Work Text:
As the door finally shuts, and you can click the deadbolt into place, you heave a sigh heavy enough to make Atlas crumple beneath the weight of all your stress.
You hate visits from your family. You try to be cordial, patient, and as understanding as possible, but they obviously know every button you have and press them relentlessly. You thought having them over for dinner would be pleasant (and give your mom the opportunity to apologize for last time) but no such luck.
Lumbering into the kitchen, you begin the tedious task of cleaning up after others. Clear the table, empty the leftover clean dishes you probably should have put away earlier, and start rinsing off dishes to put in the dishwasher. In a way, you are both relieved and very annoyed at this part. At least you can channel your anger into furiously scrubbing the semi-burnt crusties at the bottom of a cook pan.
When you are about halfway done, you nearly jump out of your skin at your phone ringing. Drying off your hands quickly, you find it on the table still and peer at the caller ID. Unknown. You let it go to voicemail, because you definitely don’t have a car warranty in Tennessee.
No sooner do your hands turn on the faucet again does your phone burst into its pop song ringtone. You sigh, and don’t even bother checking it. Okay, not a spam caller, probably a dumb prankster kid. Throughout the next ten minutes of washing dishes, your phone rings constantly. It’s annoying at first, but then you start habitually singing along with the ringtone each time, restarting mid-chorus even as it does. Whoever it is, they’re really determined to try and be annoying. Good thing you picked a song you really love!
Upon finishing the dishes, you dry your hands one final time and approach your still ringing phone, and silence it. You carry it with you back upstairs to your room, eagerly fantasizing about the shower you are about to have. Your quick run into your room is mindless until you freeze in place.
Something is… Off? You stand up from your underwear drawer and slowly observe your room, and find your curtains are half pulled aside. Were they always like that? Must’ve been, because as you peer at the window lock, it looks like it’s in its proper, locked position. Slowly, still feeling a little strange, you make your way to the bathroom, forcing yourself to hum that annoying ringtone to relax. You turn the bathroom door knob, open it, and raise your eyes to the mirror just opposite from you.
You barely glimpse the figure at the top of your stairs, knife raised in hand, but it’s all you need to scramble forward and hear the missed swing and blade slamming into your solid oak door.
“What the FUCK!” You scream, barely avoiding eating shit on the sink edge. Spinning on them, you are mortified, to find the person is at least a few inches taller than you, and ripping their knife blade out of the door with a huffy sigh.
“First you ignore my calls,” They garble out through some horrible voice changer installed on their comical halloween mask, ”and now you’re not playing along.”
Your brain is utterly blank in shock, trying to process that some complete stranger is in your house– got in your house without you hearing a single thing, and was about to stab you in the fucking back.
They finally free their knife and stand up fully, rolling their neck. Their frame almost completely blocks the doorway, and your only exit.
“Now it’s not even fun. No chase, no struggle, I just get to corner you? Ugh.”
There is… someone in your house. There’s someone in your fucking house. This house you just spent four hours being needled at about. You sat through an awful dinner with your family, were going to reward yourself for your efforts, and now you were being attacked by some psychopath. You are paying a mortgage on this fucking house, in this horrible economy! You have work tomorrow to pay for said mortgage on this fucking house!
“Maybe I should have hit the bitch down the street, this won’t even be rewarding.” They are still talking, brandishing their knife at you.
And your terror quickly begins to stretch and skew and become anger.
Their next words do not formulate properly, because you grab the ceramic mug on your sink that holds your toothbrush and toothpaste and smash it directly in this bastard’s face. They stumble backwards, unfortunately still gripping the knife, but at least no longer completely blocking your exit. You then pelt your stack of clothes and towel in your arms at them before they can recover, shoving them out of the way as you take off down the stairs.
They want to ‘play’? You can fucking play. You’ve had just about enough of today, and this guy was gonna find out all about it.
