If you can, could you write a fem!reader and Albert Shaw having hate sex please? Maybe Albert being a bit rough with reader???
Sex with the Devil.
the Grabber x fem!reader
A/N: It's been a while since I've written smut of this scale, probably since my Hazbin Hotel reqs back in June. Yes, raw dog, 'cause they're fictional but you're not, so stay safe!! This one takes place in the iconic basement. And while it's a dom!Albert fic, I kept my portrayal of him as fractured. You'll see what I mean... ❤️
Warnings: sexual content (it's hate sex, intense but consensual), oral sex & p in v, age gap, angst, jealousy, emotional tension, possessivess & controlling tendencies, hair pulling, light choking, dirty talk, biting & marking, yandere!Al, dom!Al, switch!reader, mask kink, size kink, praise kink, light degradation, minor breeding kink, rough manhandling, pinning wrists, creampie my beloved, fluff
Got carried away again, this is lengthyyy.
Depraved smut, by Ophelia, with love, for y'all 💅🫶
The fight starts the way it always does... with silence.
Albert is sitting on the edge of the mattress on the floor, head bowed like he's holding back a hurricane. His jacket is still on and his boots still laced, fists clenched on his meaty thighs. You can practically hear his teeth grinding beneath the mask. The full, horned one he hasn't worn around you in weeks.
He only wears it when he needs distance.
Or control.
Or an alibi.
"…So that's it?" you say, leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed. "You drag me down here and then say nothing?"
His head lifts slowly.
A wolf scenting blood.
His voice, when it comes, is low and dark.
"You think I didn't hear you... In town. Smiling. Laughing. Hanging all over some little boy like you don't have a goddamn thing already keeping you warm."
Your breath catches.
Anger sparks immediately.
"Oh my God, Albert! He works there! Frickin' register. I was buying spark plugs—"
"Cute" he cuts in, rising to his feet with controlled fury. "You buy spark plugs with your hand on his arm? You laugh like that for everyone?"
"Excuse me for being fucking nice" you snap. "I didn't realize I had to report my facial expressions to you."
He stalks toward you, his steps heavy on the cement, heat coming off him like a furnace.
"You didn't look nice, you looked easy" he growls.
Your nails dig into your palms.
"You know what? Maybe I am easy. Maybe I'll go back there tomorrow and let him—"
You don't finish.
You don't get the chance.
Your back hits the wall, hard, and his hand is around your throat before you can even gasp.
Not choking, at least not yet, but holding.
Claiming.
Containing.
His voice is a gravelled whisper behind the mask. "Say that again."
Your pulse pounds against his palm.
You want to be angry. You want to bite back. But God help you, your thighs press together.
"Get your hand off me" you say, though your voice betrays you, breathless already.
He leans in, body pinning yours to the wall. You feel every solid inch of him.
"You want it off?" His thumb strokes lazily along your throat. "Push me off."
You don't move.
He knows you won't.
Because you like this.
He exhales slowly through the mask.
"That's what I thought."
"I'm not something you own" you bite out, trembling with frustration and heat.
He chuckles. "Keep telling yourself that."
His free hand drags down your side, slow and heavy, stopping at your hip. His grip tightens possessively.
"Nobody touches what's mine."
You lift your chin, defiant.
"Good thing I'm not—"
He grabs your jaw, fingers digging in. "Finish that sentence and see what happens next."
Your breath shakes. You hate how much this gets to you.
"You're sick" you whisper.
He steps closer, chest pressing yours, voice like molten steel.
"Then why are you wet?"
Your stomach drops. He always does this –rips your defenses apart like paper.
You glare up at him through your lashes. "Take off the mask if you're going to talk to me like that."
Something sharp flashes behind his eyes.
No, he doesn't want that.
The mask lets him say things he shouldn't. Do things he shouldn't.
The mask is freedom.
"Not tonight. Tonight, you wanted the devil."
His hand leaves your throat only to flip you around, pressing your front to the wall. A gasp punches out of you as he bends you just enough to make your pulse sprint with anticipation.
"And now" he murmurs at your ear, "you've got him."
Albert's breathing is heavy behind the mask.
You feel caged, his body blocking any chance of escape... but you don't want to run.
His hands slide down your waist, ringed fingers dragging over denim and skin.
"You think I don't know what this is?" he murmurs at your ear, voice low, steady, lethal. "You like pushing me. You like seeing how far I'll go before I have to punish you."
You grind your teeth, refusing to give him satisfaction. "You don't scare me."
He laughs under his breath, a dark sound that curls at the base of your spine.
"Oho, oh sweetheart…"
His hand comes up to wrap loosely around your throat again, this time from behind, angling your head to the side.
He watches you, taking in every flicker of your face, every reaction. He's not being mindless. He's dangerously focused.
"You go around town smiling at boys who can't do a damn thing for you" he growls. "What, you think they'd know what to do with you if they had you like this?!"
Your blood races. "Let me guess. You think you're the only one who can?"
His chest presses harder against your back, hips grinding frustration and desire into you.
"I don't think. I know."
He pushes your shirt up, slowly, making you feel every inch of skin now exposed.
His fingers trace your ribs, lingering under your bra, forcing a shiver out of you –one you pray he didn't feel.
"Sensitive" he comments against your neck. You swear he sounds pleased.
You push away from the brick wall to no avail, fighting a moan. "Get your hands off me if all you're going to do is talk."
He freezes.
Oh. That did it.
He fists the back of your shirt and spins you back to facing him. You meet the mask, shadowed eyes staring down at you, unreadable and merciless.
"You want me to stop talking? Fine."
He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, one big hand holding them there effortlessly. The other hand drags down your throat, across your chest, down your stomach… until his fingers are gripping your jeans.
You feel your heartbeat drop straight between your legs.
Albert leans in, the mask inches from your lips. His voice is quiet and honest.
"Tell me you don't want this, you little prick" he challenges.
You glare. "Fuck you."
His head tilts. "You will."
He pops the button. Lowers the zipper. Slow. Mean. Your breath catches despite yourself.
"You like to pretend you're mouthy, but your body—" his fingers slip inside your waistband, knuckles brushing heat "—doesn't lie. You see, it simply can't."
You hate him.
You need him.
You're going to burn alive.
"Now say you want me" he demands.
"Dream on."
He smirks behind the mask, you can't see it, you just feel it.
His hand slides even lower, palm pressing between your thighs, cupping, rubbing. Even over your panties it's too much. You gasp and push into his touch helplessly.
Got you.
He tightens his grip on your wrists.
"Say it."
You shake your head, flushed and furious. "Make me."
The sound he makes is feral.
His voice drops impossibly low.
"You asked for it, love."
He practically drags you to the mattress. You fall back, jeans undone, shirt pushed up, body buzzing with anticipation and spite.
Albert stands over you, broad shoulders heaving, mask staring down all judgment.
"Take them off" you say, lifting your hips.
He shakes his head once. "No."
Your brows draw together. "Then what—?"
He points a finger at you then at himself. "You take them off. For me."
Your mouth runs dry.
It's not a request.
It's an order.
And you obey.
Your jeans slide down your legs, and Albert watches like dragging clothing off your body is something sacrilegious.
You can already see it. The war inside him. The desire to ruin you fighting the sick need to worship you.
Then his gaze darkens.
He kneels onto the mattress, crawling over you until he's a huge shadow above, one hand on the bed, the other sliding up your thigh, claiming his territory.
"This is mine" he raps.
"You think everything is yours."
He leans in, mask brushing your cheek.
"Not everything" he murmurs. "Just you."
You're lightheaded from lust by the time he drags you up from the mattress and into his lap.
His legs spread wide as he yanks you onto his thigh, big hands gripping your hips and buttockss, grinding you down against him.
The mask is inches from your face, breathing harsh and uneven. You feel how hard he is already, thick and heavy beneath his corduroy pants.
He squeezes the side of your neck again, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you where he wants you.
"Look at you" he mocks. "Already needy."
"Not for you" you pout.
He laughs once. Low. Dark. Cooing.
"You're a little liar."
You rock against his thigh harder just to spite him. He grabs your hips, holds you still. Makes you whine in frustration.
"Greedy girl" he mutters. "Always want what you don't deserve."
"Funny" you shoot back, breath shallow, having too much fun provoking him further. "I was about to say the same to you."
His thumb pushes into your cheek, turning your face so you meet the hollow eyes of the mask again.
"You think I don't deserve you?"
An angry, loaded pause.
"No one deserves you like I do."
Your chin lifts, still defiant. "Prove it."
A challenge... The stupid kind.
He stands abruptly and you yelp as he shoves you down to your knees on the cold basement floor.
His hand fists your hair. You look up, and oh, you've never seen him this gone. This unhinged. This desperate.
He undoes his belt. The clink of metal echoes like a threat in the silence of the soundproof room.
When he drags the zipper down and pulls himself free, he's rock hard –veined, flushed almost purple, and thick... Intimidating enough to make you swallow.
He tilts your head back by your hair.
"Open your pretty mouth."
You keep your mouth closed on purpose.
He huffs. "Always so fucking difficult. And for what? Huh?"
You run your tongue over your bottom lip, eyes never leaving his. "Make me."
A growl rumbles from behind the mask.
His hand tightens in your hair as he shoves his thumb between your lips. You suck it slow and filthy, eyes dragging up his body as you wrap your tongue around him, deliberately obscene.
You watch him break.
He pulls his thumb free and replaces it with his cock.
You open willingly now, and he groans and grunts like he wasn't expecting the sudden obedience.
His hand stays tangled at the back of your skull as he slides in deeper. Your tongue flattens. Your eyes water.
His eyes drink in every second.
"Look at you" he mutters, voice strained. "So fucking beautiful like this…"
He pulls back, then thrusts shallow, testing. His grip turns iron and his breathing changes quickly. You feel him slip.
He starts fucking your mouth, slow but brutal.
You choke once but you don't stop him. Hands on his thighs for balance, you let him use you, let him finally take what he's been starving for in his envy. His groans deepen. His pace roughens and picks up a bit.
You moan around him and his hips stutter.
"Yes. Yes—keep doing that—"
He holds your head perfectly still –careful not to injure you– and goes deeper, hitting the back of your throat, your eyes and nose running freely now.
He tilts his head like he wants to see you finally break and pull back, spattering. But you don't. You keep looking up at him. You keep taking it.
No fear. Just heat.
And the occasional gag.
"You feel so fucking good—Jesus—"
It shouldn't hit you like praise. Oh well.
You reach up, your fingers brushing the lower half of his devil face.
He flinches and tries to pass it off like it's just from you sucking him off.
Meanwhile, you don't ask for permission. You slide the mask's lower half down, cautiously peeling it away from his face.
His lips part.
His jaw is clenched tight.
His mouth is wet from panting.
And fuck, he looks wrecked already.
Then you kiss the swollen tip of him.
His whole body jerks.
"Oh, ah~"
You stroke him once, twice, three times, slick with your spit and his pre-cum.
Albert curls over you like he's mortally wounded.
You rise to your feet, lips glistening.
He looks at you like he wants to devour you and fall to his knees all at once.
You whisper... "Your turn, pretty boy."
He grabs you and kisses you.
Teeth. Tongue. Heat. No restraint. No air.
He hardly kiss like a man. He kisses like a beast in heat.
You moan into him and he pushes you back onto the worn mattress, climbing over you and breathing you in like he needs you to stay alive.
When he pulls back, the remaining upper half of the mask is halfway gone too, and his eyes...
Oh his eyes... They're not cold anymore.
They're alive and burning and terrified.
"Why do you do this to me?" he breathes.
You utter the steadiest lie you've ever told.
"Because you like it."
You're aware of your cruelness. Albert can't take this much exposure all at once, he needs grounding, but tonight you're offering none. You wanted the devil, he said it himself.
That's why, after he exhales hard through his nostrils, everything darkens in him again.
The softness dies violently.
He grabs your thighs and drags you to the edge of the mattress, ripping your panties down in one brutal motion.
"Spread."
Your lungs stop working.
You spread.
Your legs are trembling from pure want as he finally positions himself between them.
He's impossibly broad, shoulders thick and chest taut, built from years of hard work. However, there's also a curve to his spine, which makes him move like a predator coiled and ready to pounce.
You take in every line of him, every thick vein running down his forearm, every flex of muscle as he leans over you.
The age difference hits you in a new way. It's the weight of him, the authority, the dangerous gravity he carries with him.
You crave it.
Rough hands land on your inner thighs, pulling them apart, thumbs brushing over your sensitive flesh.
You feel your clit burning, pussy already slick from the teasing earlier. He smirks, letting out another gravelly growl.
"You belong to me. No one else." he hisses.
And then he pushes into you, slowly stretching you, filling you completely.
Your gasps are swallowed by the basement walls, your fingernails clawing into his shoulders.
Albert keeps a tight grip on your hips, preventing them from snapping close.
"You feel so fucking good" he groans, thrusting harder.
The remaining part of the mask gives him a sense of anonymity, letting him be brutal without guilt.
He bites along your shoulders and collarbones, marking you, essentially leaving traces of himself on your skin. You moan, half in pain, half in pleasure –pure ecstasy.
His own sounds are becoming louder.
He's pulling at your hair again, this time to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to him like a feast.
He pauses for a moment, chest heaving, then bows his head, brushing his lips along your jaw before grabbing your head and forcing a deep, passionate kiss. Hungry and messy, like he's trying to consume you.
You wrap your arms around his neck,kissing him back, while also moving your hips to match his pace.
"You're such a fucking brat. Always fighting me."
He thrusts harder, his balls slapping against you, slick and hot, and you try to bite back a feral smirk.
He chuckles darkly. "Yeah… that's right. You like that too, don't you?"
You can barely breathe, barely think.
Every movement, every slap of skin against skin, every harsh grunt leaves you trembling. He's relentless, pressing you into the mattress as he picks up pace, pulling your wrists above your head and pinning them with one arm while the other keeps your legs spread.
"You like it rough" he growls, nibbling at your earlobe, "don't you, little pet?"
"Yes" you moan, arching up, needing more more more. "Please, Albert—harder—fuck me!"
His response is immediate.
He loses himself even more –if that's possible, pounding into you with brutal precision, growls mixing with shouts and ragged breaths.
Your clit is being stimulated by every rough stroke, every press of him against your lower belly. You cry out, hands clawing at his back, nails scraping the skin raw. He bites the curve of your shoulder again, leaving another mark.
He pulls back slightly, gripping your thighs and lifting your hips, driving even deeper from this new angle.
"So fucking wet for me. Mine, mine, mine…"
Your knees shake and lock around his torso, your body tightens around him as waves of pleasure and frustration collide.
"You're unbelievable" his are hands pressing hard enough to leave bruises along your ribs.
"You're too much" you gasp and whine. "God, you're too much, Albert!"
"I don't care. You're mine. You always were."
Then the moment snaps...
He's pounding into you like a man possessed. You cry out as your body starts shaking violently, spasms everywhere.
Albert leans down, wet lips on yours, kissing you roughly even as he fills you to the brim, heavy balls pressing against you with every thrust, breeding you.
The tension coiled for hours, days, even weeks, breaks in a cathartic scream as you both climax together. Your body clenches around his twitching length. He groans as he spills inside you, raw and hot.
The basement is filled with your cries, his growls, and the wet, desperate sound of him taking what he longs to be his.
Eventually, he collapses over you, sweaty, mask still on, panting.
His hands slide to your waist, keeping you close. You're still catching your breath, still trembling with aftershocks.
"Mine" he mutters again, almost a whisper this time. "You're all mine…"
Your knees feel like jelly, your thighs burn, your clit throbs, your chest heaves, your throat raw. But somehow despite the brutality, and the aggression, and the possessiveness… there's a pulse of reverent awe beneath it all.
The basement is silent except for your shared ragged breathing.
"God, I can't believe this. You're fucking mine, sweetheart."
You shiver against him, exhausted.
"You've gone nuts, Al."
"Yeah?" he breathes. "But I'm yours. Yours..."
For the first time, the upper half of the mask feels like a cage keeping him from collapsing completely.
Why, you ask?
You see, while Albert's breath is still hot against your neck and his body heavy over yours, something has shifted. He isn't talking now, or moving. He isn't even growling anymore.
The silence in the basement is suddenly loud.
His fingers dig into your hips like he can't let go... can't afford to.
This isn't the weight of lust anymore.
So your hands move gently, brushing back the strands of silver-blonde hair that fell free during the deed.
He flinches, just slightly, like he isn't sure if he's allowed to be touched like this. Tenderly. No nails clawing at his back now.
You tilt his chin up.
The upper half of the mask stares back, cold and devilish, with its carved horns and sharp lines.
The man beneath it is shaking.
"Albert?" you whisper.
He doesn't answer.
Your thumbs stroke over his jaw, then his lips. Something inside him is cracking.
You reach behind his head, finding the leather straps. He tenses, like he might stop you, but he actually doesn't.
He lets you unfasten it. The mask falls away.
And... He's just a man. A flushed, still sweating man, trembling in his effort to hide the fact.
His lips are swollen from kissing you, and his eyes –God, those baby blues– are glassy. Obsession, fear, and rage still swimming inside them. But also… devotion.
You cup his face in your hands. His breath shudders.
"Hey handsome..."
He breaks.
Folds, like someone cut the last string holding him up.
He lowers his head slowly and presses his face against your breasts, breathing hard and shaky. His hands loosen. They aren't holding you down anymore. They're holding on. Very different.
His voice is pure gravel.
"I shouldn't—I shouldn't be near you. I shouldn't touch you. I ruin things. I ruin everything I touch."
You cradle his face against you, fingers sliding into his hair. He whimpers when you do.
"It's okay. You don't ruin me... Not in a way I don't want."
"But you don't know what I am. You shouldn't want me. You shouldn't—shit—" His breath hitches when you drag your nails lightly against the back of his neck. "I can't stop. I can't stay away from you."
He nuzzles against your chest, not sexual now. Just touch-starved. You stroke his hair again, gentle.
He shivers.
"You didn't hurt me" you tell him softly.
His grip on your tightens, like he doesn't believe you.
"I could have. I wanted—"
He stops for a moment, jaw clenching.
"I wanted to break you. I was so fucking angry. I lost control. I—"
"You didn't hurt me" you repeat, firmer this time.
He looks up at you.
"I'm here, Albert. Because I wanted this. With you."
He looks lost. Like no one has ever said that to him in all his life.
"You still want me now?" he asks quietly, terrified of the answer.
You don't hesitate. "I do."
He presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in.
"I don't deserve you."
You kiss the corner of his mouth. "Too bad. You have me anyway."
He exhales a broken laugh.
The hunger will come back, along with the possessiveness, and the mask. But right now, he knows you're not going anywhere.
Tonight, in the quiet after the chaos, Albert Shaw holds you like you're his angel.
If you enjoyed this fic & want to support its writer, tips are always a huge help! Thank you so much❤️❤️
Albert Shaw/The Grabber x Fem Reader ➺ 7k ➺ Explicit
Happy Halloween to my fellow TBP delinquents. I'm back on my Albert Shaw bullshit and it possessed me long enough to write not only a whole fic, but the first thing I've written in almost a year - yay!
I want to take a moment while I have your attention to redirect you to the lovely and talented Greenandsorrow! The Albert Shaw content you will find there is, dare I say, unparalleled. Mr. Shaws keeper in the flesh. Ophelia's work is the best of the best, and you'd be hard pressed to find a more in-depth, faithful, and compelling characterization. Trust me - it's the good stuff. The very reason I was inspired to write this in the first place. Please go check out Ophelia's work, and inundate her with lots and lots of love and support!
I don't think I'll become a regular Albert Shaw/The Grabber writer, but this I wanted to share. So without further ado, please enjoy the result of my current brainrot.
(divider credit ) - (AO3)
Nicotine and Old Crow hot on his breath, an 80 proof burn rumbling from the pit of his chest. His mirth singed bittersweet. He still tastes of Worcestershire and rosemary from dinner.
A surreal figure, Albert Shaw cuts; one imposing as it is magnetic. Charming with how gruff, how aloof. Frightening with how alluring. You're drawn to him even now, even as he looms from the top step, crowding the basement doorway from the kitchen.
A thrill that zips through you crown to sole. Afraid to let him get you, but distraught at just the idea of him letting you go.
A force to be reckoned with, he could crush you simply with the combination of his weight and carelessness. Heaviness; suppressive, unmovable. A neat collared shirt straining at his broad shoulders, pulled taut over his barrel chest. A softness to his sturdy middle, dug into by his belt buckle. Evidence of satiation, contentedness, the warmth and stability only you provide.
He notes your observation, taking stock of him as he does you. Sizing you up, a thoroughbred he means to loose on the track. His hooded gaze sweeps across your body. The dips and curves that make you decidedly all woman. Pale crystalline ingests his fill and then some. Satisfaction rumbles back out, imperceptible from low in his gut.
"Are you gonna be good for me?" There's a beat that suspends for what feels like a lifetime. When finally he breaks it, his voice breaks along with it. Ragged, tattered at the edges. "Or are you really a naughty girl?"
He licks his lips and savors the taste like a man starved. Naughty girl. The green light. The trigger. Fired off starting pistol shot. Hot and smoky from his tongue. Smelling of thyme and bourbon.
Naughty girl.
It's the game you play; when the beast stirs, restless and prickling beneath his skin, knuckles creaking his waning restraint. A feral quality to his stare, eclipsing the usual tired shine that resides there. A look that lingers a little longer, a little sharper. His words scratched from a throat parched, acrid, even before he's smoked.
He needs to get it out of his system, you see - to appease what's coiled low in his depths, forever vying for dominance. That thing that bites and claws. That perks to a spiked pulse. To the sickly sweet copper of blood drawn fresh.
"It's... better this way, if we play. You and me." He'd say, baby blues frosty in their affection. Voice low and silken. A cord of muscle popping along the cut of his jaw.
And so it goes.
The darkening sky drops the sun low, and all sound plummets with it. The Shaw house has a cozy potentiality; familiar to you now, if nothing else. It thrums and squeaks, and floods with gold just after sunset. It's modest, unadorned. Until the streetlights flicker awake, and the beast comes calling.
The old pipes cease their groans, the refrigerator halts it's whining. The silence deafens you to all but the wild beat of your own heart as you wait.
Wait.
For his footsteps, slow and unhurried, trudging up the basement stairs.
Wait.
For those heavy-booted footfalls to still.
Wait.
For him to appear at the top. Your worst nightmare, your ultimate desire - manifested in one, haunted man. Inevitable. One both horrific, and too good to be true.
Horned, just as a beast ought to be. Ghastly smile of too many teeth pulled tightly into place. Breaths low and panted, like a bull about to rage. Dingy plaster muffling how uneven, eagerness forcing its way to the surface, headlong and assured.
It's how he stands before you now. Wringing the belt in his silver crested mitts. Outwardly, the complete picture of calm. Though you know better.
"Are you ready to play, little one?"
Play. He rolls the word around his tongue, pressed against the back of his teeth in lascivious greed. It's the signal things have begun, though neither one of you has yet to move past go.
The fine hairs on your nape stand on end, your skin prickles and your pulse takes off at a gallop. Wobbling and coltish.
You're just a baby, really. Yet here you stand, toe to toe with the big dog. A stocky mass and cocky leer you can only see around the eyes, it propels the thump of your heart so fast you're convinced it'll splatter itself against the breast bone.
You swear he can hear it.
Furious and erratic, a meek little doe cornered by the big bad wolf. Though his mouth is covered, you know by the way his gaze crinkles at the corners that a smirk has unfurled itself across his mug, slow and Cheshire like. Sharp. Pleased.
"You know the rules, sweet girl." His rasp tries for a purr, but anticipation strangles it hoarse and breathless. His meaty grip wrings the old leather belt. Creaking like his knuckles. "You try to leave this house; and you're punished."
You nod. Pupils as endless and dark as spilled ink. Breath balled up in your lungs, seized and stinging.
"Naughty girls break the rules." He murmurs. "Naughty girls try to leave."
But you have to.
You have to try.
He'll catch you - he always does, you don't need to try that hard.
You just have to try.
Because if you don't play, he can't win.
And if he can't win, the dissatisfaction turns rabid. Ugly.
Angry.
You both know this, and yet, there are times - not unlike this one - where you feel the challenge in his stare is daring you to obey. As the alternative is distrust; of Albert himself, of all that you share. A transgression perhaps more fitting of punishment than your escape - however feigned.
He cocks his head to the side, bird like. A predator's intuition weaponized in full. A pale blaze of blue expectance glinting above the high cheekbones, beneath the overheard fluorescence. When he speaks, its low growled accusation, a brewing storm.
"You're not a naughty girl, are you?"
Trembling, your fingers knot and twist at your middle despite yourself. You hear a dry chortle puff from behind the mask before you can so much as think to humor him with a response.
"Well - no matter." A sudden dreaminess to his sigh. Anticipatory reverence that tends to reveal itself whenever his shadow grows horns. "We'll find out soon enough."
One step towards you has your throat bone dry. Silverware rattles at the drying rack next to the sink. Tongue unspooled wool, limp in your mouth and about as useful, as Albert emerges from the muddle of shadow to stand beneath the single, overhead light. The bulb above his head shining against the high points of the mask, sprouting blotches of pitch to well in its hollows. Tears of black pouring from the eyes, despite how positively merry the irises sparkle.
Adjusting his grip on the belt, Albert instructs, "I'll give you a head start, until the count of three." Bestowed like a kindness, he squares his stance as he sees you poised to dart.
The Shaw house only has so many nooks and crannies for you to ferret yourself away in.
It's thick when you swallow. All moisture evaporated from your mouth, cottony and sour. Your heart hammers with such loud insistence you almost miss him counting off.
"One."
Eyes blinked wide and meek like proper prey, you push from the balls of your feet to dip to your right, tumbling into the living room. Uneven footing staggers you, the edge of the coffee table knocking into the side of your knee.
You catch yourself with a loud smack of your palms against its water-warped surface, a jumble of shaking limbs and girlish anxiousness. His chuckle carries with you, pebbling the flesh along your neck and shoulders.
Albert rolls his head side to side, neck cracking, relief grunted at the popping cartilage. Before the quick pitter-patter of your getaway has the chance to resume and change course, he drawls;
"Two."
You don't wait for him to continue before you're upright once more. Ankles braced. A blur of motion, quick and jerking. Rabbit like, bounding and leaping through tall brush as you navigate the living space and make for the hall.
Eyes falling shut, he waits.
He listens.
He counts your steps as they grow further away, notes your trajectory by the sound as it fades, retreating deeper into the house. Leaving him in the kitchen with nothing but the roar of blood in his ear for company. His pistoning heart. The strap of leather wrapped around his knuckles.
Not having moved a muscle, he's confident he's tracked you to the bedroom.
Exhilaration threatens to rend him uncontrolled. Light-headed. The rhythm of his breaths that much harder to reign. His tongue runs along the crooked ridge of his teeth, the inside of his mouth still tasting of from-scratch shepherds pie.
"Three."
He speaks in a whisper - and though you're long gone from the kitchen - he knows, he feels, you'll still sense him coming for you. Despite the distance. Despite being unable to hear his warning.
A perk of your close bond, he often muses.
"Ready or not." He calls, abated mania swelling beneath the surface, misplaced playfulness lilting the consonants. "Here I come."
Posture loose, a predator grown complacent. He chases only when he must, yet when it comes to you you're as steady and predictable as the tides. A stray eating from the palm of his hand.
You're going to try to leave. You have to try.
A naughty girl gets punished.
A naughty girl to gift the beast.
When it has you, he can be good again. He can breath. He can walk around in his own skin without the incessant urge to tear it from his bones.
He needs your insolence like a hit. An itch only you can reach. He needs your tears, your ecstasy. He needs to let the beast give you the hurt, so he can turn around and be the one to kiss it better again.
And oh - you fight a good fight.
You play your part like a dream.
Those same heavy, unhurried steps stalk down the hall at a pace so leisurely your poor, wrung-out heart ping-pongs. From down between your thighs to lodged somewhere up in your throat, and back down again.
Huddled behind the door, wedged against the wall, making yourself as small and still and possible. You don't hear him come in, but your hairs stand on end. He slips into the bedroom silent as nightfall, and before long your shallow breaths net his smell. Black smoke suffocation, a lethality you can't quit.
Albert surveys the undisturbed space before him, doing a sweep from left to right. His hackles raise, and he strains his ear to the faintest rustle behind the door. A breath you've been trying to hold for too long, tucked away behind the wood slab.
Back to you, he turns his chin as far as his shoulder and sings; "come out, come out, wherever you are."
Time itself suspends. The silence folds inward.
Eyes fluttered shut, he clears his mind of everything but you. Until he's left with nothing but the sound of your heartbeat he's convinced he can hear.
He squeezes the folded belt in his dominant hand.
He grins.
"You know, sweetheart, I can smell you." A rasp like liquid smoke, burnt butterscotch adoration that weakens your knees and almost sends you right into his arms. A mistake beyond fatal. He's a few feet in front of you, but he throws his voice in a way that slithers through the space, illusory, tickling the shell of your ear as if uttered from right behind you instead.
You shift against the wetness blossomed between your petals, and steel yourself to sneak back out of the bedroom, while his back is turned. He knows where you're hiding, but he's giving you the opportunity to make him work for it. To get his blood pumping proper. Mind buzzing with that adage about those who toy with their food before they eat it.
"How ...excited you're getting." The carpet deadens the weight of his steps, pushing further into the room. Biding his time until you take off again. Lips licked behind the mask, he savors his next taunt like he's sneaking dessert before dinner. "How wet."
Thighs shaking, you peel yourself away from the wall and slip out from behind your cover. Risking a glance at his back you can't spare. Adrenaline sees you through, but makes you bold.
You're enraptured by the sight of him, especially so while on the prowl. Thickly muscled, broad. Large. Wound up, over-tensioned. Seconds from a snap of his chords, the thread of control holding it all together. You wouldn't even have the time to register his lunge. An attack felt after the fact, when the damage was done and it would already be too late. Enveloped by his mass, his black.
His chuckle snaps you back to the present. One knowing. One that leaves you exposed and shaking.
"Looks like I gave you that head-start for nothing, huh?" Suspiciously soft, hummed low to trick you nice and lulled before the rug pull. He points his gaze forward, deliberate. Ignoring you cowering behind his back, regardless of how enticing such a sight presents. "Shouldn't you be running?"
Heat rushes your cheeks so hard and fast your eyes water. Swept up in your admiring you'd lost sight of your role, its importance.
What he needs you to be for him.
You're only aware you've started running again by the sound of your own feet charging out of the room. His rasping amusement clinging to you cigarette smoke unshakeable.
All you have to do now, is make it to the door.
Most of the time you only make it as far as fumbling with the back latch before he's on you. Descending like a shadow grown in the setting sun, one horned and panting, as thick and oppressive as its caster. Sturdy fingers banded in silver carding through the damp hair at your nape, knuckles flexed until a delicious throb blooms from the pressure. Scruffed and yanked backward into his broadness like an unruly kitten.
One time you made managed to make it off the back porch.
One triumphant foot off the last step - and then you tumbled. Head over heels, the wind knocked out of you as he wrestled you down to the dead grass. Growling and frenzied in the raw, winter air.
You thought perhaps you got the drop on him, until you felt that unmistakable hardness dig into your backside as he crushed you into the dirt.
You only ever get as far as he's willing to let you go.
Just off the kitchen is where the back door waits, opposite the basement entrance. The muted, peeling linoleum and dark wood cabinetry of where you started welcomes you back all too soon.
You didn't give chase like you normally do, not really, and that clipped performance has everything to do with the learned understanding that neither of you would last as long.
You could feel it, rolling off his tensed posture in waves.
It's the exact, over-charged current you feel not seconds later, as he has you caged between his body and the locked exit. Rushed with all his strength while your back was turned.
You didn't even hear him coming.
"What did I tell you." He's guttural, barely contained by his own skin. If you focus, you're almost positive you can hear the snapping of twine. "About trying to leave?"
The ropes of his forearms bound you against him, back to front. Boa constrictor lenient, every minute tremor he interprets as resistance. His hold locks, bruises, and the heat of him burns feverish through both your layers of clothing. You taste ash and stale cologne as he breathes down your neck.
"You know what I have to do now, don't you?"
"No! N-no, no-," you croak, the inside of your mouth proving to still be just as dry as before, no matter how much you swallow against it. You wiggle in his grasp, the strength of which saps you of any remaining fight you've managed to cling to until this point. "Please - please don't!"
You have to beg. You have to struggle. You have to make it believable.
The beast always knows when you're faking it.
And it needs a naughty girl.
You hear a deep pull of air from the mask over your shoulder, it's pointed chin jabbing you at the thin skin of your temple. He takes a few more ragged, steadying breaths, followed by a labored swallow. Wet and salivating, like something ravenous interrupted mid-feast.
"It's of no use for you to beg now, little one. Sweet as you sound." His rasping dips and cracks with the arousal that's bubbling over. Working to smother the dwindling spark of conflict that flares higher and brighter with every whimper he grinds out of you. "It's out of my hands, you see."
A paw breaks away from it's imprisonment of you to explore down your body. Low, beneath your stomach, his wide hand forces to fit itself between your thighs. Through your skirt, he palms the heat coming off of you there, and cups it with a groan. The stilted sound of a creature in great pain. He flattens himself against your back, shoving you into the door. Stocky hips stutter into you, allowing you to feel it as much as you hear it in the haggard edge of his growl.
"You are a naughty girl, aren't you?"
A little push, a little pull - what's left of his restraint will burst like a rotten grape in the summer sun.
Just a nudge more, and you know you'll be bent over the nearest counter top. Held down by the back of your neck. Old, stiff leather raining down rapid-fire correction.
Having surrendered completely.
"D-don't... don't touch me!" Eyes glassy and lip trembling, you give a last futile attempt at slipping his hold. You barely budge an inch.
"Oh, but you need me to touch you." The fingers at your core twitch, squeezing with deliberate pressure. The room begins to tilt. "Don't you?"
As much as each and every nerve within you will be screaming by the time he's through with you, you can't help but egg him on.
"Go away!" You muster a show of dignity from somewhere deep down, challenging him with a flourish of theatrics. As if he didn't have your throat slotted in the crook of his elbow, and a firm, possessive grasp at your clothed cunt. "Just leave me alone!"
Your world lurches as you’re snapped backward and hauled away. Away from the door, and subsequently, the closest counter top.
You'd frown if you had the time, reeling as he drags you across the linoleum towards the kitchen table. He grips a chair back and whips it out, the legs squawking horribly as they grate along the floor. He plops himself down into the open seat with a grunt and hauls you down with him. You're thrown over his knee before you have time to catch your breath.
"Go away?" He parrots, making quick work of hiking your skirt up along the back of your legs, bunching the fabric around your waist. "Go away? Is that any way to speak to me, young lady? With all you have to make up to me for?"
It takes every remaining shred of your resolve not to press your thighs together in obvious alleviation. Pressure has been mounting steadily at your apex with every graveled warning, every square inch over which he's hunted you.
"Oh... what am I gonna do with you..." he laments, petting the hair at the back of your head. A prized pet he's faced with having to put down. The fist gripping the looped length of belt rests on the small of your back. A steady weight in reminder. "You know I don't like to do this, don't you?"
Pleading with you so as to soften his culpability.
"You know why I have to do this?"
You toss your head, a noncommittal gesture to both appease and progress what is to come.
"You broke the rules, little one." Seeking atonement and ignoring your presence all at once, even as you writhe half naked across his thighs. Heavy breathing muffled to something more animal than man against the inside of the mask. Albert repeats; "naughty girls break the rules."
A decorated ring finger hooks your wet panties and pulls them aside in one adept motion. Not yanked down your legs, just pushed out of the way. Enough to see. Enough to expose your drooling folds to the stuffy kitchen air, and his scrutiny. His nostrils flare audibly with his sharp inhale. He releases the fabric to snap back into place against you swollen pussy.
He composes himself, but only just.
"Naughty girls... get twenty licks." He feigns sympathy so well, for a moment you truly believe the warring conflict. The belt brushes the swell of your rear and breaks that spell, rogue wave sobering. Dread and delight trickle down the curve of your spine, your skin flushing along path he traces with the worn leather.
"You count out each one. Each. One. - Otherwise we have to start all over again." He explains, as conversationally heavy as the state of the weather. As obvious as water is wet.
When he's left unanswered this time, the horns take control. Spitting a growl, he knots his fingers in your hair. A flick of the wrist and you see stars. The iron bar of his forearm at your back holds you pinned, as a gasp splutters from your lips.
"Do you understand me, little one?"
Seams frayed, his composure a trick of the light that only holds up from far away. You whimper, trying to nod your assent. His hold in your hair tightens against the motion. The pain in your scalp needling.
"Use your words." He intones, the rhythm of his heartbeat still uneven. "Tell me you understand."
You wriggle, an incidental nudge against the cock straining angrily at his inseam. The mask hisses in undeserved warning.
"Yes." You whine. "I-I understand."
Ringed fingers trace along the curve of your spine, back to your ruined panties. Little more than a scrap of frills, the flimsy material he pinches in at your sacrum, baring the mounds of fleshy muscle to his impending ministrations.
His rough palm skims over you, back and forth, as he soothes your flesh warm. Ensuring the sensation will be as heightened as your nerves will allow. He rumbles against your quakes of anticipation.
"Such a pretty baby." His remark fond, his touch gentle. He draws you deeper into reverie; blissed at his tender strokes, his praise. "I wish you wouldn't make me do this to you."
You almost forget how heavy his hand, until he draws back and crashes down upon you.
Belt whistling as it cuts the air and cracks dead center at the thickest portion of your glutes. You spasm to life in his lap, gasping something incoherent and shrill that dies on your lips the second it's ripped from your lungs. You submit to the shock, to the sting, but only for as long as it takes for you to scramble to reality.
The instant it surrenders you back to him, sprawled over his knee like a disobedient child, you wail out for him. You behave.
"O-one, one!"
A sound of satisfaction from the beast. Seething, like air siphoned from a flat tire, though its anything but deflated by your cooperation. He shifts you on his lap, repositioning his grasp on the makeshift flail.
You feel him wind up.
You hear the leather slice the air above you, and then the clap to your flesh thundering throughout the small kitchen.
You suck in a breath and hitch out a sob.
Color explodes behind your squeezed lids. Bright and vibrant, it speckles across your pinched vision when you pry your heavy lids back open, like a million burst stars smeared across your field of view.
It takes you longer to catch your breath this time, and you trip over your own tongue in haste to abide by the beasts rules.
Patience not a quality it's known to have, in your experience.
"Two.."
A snarl undulates from the mask. Slinking from the back of his throat. The velvet timbre you're used to has morphed into a hoarse cadence, a sound removed from him. Uttered from somewhere far, buried low beneath the ribs.
You feel him wind up.
By the time you near the end of your game, the kitchen is swallowed by the dark of night, spilled in from the windows. The lone bulb overheard providing scarce enough light for him to catalogue his handiwork.
When he arrives at the seventeenth lash, he halts.
Hesitation stretched long, its weight suspiciously merciful. Something in him settles back down early - contented and subdued. A mountain lions purr.
The next strike to glance your raw flesh is his palm, and once the blow lands he holds you there - stroking the sting as he coos.
"You're so good... you're a good girl, aren't you?" He hums when you whimper. "Yeah... you're good, little one. You're good. A good, little girl."
Lashes wet and welled with tears unshed, you brace for the next clap to your hindquarters. The one that never comes. Instead, he continues to rub the hurt away as best he can. Callouses gliding over the welts in an absent-minded pattern. Gathering a palm full of cheek, he sighs a paternal exasperation afforded by the years he has on you. Soft and adoring.
"Spread your legs for me." His instruction seeps from a stretch of his lungs. Not a demand, but not a request, and all the patience in the world. He surveys the beasts aftermath, bruises beginning to discolor your skin. Splotches of red and purple, water-color opaque in the melanin. "Let me see you."
Your cries have weakened to sporadic sniffles. Pink cheeks itching with dried tears. Your bottom throbs red hot and raw against his touch.
Unquestioning, you do as you're told.
Not a second's hesitation. Awkward as it may be, still strewn limp across his lap like a used rag. You open the apex of your thighs as much as you can for him to see, and see he does.
You're wrecked between the thighs. Sticky and pulsing. Flushed and swollen. You're certain, as you thrashed and howled and clawed at his calves while he spanked you, that you leaked against his leg. Soiling the dark denim with further evidence of just how naughty you are indeed.
There's rustling above you while you simply wait. Steadied with a gentle hand to your shoulder blades while he dips to the side - dropping the belt, you think - you don't crane yourself in any attempt to see. You're much too tired, yet too high strung in the same breath. Your body battered, every inch of you still vibrates, unabashed, for more. For him to make the ache go away.
He peels the gusset of your panties away from you like a second skin, your arousal sopped into the thin cling of rayon and imitation silk. His surprise slides in a long whistle through his teeth.
"Ohhh." His voice seems louder to your ear than it has this whole night. Crystal clear and unobstructed. "You got it bad, don't you baby?"
As he rights himself again, rubbing your back while he does, he fishes around first his shirt pocket. Then the back pocket of his jeans. Tilting and rocking you laid across his lap, like you're no more a figment of fantasy.
His lighter clicks. His inhale hurried, and exhale rapturous. The suppression of silence dispels like a snuffed candle.
You melt, dangling over his legs like dead weight, exhaling out the ordeal - not dissimilar to him - in a weighty, weakened sigh. The faint sound of suburban traffic returns to your ear; the odd car passing at no more than twenty miles an hour, just outside the front room window. A clunk and a hiss, and the fridge kicks back to life. Droning it's low wheeze from the corner.
One of his rings traces against your slit and you shudder uncontrollably, arching into his touch like a cat in heat.
"Christ, you're a mess...," muttered low, a rasp curled in admiration against a click of teeth. "Cunts as a sloppy as your escape."
A huff and a stutter all you give by way of response, all you can give in the face of his crude, albeit correct, assessment. His little spitfire quelled to weak splutters, barely a singe against his bluntness. His trail along your seam is cruel. Twirling and rubbing against your wet folds when you're desperate for him to push inside, even if just to the first knuckle.
He knows this. Knows your tells, your quirks. Shuffles your body like a trick deck designed for him alone.
"It's cute really, how needy you are for me." He smirks, one lax. No less sinister despite how lopsided. "You know that?"
Cigarette clenched between his teeth, he manipulates you with the effort of propping up a rag doll in his lap. Easing you upright, he guides your legs to straddle his hips, mindful of your hurt.
Your bottom is tender, and a burn radiates deep throughout your hips with how wide they're stretched to accommodate his stance in between. Then his face shifts into view, and there he is again.
Albert.
No horns. No perpetual, exaggerated grin that hurts your own mouth from looking at it too long.
Just a handsome face.
Lined by age, and the weariness that weathers into the skin. A strong jaw. Soft ashen hair feathered against the tops of his hunched shoulders.
He cups the small of your back with one hand, and strokes your cheek with the other. Calloused fingers banded in silver, glinting in the dim kitchen light. Deer in headlights hazy as you lose yourself in those eyes of his. The corner of his lips twitch, the suggestion you're endearing. Your name bleeds into the air between you on the smoke from his lips. When he addresses you, he croons.
"How're we doing, sugar?"
You're dripping all over him.
Loose limbs and languid arousal. Breathy, doe-eyed. Little fingers knot in his shirt, stretched tight over his musculature, his breaths still deep. Solid, steady, strong. Draped and clinging to him, you simply mewl.
How're we doing - as if you even know how to begin to answer that in your current state.
"What's the matter, darlin?" He goads in coarse gravel around the cigarette as it hangs from his lips. "Cat got your tongue?"
His smile reaches his eyes. The fingers grazing your cheek slips their hold to pinch your chin, drawing you closer. He taps you once, and says; "open."
So you open.
Lips parted and tongue drawn. An obscene loyalty that's tight in his chest and pulsing in his gut, a hot coal heavy and deep. He takes another drag and leans the rest of the way to meet you, head dipped so your lips align - not touching, just hovering - before he rolls the smoke to your obliging tongue. His mouth trails the ash, and before you can reorient which way is up, he's kissing you.
Unhurried, slow, lazy.
Though his lips are taking their time to slot and slide against yours, possession is still there. Unmistakable. Inevitable. Lurking. In the occasional nip. In the heaviness that drags. In his rumble of appreciation you taste as much as feel. If his kiss could cast a shadow, it would still have horns.
Through the bitter nicotine clinging to your tongue, he still tastes like dinner. Bourbon and thyme and ground beef. A warmth that he borrows, leeched from your own. Kindness and nurturing used to turn him gluttonous. An iciness thawed. A rabid hunger sated. A lone wolf prowling winter woods, happening upon a downed fawn. Lush, decadent. Thrashing and whimpering within the crooked pinch of his yellowed maw.
A moan - or perhaps, more of a wail - erupts from you, molten and slippery, and in turn tugs a proper chuckle to thunder from the seat of his chest. He's yet to release your jaw, even after he breaks your connection. Lips sloppy and kiss-swollen. A thin webbing of saliva that bursts against your chin, he wipes it away with his thumb before pushing it back into your mouth.
Albert takes a good, hard look at you then, as you suckle his thumb with the docility of a newborn. A malleable presentation, how suggestible desperation has you reduced.
"Oh, you're so good." He nods in agreement with his own assessment. "So good for me, baby girl."
You hum. The faintest cant of your hips rock your center flush against the steely bulge at his crotch. Your dewy petals warm and wet, the sensation of his fly brushing your over-sensitivity nearly has you weeping around his thumb. A sight so pretty, an offering so irresistible, he can't help but purr in approval. He loosens his thumb from your pout with a pop, dropping that hand down to work his belt buckle free.
In a blink, your vacant glassiness snaps glittering and enrapt to his fingers. Thick-knuckled and long. His belt clinks, his zipper rips, and he rasps.
"Could you help me, sweetheart? Could you take me out?"
Your fingers replace his at the flaps of his jeans before the words leave his lips.
Another smug looks forms around his next drag, studying your face curiously while he brushes some of your hair off your forehead.
He's hung like the rest of his frame would promise. Heavy and oppressive. Carved from years of manual labor. A man who excels with any work involving his hands. Your brows knit together at the unapologetic width of him. The veins marbling the hard shaft. The bloated head that rests atop, blushed and leaking. You eye him down the bridge of your nose with trepidation plain in your wrinkled forehead. How do you ever manage to take him?
"No need to be shy," he almost giggles, breathless just at the first contact of your finger-tips to the bare skin of him, "I won't let him bite you."
Any protestation, unconvincing as it would be, dies an abrupt death against his deaf ear. His arms wrap around you in another vice grip, pulling you into him without preamble. Too impatient for further coddling, as if you could ever call his moments of softness such. Built like he could split logs in two with nothing but his bare hands and sheer will, he hoists you up like it's nothing at all, positioning you over the blunt head of his cock. Poised at your center to rip you down the middle with just as much ceremony.
Panties still nudged to the side, you grip his shoulders in a flare of panic. His name on the tip of your tongue, it topples backward down your throat and chokes you agreeable, as he forces you down over the width of his head. You're warmed up and then some, though his girth is still what it is. His intrusion has you keen with such abandon he actually shushes you. Petting your hair as his crinkled gaze ebbs ever closer to ferality.
"Hey, hey - you're doing good, easy now." Huffed with the exertion of squeezing into a tight fit. "Atta girl, that's it."
Working you down over every rigid inch, an inhuman sound erupts wet and stifled as he sheaths himself inside you. It's not quick, but it's not kind. A prolonged stretch, a pinch that sears through you, white hot and scorching. Speckled vision and a head that swims despite the anchor of his hold. The ache within you that craves the fullness of him flutters and pulses frantic.
"Every time." He grits out, stalled within the abused convulsions of your plush heat. The words snag, ripping through him in a snarl. "That little pussy takes me so well."
You snivel against that fullness, that pressure, but will yourself to move through it. Pushing and pulling at his shirt, backside screaming from the lattice of welts raised on the skin. A mighty need hampered by weakened flesh, your best isn't good enough. He tuts.
"C'mon champ, show me what you got." He's all heat now, rippling and curling off his torso like a stretch of desert horizon. He kicks his thighs further apart to support you astride his lap. "Ride me, nice and slow."
Every raise up his girth and subsequent fall yanks more and more growls from him. Encouragement breathed hoarse with his next healthy drag, his cigarette slotted within a jagged smile. He doesn't guide you beyond that. He simply watches. An obsessive focus in the pale blue as he cups your hip with one hand, massaging light circles into the tight muscle at the crease where it meets the top of your thigh. Smoke curls out from under his canines, wafting up to your nose as your thighs flex, up and down and back again. A thought occurs to you, how funny it is, that Albert doesn't smell like his habit, but rather his habit somehow smells like him.
Before long the discomfort breaks to a delicious twinge, dulled and throbbing. It burns you from the inside, flushing down your inner thighs and curling your toes. Swelling behind your eyes while they twitch, fighting to squeeze shut against the tremors as they build. You spear yourself on him with urgency, racing towards a climax you can feel tickling you at the fringes. Teasing. So close.
Something caves, a subtle shift that starts at his eyes. His ringed hand abandons your waist and dips in towards the crux of your thighs. He rolls the erect nub of your clit beneath the rough pad of his thumb. A single sweep that jolts you rigid before you crumble inward, rocking against his belly.
"There she is." He catches you with a throaty chuckle. "You'll come for me, won't you, baby?" Your walls clench hard and fast around him, and he jerks his hips up off the chair and into you in response. Your yelp pulls a smile from him that bares teeth.
The slap of wet flesh echos his grunts as you bounce on him in the cramped kitchen. Your body weeps. The chair creaks in protest of your combined weight. The cant of your hips falter in their rhythm, as your core begins to spasm with insistence. Every descent seems to take him deeper, and then deeper still. Feeling stuffed in your own body as his head knocks at your cervix like he's trying to punch straight through.
His arms snake around your waist, reducing your role in this as no more than a tool, a toy for his use, as opposed to willing participant. The reigns shift to his hand, and he begins to rut into you in earnest. That loss of autonomy has you quivering in his arms. "Oh you sweet girl." Ruthless strokes that rattle you senseless, incoherent. Babbling and holding tight to his shoulders, every thrust like he's trying to buck you off. "Come on baby, come for me."
Switching up his hold so as to trap your clit with his thumb, he pinches it once, tweaking and pressing tight, concentric circles as your joints lock. One more pass with an even quicker pace sees you shattered and convulsing. A wildfire that devastates, it burns through you with such intensity it takes your breath away while you knuckle under and succumb.
"Yesss sweetheart, there you go, you got it." Groans are punched out of him with every tight flutter to twitch around his cock. His praises sounding more and more strained as he rides you through it. Sucked in around the cigarette dangling from his lips, and growled back out. "That's a good girl, that's it honey."
Collapsed against him, boneless and without control, you wind your arms around his neck. Hanging on until he's done.
His belt jingling, his grunts strangled and raw. Albert curls over you, huffing like a sick dog through his clenched jaw. His age threatens to betray him like the wailing chair threatens to splinter out from under you.
"Jesus- fuck I'm gonna come." Half groaned half chuckled, blunt finger nails biting crescents into your hips, clutching to you with almost as much desperation as you do him. "Tell me who you belong to." He just barely manages, his pace falling erratic and harsh. Brutal thrusts that ram through you as you involuntarily milk him closer to release.
Your eyes are rolled white and veined. You fight to choke out; "Y-you-,”
"Again."
You moan so loudly your voice cracks. "You-you. You, Albert, you!"
Two more sloppy thrusts bruise between your legs, his arms wound around you so tightly each breathe you fight to take feels like it’ll be the one that snaps you in two. He spills inside of you with a howl, a hot injection that feels endless as he envelopes you and stills.
The kitchen reeks of sweat and sex. Neither of you utter a word, suspended in the hazy quiet of the after. The hum of the fridge. The muted bark from a dog down the street.
He holds onto you for a long while. Cigarette burned down to a stub, dropped to the ground at his feet where it smolders forgotten.
When finally he rights himself enough to slouch backward, he runs a hand over his face and through the disarray of his hair. He glances to where you're joined before he looks at your face, head cocked and humming.
"Oh, just look at you." He breathes, swelled with a certain brand of adoration as he studies the glisten of his seed drooling back out of you. Pearlescent in the sparse light, viscous and obscene as it pools at his base. "This." He asserts, clarifying; "this is how you're meant to look, little one."
Wilted and sweat-slicked, you fold yourself into his torso, and nuzzle within the ends of his silver streaked mane.
Albert continues to hold you, his weight caving in in the suggestion he's worn from the hunt. Tired. Sated.
"You would never try to leave me, not really." He mumbles. An underlying petulance of one assuring themselves of an ugly truth, or wishful thought.
You don't answer, yet he continues.
"Because you're my girl." Head lolling to lean against your temple, he sags there, and breathes you in deep. A sugary sweet bowing to his musk. Softened cock still buried inside you along with the mess he made there. He's rubbed raw and bogged by lethargy all at once. "My good girl."
You glimpse his mask discarded to the ground, behind the back chair legs.
Not dropped, or thrown, but set down with care. Face side up, grinning something victorious your way from down on the dull, scratched linoleum.
You peer through the empty eye holes. Still, and unassuming as it lays there. You think it looks asleep. The horned beast settled, quiet once more. Curled back up in hibernation. Until the itch surfaces. The insatiable need grouses it from a much needed slumber.
And it will.
It always does.
Like the arrival of the full moon every month. The scent of pungent earth right before a heavy rain strips it clean. Thunders chase of lightning. The warmth of sunrise, and the hazy surrealism of sunset.
The flutter in your depths at just the mere scent of him.
A shadow that sprouts horns.
Inevitability.
The sky always darkens, and casts the sun away.
The streetlights dotting throughout the bleakness, half dead. Faint and flickering.
PSA: I'm very aware this character is controversial but I'm here for a bloody, masked Hawke. My version of Albert has not/will not ever sa minors. Idc what Derrickson or Hill have claimed about theirs, this one is mine. That being said, he is still very much a sadistic predator. Please heed the tags and stay safe. 🎩🪄
(AO3)
You always look forward to winter camp.
Over the last couple years a few of the other counselors have come to be your closest friends. You all vary in age and hail from different parts of the country but every season the crisp, clean air of the Rocky Mountains draws you all back together. You don't really buy into all the preaching. There was enough of that when you were younger; so much so that the generalized guilt and shame still festers every once and a while like a wound stitched wrong… but the pay is decent. It is something you’ve grown to impatiently await along with the lights and whimsy and the ritual of the holidays. An annual break from the madness of balancing college courses, work, mental health; the all consuming grip of an overburdened schedule.
You, Hope, and Naomi are assigned to keep watch of the girls' cabins this winter, as is becoming routine. The camp's strict co-ed rules keep the boys confined at night to their own cluster of cabins to the northeast of the lake. You can just see their scattered specks of warm lights glowing through the frosted window as you help usher your small group of girls to their bunks for the evening.
It's been a busy day of ice fishing, sledding, and bracelet beading. Dinner tonight was a hearty stew and mashed potatoes. They still mix warm in your belly as you change into your loose thermal top and pajama pants to settle in your own bunk in the back corner. Thick covers drape over your waist and you sip at a hot cup of tea with just enough honey stirred in to sit delicately sweet at the back of your tongue. Your book is dog-eared from years of love and tender rereading as you begin another of the many in dull light from the wall heaters. They battle tooth and nail against the chill that tries to slither in through the cracks of the thick cabin walls.
The biting wind cries out in a steady, near constant groan. Heavy clouds have threatened fresh snow all day but now it's beginning to sound like the kind that has you betting you'll be shoveling out the front door come morning.
But for now, none of that can reach you. It acts almost as a lullaby, soothing your nervous system and weighing heavy against your eyelids as if the flurries piled there instead. You fill your lungs with the first full, unhindered breath of air that it feels like you’ve taken in months as you settle down against your pillow. Your muscles ache pleasantly from the exertion of a day well spent. Warmth seeps into your bones; thaws out your fingers and toes. You've always slept better here than you do at home.
Almost like the dead, Hope liked to say.
+++
You are startled awake by what sounds like a particularly angry howl of the wind gnashing its teeth. At first you try to talk yourself down. Try to breathe deep and slow your heart rate. It's just the passing storm echoing off the nearby cradle of the mountains. Nothing unusual.
Then you hear it again. Farther away but just as wrong, another muffled sound of torment too real. Too violent for the soft snow that falls much gentler now beyond the windows. Too human. It raises alarm bells in your mind and you fumble to rise from your cocoon of covers.
It can't have been long since you fell asleep but you're suddenly wide awake. You slide on your slippers and quietly make your way to the window. The moon still hovers near her crest, high above the dark clouds, shining through just enough to cast the endless white beyond in an eerie opaque blue.
You squint your eyes as you lean close to the glass, warm breath fogging up a portion of your view. You swipe it away with the bunched sleeve at your wrist.
The night does its best to conceal them, but you can just barely make their shapes out in the distance. Two shadowed forms move toward the wood line. One tall and broad across the shoulders, masculine in stature and gait; the other shorter, smaller. Little.
For a moment it looks like a picture of innocence. The man's hand rests somewhere behind the child’s head, a guiding hold. Perhaps Father lending some advice to a restless soul. Or a counselor scolding a rowdy camper out of earshot from their peers. A kindness.
But then the little one falls to his hands and knees. The man's hold does not relent. He does not slow or try to assist… If anything, it looks more like he's being scruffed… Dragged harshly across the ice until after a few dizzying seconds they are entirely out of view…
Something isn't right and the awareness is so sudden and sickening that it feels like the frigid water of the lake is trickling down over your every nerve. Like it's trying to rise and nip at the rear of your throat and suddenly you’re drowning in understanding.
You are witnessing something you are not supposed to see. There is no doubt in your mind. Your heart races in your chest.
You bolt.
The front door hinders you for only a handful of seconds as you kick away inches of fresh snow and close the latch securely behind your exit. The other counselors are asleep in their respective cabins and a logical part of you knows that the smart thing to do would be to get their attention. To let someone else know what you saw. But that had to be a child falling to their knees in the snow. Ripped from his bed and your view by a much larger being. And instinct tells you that there is no time to gamble on whether your perception is correct. That the longer you take to get to that wood line, the worse an outcome you may find.
You've done your research in your own spare time. It is an unfortunate truth that the Rockies have seen their fair share of violence and loss since long before your arrival. Vanished hikers. Murdered women. Dozens of bodies left to their slow decay in tombs of impenetrable ice. As ideal a place for destruction as any.
A yelp cuts from the trees.
Your slippers crunch through the loose powder as your decision is made for you. The terrain is uneven and slippery. Every forceful exhale sends a cloud of vapor spiraling up from between your lips as you drive your legs forward as hard as possible.
You pass the camp phone. The only one on the premises. It stands alone in the open valley, throwing a long shadow across the ice before you like a finishing line. There's been no reason for you to ever pay it attention before, but you swear you hear the echoes of a ringing in your ears as you leave it far behind, distorted like a distant memory. A violent ripple across water you already rest deep beneath. It only adds to the alarm pinging red behind your eyes.
Snowflakes stick in the wild of your hair as you run, loose strands breaking free of your ponytail to whip sharp little stings against your windburnt cheeks and neck. Your breath comes heavy as you near the spot you last saw the pair of shadows in the snow.
You freeze in horror.
Footprints. Too many of them for this path to have been taken only once tonight by two people. Some shallower than the fresher pair. Older. A small, yellow boy’s coat is torn at the seams and strewn across the ground. Fresh blood stains the neck and upper sleeves, trailing in small crimson dots here and there amongst the tracks ahead like a faithful companion.
Your stomach turns. You’ve told yourself for years that you would know exactly how to handle a situation like this should you ever find yourself in one. The hours of safety courses have been taken, the movies have been watched and digested, and you are not some easily frightened thing; but right now you can only think of grabbing the largest tree limb you can find amongst the edge of the forest. You press on deeper into the mountain's hold to find out exactly what the hell is going on.
It is your first mistake.
The cold is all but forgotten as the pools of blood across the snow grow larger and more viscous every dozen yards or so, not even yet having the time to settle down beneath to soil. Your own footsteps sound too loud in your ears as you slow to a halt, holding on to your trusted branch as one would a bat ready to swing.
For a moment, the small clearing before you holds nothing. Just the spreading puddles of cruelty and the faint reflection of starshine glimmering down over ice.
Then you hear footsteps, heavy as they compact the yielding ground beneath. Purposeful in their measured intent.
A man slowly separates from the blackness beyond. It clutches to him like ink to cotton, a stain on the horizon like the scarlet across snow.
No, not a man. A demon, you realize, as he moves nearer and you spread your stance to hold your ground. He is dressed in simple clothing from what you can tell. Dark pants and a dark blue sweater. It clings to his broad shoulders and the generous swell of his arms. He holds an axe stained with blood lax in his hand by his side. All combined, it is nothing compared to the mask. A face from hell tilts slow at you, two horns protruding high on either side of his crown. A wicked, toothy grin mocking bright though the darkness. Brighter still are his eyes, a glimmering curiosity in them as they meet yours and sweep slowly, slowly down; then just as languidly back up again.
It chills you to the bone.
Instinct asks you to cross your arms. To hide as much of yourself as you can from whoever this is. Or to turn and sprint back the way you came. But you heard that yelp. You can’t. So you only grip your weapon tighter, soggy tree bark melting damp against your heated palms.
“What the fuck were you doing to that little boy?” you ask, voice strained by icy abhorrence. It hisses a touch sharper when he doesn’t answer. You raise your filled hands an inch in warning. “Who are you?”
To your surprise and deep seated unsettlement, he giggles, a nasty little tease at the back of his throat as he takes a step closer and you find yourself matching him with a short step back.
“Such language in the land of God,” he tuts, and mentally you are already trying to match up his voice and stature with anyone you know. Anyone from back at camp. But none of them sound like that and you’re not sure whether to be the slightest bit relieved or fully panicked. “What little boy?” He spreads his free arm out at rib height in a slow, showy sweep. “You must be more specific. I only see you.”
His full attention feels like a vice, stopping your breath and adjusting your grip. There is a focused sort of energy to the way his eyes flick to each of the small motions as if categorizing them. He continues his study with another step forward. His hand slips lower down the wooden throat of the axe.
“One more step and I will knock that ugly mask right off your face,” you threaten, eyes wide and heart pounding. Without fully meaning to, you glance down at the drying specks of blood on his boots and fear gives birth to sparked embers of anger. “You know ‘what boy’. The one you dragged here from the cabins. What did you do to him?”
It successfully stills him but he is already too near. Close enough that you could reach out and poke him with your stick if you wanted to, but you know a beast when you see one and he makes no effort to hide. Instead, he meets your eyes once more, glaring proof he’s just as keen.
“That wasn't me.”
You do your own quick searching sweep of the empty void around you. Without any signals from his true expression you can't tell if he's toying with you or just thinks you're really that dumb.
“There is, quite literally, blood on your hands.”
Steam bellows thick rising up from between the mask’s toothy sneer. His suffering sigh is drawn and weary. It slightly deflates his imposing figure, but only just. The axe falls straight down from his hold to sink deep in the slush.
“I save them. Like you,” he nods in accusation. “Show them a kindness beyond the wickedness they've been born to endure, you know? Spare the rod and all that.” He chuckles short again like he expects you to join in his indulgence. To relate somehow. You're left feeling ill. “As a Bible camp counselor I believe you understand what I mean. But you’ve ruined it for all of us tonight, I’m afraid... How naughty.” The final claim rumbles like a purr from his lips. “What to do then, hmm - what to do?” he ponders aloud, complete with curled knuckles rising to his faux chin. His jewelry stands out with the motion, strips of silver against thick, pale fingers and sinewy wrist, all dripping of the gore and damning evidence of his own sins. As bleak and desolate a sight as the otherwise empty woods around you.
“Does that scare you?” he asks, studying your face in the silence, noticing your desperate search for anything beyond him. A savior to step in and help you at your time of need. That vile mask tilts slow to the left once more, reinvigorated. “The unknown?” he tries again, and you swallow thickly at rising bile. He hums to himself as if agreeing to an unspoken answer. “That's why you're here, isn't it?”
You're growing tired already of the diversions. The disturbing riddles. The adrenaline in your muscles urges you to move but your survival instincts beg you not to. Something else whispers louder that you're running out of time...
“I'm here,” you start low, visceral with your intent. “for the kids, you freak,” the curse slides heavy from your teeth. “Where is he?” you repeat a final time.
The demon’s eyes grow hard as he gradually straightens. Liquid glistens at his waterlines but the rage just above them burns it away as steadily as it comes; steam hissing wild from black pits of charred coal.
“The sins of the father are to be laid upon the child. What a complex,” he lilts and his voice does not match his eyes. Almost admonishing in its forced restraint. “But you are no child, are you dear? A daring rescuer, indeed.”
The quiet lingers for a moment too long and you strain to hear over the drum of your heartbeat pounding in your ears; over the undercurrent of his claims. You are hoping to hear a cry. A small weep for help. Something to tell you that you're not being devoured by the eyes of a madman in vain. A sheep led to slaughter for naught. Instead you hear nothing. None of the local night birds. None of the nocturnals. No wolves or coyote howling out their plight to the moon as if some larger predator has marked his claim. Even the wind has turn tailed and hushed.
Your hope drains steadily away from beneath your ribs. Judging by the amount of blood, general weirdness, and lack of remorse, you are standing before a true psychopath. You have seen nothing really, but you’ve seen enough. Enough to describe him to the local authorities. Heard enough to remember that slithering voice until the end of your days.
So you change tactics.
“Something tells me I'm too late anyway,” you murmur, elbows resting looser against your chest in feigned relent. Your heart is in your throat as you strain to talk around it. “I haven’t witnessed anything. I don't know who you are. Just let me go back to camp. There's still a few hours before sunrise-”
“Six,” he hisses out, cutting in. His hands fist white knuckled and relax at his sides.
“-a decent head start before anyone's the wiser.”
“I think I'm going to ruin you instead,” he says, casual, as if merely noting the swirling flurries that fall to cling in his wind blown mane; the curved slopes of his shoulders. Your blood drains hot into your stomach at the threat. His blink is slow, a predator well fed, as if the idea alone sates him. “Yeah,” he decides, “like you've ruined my evening.”
He is on you before he's even finished speaking. You get one good swing in, catching him high against his left temple. It snaps your branch in half like a twig and you drop what remains from your hands to put full force into fighting him off. He throws you brutally to the ground, his overbearing strength almost inhuman in the wake of deceptively long limbs and lean muscle.
You claw at his arms and the back of his hands as they grab hard and lock down.
The snow scatters in all directions when he traps one of your legs in between his own and flips you with a maneuver too fast, too nimble to not be adequately practiced. You find yourself pinned with your spine flush against his chest. Your head falls victim to the vice of his arm. He locks his forearm across your throat so tight your yelp is cut short, oxygen robbed, voice stolen. You tug and thrash and kick but his hold is absolute, like fighting your way from the clutch of solid iron. You tilt your chin up as you tug uselessly at his arm, trying anything to regain airflow as the edges of your vision flicker and begin to fade.
Teeth are all you can see in your peripheral as he dips his chin. The edge of the mask drags slow against the column of your neck as he presses the nose of it deeper into your hair. His breath is fast and feral behind you, each of his strenuous inhales pushing you farther away from your own.
This is it. Your mind unhelpfully supplies as the pressure in your skull builds. Your fingertips are beginning to lose their force where they clutch tight at his sleeve. You can feel your own heart struggling to pump oxygen past his blockage to your brain. Your jugular beats out its frantic rhythm against his chin…
You think of the home you once knew. All the pain and joy you've found in the spaces between as you've built your new life from the pieces. Each of the little decisions that’ve led you down the broken path to where you now lay…
The world goes black and blessedly silent for the stretch of a mere second.
“Oh nono, not yet," he whispers right against your ear with a rough shake as you are thrust back into consciousness. His arm lays slack across your throat. He pushes himself up on an elbow to watch down enamored as you gasp for sacred air. “You will first fear the terror of night for your sins.”
Your next jagged inhale tastes of bittersweet pine as a sprayed substance burns in your mouth and down your throat. The hazy stars begin to spin above again in dizzying whorls. Your last thought is that a pair of them are a chilling, barren blue.
+++
Opening your eyes feels like the hardest task you've ever had to accomplish. Your first sight as you blink them open is your wrists tied above you, knotted together tight and strung up to a high-hanging tree limb overhead. Your head feels too heavy where it hangs back against your neck. You balance only on the balls of your socked feet, your slippers lost somewhere along the way. At first you can't remember why you're outside. It is still dark. Well below freezing. Why aren't you tucked tightly into your bunk back in the warmth of the cabin?
Your whole body feels like you swim beneath the daunting pressure of a heavy sea. The tips of your toes and fingers are numb. The very first lessons you are taught in counselor training up here is CPR and the effects of hypothermia and how to prevent it. They flit through your mind as you wrestle up the strength to lift your head, to assess your surroundings.
That's when you spot him again and remember.
The devil is all your mind can produce at the scene he paints before you.
A small fire burns on the ground near his feet, kindled neatly with intent, just far enough away so that not a single tendril of its warmth can reach you. The flames lick wicked shadows across his mask. There is no longer a mouth where the taunting smile once spread. There is simply nothing and it is worse.
He sits upon a fallen fir, axe blade buried in the trunk at his side, legs spread wide where he leans forward to prod at the tinder along the fire’s edge. He is using your previous attempt of escape to do so, you realize like a physical blow, the tip of the splintered stick shifting what looks like fabric farther into the hungry flame; red and blue scraps of denim consumed and contorted into an angry, crackling orange.
“You were beautiful like that.” Fire fills the black eyed hollows as they slant in your direction. “In your sleep.”
You scream. True panic.
Every thrash against your restraint slips it tauter around your wrists. You grab the anchored rope between frozen fingers in an attempt to pull the whole limb down from above but all it does is lift your feet a bit further up from the ground; your balance already a precarious thing without any real protection from the elements.
“Scream all you want, no one will answer,” his dulcet voice is distorted even more by the solid mouthpiece. His words strike the same. “No one ever answers.”
“What do you want?” you cry, still thrashing. Still fighting. Death was one thing but he had been right. The alternate unknown laid out before you now was far more terrifying.
He snaps the wood, drops it into the fire and stands. It stops you mid flail. Bloodied fingers reach down for the belt that circles his waist. The large buckle clinks and jingles as he draws it unhurried from its confines.
Tears fall silent from your eyes, unbidden.
You press your thighs closed tight instinctively.
He notices.
“You keep asking the wrong questions,” it comes from him scolding like the threadbare corrections of a tutor. “It’s not what I want, it's what I have to do.” He lets his sweater inch its descent from his shoulders, fingers sliding reverently down to unfasten each of the buttons as if the Hail Marys behind them are stuck on his tongue. “You will understand soon enough.”
The uncovered bulk of him suits the coarsened woods he’d appeared from, built like the antithesis of cold and comfort. It makes your drug-addled mind wonder oddly if it's where he's originated from all along, a pied piper born and bred of the harsh elements; of jagged rock walls and remorseless icy infernos.
It would at very least explain his eyes and the way they look at you now.
Though he lets his sweater fall discarded to the ground, he keeps the belt in hand. Folds it over so that both buckle and tip are clutched tight in a straining fist.
“Let us do the math,” he closes in, nearer and nearer until you have to raise your chin to keep him in your line of sight. The proximity allows you to see your damage. The way his temple has bled down across the shell of his ear and the leftmost half of his mask. It drips in long trails from a single eyehole like unhallowed tears, cut off abruptly where the bottom has been replaced. You can’t help but imagine a great maw of gnashed teeth stained scarlet in the wake of your effort. “Three lives cut short by your intrusion. Six hours stolen…” he leans in so close you can feel the fire’s warmth radiating from his skin. His growled words raise your shoulders and wince your eyes. “And one failed attempt to flee.” You fight back a flinch as he raises his belted hand to gesture at your wound inflicted as if it does not sit stark before you. The small bit of pride is swallowed quick by the regret of not hitting him harder.
“Three lives?” You ask after that which clutches your attention most through the tears on your own cheeks and chattering teeth. You’d only seen one boy. One little coat in the snow… But the overlapping footprints… “You’re an animal-”
A puff of steam bursts from the nose of the mask; mocking.
“Yet here you hang like a fallen lamb just begging to be dressed.” He moves again, a pair of tight circles around you that needle at the back of your neck every time he drifts out of view. A fingertip traces light across the exposed strip of skin between your top and pants and it feels as if a fire poker brands your spine. “What’s your name?”
“Fuck you,” you hiss, squirming as far forward and away from his touch as you can. The result is you sliding backward through the snow as the rope over corrects and the entire rear of your body presses flush against solid warmth. A gasp passes your lips unbidden. “Don’t touch me.”
“That’s fine,” you can feel the shift of his chin against the crown of your head. The contraction of muscle against your upper back. “I always find out later anyway. But right now you’re freezing.” He takes a step away and the primordial part of your brain, born of the sheer need for survival, almost cries out at the sudden loss of heat. “Let’s fix that.”
The first crack of the doubled over belt between your shoulder blades feels as if flesh is torn from bone. Your racing thoughts fall silent. The chill is forgotten. The world stills on its axis. All you can sense is a molten lick of flame.
The taste of iron coats your tongue as you bite down on it hard enough to hold off the wail you know he’s after, a sadist in his truest element. You try your best to internally search for a reason to through the pain. To be an awfully worthy distraction for a murderer of innocents, lest he grow bored and move on.
The next four send your burning vision white; crisscrossing patterns along your spine as if some great treasure rests buried beneath and he desperately tries to unearth it. You lock your jaw and hiss your pain to the heavens above, no longer with any real hope for an answer. Moisture begins to soak, butter hot then ice cold, into the rear fabric of your night shirt.
A sixth hit lands lower, just above the backs of your knees. You feel them try to buckle in response, but there is nowhere to go. No lower level left for you to fall to. And you are, in fact, not some felled animal, strapped up for sacrifice. You kick back hard blindly in response, your socked foot missing its target and colliding instead with the trunk of the massive tree that traps you. If any damage is done, you cannot feel it.
It brings the devil round to face you again, horns pointed sharp and eyes wild, and you let every ounce of the anger and hatred you feel in that moment flash hotly in your own. A low hum comes from him in response, deep from within his chest. “Don’t worry,” he soothes, brushing sweat-dampened tangles of hair away from your forehead in an act almost gentle. It aches and degrades like the lashing. “We’re almost done.”
Seven and eight connect with bruising force across the meat at the front of your thighs. Almost identical in their placement. You swallow a sob and widen your legs to avoid as much repeat contact as possible, should he continue to hone his aim.
He catches you off guard with the ninth, the curved tip of the belt whipping out viper-quick against your pubic bone and this time you do yelp, writhing away from an entirely new variety of live wire pain that pools hot blood in the empty pit of your core. It twists in your stomach and burns up your neck and for a moment, you think you’re going to be sick.
“How many was that?” His mask stills above you in the fading firelight as he looms near again, silently awaiting your answer. A stretch of pale muscle and collar bones are all your blurry eyes can see.
“Nine.” It’s barely carried past your lips over the bite of the winds. You try to draw air into your constricting lungs. You’ve never known anything to be more true.
“That’s right,” he praises, voice the grate of flint, as he takes the final step that puts you chest to chest. The warmth of him floods your strung out senses once more; intensified through your suffering. Sulfur and iron. Menthol and pine sap. “And for the grand finale-” his tenth strike lands around and behind you again with every bit of evil possessed across the swell of your ass.
It lurches your forward, farther into him and what’s left of your strength fails you. The forest tilts. Your air is stolen. Welts swell and scream all over your body but that last one has your vision fading out again, ears ringing, grip on reality gradually slipping from your hold as you let your forehead fall forward in lament. It just so happens to catch against the dip of his shoulder.
“If you’re going to kill me-” you murmur, tears and spittle smearing against searing skin as you try to make your mouth form the words. “-please just do it. I can’t take anymore…”
He has not moved since you’ve fallen, stone still as if formed under the same pressure that forced the mountains toward the sky. Your plea tenses the cords of his neck. He stretches it side to side and you slide your eyelids closed in wait for what’s to come. For the unknown.
You have tried not to think much on your own death. There were life’s usual anxieties of course; sickness or accidents, easy slip ups that could remind those closest to you of how fragile life truly could be. Or there were the many, many times you could recall spouting the phrase ‘kill me’ over any and every incredibly trivial thing, in hindsight, to lighten the load or make your friends smile.
Now though you imagine a belt held tight around your throat. An ice cold axe struggling past ribs to reach the softer vitality beneath. Or, the most appealing, to be left hanging here in the frost until your blood slowly stops and your brain shuts down to the point that nothing can hurt you anymore. The thought sweeps a peace unfamiliar and all consuming over you and you only melt all the more.
The sobs you’ve tried so hard to hold inside roll free from your chest.
“That’s it,” he murmurs close to your cheek, reverent in its distortion. “Just let go.”
You feel the pressure lift from your straining wrists and feet as he places his hands behind either of your thighs to wrap them high around his waist. He clutches you against him, one arm bracketing across the small of your back. You feel a soft tug as he pulls your scrunchie free, then unclean fingers are petting down the length of your hair. “Your reactions were delicious, little lamb,” he basks in awe, woodland roughened hands moving, wandering to rub friction along the lengths of your outer thighs and up and down your arms as if trying to urge the warmth back in. “I could just eat you up. I knew you would be good. So good.”
His praise is whip lash and reaches something deep in the pit of you that you've spent your entire life trying to conceal. They are the words you’ve longed to hear from those you hold close for what’s felt like lifetimes; parents, therapists, friends, pastors, mentors, - anyone you look up to like a flower to sun. The urge to please and placate and impress always lingering effervescent in your mind.
To hear it purred in the timbered voice of a beast beyond saving lets you know, without a doubt, you yourself follow close behind. His abuse is tolerable but his kindness tastes like arsenic, a slow dripping poison through your veins to your core. Your body reacts free of your rationale. The sickening heat in your belly ignites deeper into something sacrilegious at the crux of your thighs where they shift uncomfortably against his hips. You have been warned about the devil's coaxing tongue long before you knew what to listen for, yet your pain drunk mind and coldburned body pay the enlivened warning bells in your ears no heed. He is simply so very warm.
Again, always, he notices; attuned with your every reaction like a predator determining the precise time to lunge. “Would you like that?” it comes dry, disbelieving from parched lips. Calloused fingertips press firm, aching lines across his work on either side of your spine. Enough to arch you forward still. “For me to kiss it better?” he adjusts you around him like your mass is unsubstantial, nothing in the cage of his arms. “It's… odd,” he admits; a wrung out confession through a thinning veil. “I'm tempted.”
You find you cannot answer such a question, sharp hooks like shame piercing each of your vocal chords and leaving his lewd offer hanging suspended in your mind, just beyond comprehension. You shouldn’t want this. Your body shouldn't react like this. He hasn’t moved as if your consent matters, either way. But how he touches you is already growing possessive, blunt nails digging against your ribs harder, deeper the longer you linger as if he means to pry apart and burrow beneath in wait. Survival kicks back in. The internalized drive to sate, please, placate, so that maybe, maybe the beast will quiet just so and you can walk out of this bested but alive.
It's the only grace you'll give yourself.
Beneath that hellish mask there lies a man, as you are increasingly aware. Well spread and shapen between your legs; tired around the eyes. Its own fitting disguise for the ferocity he casts out like a suffocating black smoke about the shared air between you.
All there is left to do is navigate it.
You raise your head high on your own shoulders again and nod; a shallow, dizzying descent to a whole new level of hell.
Your submission breaks something loose in the glaciers of his eyes.
He rips the bottom half of his mask from his face at the same time he falls to his knees in the snow at your feet. There is no real time to take in the shape of his true mouth or sharp edges of his maw before your sleep pants and panties are hastily tugged down your thighs by savage hands. The brusque chill on your most private parts makes you squirm. Your waistband stings as it's dragged over the swelling welts on your legs. He ducks beneath them, hoisting your knees over his shoulders, your own clothing trapping and binding your ankles across the small of his back…
That’s when you see them.
Old scars streak the wings of his shoulders down all the way to the dimples above his pants, like the struck through lines of a book. In the space of a blink you can read them the same as your own. Pain, torture, abuse. Small circular burns. Odd oval shapes the size of your fist stamped in sporadic blotches here and there across the maze of violence on his skin. A belt buckle, you recognize immediately because its the same shape as the one that rests disregarded in the snow by your feet. Power over the powerless. The truth, it finally seems. The answer to each and every one of the questions he's ignored. It always stems from childhood, this you know as fact. A monster formed by misplaced anger and a heavy hand… bound to repeat.
Of course it consumes and destroys those that dare to interfere. Of course it does.
“Look up,” he orders, more eldritch than man, laser focused in contrast to your distraction. “Don’t fucking look at me or I’ll gut you bottom to top.”
You obey without question, still expecting a blade.
“Jesus,” he whispers instead like a prayer, breath puffing hot against your naked thighs and swollen lips. “You’re already dripping.” Your back is shoved hard against tree bark, caged by the flat press of his crossed hands low on your belly. Your bound wrists are tugged almost painfully before your eyes by the hanging rope overhead. “Is that all for me?”
The first touch of his mouth against where hip meets leg is blinding. Wet tongue and crooked teeth. Not so much a lover's caress as a claiming drag of lips across tender skin. He aims to breathe you in until there's nothing left, you realize; to devour you as promised.
Down, down he trails, proving pious as lips turn quick to teeth; rounded, human, but savagely pointed as he marks the meaty insides of your thighs to his satisfaction. A drawn out torment that has you gaping wide eyed at bright flashes of red amongst the scattered starlight long before he's finished.
His own blood smears rusted up your left leg where his mask drags light behind. He stills at the apex of your thighs. Your heart drums rabbit fast in wait. You feel his shoulders dip forward as his own restraint fails him; a wolf drooling and lapping before a feast.
Worship is what it is, the way his tongue tastes your core, dipping in and sliding up over and over and over again to that spot that makes you moan aloud. It echoes through the valley and spurs him on, his weight pressing heavy against you as you're roughly shoved a few inches higher, bark scratching over the weeping skin at your back. Your thighs try to snap closed beyond your control at the steady overstimulation, your muscles squeezing over either of his ears and the sharp edges of his facade.
The sound he makes reverberates off the deepest parts of you, an unearthly growl deep from his throat paired with a cruel shift of his hands to part and hold you wide once more.
The coil low in your gut begins to tighten. A renewed sense of shame dampens your eyes at the pleasure it blooms behind your navel and burning down your legs. Too much, too much, too much, your mind screams frantically as your nerve endings splay open into live points of electricity where his mouth refuses to relent. You try to recoil away with nowhere to go. Trapped between cold earth and a raging inferno.
Another throaty whine leaves your lips when you feel a thick finger test your entrance. The single digit presses shallowly inside. You don't mean to look. You don't want to see. But the sight beneath you should render you smote where you sit. It sends another wave of heat blooming out in scarlet petals from your prayer-bound hands to the very tips of your curled toes.
He wears you like the heel of his mask, face upturned, eyes draped closed, nose buried deep in your offering. The rigid crown and filed horns of the devil seem to protrude from your own abdomen, hazy and horrifying through the misty fog of pleasure. Unrelenting and unrepentant as your legs begin to shake.
“Oh God, please-” you beg, though you no longer know what for. “Please, please...”
The wet sound your body makes is disgraceful as he pulls out and away with a squelch, saccharine leather forehead coming to rest against your hipbone. He draws a handful of ragged breaths into his lungs. The movement quakes you both. “The fruit of lips that acknowledge his name,” he pants; chuckling dark like an exhaled afterthought. “How sweet it is.”
Time suspends as he lingers, sinking down on his haunches. For a while you are left to catch your own breath and hope that his prophecy has been fulfilled; that the beast has been quenched before you could reach such similar depths. You are starting to feel like the axe would be kinder.
But with a tip of his head he catches you staring down. Your eyes meet and he holds them. Your heart leaps high in your throat. Malice edges the blue of his irises, nearly swallowed whole by a pair of blown out pupils. His lips and chin are damp with the same trophy of lust that grows uncomfortably cool across your gnarled thighs. The dying campfire halos his knelt figure in a warm, orange glow. There’s an etherealness to the figure he cuts below you that leads, not unlike a sermon, to the understanding of why Eve would try the apple; why Persephone would leave her flowers…
He ducks and rises and is at your throat before you can flinch. A hand fists in the thick mess of hair at the base of your skull. Your head is wrenched back with such a force that your teeth clack together before locking closed. Another quick movement before you and the tip of a skinning knife digs against the thin skin just over your jugular, enough to split and bite. It glints at you mockingly from the corner of your eye as he towers high once more.
“You broke the rules again,” he admonishes with an almost playful tap of the metal, then he shifts so that the entirety of its sharpened edge grazes up beneath your chin; a forced pawn in a twisted game of his own making. “But I’ve had a change of heart.” He leans in close and you can smell your sex on the curve of his dampened scowl. The blade drags slow up the side of your chin, along your cheek, around your eye… “Don't take it for granted or I'll skin you where you stand.”
If a heart does beat within his ribs, it's black and full of ichor.
He cuts through the rope around your wrists with a contrite little pattern, replacing its hold with his own as he guides your arms down to rest in a single of his hands. His thumb absently strokes at the rope raw skin. Pins and needles are immediate, inching down your tired biceps and forearms as blood rushes back to neglected muscle. At your gifted freedom, instinct begs you again to pull full-bodily away. To hike up what's left of your dignity from the ground and run as far and fast as you can. But you dare not move an inch without his good will, well trained already by his unpredictable mirth.
His eyes take full stock of you; the fear on your expression that holds you still, the way you so obediently look down in wait.
When he finally moves it feels as if he's read your mind. He bends at the waist to guide your pants back up unsteady legs, brushes your hair back soft from your shoulder. His hand comes to rest in a possessive curve around the rear of your neck. “I want you to run.” Another damning tilt of that mask. His face is only half covered and yet his sneer completes the puzzle, thin lips and set jaw. “Camp is, oh- about four miles that way,” a horn tips south, “and I urge you to try as hard as you can to reach it,” he points his knife-filled hand forward in your face, so close it cranes your neck away and crosses your eyes, “because when I catch you, I think I'm going to find out just how sweet you can be.” The tip boops needle-sharp against your nose. The world quakes beneath your feet. “I think you’d like that, too.”
His threat should leave you feeling repulsed, but your body is so wound up and confused by the onslaught of pain and panic and arousal that you can’t feel much of anything beyond it; the weight of his dominance and sheer imposition.
The truth is, you don't know. You don’t know what you’d like anymore. You don’t know why you left the protection of your bunk this evening. Why you’d driven hundreds of miles to the vast seclusion of the mountains when there were plenty of normal jobs in your town. Why you thought you would trail a madman deep into their shadows and leave alive…
“Say you understand,” he rattles your head with his grip in your hair when your silence stretches too long. “I want to hear it.”
“I understand.” It comes fast and compulsory from your lips.
“Good.”
He releases you and you're frozen for only a second longer, unsure, unhinged, before you're sprinting, trying to regain your balance simultaneously as you propel yourself away from the trunk of the tree and the devil's wicked games.
“Run little lamb,” he singsongs long behind you with a fluttering little wave of silver draped fingers. “Run.”
+++
++
+
You are freed for as long as he allows it.
Long enough that beads of sweat line your forehead and slide down your temples. Your pace falters. Air burns raw in your throat. The soles of your feet bleed from the rocks and foliage you’ve ignored in your haste. Your heart beats frantically in your chest like the prey you’ve been shaped into; more from anticipation than your actual effort. Your muscles ache, your core pulses with every slide of your legs, you are so so tired and confused.
An axe strikes a tree just ahead in your sightline, thrown with such force from behind you that it shatters the wood where the weapon rests buried. You yelp from shock at the echoing crack and lose your footing, falling forward across the ice.
The next drop of the blade is deep in the ground, inches from your face. You claw at the muddied slush to flip on your back and meet the inevitable. Before you can do so, the entirety of his crushing weight is pinning you flat. There is something unhinged in the way he snarls out air against the back of your neck, hips canting forward against you. The full swell of his arousal is unmistakable where it presses hard against the curve of your ass. You could have tried to hide, tried to find another, better weapon amongst the forest to fend him off; you could try to struggle away again now beneath his unmovable strength, but you don’t. You didn’t. You aren’t sure who you are anymore.
His hands gentle the slightest when he takes notice of your surrender, palms sliding heavy over your curves to your hips; drifting up under your shirt then down beneath your waist band to slide them away a second time, slower; savoring. He reaches beneath you to pull you up, to bend you to his will, hips high in the open air while the side of your face goes numb in the slush. One of his hands rests low on your spine as he hisses something pleased from between his teeth. “You should see yourself right now,” he says, and his voice is gone; guttural, the grinding of stone. “Offering yourself up to me like this… You don’t even know who I am…” A thick finger fills you all the way to the knuckle and the ease of its slide is indecent. You gasp at the sudden intrusion but it breaks off quick into needier cries as he searches and curls until he finds that spot so deep within you that has you pressing farther back into his hold. “Good girl, that’s right.” The reverence is sugar sweet on his tongue. “I won’t keep you waiting any longer.”
The slide of a zipper. The shift of fabric. