warnings: dark content, obsession, kidnapping, restraints, stalking, slasher themes, implied murder, noncon implications, manipulation, gaslighting, graphic imagery, blood mentions, polaroids, stockholm-y tones, mental instability. minors dni / this is a horror fic with disturbing themes — please read responsibly ❤︎
you thought you could outsmart him.
god, you really did.
the night you left figure eight, the sky had been bleeding. clouds low and gray, headlights blurry through the tears in your eyes. your phone on airplane mode. hands tight on the wheel. everything you owned crammed into the backseat of your tiny car. you never even told your friends goodbye. too scared one of them would warn him. tip him off. say, “you know she’s running, right?”
but you weren’t like the others.
you lived.
you told him no.
you survived the summer where girls who kissed rafe cameron wound up in lakes and shallow graves. you shut the door in his face, blocked his number, switched your shifts to avoid him. the last time you saw him, he was leaning against your car with a cigarette in his mouth and something feral behind his eyes.
“you’ll be back,” he said. “you always come back.”
but you didn’t.
you left. moved three states away. changed your name on everything—lease, job applications, mailbox. dyed your hair in your bathroom at 2 a.m. until your fingers were stained black and shaking. no social media. no new friends. just quiet, boring survival.
you didn’t want to be anyone’s favorite.
not anymore.
you made it almost six months.
and then you woke up here.
the room is cold. tiled floor. windowless. your head is pounding and your arms are raised above your head—chained to the headboard of a bed you don’t recognize.
the sheets are white. lace-trimmed.
and so is your dress.
not your clothes. not your fabric.
it’s a wedding dress.
high collar. long sleeves. satin buttons down the front.
it fits perfectly.
your vision swims, stomach lurching. something is wrong. something is wrong and your mouth is dry and you can’t—
you can’t scream.
the walls are covered in polaroids.
you blink and blink and blink but they don’t change.
they don’t go away.
you. brushing your hair. pouring cereal. walking home from work. looking over your shoulder.
sleeping.
the most recent photo—clipped right above the bed—is you curled under your pink quilt, in the pajamas you wore last night.
the quilt that is now gone.
he’s been in your apartment.
he was there.
with you.
and then you hear it.
footsteps.
slow. sure. familiar.
and then—
his voice.
“finally.”
you freeze.
the air freezes.
the world tilts.
“you sleep like a fuckin’ angel, y’know that?”
he steps into view, and it’s him.
it’s really him.
rafe cameron.
long-sleeved shirt, rolled to his elbows. smeared blood on his jaw like he forgot to wipe it clean. his hair’s longer now, curling at the edges. there’s a look in his eyes like he’s seeing god and she looks exactly like you.
“you were never gonna be one of them,” he says softly, crouching by the bed.
“you’re better. cleaner. smarter.”
his hand reaches out, brushes a piece of hair behind your ear.
you flinch so hard it rattles the chains.
he smiles.
“still got that fight in you, huh?”
“good. good. i like that.”
you try to speak, but your throat burns. panic thick in your mouth, like smoke.
“don’t bother,” he says. “i had to drug you. just for a little. you were crying so loud, baby, someone might’ve heard.”
he says it like he’s soothing you.
like he’s explaining why the cake is late.
you shake your head. tears spill hot down your cheeks.
“shh,” he murmurs. “no crying. not today. not on our day.”
our day.
your breath shatters in your lungs.
“you remember the others, right?” he asks, voice light, curious, like he’s asking what your favorite color is.
“they were all… fine. pretty, i guess.”
“but they weren’t you.”
he stands up. walks to a table you hadn’t seen before. on it sits a tape deck. one of those old ones. retro.
he presses play.
soft jazz starts to hum. old, scratchy vinyl voice.
frank sinatra.
fly me to the moon.
he turns back, grinning like a kid on christmas.
“our first dance.”
your wrists throb as you yank at the chains, but it’s useless. thick iron, bolted to the bedframe.
he watches you struggle. watches you sweat.
like he’s enjoying it.
