look like a horror film-”

And you were so tired of his crap already that you conceded. 

“Fine, whatever you fucking want, Jason.” You sighed, and he asked, clearly not buying that you would give in first, “Wait, really?”

“Really, let’s make it look like the dumbest, cheesiest, shlockiest 80s gore fest we can.” Even with your flat and less than impressed tone, you thought he would be all about it, but in typical Jason fashion he took offence. He started to say that you could make it look much better than that, and you wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. 

The guy was always so busy, you had limited time to do this and as much as you didn’t want to work with him, you had to get this done, intent on getting a good grade. Turning in late would cut into your mark's considerably. After a pile of texts and no less than five voicemails, you finally get a curt, “I booked the editing room at 10 PM, see you there.” 

You had plans, but you needed to get this project done, so you cancelled the evening's activities reluctantly and made your way over. You had already gotten ready to go out tonight when he messaged, gave you less than two hours notice. You’d had just enough time to finish your food since you were out at dinner and make it back, run in and get your shit before you had to depart for your meeting with your less than stellar partner. You make it there five minutes before ten pm, you find the room empty, of course he got the last slot, no one wants to be editing this late on a fucking Friday night. Everyone else with good sense had gotten everything else done before now. 

You slump down in a chair, drop your bag and take out your flash drive with the work you’d put in thus far, you plug it into the computer and cue it up.

And then you ended up waiting for half an hour for Jason to stroll in, far too casually considering how late he was. He took the chair next to you in front of the computer, setting down a bag of fast food, a soda before he shrugged his bag off his one shoulder and set it on the ground in front of the desk. He hadn’t said hello, he hadn’t even looked at you, arms crossed as you observed him in pure disbelief. 

He was getting his stuff set up, taking his video camera out of his bag, getting the cord to attach it to the computer you’d claimed, a notebook, a pencil, he was eating a few fries in between. Fuck, he is the actual worst, while he is still setting up you cut in and say finally, “Hello?”

He stops, a look over to you, expression showing he was totally fucking confused why you were greeting him in this way, or greeting him at all, he says, “Hey?” 

You laugh, eyes rolling as you lean back in your chair, “Are you fucking serious?”

“What? What did I do now? I just got here!” He sighed, turning back to his bag, and you tell him, “That is exactly the problem, Jason! You tell me, not ask, TELL me to show up here, no regard for my Friday night plans, and I don’t fight you on it! I show up, early, and you stroll in a half hour late with fucking McDonald's and not so much as an apology for being late! You are unbelievable.” 

He shakes his head as he sighs, “Jesus, you are sensitive-” 

“Jason!” You bite out, upset at the very idea you are sensitive for being upset at this, and he scoffs, “Fine, fucking sorry for being a little late-” He said it mockingly, it could turn your stomach. You wanted to fight him further, the idea that he was “a little late” was pissing you off, him acting as if he was just a touch behind schedule, but you didn’t want to be here all night. 

“Whatever, can we get started?” You asked, and he said, “Yeah, so long as you are done being a bitc-”

“Do not finish that sentence, Carvey.” 

He looked over at you and upon seeing how serious your expression combined with your downright venomous tone, he bit his tongue with a muttering of the word, “Fine.”

Thank the Lord, he was dropping it. Maybe now you can get some actual work done-

“Why are you wearing that?” He was staring at you, brow creased in question. You looked down at yourself, heeled boots, short skirt, low cut top and made up, you’d planned to go to a party with friends and due to his fucking shitty timing you didn’t have the chance to change. 

Your eyes draw back up and meet his as you inform him, “I was planning to go out tonight until someone texted me to come do the work I’ve been begging to do for weeks, and I figured I better jump at the chance cuz who knows when I’ll get it again.” 

He smiled, that stupid self-satisfied smile, he had his soda in one hand and a few fries in the other as he tells you, “Yeah, sorry about that, I’m a very in demand kinda guy.” 