Somewhere behind you, there is cursing and not-so-amused laughter quickly followed by thundering boots on your staircase. Angry or not, adrenaline is still rapidly overtaking your higher thinking, and without much forethought, you zip into the kitchen, pull out one of the steak knives from the wooden block, and turn to throw it at the doorway you just came through. It’s an unlucky shot, and they avoid it by being a second too slow to chase you. They jerk back in shock when they realize just how close they came to having a burst eye socket.
“Are you fucking serious? I’ve had an AWFUL day!! Who the hell are you!” You snap, fumbling for a larger knife, keeping your eyes on them.
They recover from their shock, and stalk in slowly, tilting their head at you.
“O~kay, that’s more like it. Not boring after all, I see! Thank you so much for your willing participation.”
“Sh-shut up, freak. I am so not in the mood for this. You’ve got one chance to get the hell out of my house, or I will–”
“Will what? Call the police? Ohh, now that’s scary. How fast do they usually show up, hm? All the way out here, in your old-fashioned little cul-de-sac?” They interrupt, circling around the kitchen island. You mirror them, glancing at the knife you managed to get. Bread knife. Well, it’ll hurt going in and coming back out again, if nothing else.
“What the f-fuck do you want, man? If you could sneak in, you could definitely just grab my wallet and go. Do you have to harass me?” You are beginning to get the waver in your voice under control. You are a goddamn adult. Everyone has to deal with a crazy person at some point, this isn’t so weird. Just get yourself under control.
They shake their head with a distorted chuckle, flipping their blade skillfully in hand. “I was hoping to get some good shots for a little… home movie. I needed a muse. A star! But you’re making this a little more difficult than I anticipated.”
“Ugh. Ew. What the fuck.” You cringe, realizing you were now at the open doorway out of the kitchen. “Don’t make me hurt you.”
“O~oh, don’t make promises you can’t– KEEP,” They snarl, backing up slightly to vault the kitchen island and narrowly miss shoving their steel toed boot (you hear it thud against the kitchen tile) into your pelvis. Staggering back into the foyer, you consider the front door immediately to your left.
“Okay, mom.” You sneer, taking a fast couple of steps for the door. They seem to fall for it, and you try to turn heel and head back for the hallway under the stairs, but their guard is up now from your earlier surprises and they are not as forgiving when they nearly wrench your arm from its socket trying to pull you back.
You cry out, jerking back and barely catching yourself. Lightning shoots through your shoulder, up your neck, and jolts your brain. Cold steel slices your shoulder muscle, luckily avoiding your socket, but immediately numbing that arms' respective hand and outer fingers.
“Hey– I use he/him pronouns, don’t be rude.” He chuckles, basically half-hugging you and pulling the blade down harder on your shoulder. His knife-arm is braced against your chest, and between that and his grip on your weakening bicep, you have no choice but to throw your knife up against his face. He’s lucky his mask mostly guards the shot, but you still feel the texture of skin tearing under the jagged edge, and his hiss means something connected there. Not exactly an equal trade, but you are determined not to go down without a fight.
“Cute. But thats my fucking money-maker, babe. Don’t mess with the money-maker.”
“Not much of a fucking money-maker if you hide it, babe.” You have had it just about up to here with this guy, and take advantage of your shorter height to brace your foot against the hall wall and boost up to slam your temple into his chin. This gets him to loosen up just enough, likely due to the already sore nature of his mug-bruised face, that you can shove your knife against his stupid fingerless gloves and make him squeak and release you in a panic. You are glad you managed to get the one serrated knife in your collection, and take off down the hallway, pulling down a bookshelf behind you in the process.
“HahahahahAHAHHA! You ARE fun!” He calls out after you.
You hesitate in the dining room as blood begins seeping through your shirt quickly.. You need a plan. You could call the police, that’s probably what most people would do. But you have some kind of feeling that that will not do a damn thing for you. You don’t even have a house phone, which you irritatedly recall your mom suggesting you get “in case of an emergency”, and your cellphone is currently upstairs with your pile of clothes that are on the floor.