“don’t wear yourself out, pretty girl,” he says, almost tender. “we’ve got the whole night.”
he leans down, brushing his nose against your jaw.
“and the honeymoon after.”
your stomach twists.
he drags a chair over to the foot of the bed. sits backwards in it, arms resting on the back. watching you. studying you like you’re his favorite painting in a museum he burned down.
“you’ll see,” he says quietly.
“you’re gonna love me. eventually.”
it only takes one look around to know:
he’s not just obsessed.
he’s planned this.
months. maybe longer.
and you were always his endgame.
not the ones who smiled at him.
not the girls who said yes.
not the ones who begged.
you.
you were the one who said no.
the one who slipped through his fingers.
the one who thought you could outsmart the devil and live to tell the tale.
but rafe doesn’t lose.
he waits.
he stalks.
he kills.
he collects.
and now you’re here, in white lace and iron cuffs, with him looking at you like a man starving.
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Tapping my head mmmmm slasher!Trey taking out your canines for keeping but also so you won’t bite back. Something about being forcibly dependent on someone physically scratches his back so right.
Sprinkle sprinkle a little bit of forced feminization, you’re the towns beloved bakers wife of course.
synopsis: your neighbour is inappropriate, and you aren’t quite sure how to broach the subject.
wc: 2.2k
cw: dark content, non con, oral (male receiving), femme language + afab!reader, pet names, internal victim blaming, pet names (sweetheart), a touch of misogyny
author’s note: day 2 brings us more dark!steve, i fear i may be incapable of writing him sincerely. he’s just a little too perfect. I like to take off a bit of the shine. thank you @katsukikitten u r my muse.
Your neighbour is inappropriate, and you aren’t quite sure how to broach the subject. Mostly because you can’t be sure if he’s doing it on purpose or if he’s just overly friendly. Maybe it’s the signals you give off, bringing a plate of thick, sweet, cheesecake brownies over to the recently sold house next door, hoping to make a new connection. Suburbia can be isolating, and with all of your friends shaking ass in the city, you need to branch out. It really isn’t the kind of home you figured a single man like Steven Grant Rogers would buy, but then again, you lived in your suburban palace alone, willed to you by your late grandmother and only in need of a few renovations.
He’d been so bright, when you first met him, with a perfect white smile and twinkling blue eyes. He’d been happy to accept the desserts, even happier to return the plate a day later, extolling the praise he and his poker buddies lauded on you over the taste. You’d shrugged it off, “The least I could do for a neighbour. I’m just glad you all liked them.”
Secretly though, the compliments had thrilled you, especially once you’d gotten a glimpse at the aforementioned “poker buddies”, the whole lot of them, handsome, built, big. All too happy to fix leaky pipes and paint fences in exchange for chocolate cream pie or a dish of homemade lasagna. But Steven - “Steve, please” - was your most loyal customer, always lending a hand, pausing during his early morning jog to check up on you while you watered your flower beds, asking how your book is going, what you do in that “big old house all by yourself” when you aren’t working on “the next great American novel”, of course (his words, not yours).
It’s fine at first, a little disarming to be at the centre of his white hot attention, burning your flesh like he had you under a magnifying glass on a perfect sunny day. But eventually it’s not fine, eventually Steve Rogers takes more and more steps over the property line of overly friendly and into the front yard of wildly overbearing. Eventually, Mr. Rogers insists on weekly visits, popping into your house by using the spare key under the mat he shouldn’t even know about. Slinging his muscled arm over you during the neighbourhood block party, and your neighbour’s son’s 5th birthday party, and the Fourth of July barbeque. He fixes your car without you asking, brings in your groceries when he sees you unloading them in your driveway, brings your mail to you during his daily jog. It’s helpful sometimes, yes, but it’s also suffocating. And you were going to set him straight. You were! But it’s hard, hard to stare into the face of a suburban god, the literal king of the neighbourhood and tell him no. It’s hard to tell him that he’s making you uncomfortable, that you’d like for him to stop being so goddamn friendly all the time.
