Johnny’s eyes always lit up when he saw you. You first caught his cerulean gaze a few weeks ago, as he watched you stir the newest waxes in your candle shop. The flames flickered, bending toward the breeze, as if curious about the stranger stepping through the door. Near the glow, Johnny’s expression was like a child in a candy shop—an unspoken hunger beneath his smile.
It didn't take long for the two of you to grow close. He'd come by the shop every day, lingering over each item, inspecting them with an almost obsessive care. He’d make conversation, stretching it far longer than any other client would—an excuse to remain near you. Sometimes, he’d bring treats: tea, cake, little offerings. You’d sit together, listening to the strange stories he told about his work as a Kinetic Solutions Expert, whatever that was supposed to mean.
"He's a grumpy one, but he grows on ye." Johnny’s tone was light, his voice warm with the aftertaste of laughter.
"Grumpy? His name’s Ghost. He sounds terrifying." You teased, carrying your curious tone through the store as you prepped everything for the next day.
"Everyone’s got a dark side, bonnie… most folk just don’t have the right spark to set it off."
“Well, damn, Mary Shelley,” you chuckled, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice. “Coming up with good lines now, huh?”
You blew out the candle between you, retreating to the back of the store—far enough to miss Johnny’s quiet mutter to the swirling smoke, eyes locked at the consumed wick.
"Even better at watchin' 'em burn out."
Locking up for the night, you caught Johnny’s gaze on you as you carefully washed your hands in the back sink, scrubbing until there was no trace of wax or fragrance left. He raised an eyebrow, leaning casually against the counter.
“Bit thorough, aren’t ye?” he teased, nodding to your reddened hands. “Not like you’re preppin’ for surgery.”
You managed a small laugh. “Oh, it’s for his sake.” You dried your hands, setting the cloth aside. “My boyfriend—he’s got this respiratory thing. Even a little wax or candle scent, and it sets him off. Oh, speak of the devil."
Johnny turned around, his gaze narrowing on the man through the storefront window. Tall, languid, soft features. Too frail to look after a right lass. He knew you had someone, but that image twisted something inside him—this frail, inept man. The kind of man who couldn't even shield you from the dangers of the world. He couldn’t shake the thought that any street creep could harm you, and your boyfriend wouldn’t be able to stop it. Johnny had seen enough to know how the world worked—how a thing so pure could draw the wrong kind of attention. Filthy, rough men. Men who didn't deserve you. Men like him.
Johnny’s jaw tightened as he watched you wave through the glass. You looked at the man with that warm, easy smile—the one Johnny had drawn from you so many times it almost felt like it belonged to him. But it didn’t. You gave it to that flimsy excuse for a man, one who couldn’t even bear the scent of a flame, yet still got the privilege of being loved by a girl who breathed fire. His mind raced, picturing every way that man would fail you. It didn’t matter if it looked like madness; the feeling gnawing at him like a spark in dry grass had already taken root.
Next Thursday felt slightly off. Johnny had come by the day before to pick up his order, and as usual, the conversation stretched on longer than necessary, filled with laughter and stories. He never missed Thursdays—it was his favorite day, after all. It was the day your boyfriend came home early from work, took a nap, and then left to pick you up. That nap gave Johnny time to “have you a little longer,” as he always put it.
You missed it. It was just a day, but it felt like more. His bright eyes crinkling at the corners when his cheeks raised, the dramatic way every story tumbled from his lips, the way he made you feel like you were something special—something the world had yet to understand. Things only he could see. More devoted than any friend. Almost as devoted as a—
"Boyfriend!" You gasped, snapping out of your thoughts. You glanced at the clock, realizing it was past closing time. Your boyfriend would be at the shop any minute. You hurried to the sink, scrubbing your arms, when the doorbell chimed.
"Baby, I’m so sorry, I lost track of time! I’ll be right out, don’t come in!" You called out, panic rising.
"Could get used to that... baby."
You froze. That voice—Johnny. You turned, a smile awkwardly pulling at your lips as you saw him standing at the door. "Johnny? I—I thought you weren’t coming. You’re never this late on Thursdays."
"Aye, bonnie, I know." He stepped into the shop, his gaze unwavering. "Had to visit a lad."
"Business?"
"Pleasure," he said, his sky-blue eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place.
You glanced over at the door, suddenly on edge. "I—I’d love to stay, but I’m closing up. My boyfriend’ll be here any minute..." You trailed off, a slight frown pulling at your brow. "He should already be here by now."
Your phone rang from the back counter, cutting you off.
"S’ probably him. Might be runnin’ late." Johnny’s voice was flat, but his gaze didn’t leave you.
He watched as you picked up your phone, face contorting with every passing second of the call. Your mouth dropped, breathing hitched. You didn’t hear Johnny move. One moment, you were still struggling to process the nightmarish news, the next, his hand was on your back, steadying you as your knees buckled. You barely registered him pulling you to his chest. His shirt quickly soaked up the tears that flowed from your eyes, thick and furious, but there was no reproach in his touch—just a steady pressure that held you close. His arms weren’t harsh, but firm, like you were something he couldn’t afford to let go. Your nails dug into his arms, not for comfort, but because you had nowhere else to hold onto. The words on the other side of the line were still echoing in your mind, but Johnny’s presence slowly clouded them out—filling the space with a comforting weight.
Johnny drove relentlessly, the miles slipping by as your body fought between waves of shock and numbness. It wasn’t until you were a couple blocks away that you saw it—black plumes of smoke spiraling into the sky, the jagged shape of fire hoses drawn through it. You shoved the car door open before it even came to a stop, stumbling toward the scene as firetrucks and curious onlookers swarmed the street. Water rained down, struggling to tame the last flames devouring what used to be your home.
The firemen spoke in steady, methodical tones, as though it were another job—no emotion, just fact. You could barely hear them over the pounding of your heart.
Unrecognizable. Suffocated on wax. The fire had consumed most of him.