“Yeah, I am so sure.” You sigh, and you lean forward, “Okay so here is what I have so far-” You click the space bar and let what you had gotten done solo play out. 

He, of course, hated it. 

Endless criticism with no real praise to be found, he was going on and on, spewing his usual bullshit, “This is a joke! Total amateur hour! Did you even follow the story board we drew up?”

“Yes, I fucking did! Look-” You hold up your sketchbook and go through the shot he was current critiquing and pointing out, “See?! These are all your stupid angles and notes, I fucking did it-”

“No way, if I handled it, it’d look much better-” You groan, a hand combing through your hair, dropping your sketchbook into your lap with your other hand, “You are impossible to work with Jason!”

“I’m not asking for much here! It isn’t difficult.” He insists, gesturing with his half empty soda, and you say with raised brows, “Taking a beloved rom com trailer and editing it to look like a horror film isn’t hard?”

He groans, and you swear he might just stamp his foot in indignation, “No! You just gotta do it with care! See the love interest is supposed to be the monster, the villain, he is a ravenous beast seeking to corrupt her, and you are not conveying that right!”

You don’t know why you ever agreed to this. You should have fought him harder on the genre.

“If it is so bad, why don’t you show me what you have so far?” You ask, and he says, “Gladly.” 

He pulls up what he has so far, and it isn’t much of anything, it’s a few disjointed shots, some cobbled together audio and music, and you say, “You’ve hardly done anything, and you are criticizing me?!”

“My vision is clearer than yours is thus far-” He defends, and you cut in, “What vision? I can barely see anything!”

He takes a deep breath to calm himself and instead of pushing further he offers,“It’ll take me like thirty minutes to get it together, just give me what you have so far, and I’ll fix it.” 

Your mouth gapes, jaw drops, “You want me to just let you do all of it? Trust you to do this solo? Fat fucking chance!” 

“We are gonna be here all night then.” He says firmly, and you sigh out, “Fucking fine, I guess so.” 

You both set to work in relative silence, you agreed to do the front end and him to finish it up, you and he steal glances at the others screens and more comments and barbs fly. You and he have this terrible habit of riling each other up, he just annoys you so much, it’s so hard to play nice and take the high road when he is like this.

“Really? You are using that as your transition-” You start, and he bites, “And what would you do? A fucking flash to black between shots bracketed by a sting of violin music?” 

You make a sound of pure disgust, “You think so fucking highly of me.” 

He spins in his wheelie office style chair and turns to look at you, he tells you, “Sweetheart, I don’t think of you in any way.” 

You spin in your chair to face him better, arms crossing over your chest, “Thank God for that, otherwise I might vomit, I’d hate to ruin the carpet in here.” 

Next you are up out of your chair, and you stretch your arms above your head, your eyes are closed, head back, so you miss the small detail of Jason’s eyebrows raising as the hem of your shirt does, enjoying the bit of skin you revealed with the action. Your arms come down and so does your gaze, his expression schools back into something more akin to hatred, and you say, “I’m going to the bathroom and gonna hit the vending machine.” 

“Yeah whatever.” He shrugs and turns away, you make your move to walk out and tell him, “Be right back.”

He was less than subtle this time around when checking you out, blatantly staring at your ass through the glass window of the editing bay, you weren’t going to call him on it. Walking down the hallway it made you laugh with a shake of your head, you were musing, “Mmmhm, he totally neverrr thinks about me.” 

You are still thinking about it while you are washing your hands, “Is this why Jason is such an asshole to me? Because he actually wants me? Shit, be more fucking cliche’.”

After leaving the bathroom and finding yourself in front of the vending machine, considering your options, maybe you were imagining things, maybe he wasn’t looking at you like that.

You put the money in and make your selection and watch the metal spiral spin and twist till the small bag of chips and the candy bar you selected fell. You fished them out and slid to the next one, keying in to get a can of something cold. Even if he was looking at you like that, who says you should do anything about it, maybe you could let ol’ Carvey suffer and stew. 