So maybe a little of it is your fault. Maybe you should’ve been clearer on your boundaries. Maybe, when handsome, strapping Mr. Rogers came to your front door to ask you to essentially cater one of his poker nights, you shouldn’t have stayed to serve the food, playing happy little housewife in front of Steve’s friends, bringing them cold beers from the fridge and sitting next to Steve, playfully making faces at his hand, then plating up dessert when he asked you to. But it felt good to have his attention. His favour. So when “the boys” start to head home, laying praise and amazement at your feet, you’re sufficiently buttered up for Steve to ask yet another favour of you. It’s not much, of course. Just a little help with cleanup. Then he’ll escort you home himself. After all, there are some real sickos out there.
So you agree. What’s the harm, right?
The harm, it just so happens, comes quickly after you finish drying the dishes Steve washes. You slide the last plate, towel dried as best you could, into his cabinets, sighing in contentment at a job well done. The harm is when Steve turns you around and presses you against the sink, water soaking into the back of your blouse, making the fabric cling to your skin. You stay there for a minute, not processing what’s happening, ready to laugh off another inappropriate joke from Steve.
You don’t really get the chance.
Two heavy hands clap down on your shoulders, exerting pressure on you until you crumple to the floor, knees hitting the tile of Steve's kitchen painfully. You yelp, struggling against him, pressing, then beating your fist against his tree trunk legs.
"Stev-" you choke on his name when your neighbour unzips his trousers before you, undoes the fly of the pair you helped him pick out, with him bent over your shoulder while you held his phone, his front pressed close to your back. Pulls his half hard dick out of pants starched and pressed with the iron he'd borrowed from you because his was "on the fritz" again.
"Open up." He cajoles, and you pin him with an incredulous, confused stare. No. No. This is all wrong. He doesn’t act like that. Steve Rogers isn’t like that.
The hand he doesn't use to stroke himself grabs your jaw, squeezing until you open your mouth, squeezing til it hurts. A sharp, purposeful punch of his hips is all it takes for him to make use of the opening. All it takes to put every little joke, boundary crossing, and stray touch into startling, horrifying perspective.
“It was the baking.” He whispers above you. “Peggy never baked, which was fine.” He sighs above you like he isn’t pistoning his cock deep into your throat with reckless abandon. “But I missed it, y’know? And you, you bake how angels ought to, sweetheart.”
Tears stream down your face while Steve uses you, dragging your dazed, crying face back and forth on his hard-on. On a particularly strong thrust, he broaches your throat. Your eyes roll up, until he can barely see the perimeter of your irises, and you warble out a miserable moan, begging, all while wrapped around his dick, for a reprieve. Your head is pinned to the counter behind you, and even though you shove against the muscle of his thighs, Steve brooks no quarter.
“Just take it,” he coos, like he wants you to swallow cough syrup, “it’ll be over soon.” his breath stutters when your lips brush against his balls. Steve moves one of his hands to cup the back of your head, keeping you as close as possible when he comes down your throat, groaning in pleasure while you struggle to swallow stream after bitter stream of his seed, lest you choke on it or fucking drown.
He finally releases you, and you pull back so fast you bang the back of your head on his pristine white counters. The pain radiates through your scalp, grounding you in the moment, cementing you to the spotless linoleum floor of Steve Rogers’ kitchen. You’re both panting, eager to fill your lungs with gulps of air.
“Whew.” He sighs, hands on his hips, like that took a lot out of him. “I didn’t mean to get so rough with you, just didn’t expect the struggle.” He chuckles, patting you on the head. “But you settled down quick, didn’t ya?” His tone takes on…contentment? Happiness?
No. That’s not quite right.
It’s pride. Steve is looking down at you, your spit and cum slick mouth, the weepy, watery state of your eyes, and the disarray of the hair he’d used as a handle, with pride.
Your stomach roils.
He bends low and you flinch away from him, smacking your head on the countertop again. He cocks his head at the involuntary movement, and smiles at you. A familiar, warm thing. One that made your heart flutter with pleasure, beat fast with your own surge of pride when he accepted a pie, or offered a compliment. Now it does the same, your heart speeds up, your palms itch curiously, and your brain doesn’t know if you’re happy or sad. Doesn’t know if it craves those smiles anymore.