Your body went cold, a chill creeping down your spine as their words scraped against you like glass. You tried to steady yourself, but the world felt unstable, as if the ground might swallow you whole.
“No,” you whispered, voice cracking. “That’s impossible. There weren’t any candles. He—he couldn’t have set them up. He—” You gasped, stepping back as your knees buckled. “He can’t even be around candles—wax, they make him sick, I—"
The firemen ignored you, their eyes distant, too accustomed to scenes like this. The truth was too heavy for you to hold, too absurd to understand.
A hand gripped your wrist, grounding. Johnny. He had been quiet, too quiet. He remained silent, keeping his grip firm as you tried to steady your breath, to push away the mental images that kept flooding in, images of your boyfriend—how you had joked earlier that day, how he had been so alive only hours ago.
Then your gaze fell to what was left of him. It wasn’t just the remains of a man; it was something worse. His body, twisted and contorted under the blackened sheets, the skin burned beyond recognition, patches of it melted into the fabric, the candles' wax seeping into his face, his mouth, his eyes.
The firemen hadn’t exaggerated. What was left of him was barely human, a grotesque silhouette of what you’d once loved. You stumbled back, vision blurring with tears that wouldn’t stop, chest tight with an unbearable, hollow ache.
Johnny’s grip tightened, his breath warm against your ear, a whisper like an anchor. “Jus' breathe, bonnie... Ah’m here.”
But you couldn’t breathe. Not with the image of him like this, suffocated by his own weakness, suffocated by something you couldn’t even understand. The smell of charred flesh and smoke filled your nostrils, and you wished you could close your eyes, wish it all away, but it was already burned into your mind.
Johnny didn’t let go. His arm snuck around your waist, chest pressed to your back, your last pillar. As the two of you watched the final flames die out, his eyes lit up. Blue tinged with copper—a hint of pride twisted in the shades. Tightening his grip, he whispered, almost to himself.
Ghost going to masseuse!reader because his back is beyond destroyed from years of manual labour, and not bothering to muffle his groans and grunts at all during the massage. full on groaning like he's balls deep in pussy. like even reader, who's used to people making involuntary sounds when they've never gotten a massage before, is uncomfortable not even twenty minutes into their session. and god forbid she try to move on after finding a spot that really makes him light up, he'll snatch her wrist and glare up at her until she gets back to it.
He rolls over, and reader discreetly gasps at the biggest hard-on she’s ever seen. She swallows, hands fidgeting, unsure whether to address the elephant in the room or carry on with her job. Ghost opens his eyes slightly, confused by the sudden pause. He snickers, lips twisting under the mask in a devious smirk as he catches her expression—ruby cheeks, gaze locked on his impossible bulge under the small white towel.
“S’alright, love. Promise I’ll behave as long as you do.”
I think there's something that needs to be said about encouraging readers to leave feedback.
For me it's not about "tell me my writing is amazing and stroke my ego"
It's more about "please engage with me so that I can experience your joy secondhand and foster a connection with you"
I understand that not everyone wants this in their reading experience, some people are shy and a million other reasons why maybe someone wouldn't want to engage and that's perfectly fine!
But what I'm trying to steer away from is being a passive content creator with passive consumers. What I want to steer toward is fostering a community that is essential to fandom. I want to see your reactions because it makes me feel like I'm a part of something.
On encouraging reblogs —
I understand that not everyone is comfortable reblogging, especially explicit content. This is ok!
But just consider that the only reason you were able to enjoy a fic or fanart is because someone else shared it, and by not sharing it yourself you are potentially robbing someone else of the opportunity to enjoy it as much as you did.
As OPs our reach only goes so far and this website relies on reblogs in order for anything to truly get seen by a wider audience.
So that's really it! That's why I encourage these two things at the end of every story I post. Not because I'm trying to be demanding and "make people feel bad" if they don't do it.
I know most other social media sites encourage mindless content consumption and that's just the way of the world nowadays, but I am from a time when community was at the heart of fandom and I just don't want to lose that.
The community-building aspect of social media has been completely lost and it’s our job as creators, as artists, to bring it back—especially in times like these. There’s rebellion in sharing what you love with the world just for the hell of it. Be a rebel. ♥️
CW: explicit depictions of violence and sexual themes.
John Price was the love of your life. Love is a powerful force—capable of building or destroying—and what you shared kept you bound to him for years. But only having his rough hands on your skin for a few months at a time, hearing his gruff voice say sweet nothings over the phone, missing the feel of his beard grazing your neck as his words seeped into you like venom, all wore down the foundations of what a real relationship was supposed to be.
He knew it. He felt the same sick ache in his chest every time he promised to come home soon, both of you aware it was a lie. He’d promised to slow down, to leave the job, to stay by your side, but the marriage you ended up with wasn’t the one you’d signed up for. You didn’t want a husband who vanished for months on end. When he returned, he’d devour you, craving your body like a hard drug. His hands too eager to find your sweet spots, cock too hungry to make you forget that he had lied. He'd push you into constant moments of bliss, tricking, but even his passion couldn’t erase the truth: he’d lie again.
In time, your marriage went where so many do. When he was handed the divorce papers at the base, he still tried to attack the process server. You wanted out, and nothing he did would change it—not refusing to sign, not tearing the papers up, not skipping court. You weren’t his anymore.
Life carried on, with months passing and, as usual, not a word from John. You thought losing the love of your life would be agony enough, but his indifference only added to the torment. Part of you wished you’d never met him; never knowing love would’ve been worth never knowing this pain.
The night before the hearing, you invited your lawyer to your flat to go over last-minute instructions. As the meeting wound down, a low, metallic sound came from the bedroom.
“Did you hear that?” you asked. He shook his head.
The two of you sat in tense silence for a moment, dread prickling at you. Your lawyer offered to check the bedroom, but you dismissed it, assuring him it was probably nothing. The meeting continued until, just before leaving, he asked to use the restroom. You directed him to the en suite, since the guest bathroom had stopped working that morning.
