Ghostface x Reader
“Boo!”
I opened my mouth to scream as the locker door flung open to reveal him. Ghostface. Standing there tall, and broad, and dark, like the shadow of a monster.
Not half a second later, his gloved hand clapped against my mouth to silence me. “Shhh, doll. It’s just me and you,” he waved absentmindedly behind him with his other hand. “The others are dead. No point wasting those pretty little screams…” I felt bile rise up in my throat, knowing the pain they must have gone through.
Seemingly spotting my change in demeanour, the Ghostface tilted his mask and examined me. “Oh, but I’ve upset you now. I’m sorry, baby. Would it make it better if I told you it was quick?” It must have been. We’d not been in the trial long. I hadn’t even been hit once.
Terrified, I breathed heavily and quickly through my nose, almost choked by his fingers and by the sickening, metallic smell of blood on his glove. The last time I had been alone with this man he had tortured me to death. My stomach lurched in anticipation.
He withdrew his hand from atop my mouth but didn’t step back, choosing instead to hang lazily into the locker. His mask drew closer, staring and spectral, and I pressed myself as far back as I could to gain some distance. “Have you missed me, doll?”
I didn’t answer, inhaling and exhaling shakily and quickly. This didn’t please him.
In a second, his knife was drawn. He plunged it into the back of the locker, directly at the side of my face- nicking the edge of my cheek.
I heard him exhale behind his mask. “Fuck, doll. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But it’s rude to ignore it when someone asks you a question.”
I gulped. The scrape on the edge of my face was thin and shallow, but a sparkling row of crimson droplets wept from it anyway. I was always a bleeder. Vaccination? Paper cut? Sliced my finger cutting vegetables? It was as if my body was over dramatic, responding in the extreme to any slight damage. “What do you want me to say?” I managed, shakily, forcing myself to look at the two black holes where his eyes were hidden.
“That’s a dangerous question,” Ghostface hummed, stepping back from the locker. “Come with me.” It might have been a command, but he gave me no chance to follow it. His arms reached around me and he lifted me over his shoulder, as if I weighed nothing. I didn’t try to struggle free. I had never been a fast runner.
I closed my eyes, feeling tears barely stay at bay. Killers were killers. I could handle murder now. I could handle these trials. It hurt and it horrified me but I knew the drill. This though? This left me in the dark. Total unknown. Ghostface frightened me like I’d never been frightened before.
What felt like minutes later, I was lowered, somewhat gently, onto a couch. I recognised where we were as the centre of the empty lodge in Ormond. The fire was crackling to the right of me but it didn’t fight the chill I felt when I looked at the man that had carried me here.
A moment later, I found a voice. “When are you going to kill me?”
Silence. Ghostface hovered over me, unblinking and threatening in his black attire and plastic mask. Then: “Soon, I think.”
I nodded, taking in the situation I was in. “I see. Well, can we get it over with?” I asked.
“Why?” Ghostface asked in response, and I frowned.
“Because I don’t want to be tortured?”
“But if it’s not me, it will only be someone else.”
“They just kill me- you do something else.”
“Oh, and what do I do, doll?”
“You take sick, weird pleasure in it.”
Ghostface laughed, I think. He leaned in close to me again, and used his thumb to lift his mask slightly. I saw his chin and jawline, sharp and square and manly, and then felt the wet heat of his tongue at my cheek. Licking the cut he’d given me earlier. The action made an obscene noise. I squeezed my legs together, mortified by the throb I felt below my abdomen.
Close to my ear, he clicked his tongue softly before whispering, “You’re right, I do take pleasure in it, baby. And I’ve taken a shine to you.” He withdrew, and dropped to his knees in front of where I sat. His mask was level with my face and I swallowed loudly, looking at the human features he’d revealed. “Want to see?” he asked, a smirk on his pink, full lips.
I didn’t nod, but he could surely see it in my eyes. I was curious. In response, he reached up as though about to push the mask up. At the last second, he stopped. “Too bad, beautiful.” He pulled the mask down, and with that the shutters closed, the hint of humanity I’d seen disappeared. “We’re just not there yet. And there are some other things I’d rather do first.”
I tried not to let my face betray the disappointment I felt, and looked at the floor. Seconds later, a soft whistle told me to look up, and Ghostface held his knife again. “Now, now. We’re gonna have a little fun.” In his black gloved hand, the knife descended, slowly and carefully to my chest. He stopped when the tip just barely grazed my flesh. “Make your pretty noises for me again, and I promise I’ll reward you, doll.” His other hand rested at my waist, and he stroked my clothed skin with seeming reverence.
With a slash, his silver hunting knife sliced a deep cut across the bare chest revealed by the top I had on. I gasped at the way it stung, fresh and sharp and agonising. The blood spilled almost instantly and began to pool between my breasts, staining the nude bra I wore. He didn’t stop there. Far from it. In fact, his carving was incessant- not too shallow, not too deep, quick, deliberate- as if he were creating a pattern across my flesh. I didn’t beg for mercy, but I felt the tempo of my breathing quicken and slow and slow and quicken and I whimpered softly, surely, melodiously. I let myself cry but didn’t sob. At the sound, the man behind the mask moaned roughly and leaned closer to me.
“You’re perfect,” he groaned as his knife penetrated, slowly, through the jeans I wore and into the thick flesh of my thigh. I felt the blade pierce my skin and delve deeper, deeper, hotter, searing, torturous pain. I cried out, biting my lip and squeezing my eyes shut. “Fuck, don’t close your eyes, look at me-” he twisted the knife until I looked at the black mesh covering his eyes.
With the knife still in my leg, I tried in vain to regulate my laboured breathing. In, out, in out, in out. Ghostface withdrew, settling between my legs on the floor. He leaned his head against the thigh he hadn’t run through before speaking. “Your blood is like something out of a movie, you know,” the man murmured, sultry and slow and dreamy. His breath felt hot against my leg, but that might have been my imagination. Surely my brain had no space to process any more sensation than the pain of being stabbed. “It just pours. Like wine. Shit, when I pull this knife out, you’ll probably go dizzy from blood loss. Fuck…”
“You’re sick.” I managed weakly, feeling pale and tired.
Laughter. Smooth, sexy, sultry laughter. “I’m Danny, actually.” He grabbed the hilt of the knife and ripped it unforgivingly from my flesh.