The sound of wood splintering and shattering comes from behind you, and you look back to find him literally smashing your bookshelf with his foot. It’s… fuck, it’s a little hot, actually. Your face burns, both from sudden excitement and anger at seeing several novels getting bent and crushed underneath the splinters.
“Don’t go all deer-in-the-headlights now, love!” He laughs at your dumb expression, and that gets you to dance around into the kitchen again with him hot on your tail.
“I LIKED those books! Some of those are COLLECTIBLES!” You yell, taking the stairs again, two steps at a time.
“Bookworm! Bet you know all sorts of things. Can you name the muscle I just separated from your clavicle?”
You make it to your bedroom door just in time to slam it shut and turn the lock. He all but smashes against the door on the other side.
“Trapezius, fucking cocksucker.” You answer, earning a surprisingly genuine laugh.
“Wow! You actually knew! C’mon, babe, open the door, I’ll let you teach me all kind of things~” He cooed, sounding like he was pressed up against the wood.
You were already flushed, but his tone of voice still makes you shake a little. Why’s he gotta be weird about it…
“Ugh…” You start looking around your room again, and remember belatedly you have a window. You head for it, and you swap your knife to your bad hand to try and fuss with the window lock.
It’s fucking broken, you find, as you hear the first crack of his boot against your door. This is how he got in, by breaking your fucking window lock and wedging it shut. You whine pathetically, hopping in place a little in the smallest tantrum you permit yourself to have in this situation. No time for genuine freaking out, not while you hear your poor door giving under him. You put the knife down to grab your lamp, and smash it against the glass. It shatters, and so does your lamp, but it does not break nicely because your windows are old and not the nice new kind that shatter proper in case of emergencies like your mom fucking sugg– okay stop being angry about your mom.
You deliver another blow to the window, smashing out most of the sharp extras, just as he smashes your door clean in, ripping the hardware straight out of the frame and scattering splinters all over the floor. You don’t even think twice about diving head first out the window.
It is, perhaps, good then that he manages to make it across the room to grab your legs before you stupidly fall to your idiotic death from the second floor.
“HEY! I didn’t say we were fucking done!” He growls, probably realizing that you would rather take a quick snap of the neck over being carved open and… whatever other awful thing he plans to do with you.
He struggles to pull you back in, as you are very much still fighting him and gripping onto the window ledge, but you are becoming too worn down and the throbbing in your shoulder is making it impossible to get any kind of secure hold on anything.
You crumple onto the floor of your bedroom, panting and nursing your hurt arm. At least, he is also breathing a little hard, so you don’t feel so incompetent. He is strong, judging by the way he could throw you around so easily.
“Jesus… You’d not be as cute splattered on the fucking ground.” He shakes his head.
“Ah, yes… My bad, I should’ve just s-sat and waited for you to get in and a-assault me.” You wheeze, glaring up at him. Whatever chase he was eager to have seems to be over now. You’re all out of energy and he’s definitely more than capable of winning this game of stamina.
He crouches to your level, adjusting his stupid mask. “I guess that wouldn’t have been as dramatic for the camera, no.”
“The came–?” You begin, and then immediately spy the black square sitting atop your dresser, pointed at the window. How did he even…? Did you not see it earlier when you came in for your clothes? “Of course. Why should I expect anything otherwise?” You roll your eyes, and then flop onto your back. “Fine. I give up.”
There is silence, and when you open your eyes, he is just staring at you.
“... really?”
“Yep. Really.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it, sir.”
He tilts his head the other way before slowly climbing on top of you. You resist the urge to clench your thighs closed and cover yourself. You’re clothed, but the quickly decreasing distance between you and him makes you very nervous.
“That’s really not fun. You’re supposed to like, scream. Cry. Beg.” He stage whispers, looming over you.
“For your home movie?”
“Yes.”
“Eat shit.” You grimace, and muster up whatever saliva you have in your dry mouth to spit on his mask. He barely even winces. Instead, he reaches up and wipes it from his mask only to push it aside and let you watch as he presses his wet finger to his tongue.