Lost in thought, you noticed several minutes had passed without him returning. Concerned, you called his name. No answer. Yelled. Still no answer. Your chest tightened, dread spreading through you like poison. Gripping the hunting knife John had given you for protection, you made your way to the bedroom.
“You can put that thing down, love. ‘S just me.” The gruff voice sent a shiver down your spine—unmistakable.
You peeked into the dark room, spotting the familiar silhouette against the dim light from the window. “John? H-how did you find me?”
“Why’d I have to find you in the first place?” His tone was cold, anger simmering beneath restraint.
“I needed space,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Single people live alone.”
“You know damn well you aren't single.”
“I’ve been single ever since I married you.”
Your words cut deep. His shoulders slumped as he sighed, hurt etched on his face.
“Where’s my lawyer?” you asked, searching the shadows.
“He’s not our problem anymore.”
“John…” Your breath hitched. “What did you do?”
“Someone’s trying to take you from me, innit? Was it him?”
“Where is he?”
“Think a piece of paper’ll keep me from you?” His voice dripped with rage.
“Why do you care? You love your job more than you love me—”
“Don’t say that.”
“I understand, John, but this wasn’t the marriage I was promised. I’d rather have none of you than pieces,” you said, your voice thick. “At least then I wouldn’t have to lie to myself that I’ll ever have you whole.”
He breathed heavily, brow furrowing as if struggling to comprehend your words.
"Why can't you just admit you've fucked up and leave me alone, huh? You had months to pull this little stunt—it's too late to care now."
John’s expression went blank, unreadable. He lunged, disarming you with practiced ease, gripping you by the hair and throwing you onto the bed. Your back hit something solid, unfamiliar beneath the covers.
He flicked on the light, and before your eyes adjusted, he was above you, pressing the knife to your throat. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his beard scratching your skin, hunger corroding him from within.
Instinctively, you turned to the side, seeking something to help you escape. Instead, you saw your lawyer’s lifeless, bloodshot eyes staring back, ones that had met yours with empathy so many times, reassuring you that everything would be okay. His neck twisted at a grotesque angle, lips slack in a silent scream.
“I’ll hunt you down forever, love,” John whispered, his voice carrying all the rage and obsession you overlooked for years.
Tears streamed down your cheeks, your breathing erratic, heart thundering. He pulled back, holding your gaze with a look that seared into your soul, his mouth twisting into a cruel smile.
“Doesn’t matter what you think,” he murmured, voice dangerously soft. “I will always be the love of your life.”
Mask and Mirror | AO3
Simon "Ghost" Riley / Female Character
Rape/Non-con, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Predator/Prey, Stalking, Violence, Aggression, Choking.
THIS IS A HORROR STORY.
Chapter 1: The Stranger In The Shadows
Estimated reading time: 19 minutes.
There are only two rules on Halloween: have fun, and watch out for the freaks.
When an unassuming girl tries to lose the masked stranger stalking her on Halloween night, a spine-chilling game of cat and mouse begins. Each encounter grows more dangerous and intimate, blurring the lines between predator and prey. As tension and terror build, it’s only a matter of time before one of them is forced to surrender—if they make it out at all.
The last autumn breeze brushed past a face that dared to be uncovered on All Hallow’s Eve.
It was cold enough to signal the onset of the darkest season, but not quite enough to force girls into warm clothing. Halloween was the one night where inhibitions faded and impulses ruled. For her, it was also the last chance to have some fun—pull a trick, take home a treat.
Confined in the soft cage of her mermaid costume, she made her best effort to walk quickly, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. Partygoers brushed past in waves of theatrical ensembles. In the flashing lights and dark street corners, it was too easy to lose sight of someone. Which pair of wings or which set of bunny ears belongs to whom is anyone’s guess.
She, on the other hand, was hard to lose sight of. Being a mermaid for Halloween was hardly a groundbreaking idea, but the looks of disgust directed at her spoke for themselves. Most mermaids weren’t pallid, perpetually damp and slimy. Their costumes weren’t covered in a mucuous dark liquid that spread to their skin like a filthy sea rash. Their hair wasn’t tangled like seaweed, with nails as sharp as broken shells.
If philosophers who believe humans are inherently bad are correct, and goodness is just a layer people wear each day, then stripping that layer away should keep others at bay. No one should want to come close to something that looks deliberately sickly and unnerving.
No one but the man that kept trailing her, ignoring the warning signs.
Some might argue that being chased by a freak is part of the Halloween experience. After all, it’s the night when masks allow people to wear their ugliness openly, when the veil between real and imaginary gets a little too thin. Good people feel free to be a little bad, and bad people feel free to make the night of horrors live up to its name.
There’s a strange type of comfort about being at a Halloween parade, with celebrations and bonfires that have existed long before our time. The fake blood, the rusty houses, the dirty streets; air heavy with possibility. Any shoulder bumped against could open a door to the unknown. The music—too loud to let screams through. The people—too drunk to perceive danger before it’s too late. Anyone running past could be having fun or could be in genuine danger. Nothing seems safe, and that liminal space of perception, that limbo between bliss and horror that permeates every corner of Halloween night, is what keeps us coming back to celebrate death—as a reminder we’re alive.
Experiencing that limbo is Halloween’s ultimate allure. But sometimes the fantasy breaks, the veil lifts, and you realize that the danger isn’t imaginary.
The burn she felt in her legs as she tried to lose him in the crowd was real enough.
He stayed close despite the ever growing mob.
She grabbed her phone to call her friends once again. It seemed futile with all the noise, yet she tried. After a few minutes, a familiar voice cut through the buzz and made its way to her.
“Mae!” Her friend’s wings bounced as she waved enthusiastically.
Mae pushed through the crowd to get to her newfound safe haven.
“I told you not to call me that in public.”
“It’s short for mermaid—”
“No, it isn’t.”