“Just wanna set you on your feet. C’mon.” He speaks quietly, like he’s soothing a frightened animal, and hooks his hand under your armpits, heaving you up with the same startling strength he'd used to face fuck the fight out of you.
“It’s okay.” You bleat, voice as wobbly and unstable as the pair of legs struggling to keep you upright. And it’s not, it’s far from okay, the taste of him lingers in the back of your throat and if you think about it for even a second more you’ll throw up all over his shiny floors, on those godforsaken pants.
“I admit,” he laughs, ducks his head with that small town charm he does so well, “I wanted to last longer. But you were too good.” He winks at you, like you share a secret. Like you’re in league with each other.
He staring, waiting for you to say something, arches a brow like it’s your line and you’re fucking up the show.
But there it is again, that smile, sunny and open, and so pristine.
“Let’s get you home.” He herds you towards his front door, hand glued to the small of your back, his pinky finger stroking the skin exposed by the riding up of your still wet shirt. The two of you walk into the balmy summer air, and the spaces in between the black night, punctuated with the occasional white streetlight, designate your path home. Some of your neighbours’ houses are still illuminated, their warm yellow windows denoting the presence of life. You wonder what goes on behind their doors, you wonder if someone is having a good night somewhere close to you.
You come across your door faster than you were prepared for, the cheery yellow paint job Steve and James had done for caramel apple pie, mocks you. The way he’d smiled in your face, touched you, laughed. Steve shifts next to you, holding onto your extensive tower of pyrex and tupperware, for an instant your blood runs cold at the prospect of Steve inviting himself in, like he’s done so many times before. Not to bring in groceries or put together a dresser, but to pin you prone to the carpet of your bedroom and smile at you.
“So!” He turns, “Same time next week?” You gawk at him, and when you don’t say or do anything, he stoops and slides your extra keys out from under your Garfield emblazoned doormat. The jingle of two, simple metal keys against the little bell shaped key-chain makes your head pound, your blood boil. He unlocks the door, and gestures for you to take a step indoors. You raise both hands, palms upturned so he can give the keys back, so you can hide them, or melt them, or flush them down the toilet. Instead, you get to watch him slip the key-ring into his pocket, before he places your dishes into your uplifted open palms. “I gotta say, the lemon bars were a hit.” He tweaks your nose between his thumb and forefinger, his compliment tempered by the greedy shine in his eyes. You nearly scratch your own eyes out when you get that pleased, soft tingle in your chest.
He smiles and you salivate. He compliments you and your heart responds. He’s proud and your brain tells you ‘I’m happy’.
Why hasn’t it gone away? Will it ever go away?
“Maybe those brownies again, the cream cheese ones?” His voice is hopeful, soft and pliant, like he’s worried you’ll say ‘no’.
Like there’s a world where he’d take no for an answer.
You nod, a jerky, quick gesture that rattles your brain around in your skull. “Sure. Yeah.” You answer, sweaty hands slipping against tempered glass and plastic lids. “Yes. Brownies.” Steve beams, clapping his hands together, once, loud, drawing your eyes to the brutish width of them.
“Fantastic. I can’t wait.” He jogs down your front steps, and the fist secured around your lungs loosens with every step he takes away from you. He pauses at the side walk, one foot still on your property, the other poised to leave it.
“We make a great team. Don’t we?” He turns to you, and this time, he isn’t smiling. This time, his eyes cut through the night and the streetlight and the foggy haze of misfortune clouding your brain.
And the fear finally comes.
You kick your door closed, and you lock your door, and you drop your pyrex and tupperwear and serving spoons in the sink and you lock your windows and you get into bed, still dressed for a poker night you had no business being at, and you pull the covers up and up and over your face.
But the fear doesn’t go away.
And neither will your neighbour.
god i want him so bad. tomorrow, captain soap.
find the rest of the masterlist here.
support city girls who bought $50 of baked cheesecake today, reblog what you like.
