could you maybe writing something for pete like you did for jerry? like… cosplaying a character he likes for his birthday gift? sorry i just love this little horror geek so much
cw : smut, dubcon , power play , horror roleplay , knife kink , blood , biting , rough sex , chasing,
an : i did make reader a female just for the final girl aspect, hope that’s okay!!
The moon hung low and heavy behind tangled branches, casting silver shards of light across the forest floor. The air smelled of damp earth and pine—sharp, clean, and thick with the tension of anticipation. You could feel it in your bones before you even saw him.
A silhouette stepped from the shadows, masked but unmistakable—Pete DiNunzio, your personal nightmare come to life. His dark eyes glinted with cruel amusement beneath the crooked hockey mask. Clutched in his hand was the gleam of a real knife, its blade catching the moonlight as if eager to carve into you.
Your breath hitched as you adjusted the tattered remnants of your costume—the battered “Final Girl,” an icon of every horror flick you’d obsessively rewatched for hours. The torn flannel tied around your waist, the ripped denim shorts, and the bloodied white tank top barely clinging to your skin. Weeks of planning this night, this roleplay. Tonight was his birthday.
You sprinted forward, your boots pounding against the forest floor, leaves snapping beneath your steps. Behind you, Pete’s footsteps matched yours—methodical, relentless. The thrill of being hunted coursed through your veins, fiery and intoxicating.
Branches scraped your skin as you darted left and right, adrenaline sharpening your senses. But even in this chase, there was trust—a silent understanding between you two. This wasn’t just a game. It was a dance on the razor’s edge.
Suddenly, a heavy hand closed around your wrist. You yelped, spinning to face him, your pulse pounding in your ears. Pete’s dark eyes locked onto yours, wild and hungry beneath the mask.
He pressed you back against a sturdy pine, the rough bark scratching your arms through the thin fabric of your shirt. The knife’s cold edge traced slow, deliberate lines across your collarbone, sending shivers of electric anticipation down your spine.
His breath was hot against your ear as he whispered, “You’ve got nowhere left to run, baby. Time to pay for all that teasing.”
You swallowed hard, your pulse racing, and nodded once—your permission sealed with a quick, tense breath.
Without hesitation, Pete slid the blade under the strap of your tank top, cutting it free with an expert flick. The fabric slipped down your body, revealing skin flushed by the night air and your rapid heartbeat.
Snick. The fabric split, your bra falling loose and catching at your elbows. The cool air kissed your nipples.
His eyes darkened with desire as the knife found the waistband of your shorts, the cold steel sliding beneath the fabric. He traced a slow, sharp line, slicing clean through the material, and you gasped as the shorts fell away, leaving you exposed beneath the moonlight.
“Perfect,” he growled, his voice thick with lust and hunger
Then, with a sudden motion, the blade grazed your upper thigh—a shallow cut that stung sharply, a drop of ruby-red blood blossoming on your skin.
Pete’s breath hitched, his voice low and rough as he groaned, “Fuck, look at you… bleeding for me.”
He bent down, lips brushing the warm skin as he licked the blood away, marking you as his prey. His teeth sank briefly into your neck, and you trembled under the fierce, possessive kiss.
“You’re mine tonight,” he whispered fiercely.
His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him as his fingers trailed fire across your skin. You pressed your body into his, lost in the wild rhythm of predator and prey.
The knife clattered to the ground unnoticed as Pete’s mouth found yours—hungry, demanding, and utterly consuming. His tongue tangled with yours, rough and teasing, while his hands explored every curve, every inch of you.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark pools of lust as he positioned himself between your thighs. His cock was hard, throbbing against your damp skin.
“Ready to finish what we started?” he growled.
You nodded, breathless and desperate.
Pete fell to his knees like a starving man and licked a stripe up your thigh, teeth grazing skin. His mouth met your center with a groan, and your hand flew to his hair, gripping tight. He ate you out sloppy—groaning into you like it was his last meal, fingers digging into your ass to pull you closer.
“Shut up and take it,” he muttered between licks. “God, you taste so good.”
Your knees buckled. He kept going until you were gasping, thighs shaking, hips rolling helplessly against his mouth.
When he finally stood, mouth wet and chin shiny, his cock was already out, thick and hard and twitching against his stomach.
He grunted, lifted your leg around his waist, and slammed into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The bark scraped your back. Your nails dug into his shoulders. Pete was relentless—thrusting fast, deep, like he had something to prove.
“You were made for this,” he growled, fucking into you like he wanted to rearrange your guts. “Made to be ruined.”
Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails digging into taut muscle as he drove into you with relentless power. Every movement was sharp and unforgiving, the world narrowing to the heat of his body against yours.
Your breath hitched as waves of pleasure and pain crashed over you—every thrust sending shivers through your core.
The rough bark bit your back. The sweat on his chest slicked your breasts. And when you finally came, it was with your head tossed back and his hand clamped over your mouth so no one heard you scream.
He came with a broken grunt seconds after, shuddering hard, forehead buried in your neck. His hips stuttered, spilling into you with a rawness that sent another wave of heat crashing through your core.
For a long moment, the two of you stood tangled against the tree, the only sounds the rustling of leaves and your ragged breathing.
Then Pete leaned back just enough to kiss your neck, murmuring, “Happy fucking birthday to me.”