“And… it’s just for tonight. It’s not safe to give our real names to strangers, you know that. Tonight, you’re Mae and I’m… Fae.”
Mae gave a light chuckle and nodded in agreement.
“Fake names aren’t much of a safety guarantee, I tell you that,” she said while looking around, but there was no sign of the man. She leaned in, close enough for her words to be just between them.
“I saw him.”
Fae turned to look at Mae, the gleam in her eyes matching the glitter on her lids. “Are you sure? There are a lot of masked people here.”
“I’d recognize that skull mask anywhere.”
A loud smash rang out, and the sharp echo of broken glass traveled the air alongside slurred insults—a brewing brawl. Suddenly, bodies pushed against one another like schooling fish. Mae grabbed onto Fae’s wrist, and as Fae’s eyes trailed up, Mae knew whose hand lay on her stomach. She felt the warmth of a body pressing against her, solid and unyielding; his form swallowing hers completely.
For a second, time stopped. She lifted her head, glancing over her shoulder to meet his eyes—dark as the night sky behind him. Her jaw clenched, anger bubbling up at her own vulnerability. She could’ve sworn she saw a movement, a slight raise of his cheeks behind the mask. Time resumed. A change of position, an unknown push, Fae’s other arm finding hers. Gone.
A man his size shouldn’t be able to vanish so easily.
“We need to get the others! Where’s your phone? Mine's in Jennifer’s purse.” Fae raised her voice as the agitated horde pushed them to the sidewalk.
“Jennifer doesn’t get a fake name?” The confusion in Mae’s tone turned to heaviness as she searched her purse.
“My creativity only goes so far,” Fae replied. “Come on, give it to me.”
“It’s not here.”
“What do you mean? You just had it.”
“Yeah, I did, but I-I can’t find it. I swear, it was right here, it must’ve…” Mae trailed off, scanning the ground, hoping her phone would somehow be there, though deep down, she already knew it wouldn’t.
Their eyes met. The knowing exchange spoke before they could.
“The girls were at the bar at the end of the street when I left to look for you,” Fae said first, nodding toward the direction. “We can start there.”
“We have to get my phone back.”
“It could be just some creep trying to get your attention—”
“Now he has it.” Mae’s anger simmered back up.
“Or... it could be someone trying to hurt you,” Fae said softly, as if assessing her friend’s next step. “You've never had to deal with one like him before.”
“Well… I’ve always loved first times.”
Mae grabbed Fae’s wrist and led the way, her grip tightening as they squeezed through the last of the crowd toward the bar. The quick steps confined in her costume made her legs burn again—a sensation she now knew all too well, and only because of him.
Costumed folks packed the bar, as the air hung thick with booze and bad decisions. In their corner, Mae stared blankly at the far wall, hardly listening as Fae recounted the story. Something in Fae’s tone—how she spun it like a fairytale rather than the gruesome folk legend it truly was—kept Mae’s anger simmering beneath the surface.
“AGAIN?” Tammie’s disbelief pulled Mae back into the moment. Jennifer signaled for her to keep it down, holding the phone to her ear. Tammie leaned in, repeating more quietly, “Again? How many times now, three?”
“Five,” Mae snapped, her voice tight with frustration. “Son of a bitch has followed me five times in three weeks.”
“Not used to a little attention, huh?” Jennifer smirked, clearly savoring the drama. “I told you to do something about it on the third time.”
Mae rolled her eyes. “I didn’t think it’d go this far, Jen. The guy just seemed like a random creep, not a—”
“Stalker?” Tammie finished, crossing her arms. Her usual easygoing demeanor shifted to one of concern.
Silence settled around them, despite the rowdy bar.
“Nothing?” Tammie asked Jennifer, signaling toward the phone.
Jennifer shook her head, the phone still glued to her ear.
“It’s not too late to let it go, babe,” Fae’s soft tone came back as she caressed Mae’s arm. “You’re the last person to go into things without a plan.”
Mae clenched her jaw. “You know damn well he can’t keep that phone—“
“Hello?” Jennifer blurted, eyes wide. “Can you hear me?”
The girls all turned to her, holding their breaths expectantly. Jennifer furrowed her brows as she turned to look at Mae, sharing a glance of mutual confusion before passing the phone to her.
The girls scanned Mae’s face for some hint of explanation, but got nothing. They couldn’t find reassurance in each others’ worried expressions either.
“Why are you…” Her expression shifted from disbelief to irritation. “I understand… Simon.”
Mae handed the phone back, feeling discomfort permeate her body, and watching the girls’ faces contort with anger as they reacted to what she’d just heard.
The Haunted House. Fifteen minutes. Alone.
Despite their protests, the girls reluctantly agreed to let Mae go. It was a public space, after all, and he’d never tried anything dangerous while in a crowd. Maybe it’d be a simple exchange, a creepy way to ask for her number. But what were the odds?
Something weird happens once, it’s an accident. Twice, a coincidence. Three times, a pattern. By the fifth time, it’s hard not to think of it as a threat.
Simon didn’t mind to be seen as a threat; he’d learned early that his quiet intensity threw people off. The way he scanned the most unassuming places, how his every step was measured, balanced; movements so controlled they felt artistic—a dancer gliding across a shadowed ballroom.
Big guys like him were supposed to soften the edges, to show their faces, smile, make themselves smaller. But that wasn’t his training. That wasn’t who he was. Each time he chose not to wear the layers people expected, it was as if they could smell the blood on him, no matter how long it had been washed off. He’d made a living off of realizing his threats, and he was one of the best.
Of course, his nature became a hindrance when he craved human contact, which is why dating was off the table. He fulfilled his desires on other bodies, but never looked for love in them. Love is the most volatile element in any situation, and to be as good as him, you have to give up anything uncertain. In his line of work, predictability is the key between life and death.