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Sun and Moon are forced to call a repairman for a pinball machine that mysteriously got broken. Luckily, this isn't the first time she's seen blood in one of those things.
@wyervan, Okay I couldn't help myself, this is Zen, the pinball doctor for your Slasher AU! She repairs arcade machines. I decided to keep just one of her prosthetic arms for this AU. But she's made different attachments for it, to help with the job!
There's not much background for her. They likely only call her when they can't fix something themselves. Luckily for them, she's either really oblivious or just doesn't care about their murderous antics. Who can tell. But she does the job well, and for a good price!
Although they may find her parked in their lot overnight if she's worked late. She lives in her car and sometimes just passes out after a job.
(also, special thanks to @froppu who helped with the creative process!)
Warning: Explicit Language, Gore-ish (not really but there will be more)
A/N: Hi! I found this while clearing out my old laptop and thought I'd post what I had written so far! sorry it's been like 7 years lol maybe I'll finish it
Not my gif
Moodboard Part 1 Part 4
22 feet isn’t enough time to process the wind whipping past you, hitting the ground with a thud. Your chest lurches, gasping for air as your back connects to the dirt. You roll over to your side, heaving and disoriented. You had more or less fallen from the window when Tom pushed you out, rather than jumped. You try to scramble your feet but your vision blurs. There’s a black outline of your sight. You force yourself to stay upward, splaying your hands out in front of you to catch yourself on anything. You find support on the side of the house. Help. You have to find help.
As you round the corner, you can see the squad car parked in front of your parents. Someone was here and you were going to be okay. Thank God.
“Help! Please!” You cry out, abandoning the house siding for support. You stumble into the front yard, losing your footing. “Help!”
The grass, wet with evening dew, slides your hands out from under you as you try to push yourself up. “Jesus Christ! Someone! Help!”, you plead. There’s not a sound on the street besides your heavy breathing. Your eyes dart around as you manage to your feet for the second time. All of the lights in Tom’s house are on, illuminating the yard like a spot light. You make out a figure watching you from the front door, and you run as fast as your body will let you to the squad car.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t you hear me?”. The cars lights are all off but the engine is running. You pound on the driver side door, not even waiting for the officer to react. Your cries and attempts don’t even phase the officer, and that’s when you see it. A knife protrudes from the other side of the officer’s neck, blood spilling down his shoulder and into his lap.
“No. No. No!” Your screams increase in volume. “No!” You thrust you fist against the window in frustration one more time. You bring your head down to meet the cold window and a whimper escapes your lips. How could something so cruel and unasked for happen like this? What did you do to deserve this? You halfheartedly hit the window again, your fist sliding against the car frame.
“You never called,” Your breath catches in your throat. You can just make out the reflection of someone standing behind you in the squad cars window. Your entire body trembles as you turned in place. The person takes a steps towards, and you mirror it by pushing your back against the car. This was someone new. They wore an old clown mask, their eyelids painted to match its color. Their hands stayed hidden behind their back as they took another step forward. Your hands quivered as they searched for the door handle.
“What do you want?” You breathe. White-knuckled, you grip the plastic of the handle.
The masked person answers with a laugh, pulling a meat mallet from behind their back. You yank at the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. The masked person lunges, swinging the mallet down where you stand. You ducked out of the way and pull at the backseat door.
The person swings again, and you can feel metal make contact with your hand as a wet thud breaks through the air. You scream in agony as you pull yourself into the backseat. You need to get the officers gun. You try to pull the door closed behind you and lock it, but the attempt is pointless as the meat mallet slams against the glass. You scramble towards the front seat, but you’re stopped. There is a metal caged wall between the backseat and the front. You grip the metal, shaking it in desperation.