Once you were back in the room you open the can, you stride to your chair and sit yourself down, you are mid-sip and putting the food on the desk with your other hand. The way you sat made your skirt rise up a tad, your legs cross, the can comes down and your opposite and free hand smoothed the material down over the curve of your thigh and that is when you notice it, he’s looking again. 

Oh, he did want you. This was no wandering of a wild imagination, Jason actually was “taking in the sights”. You wanted to laugh until you realized something crucial. You’d swapped seats, you took the empty one without thinking, but this was his old chair, the crumpled McDonald's bag is what made it click. He was seated in yours now, meaning that he was editing your shit. You look over to the screen where his attention was fixed once more, and you see him doing some serious damage, you slam the can down and stand up, hand pushing on his shoulder as you exclaim, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

He half turns in the chair, the violent jerking of his body from the force of you putting your hands on him, his own hands up and away from the keyboard, he looked shocked you touched him in such a way, so sudden and violent, “What?!”

You point at the screen as you ask much too loudly, “Why are you in my chair and what the fuck are you doing?!”

“I didn’t know if you were actually coming back, thought I should help you out since you so clearly need it.” He spits, and you scoff, “My bag is still here Jason, like I’d leave my shit in the editing bay alone all night with you, it’s bad enough I have to be here.” 

“Again, you could let me handle it and you could go. I want to go a more found footage angle than you do anyway-” You suck your teeth indignantly, “You actually like that found footage shit? And how are you gonna make this look like that? Tilt shift it in after effect and slap some fucking filters on it?” 

He leaned in closer as he spoke to you in a harsh tone, “What did you say before? Accusations of me thinking highly of you? Why don’t you flip that mirror back around to look at yourself.” 

He was still looking at you in that annoying way that told you he was checking you out, and so you say, “No, I don’t think I’ll do that, I think you are looking at me enough for the both of us.” 

The word was almost coughed out, “What?”

And the word of the day is. You stare him down as you say, “I see you fucking staring at me, you son of a bitch. I’m not as stupid as you treat me.” 

“Are you sure about that? Because right now it sounds like you are delusional and convinced I want to fuck you.” He laughs but there is no bite behind it, he is trying and failing to cover himself up, he is struggling to meet your gaze. 

“I don’t think I am that delusional.” You state simply, and he questions, “Oh no?”

“No. In fact, I am sure you want to fuck me so badly that I could ride you right here, and you’d more than let me, I think you’d love it.” 

You decide not to let him get any more chances to argue, you reach down, fingers slip up your skirt, thumbs hook in your underwear, and you drag them down, stepping one leg out you said, “Get your stupid jeans open, right now.” 

His expression is confused, eyes are wide, but his hands scramble, belt open and undone, pants unzipped he is shuffling them down his thighs before sitting back down, now you take in the sights, and he isn’t a bad size, this could work. You certainly aren’t going to give him the satisfaction of complimenting him, he speaks up, half cocky smile, with a hand around the base of his shaft, “You like it?”

You swing one leg over and sit in his lap as you sigh, “It’s passable, I suppose it’ll have to do.” 

He frowns at that, and you grind yourself against him, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Fingers curl in the material of the college branded shirt he wore, and you rolled your hips, dragging yourself against him, causing the head of his dick to bump over your clit making both you, and he shared a sharp inhale. You already hated this simply because that one simple move felt far better than it should, it pissed you off. You tested it again, you repeated the action, and it was better than the first pass, another proved to increase the feeling and so it goes and that just serves to fuel the fire of both rage and lust inside of you. 

“What the fuck-” You breathe out, head tipping back, hips rolling, and he ruts up into you, providing extra friction and asking, “What? What are you going on about now?” 

“This-” You grind again and let a breathy moan slip out, and he then moves again, matching you move for move, and you grit out, “-it’s too fucking good, it shouldn’t feel this fucking good, and it’s-”

You moan louder, “-it’s pissing me the fuck off.” 

It's honest and raw and vulnerable and, above all else, very fucking true. His hands are on you, one on your hip to help control pace and another on your back, under your shirt, fingers on bare skin as he ruts up into you as he stares up, meets your gaze as he says, “Take it out on me.” 

Now it was your turn to use the word of the day, “What?”

He moves slower this time, more purposeful, it makes you choke back a moan, and he reiterates himself, “Take your anger out on me then.” 

You think that is the first smart thing he has ever said. 

Enough is enough, and you figure that you should take him up on his offer, you raise yourself up, hand comes down behind you, fingers lock onto him and position him just so, you angle your hips, and then you do the most natural thing possible at that moment, you sit down, sliding him deep inside in the process. 

Your hands move, one remains on his shoulder and the other slides into his slightly too long black hair and threads, you pull as you soak in the feeling of him stretching your walls, a deep sigh leaves you, satisfied in some regard simply from being filled. You revel for a moment until he shifts below you, eyes flick down, and he is staring up at you still, brows pinched together as he insists, “Move already.”

You scoff and tug harder on his hair, force his head back as you tell him, “Shut up.” 

“That hurts-” He groused, and you roll your eyes as you start to move, heeled boots on shitty carpet you start to ride him, asking in a breathy but ultimately teasing tone, as if the question was rhetorical, “Better?” 

The shaky moan he let out, while incoherent, told you very much so yes. 

You start to find your rhythm with riding him, enjoying yourself, angling your hips to grind your clit and that sweet spot inside to get what you wanted out of this sooner rather than later. As his eyes slip closed, and he lets you do what you wanted, allows you to take your anger out on him, you have the thought that like this? When he isn’t running his mouth and when he is letting you ride him as if it is the only thing he was ever good for, he’s actually pretty attractive. Even if he could stand for a haircut. 

You wouldn’t tell him that though, again, why give him the satisfaction, especially when you are so concerned about your own pleasure. 

Mean jabs and hurtful words left you now, just laboured breathing and moaning as you rode him, intent on seeing to your own end, and he was doing a lot to ensure it actually, moving with you, rocking up into you, seeing to your satisfaction and enjoyment in a way you’d almost call uncharacteristic of him. After two seconds of thought, though, it’s obvious he was getting just as much out of this. 

The build of it isn’t quick per se, but it’s steady, one of those orgasms that builds in almost a steady arc, not really any valleys, just a consistent climb, up and up, until your pace becomes a bit uneven, thighs shaking, breath stuttering until it culminates and you cum. Your fingers are still in his hair, but there isn’t any serious tension there, no longer holding taut, grinding down onto him, shallow, fast thrusts of him in and out halfway as you ride out your bliss with a quiet and singular, “Yes.” on your tongue. 

You squeeze all you can out of your orgasm before you slow to a stop. Your eyes open, and you huff out a, “Fuck, I needed that.” 

And next? You get up. You stand, slip him out and swing your leg back over, getting off of him and breaking away. 

You are reaching down, going to fix your underwear and slide it back up, and he asks, “Uh, what are you doing?”

Eyes flick to him, a confused look on his face and his dick still out, painfully hard and soaked from you, “Well we still have a project to finish, I was gonna get back to work and then hopefully go back to my dorm to crash.” 

“What about me?” He asked, and you respond with a smile, a slight cock of your head, “What about you Jason?”

Your eyes drop, you are pulling your underwear back up when you feel it. His hand locked on your bicep and then him yanking on you, pulling you over to the desk, and then he pushes you down, hands finds your hips, and he moves you to his liking. One is on the back of your thigh and pushing your leg up, knee finds purchase on hardwood, and he is leaning down, his chest to your back, you feel his hair on the back of your neck, lips brush by your ear, “Yeah you are not gonna leave me with blue balls sorry.” 

He is slipping back inside, and you arch back into him, a shared moan spills forth, “You took your anger out on me, so now I’m going to do the same.” 

Second-best idea he’s had all night. Well you thought that until later on he was going down on you post fuck, making you cum on his tongue until you were almost sobbing, but that is something else entirely.