He spent most of his free time roaming around the towns his team was stationed at, not only scanning places but people. How they moved, how they talked. The joyful screams of kids when their fathers picked them up. The wrinkles deepening on old ladies’ faces as their husbands repeated the same old stories. How deep a lass bit into the caramel apple she shared with her friend. The way her lips moved and gleamed. How the wind carried the earthy aroma of the forest, the sweet scent of the treat, and her. How she strangely caught his gaze and stared back, longer than anyone would, waving slowly as her sharp nails cut through the air.
There was something off about her, something under the surface. Like touching a wall warmed by the day's sun, even though night has fallen. Or standing outside a seemingly calm room, only to hear faint screaming as a prisoner denies information. Things you’d only catch if you’re watching closely. Attention you only pay to what you’re familiar with.
He trailed her for the first time after she went back for a second caramel apple. The second time was at the local mini-market, her cart stocked with an expensive brand of wine. The third time, he saw her loading luggage into the boot of her car at two in the morning. The fourth was at a restaurant, where she laughed with a group of men, and he sent a bottle of that same wine to her table. The fifth time, he stepped in between her and a street brawl, adrenaline rushing through his veins like a long-lost pulse. His grip on her wasn’t protective; it was a taste of control.
He stared at her phone, patiently counting down the fifteen minutes. Strange how her entire world was just a numerical combination away. Each time the screen lit up with the names of other men, something in him twisted tight. None of them knew her like he did. Did they see how the light made her caramel-stained lips glisten? Taste the remnants of expensive wine lingering on her tongue? Feel the sting of her sharp nails as they left marks that only he could reciprocate?
On that first night, he stared into the void, and the void didn’t flinch—it stared harder and waved back. Unbroken. Defiant. He can’t afford to crave affection, so he made it his mission to watch her surrender. The quiet command in her eyes fueled the mad man within, and he’d treat her like any opponent: study her, approach her, break her.
The most quiet houses often turn out to be the scariest. They look mundane, traditional—the kind of place where a family would lead a regular life. Yet, that façade can be enough to hide the horror inside. Domestic privacy becomes the foundation for a certain brand evil, one that allows fear to fester like mold. Modest walls turn into breeding grounds for monstrosity. Haunted houses, then, are symbols of honesty, of all the decay and abandonment humans are capable of creating.
There’s not a more honest month than October. As Mae entered the local honesty spot, cobwebs danced to the sounds of wood groaning against wind. Plastic spiders and makeshift ghosts welcomed passersby as the flickering jack-o’-lanterns showed them the way. The man inside might as well be another haunted attraction.
The draped black cloth on the walls served as a backdrop for the fake fog swirling at ankle height, forcing Mae to watch her every step. She carefully navigated each room, searching for the skull mask she now knew too well, and the man behind it. The loud whirrs of animatronic witches and the sudden clatter of popping skeletons set her nerves on edge, as if warning her about the last room in the upstairs hallway.
The sign on the door made it clear—that place wasn’t part of the attraction. It was a makeshift storage room for personal belongings, a reminder that the house wasn’t haunted for eleven months of the year. As she peeked inside, her gaze swept across the room until she made out his form. He was staring at a portrait cramped on top of a dresser, next to other family items. A man, a woman, two happy girls and a dog. Normal, certain—an unusual type of predictability for him. He seemed at ease, peaceful. For a moment, his imposing frame and odd behavior seemed almost misunderstood. A view shaped by a pessimism she knew too well.
That feeling lasted until he looked over his shoulder and met her eyes. The way the light seemed to retreat from his gaze as it bore into her soul meant, this time, she was right to assume the worst.
“Give it back.” She stood on the doorway, palm open in demand.
He remained in place as if he were part of the furniture.
“Look,” her sharp gaze signaling an anger that never went away “I don’t know who you are or what you want. If you’re just some weirdo freak who doesn’t know how to ask a girl out, fine.”
She gave him a split second to react, to show that she had read him right. He was stone.
“But if you’re here because you think you can intimidate me—”
His arm shot out, slamming the door behind her. Right hand digging into her jaw; the left tangled in her hair. Her skull met the door with a sharp crack, and the room spun in the echo of her interrupted words. Yet the weight of his body wasn’t enough to crush her defiance.
“—means you haven’t learned anything from all the stalking.” Her voice barely cut through the ringing in her ears. Pain seared through her head, but she clenched her jaw, forcing herself to hold his gaze.
His hot breath cut through the cold air in shallow bursts—not from exertion, but from something raw and primal: rage fused with obsession and desire. He tightened the grip on her hair as his right hand slid to her throat, squeezing just enough to make it clear she was not in charge. Her eyes widened, a short gasp escaping her lips, and he took her parted mouth as an invitation to close in, their lips brushing against the rough texture of the mask.
“I learned that this,” he spoke into her mouth, his grip tightening around her throat, “is what you needed. You needed someone to control your disobedience.”
Mae furrowed her eyebrows in complete confusion. The weight of Simon’s words twisted something in her stomach, making each exhale heavier than the inhale that preceded it. Nausea creeped in and she felt a wave of tingles on her nose—a sign that his twisted reasoning was taking root.
As the first tears welled in her eyes, he let out an amused chuckle and released her throat. The sudden rush of air into her lungs stung, and she gasped sharply, a sound that turned into an unsteady wail as she noticed his gaze dropping lower. A chill surged through her before she even registered his free, rock hard member pressing against her stomach. It was as if the room itself contracted around her, suffocating with its silence. The veil had lifted—this horror was real.
Her body jerked reflexively, muscles going taut as a wire. Simon’s free hand moved down her skirt, fingers searching for her entrance with a methodical, invasive precision that made her skin crawl. Jackpot. He stroked over her folds, rubbing rough circles on her clit to get her body to react as it would if she were a willing player in this scenario. Her mind raced in an attempt to pinpoint what she could have done to deserve this. But she knew better. This wasn’t her fault, even if the terror whispered otherwise. This was what happened when you brushed too close to people like Simon—quiet beasts that reeked of blood.
“S-Stop, please, Simon, I—“
“Are so wet f’me,” a smug tone on his voice. “Gonna say you don’t want this, luv? Cunt dripping all over my hand and you’re gonna lie?”
Even overwhelmed, Mae’s mind searched for options. She was the last person to go into things without a plan. The first step was to slow down her breath—hard to do when Simon was already using her wetness to bully his thick digits into her; each stroke drawing a hum of approval from him. He rested his head in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent as if to answer one of the many questions he had about her. His hot breath, the weight of his body, his rough movements—all filled her senses. Yet she had to find ways to ground herself in the bleak present, to craft the perfect opportunity for an escape.
Mae shifted slightly, feeling the solid surface of the door pressing into her back. The faint steps of the last visitors leaving the house echoed from somewhere distant, signaling that they were alone. She closed her eyes briefly, recalling the layout of the house from her earlier tour. If she timed it right, there was still a chance.
Drawing a breath, she softened her expression, letting her hands move to Simon’s hips. His eyes lit up with a twisted satisfaction as she began to trace her fingers around his cock. “See?” he murmured, his voice low and triumphant. “Just needed some obedience fucked into you.”
But the look in her eyes was anything but submissive. In a sudden, decisive move, Mae clamped her teeth down on the exposed skin of his neck while her nails—sharp as broken shells—raked into his balls. Simon's eyes widened in shock, his grip faltering just enough for her to push her full weight against him. She managed to break the distance between them, the momentum sending him stumbling backward.
The reprieve was brief. He swung back with a brutal slap that cracked like thunder against her face, the force disorienting her and leaving a burning trail of pain that echoed through her skull. She staggered, vision blurring and darkness creeping at the edges, but she didn't let the agony stop her. Mae bolted for the hallway, every muscle straining as she tore through the space and spotted the back door.
Simon’s roar followed, along with the heavy thud of his boots closing in as he wiped the blood dripping from the bite. But she was already out, sprinting toward the woods, the cool night air biting at her skin while an all too familiar burn crept back up her legs.
Trees blurred past in quick flashes, yet Simon’s footsteps were nearly soundless. His breath was steady, pulse in perfect control. The forest was his ballroom, and he moved like a seasoned dancer, leaving no trail behind him despite the thrill of the hunt. Twigs snapped nearby, a deep rustle to his left, a faint crunch to his right. Probably a deer, maybe a bear. To an untrained ear, the woods were brown noise; to him, an orchestra conducting his every step.
The darkness had no effect on him; his trained instincts led the way with ease. He paused, sensing her movements through the undergrowth—chaotic, erratic. Naive girls who think they can escape if they draw a little blood. He knew exactly where she was headed; her scent lingered in his system. He tilted his head to the left, eyes tracking to the right. A footfall right ahead. Jackpot.
Her messy disposition blended seamlessly with the chaos of the woodland. Breathless, disheveled, defeated—a creature in unfamiliar territory. Fish out of water.
She stood a few feet away, slightly hunched in surrender, a stark contrast to her usual proud self. Too easy. A faint prick of unease nudged at the back of Simon’s mind; after all, she had drawn blood the last time he got too close. Still, he pushed forward. He couldn’t have misjudged a simple chase. He was too skilled, too well-trained. One of the best.
He moved patiently over the foliage, cautious as if not to startle a wild animal. She remained still, vulnerable, accepting whatever fate Simon had prepared for her. One step, not too far. Another, closing in. Third step. Loud woosh. Acute pain. A bear trap. Suddenly, a fierce electric sting shot through his limbs, his own body turning against him. A taser. Muscles locked, forcing him into uncontrollable spasms. His back scraped against the rough ground as disorientation set in, making him oblivious to the shadows slipping into his blind spot.
Before he could react, his arms were forced back, wrists bound tightly together. The harsh scratch against his skin warned him of how little time he had before he was fully restrained. He struggled against the bear trap clamping his leg—a painful inconvenience—while the bindings around his wrists constricted further, vertical loops added to prevent any twisting escape. Smart.
Without wasting a moment, they secured his wrists to his waist and loosely bound his elbows, preventing any upward movement even if he managed to wriggle. With his limited upper body strength, finding leverage seemed impossible. The bear trap made it easier for them to restrain his legs, rope wrapping tightly around his lower thighs and knees. To finish the job, they pushed him against a tree, encircling his torso with the final length of rope, fully immobilizing him. As they stood at his feet, admiring their handiwork, a sinking realization settled in—he recognized the three familiar faces. Loyal friends she has.
“Should we get it out?” Jennifer asked, panting lightly as she examined the extent of his leg injury, her expression focused.
“I’m not done with him yet,” Mae retorted, monotone as she bore into his eyes.
“What are you gonna do, babe?” Fae interjected, concern etched across her face, but it wasn’t enough to sway Mae’s resolve.
“Nothing he hasn’t done first.”
Simon watched as the women faded into the forest, leaving him at Mae’s mercy. His uneven breath and racing pulse revealed his disbelief, body heating with the anger of being caught in this situation.
“Good show, lass. Am I bear snack now?” Simon scoffed, his need to regain the upper hand surfacing, even if it was futile.
“Was that your plan for me?”
“Yeah… and I was the bear.”
Mae nudged the trap with her foot, drawing a low grunt from Simon. “You were.”
“You’re a proper nutter, you know that?” His breaths grew shallow and rapid, betraying his frustration.
Mae bent at the waist, lowering herself until her face was just inches away from his. Her gaze steady and unyielding. The void staring back. "Birds of a feather, aren’t we?"
With a swift motion, she tore his mask off and stuffed it into his mouth. Shallow and deep scars littered his face, moonlight glinting over each mark. His nose was crooked, broken one too many times. His eyes—dark, bottomless—widened as he watched her slowly remove her costume, piece by piece. Confusion and dread seeped into him as he struggled to anticipate her next move, to guess what trick she’d pull.
The light traced her form, hugging the curves and lines of her body. Soft yet firm, peaks and valleys of pure poetry that relaxed him at the sight—first time in too long.
She leaned down, straddling his lap, her hands slipping between them as they stared into each other’s eyes. Simon furrowed his brows as he felt a pull on his hips. He dropped his gaze to see his pants halfway down his thighs, his member firmly in her hand. She began to stroke it, slowly, feeling the pull of his skin under her touch. “Is this what you wanted?”
Simon grunted, unintelligible, as the mask suffocated his words, his forehead creased in confusion. His body reacted as if it had disconnected from his mind, unaware that this was not how it was supposed to happen.
“I thought you wanted to control me,” Mae sneered as she picked up speed. “You can’t even control yourself.”
Simon took a deep breath as he felt his cock swell under the friction. He struggled to regain composure, to remind himself who was in charge. This was a game—a game he could easily win if he could keep his impulses in check. Keeping his cool under life-threatening situations was part of his job; this should be no different. He was too skilled, too well-trained. One of the bes—
“Open your eyes,” Mae commanded, and Simon obliged, not even realizing when he had closed them. With practiced ease, she pooled saliva at the back of her throat, letting it gather at the tip of her tongue before she opened her mouth—thick strand glistening in the light before landing on the tip of his cock.
Simon could only respond with deep, muffled groans, his face contorted in rage. This was not how it was supposed to go. Veins bulged along his member, which at this point was fully engaged. Precum leaked as he shook his head in frustration, ashamed at how his body betrayed him, welcoming the assault even as his mind rebelled.
Mae raised herself slightly, adjusting his angry red tip right at her entrance, still wet from the earlier invasion. With a slow, methodical movement, she crouched down, easing his thickness into her cunt—tight and fluttering at the incursion. It was massive, almost impossible, the type of weapon used to bring more harm than peace. She shuddered at the thought of how things might have played out were she still under Simon’s reign, yet she remained impassive. “Control yourself.”
Simon’s brows furrowed in plea as he struggled against the ropes—desperate, confused, guilty. He was overwhelmed at the detachment, at how all the physical sensations were there but his mind couldn’t enjoy it. He just wanted out.
Mae picked up the pace as she squatted on his lap, walls spasming at the forced entrance. She could feel him in her bones, splitting her open, invading even when he was out of control. It wasn’t as comfortable as it could be, but it was worth it for his look of terror alone.
He felt dizzy as she fucked him so hard his back scorched against the tree. His pulse pounded in his ears, her warmth and slick mirroring the heat pooling in places he wished it wouldn’t. Simon squirmed, his eyes pleading with Mae to stop as he teetered on the edge of orgasm.
“Control your fucking self!” Mae shouted, her voice brimming with rage. “This is your fault. This is what you made me do!”
Her hands clamped around his throat, surgical, cutting off just enough airflow to push him toward unconsciousness. To Simon, her intentions seemed far more sinister. He let out a hoarse scream, overwhelmed by a surge of anxiety, shame, and a fear he hadn’t felt in years. Her hips plunged, the familiar burn creeping up on her legs as her cunt choked him—violent thrusts sprinting towards the end, demanding. Shockwave. He twitched and grunted as the climax spread across his body, the impact reverberating through them both. His cum leaked from her pussy as the realization dawned—he had severely underestimated his opponent.
As Mae’s movements slowed, her grip around his throat tightened. She watched as his eyes grew heavy, each blink longer than the last, while a disorienting fog clouded his mind.
“Do you know why people wear masks on Halloween?” Mae asked, her voice as calm as rocks in a seastorm.
Simon squinted in confusion, his body going slack beneath her hold. A tremor rippled through his limbs, marking the last moments of resistance before surrender.
“They believed the line between the world of the living and the dead blurred, and that spirits could walk the earth. They started wearing masks because they thought they could protect themselves from evil by blending in,” she continued, her tone hypnotic. “But, you see, we don’t know what evil looks like.”
His eyes fluttered, unfocused, a final shudder running through him as he hovered at the edge of darkness. The moment hung suspended, enough for Mae’s voice to cut through one last time before he slipped entirely into the void.
“Would you be scared of the boogeyman if he looked like me?”
The Widow At The Door. | AO3
Simon "Ghost" Riley / Female Character
Psychological Drama, Comfort, Manipulation, Predator/Prey, Female Character Has a Fear of Spiders.
One-Shot | 1,450 words.
In a panic over a feared predator, she reluctantly accepts help from Simon, a seemingly kind stranger with a hint of menace. As fear and trust collide, she must confront her vulnerabilities and choose between facing her fears or surrendering to an unsettling comfort.
The room echoes with a recently delivered scream, and several minutes of panic drag on before the thought of how she landed in this situation crosses her mind. Short, irregular gasps guide beads of sweat down her body. Her shaky hands clutch a key to communication with the outside world — if only she had someone to call. Back against the door. Nails digging into wood. Frozen in place. Trapped.
Her eyes dart around, searching for an escape plan: on the living room table, a weeks-old notice about the upcoming building-wide pest control. On the couch, only a remote, some pillows, and a stuffed animal overdue for return. The knives on the kitchen counter to her left — useless against the kind of predator outside. A precise hunter, deliberate in every move, with a patience that speaks of experience. Fear spreads like a rare venom, paralyzing her in a way she hasn’t felt in years, not since she last had to fend for herself.
“Are you okay? I heard screaming.” A deep, disembodied voice in the distance brings her back to reality.
“Oh thank God! C-can you see it? By the door.” Her voice trembles, giving away her state of mind.
“I don’t see anything.” His voice grows louder, closer. “Mind telling me what I’m supposed to be looking for?”
“It’s a… it’s a spider. A huge spider. Staring at me when I opened the door.”
The memory of its gaze triggers a cascade of tiny, electrified bumps across her skin. A small eternity passes before the booming voice makes a comeback.
“Maybe you scared it away when you screamed. Do you want to come out? It’s just me out here, I’ll put it away if it shows up-"
“No! Jesus, no.” She interrupts, fear pushing her mind to create all sorts of irrational scenarios, all ending with her getting attacked by the menacing predator. “I’ll just… stay where I am. Thank you, mister.”
“Simon. Name’s Simon, I live down the hall. You don’t have to call me mister,” the stranger stated.
Her mind races, flipping through images like a film reel, searching for anything to put a face to the voice outside the door. Then, it clicks: a broad frame, towering height, dark eyes that seem to bore through you. A sinister impression that always left her uneasy. They’d crossed paths often, her eyes always darting away, her phone a shield against unwanted conversation. She once even called a friend in the elevator just to avoid acknowledging his presence, feeling his gaze linger as she spoke of loneliness and heartbreak. A gaze that made her wish she could read his mind.
And now here he was, putting himself in the line of danger to help her. Silly instincts.
“So your plan is to never leave your apartment again?” Simon asks.
She chuckles, a weak attempt to mask her unease. “I would if I could but… ah, it’s okay. I’ll call the manager tomorrow, see if the pest control company is still coming in-“
“They’re not,” Simon interrupts, “coming in, I mean. They wrapped up a few days ago.”
“Fuck.” She closes her eyes as a deep sigh escapes her lips. Her way out of accepting the stranger’s help slipping through her fingers. “I’m out all day, I haven’t even seen them around. They shouldn’t have wrapped up if monsters like that are still out there.”
“Maybe it was waiting for the right moment to come out.”
She couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Right as I’m trying to go out for dinner?”
“I mean, maybe it knows you shouldn’t be alone,” Simon carries on, “maybe it’s looking for a warm place to stay and it took a liking to you.”
She shivers, not just from the thought of the spider, but from the way Simon’s words hang in the air. Silly instincts making a comeback.
“What do you mean ‘took a liking to me’? My place isn’t warm or inviting and, besides, I hate that. I hate that something I can’t see gets to choose me and make me feel trapped. It feels like there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“There is.” His tone rock solid.
“What?”
“You can come out.”
“Say what now?” Her voice rising in volume.
“The spider is probably more scared than you are. Come out.”
“You can’t be serious,” she scoffed.
“Why?”
“‘I’m trapped, Simon!”
The mention of his name for the first time in the exchange opens the path for bluntness to come through.
“You’re the one trapping yourself right now. I told you the spider isn’t out here, it’s just me.”
She hesitates, his words catching her by surprise. “You think I’m trapping myself?”
Simon’s voice is steady but gentle. “You’re hiding behind a door from a guy you’ve seen many times before. If there was a spider here, it’s long gone now. I know we don’t know each other, but I’m just trying to help.”
Guilt crashes in like relentless waves. Loneliness and heartbreak had blinded her to kindness and compassion. Her tone softens. “I’ve never had to worry about this before.”
“About spiders?”
“About facing scary things on my own.” She looks down at the tips of her fingers peeking out of the sleeves of a jacket — too big to be called hers. The warmth it once provided now feeling like a constricting burden. Heavy air of an anxious summer night.
“You’re not on your own,” Simon says soflty. “I don’t mean to pry, but if you want to share, I’m here to listen.”
Sharing with a stranger would make it real. Friends might understand her reasons, but strangers demand context. Context as to why she trapped herself in a cage she created — one whose key still carried the warmth of past hands. Hands that made her realize hers were better off holding bars. Barriers, like the door between herself and the spider. A comfortable prison that took away the pain of having agency. The kind of pain that has landed her here. The kind predators can sense.
“Are you really sure it isn’t out there?” She diverts, her voice revealing a hint of exhaustion.
“Yeah, I’ve looked everywhere. Well, everywhere except…” He pauses, leading her on.
“IT COULD’VE GOTTEN INTO MY HOUSE?” she shouts, frantically searching for the predator that could’ve slipped into her home.
“It could, but that’s out of your control. Spiders are sneaky. They get into places without anyone noticing and hide in the dark until it’s time to feed.”
“Stop talking like that. I’m scared!”
“You won’t be if you let me in.” His bass voice hovers somewhere between friendly and ominous. “You know, to check it out.”
With a quick shrug, the jacket slips to the floor. Fear clouds her mind, leaving no room for second thoughts. As always, there’s relief in surrender. Her trembling hands fumble with the lock, struggling to keep up with the urgency in her head. The door swings open. A breeze slips inside. Her eyes lift. Simon.
“Are you okay?” he asks, softness everywhere but his ever-piercing eyes. She nods and steps aside, making space for him to enter.
Simon methodically searches the apartment. His eyes scan every corner and shadow with a practiced gaze, fingers brushing against surfaces as if sensing for movement. A precise hunter, deliberate in every move, with a patience that speaks of experience. He pauses occasionally, offering reassuring glances that suggest there’s nothing to fear anymore.
“Well, you’ll be happy to hear that the spider is not here.” The corners of Simon’s lips curl up, his voice slicing through the anxious silence of the apartment. She sighs in relief, and thanks him. He takes it as a sign, an invitation. “So… still feel like going out for dinner? All this hunting left me hungry.”
She hesitates, her gaze shifting to the door. The invitation is simple, yet it holds a weight of its own. She could refuse. Step outside the trap Simon pointed out she put herself in, by herself. Walk out into the world knowing there was a spider that took a liking to her, but she wasn’t going to let it dictate her life. But in this moment, with her comfort zone tempting, she finds herself falling back into her old patterns.
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes dropping to the jacket, then back to Simon. “I’d like that.”
Simon’s smile broadens, and he gestures toward the door. “After you.”
As they walk through the doorway, Simon glances at the notice he slid under her door a few weeks ago. A small reminder to look for a sweet new home for his tarantula. After all, he has another pet to take care of now.