“Fuck!” You scream as you hear the window crack under its assault. Desperately, you push your hand through the cage as far as it will go. You arm compresses against the wires, and you let out a heavy breath. “Please, please,” you mutter as your fingers flail in an attempt to make contact with the gun holster of the dead officer. They brush against the clothed material as the window shatters. You push further into the cage frantically, feeling your arm swell with the pressure on its skin. The stranger reaches in, hitting the lock and swinging the door open. Your breathing hitches as the assailant pushes themselves into the car. Your hand finds the holster, unhooking it, but your stuck. You can’t pull your arm back out. They crawl on top of you, brandishing the mallet menacingly. They gently bring the cold metal down to your temple, slowly dragging it across your face. You let out an uncontrollable sob, feeling their hot breath from behind the mask.
“Sshhh, it will all be over soon,” they coo, lifting the mallet in the air.
A blood curdling scream fills the vehicle as you heave your arm out of the metal netting. Your bicep tears against it, ripping a line down your flesh as you force the action. The mallet swings down as you pull the gun out, but you were faster. The shot rings out, and the meat mallet falls from their grip, plummeting towards your face. The strangers body goes limp, blood spilling from their neck.
Your body heaves as you try to catch your breath. Your ears are ringing and you can feel your lip grow warm as blood gushes from the split where the mallet hit you. For a quick minute, you lay there. A sob over takes you and you feel the world closing in on you. Pushing the body onto the floor, you scramble out of the car, collapsing in the street. Your stomach heaves and before you know it, you’re throwing up. The vomit mixes into your cut, stinging, and you gasp for air in between your sobs.
You can tell the adrenaline is leaving your body as your arm begins to throb, blood still pouring from the fresh gash. You steady yourself to your feet, but your head is light. You know your losing blood too fast, but you don’t know what to do. Dying by bleeding out sounds almost more helpless than a brazen attack. A wave of anxiety washes over your body. You weren’t going to let yourself die. This wasn’t going to be your time.
Thinking quickly, you pull the drawstring from your sweatpants, and wrap it around your upper forearm. You grip one end in your teeth, the other in your hand, and pull it tight. This will have to do for now. You have to make sure Tom is okay.
Tom. Shit. How long had he been by himself? How many other people were in the home?
Hesitantly, you make your way back to the car. The stranger is limp, still on the floor, but it’s little comfort. You saw the gunshot wound yourself, but you still feel like they’re going to grab you again. You lean into the car, grabbing the gun you left in your state of panic.
Abandoning all thought, you make your way back into Tom’s house.
art! final girl x killer!patrick thoughts? please daddy 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺
YESSSSS!!!!!
Art and Patrick as counselors at a summer camp in the Adirondacks <3 Art thinks they're just going to get high and do stupid shit all summer, and, hey, he actually likes being a camp counselor. The kids are sweet, and he's got a little collection of friendship bracelets that they've made him. He's the kids' favorite, and all the other counselors are in love with him.
The first one to die is Becky, a bubbly little rich girl who was getting handsy with Art at a counselors only bonfire to celebrate the kids finally being gone. It would be one week before the next batch arrived, which meant a whole 7 days to fuck around until then. She swore she heard something in the woods while she was jerking him off behind the arts and crafts building, but Art brushed it off as a deer, or something. The next morning, when she wasn't in her bunk, they found her practically gutted— slashed up with dozens of cuts and stabs.
The entire camp goes into a panic, but Patrick swears that he and Art will be fine, that he'd never let anything happen to him. Besides, didn't Art say Becky was annoying anyway? She was clingy and a total slut. He's lucky he didn't fuck her before she died, because she probably would've given him herpes or something.
If the crude way Patrick talks about the dead girl upsets him, he says nothing. He consoles Becky's friend Maddie when they all gather in the dining hall that morning, and he swears he feels Patrick just glaring at them, but he doesn't know why.
And maybe he starts to suspect when Maddie disappears when they're all supposed to be packing their bags. And Patrick comes by with hands rubbed raw, damp from washing them and scrubbing them clean. And there's a red spot on his sneakers, and a tear on his shirt collar, like someone had grabbed it and pulled.
Patrick grabs Art's pack of cigarettes and smiles over at him. "Jesus, you look like you've seen a ghost, dude."
