#ghostface killers

Clink. Clink. Clink. 

The wind kicks dry leaves across the sidewalk, swirling them around your feet. Twisting your torso around, you glance over your shoulder as you walk. One of your red stiletto heels falls in the crack between the slabs of concrete. Pain blooms in your ankle when you wobble. The sound of you sucking a breath through your clenched teeth is the only thing disrupting the still, crisp autumn air. 

Until you hear it again. 

Clink. Clink. Clink. 

It sounds like metal on metal, perhaps the jingle of keys or buckles knocking into each other as someone walks. 

Alcohol warms your cheeks and chest despite how revealing your red corset and miniskirt are. Still, you know that the sound following you ever since you left Jungkook’s Halloween party is real and not some alcohol-induced paranoia from walking home alone at two in the morning on Halloween. 

Jungkook hadn’t wanted you to walk, but finding an Uber so late at night would be impossible, and everyone else at the party had been too drunk to drive you home. 

Two blocks isn’t much at all.  

Clink. Clink. Clink. 

The sidewalk is empty when you twist around and try not to trip again. Streetlights cast shadows across the grass that could be people. Or animals. Or monsters. Creatures of the night. 

Taking a deep breath, you quickly unlock the gate that opens to wooden stairs leading to the backdoor of your apartment on the second floor. You rush up the stairs as quickly as you can in the stupid heels your best friend convinced you to wear because they’re sexy, and you both thought they might help you catch the eye of a certain boy. 

It wasn’t worth the trouble, though. The certain boy barely looked your way. 

For a second too long, you stall, fumbling with your keys to find the one that will unlock your backdoor. Your fingers feel numb from the cold, and your reflexes are dulled by whatever was in the punch Hoseok made. Perhaps that’s why you don’t know what looms behind you until its body has yours pressed against your door. 

Sticking your hands out, you try to stop yourself from hitting your face. It works, but now your arms are trapped between your body and the door. Your keys fall with a hollow thud, and for a heartbeat, the world is silent, like every creature in existence is holding its breath. 

Every creature except for the one crowding you against the door. It breathes, hot and heavy, against the shell of your ear, scattering goosebumps across your skin. You’re burning up from its body heat, the creature big and firmly pressed against every inch of you. 

But what makes your knees tremble isn’t the oppressive force of this thing sticking to you like a second skin. It’s the clink and then something cool and sharp pressed against your throat. 

You can’t swallow down your nerves without fear of your throat bobbing against what you guess is a large knife. 

“Are you scared?” a voice whispers. Soft lips brush the tip of your ear. Then a nose, buttoned and cold, drags along the side of your neck. “You’re being such a good girl, didn’t even scream.” 

Fear clutches your heart, but that voice strokes a fire in your core. It’s sick how you shiver against the man’s chest because you know it isn’t only because you’re scared of him. 

“You’re not funny, Yoongi,” you say with a shaky breath and do your best not to move too much when you talk. 

Yoongi chuckles into your shoulder, where he’s nuzzled his face. “I wasn’t trying to be funny.” 

The knife glides down your throat at the point with not enough pressure to break the skin but just enough for it to feel uncomfortable. 

“Are you gonna let me in?” 

It’s not a real knife. Yoongi is your friend; he wouldn’t threaten you. Or, at least, you think he’s your friend. He’d ignored you all night, though. 

“Did you seriously follow me all the way here at two in the morning just to scare me?” You elbow him out of the way so you can bend down to retrieve your keys. 

“Yeah,” Yoongi admits with a gummy smile. 

Inside your apartment, you can get a better look at him. His costume is just his regular clothes with a Ghostface mask, though he isn’t wearing the mask anymore. It’s tied to one of his belt loops. The side bumps against the metal of his belt when he walks. 

Clink. Clink. Clink. 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

Yoongi’s grin grows. “Jungkook didn’t want you walking by yourself.” 

“Then why didn’t you walk with me instead of following me around like a creep?” 

You kick off your heels and take ginger steps toward the kitchen, the balls of your feet throbbing. Out of the corner of your eye, Yoongi shrugs. His pretty black hair falls against his shoulders and curls into his eyelashes when he tilts his head to watch you. 

“You knew I was there,” he doesn’t ask, just smiles when you roll your eyes. 

Catching your wrist, Yoongi stops you from crossing the living room to the kitchen. His grip on you is bruising when he yanks you into his chest. It’s claustrophobic and makes your stomach churn when you twist your wrist, and Yoongi doesn’t let go. 

“I’m thirsty.” Your voice comes out as a whisper, can’t manage to get any louder. “Let me go.” 

“Interesting,” Yoongi murmurs. “I’m thirsty, too.” 

You follow his eyes when he drops his chin to peer between your bodies. At the same time, you feel the cool edge of the knife drag up your thigh. The tip eventually catches on the edge of your miniskirt. In one swift motion, Yoongi flicks the knife up and cuts through the thin, stretchy fabric. A thin line of blood sprouts from the shallow cut his knife makes up the inside of your thigh. 

“Oh my god,” you whimper, watching little dribbles of blood trickle down your leg. Heat spreads from the cut across your thigh and unfurls in your stomach. 

The dim lighting of your living room reflects in warm tones within Yoongi’s dark irises. Squeezing your wrist even tighter, he walks you backward until your legs hit the edge of your couch. 

“You liked it,” Yoongi points out with a tut of his tongue, his tone condescending and judgemental. The shame it stirs in your chest makes it hard for you to breathe. “Let me press you up against the door. Mark you up with this,” he twirls the knife around, making a show of how loosely he grasps it. 

“Yoongi.” 

Yoongi brings the knife to your lips to silence you. The tip glistens with your blood. 

“Keep quiet like a good girl for me, okay, sweetheart?” Yoongi kneels on the couch in between your spread legs. The position forces your ruined skirt higher up your thighs, exposing your sheer red thong. 

You watch in amazement as Yoongi drags the tip of his knife up your inner thigh until he reaches the edge of your thong. Lightly, he drags the tip along your clothed pussy. It doesn’t cut you, but you can’t stop shaking because it could, and you don't know what that would mean for you if you admitted that you kind of want it to. 

“Why are you–” 

“Shhh, don’t play so innocent,” Yoongi murmurs. He leans forward to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “You dressed up so pretty for me. Look so good in red; I wanted to see more of it on you.” 

The knife presses against the crease of your inner thigh and slices upward, giving you another shallow cut while cutting you loose from your thong. 

You moan when Yoongi drags his cold fingers along your folds, dig your nails into his forearm when he plunges two fingers into your pussy and makes your muscles flutter.

“So wet for me, fuck, you’re such a slut,” Yoongi moans as your pussy greedily sucks in his fingers despite the press of the bloodied blade against your throat. 

"Yoongi, please," you buck into his hand, urging him to fuck you faster. Your thighs sting from the cuts, and your legs are wet with little streams of blood, but you've never felt so close to an orgasm so quickly in your life.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take good care of you.”