“That wasn’t very nice.”
You can’t even make a snide remark in return, feeling very flustered and scandalized by his disgusting display of… whatever the hell that was. Oh, also because he shoves his knife into your upper thigh. The sound that comes out of you, which you are sure is just because you are both embarrassed and in pain, makes him perk up significantly.
“Oh my, what was that~?” He chuckles.
“Th-that was AGONY, you f-fucking nasty ass f-freak!” You choke out.
“I’m the freak? I know a moan when I hear one, babes.” You can see his grin underneath his still slightly pushed aside mask.
“HHhggh, you S-SUCK!” Is the most intelligent thing you can say, squeezing your eyes shut. Anyone would get flustered from being pinned and stabbed in a sensitive spot, it was totally unfair for him to be implying something.
“I’ll make a deal with you. We can try a different kind of movie. I’ve got plenty of shots, I’m sure, of the slasher scenes I’m working on. But I haven’t got anything to… spice it up. All good horrors have a little bit of romance, don’t you agree?”
“Oh my g-god, are you seriously a-asking me to fuck you w-with a four inch kn-knife in my fucking thigh?” You open your eyes, hoping he can read the utter disbelief you are experiencing in this moment.
“Hey. We don’t gotta. I could just kill you and call it a night, if you want. You wound up playing so nicely, I can give you that.” He shrugs, wiggling the blade handle and making you squeal.
“HHhheeUGHH!! Fine! Fine, oh my g-god!” You gasp. This might as well happen. He clearly got something out of this, and not dying is… somewhat preferable to dying, in the long run.
“Are you sure?~” He coos, leaning down closer.
“You a-are not getting me to f-fucking beg.” You narrow your eyes, turning away from him.
“Mmm. We’ll see.” He hums, triumphant despite your resistance. He sits up, straddling your hips, and pulls the knife slowly out of your muscle. You do a marginally better job of strangling the whine in your throat this time.
He puts the handle in his mouth, and turns his attention to your abdomen, tapping his bloody fingers along your sides. You put your focus into not crying at the burning in your arm and leg while he pushes your shirt up and passes his gloved hands over the vulnerable skin of your belly. You also try not to think about how much it would hurt for him to bury his knife where he is touching.
He makes all sorts of little hums of approval and interest as he takes his time pulling your top off (with some slight help from you, but only because the way he pulls at your blood soaked sleeve fucking hurts and you didn’t need him to make it any worse). When you are free of it, and feeling exposed in a whole new way, he forces your chin up and to look away. You tense in preparation, hearing the knife clink against something, and then gasp at the comparatively cool tongue that drags across your bloodied clavicle.
“Ha-ahh! Y-you’re g-gross!” You breathe. Your good hand nervously finds his pant leg and holds on while he, for whatever reason, diligently cleans the mess he made of your shoulder.
“Mmmmhm.” He smugly replies, pressing his fingers into the gaps of your jaw bone.
It is a struggle to stay still while he laps up the clotting wound. It hurts, but also is weirdly soothing, and your brain is crossing wires you were not aware could even be crossed. He is delicate in his method, but ventures at some point to nip at your neck and even pushes your face sideways into the ground to bite your earlobe.
“Y-your breath is probably gonna s-smell like shit now.” Your voice is clipped because his hand is still gripping your throat when he pulls away.
“S’just salt. And iron. So whiny.”
He releases your neck after a moment, and you look up to watch him work on adjusting your position. It fucking hurts when he lifts your freshly stabbed leg up around his hip, a hot trickle of blood running down the side of your jeans.
“Owowowow-ow, f-fuck! Can you not?!” You protest, trying to push away, but he grips your hips so roughly you reflexively put your hands over his in a weak attempt to peel them off.
“Suck it up, bitch. Would you rather I sat on it while I fuck you?”
The both of you stare the other down, and you give up first by thudding your head back against the floor with a sigh. You bear the pain.
It takes quite a bit of wrestling with your soaked jeans, and his own impatience, to get to a point where his dick is finally out and resting against your inner thigh, and your underwear is hanging off your ankles. You should really feel more sheepish, but the blood loss is getting to you, clotting or not, and you couldn’t bring yourself to try and squeeze your legs shut.
He whistles triumphantly when he finally has his prize in front of him, running his fingers along the soft, albeit a little sweaty now, hairs in the crease of your pelvis. “You’re so cute~”
“Thanks.” You answer, a little dryly, staring at the ceiling.
“Hey. Don’t pass out on me now.” He clicks his tongue.
“Sh-shut up. I’ll feel better when you put your stupid dick in and g-get this over with.”
He still seems displeased with your attitude, and finds the knife nearby again. He grabs your chin again and forces your mouth open to put it between your teeth by the blade, sharp side facing in towards your cheeks.
“If that so much as cuts your lip, I’ll take your ear with me as a souvenir, got it?”
You can’t frown the way you want with the blade in your mouth, but you would rather come out of this with all your body parts still attached, even if only by a little bit. So you sit your head up a little more and shoot daggers at him while he works on positioning himself.
“Much better~” He chirps.
You grumble something around the blade, but stop when you feel the tip of him press up against your opening. You can’t help but tense when he pushes in, and do manage to be embarrassed by how easily your own sweat, blood, and excitement makes it for him to do so. He grunts a little, and your hurt leg shudders violently because it is trying and failing to gather the strength to curl your toes.
You barely bothered to get a look at him before he slid in, but it feels like he’s either really girthy, or really excited. Probably both. In the process of hilting into you, he digs his fingers right into the wound in your thigh, and you finally cry a little at the pain.
“Shhh, that’s right. Be a good little slut.” He purrs, admiring how he vanishes between your legs. You can only find your grip on his arm sleeves, wordlessly asking for a little mercy. This dude sure was a fucking masochist.
He maintains his grip nevertheless, and begins an agonizingly slow pace. You’ve never been impatient during sex, but right now you really wish he wasn’t taking his sweet time exploring your trembling insides with both his cock and fingers. The usual tingling warmth that fills your belly is accompanied by mild nausea and dizziness, pain accenting each slow thrust in a way you really weren’t sure how to feel about yet. He throws his head back and groans, and you can just barely catch the dark stubble on his chin beneath the shadow of the mask. Some part of you is really tempted to rip it off his face and see what he does.
His rhythm picks up as soon as your nerves find some glorious middle ground between the unbearably horny pleasure and sickeningly debilitating pain, and you don’t bother stopping yourself from sputtering and moaning. Skillfully, he scoops your ass up so he can sit up more on his knees and angle his hips down into yours. The new angle allows for a particularly sensitive spot inside you to be grinded against and you keen pathetically. Almost immediately, you cover your own mouth, and he all but cackles at your slip-up.
“O~oh, you really are enjoying this. I love when I wind up with a whore for a playmate.” He sneers, leaning more of his weight onto you and into his thrusts.
“F-fuck off…” You slur around the knife.
“I think I’m perfectly content fucking right here. Your pretty little hole takes me so nice, baby. A guy might begin to think you’re flirting or something with sounds like that.”
Now you felt a little humiliated, and even more turned on. It shouldn’t be this hot, and you really were trying to pretend like it wasn’t, but somehow all at once it was hitting you that you did want him to finish what he started. Was he a disgusting psychopath and most likely a murderer? Yeah. Was it also really hot that he kicked your solid wood door down and was fucking you messily against your bedroom floor? Unfortunately, also yeah.
“I dun’ ‘eeda flir’ wif a ‘tupid ‘ashtard ‘illing ‘a fuck anyone he shtabsh.” You mumble, and he rewards your impudence with a cruel dig of his nails into raw flesh. You reward him in return with a particularly pitiful groan.
“You callin’ me easy? You’re the one letting me do it.”
“Ahn’t ‘ou freatening a’ k-khill meh?” You laugh hoarsely, finding a new grip on his shoulder, watching fluids begin to drip down your exposed stomach.
“Aw, you don’t think you’d want to if I wasn’t?” He braces his free hand behind your head on the floor. “You sound so endearing trying to talk.”
No more breath is there to continue doing so because he has decided your smarming is over. The pace becomes merciless, and you strain against the floor with wide eyes as he slams into the lovely little spot he’d been so kindly rubbing up against previously. You hiccup and squeal through your teeth, but even that is swiftly silenced by his bloodied hand on your throat. He growls ferally, and it sounds extra terrifying through the voice modulator. Your head feels like it’s slowly emptying out of all rational thought, filled only by the instinctual need for oxygen and release. At some point, your hands are clawing at his wrist over your neck, and hot tears drip down the sides of your head and into your hair.
He makes some kind of strange guttural sound, a mix of laughter and a moan, as he shoves his cock as far in and against your walls as he can and shudders. You can barely register the warm fluid filling you, as he hasn’t hardly spared a thought to whether or not you can even breathe right now, but it’s exhilarating and deliciously disgusting. When he does release your throat, and you choke on air, it is to reach for you and begin brutally stroking you while slowly pumping his cock in and out. Now breathing, and not nearly on the brink of passing out, you cry silently and then not-so-silently slur pleas through the knife in your mouth. If you do cut your lip, it means nothing to you.
“Yeaaahhh, you want to cum, slut? What was that you said about not fucking begging? Not so fucking snippy now, when you want me to treat you all sweet and shit, hm?” He sneers, leaning in close to your face.
“Hhhuaa-eeaasee–!” You nearly scream in response, any pain in your limbs secondary to the aggressive ministrations that you can’t possibly escape or push against fast enough.
“Then do it, bitch. Show me how good it feels to be full of my cum~” He laughs darkly.
You give in eagerly to your body’s desperate need, and are sure you nearly crack a tooth biting down on the metal in your mouth. Every muscle tenses and you heave a final, feeble sob as your eyes roll back and you orgasm. Fire dances along every nerve and synapse, and the ridiculous halloween mask vanishes behind blotches of black and white stars in your eyes.
When you finally regain most of your senses, you are settled back onto the floor and breathing heavily. Your ribs ache from being folded over on yourself, and you can tell you are barely awake through your blood loss. He is still there, between your legs, but no longer inside you. Instead, he is snugly tying off around your upper thigh. Through the ringing in your ears you can hear he is humming your ringtone.
“Hnnmm…” Is not a word, but it is what you try to say.
“Mmhm. You were so good, love. Just making sure you don’t bleed out. I’ll make it all better, I promise~” The voice modulator is off. Or it ran out of battery. You do not stifle the comfort you permit yourself to feel from his doting tone. Once he is satisfied with staunching your leg wound, he retrieves his knife from your mouth and observes your cheeks. “Uh oh. I see a cut or two~ Do I need to take your ear?”
“Nnoooo…” You protest weakly, closing your eyes.
“Aw, well, now that’s just pitiful. Don’t make me feel like the bad guy.” He laughs softly, “I suppose you probably won’t survive anymore holes being made in you, anyway.”
Some kind of sound of agreement comes out of you, but you are so tired. You have no idea how late it is, but between an exhausting dinner, being chased, and then bleeding for a probably concerning amount of time, you are not sure how you’ve lasted this long without totally blacking out.
You can’t even dwell on that thought for long, because when you are conscious again, you are laying in your bed, loosely under a sheet. Sitting up makes the room spin wildly, and your shoulder scream with pain. Light is coming through your broken window, which has been hastily repaired with a garbage bag and duct tape. You reach to touch the tender spot, and find it is both clean and stitched up, with your leg sporting matching repairs.
Some murderer he is, hunting down your emergency surgical kit (again, that your mother insisted on buying you when you moved out here on your own), and then patching you up. You weakly look to your side table to check your clock and find a pill bottle that isn’t yours sitting there.
It is also 3:18 in the afternoon. And god, you are so fucking sticky everywhere.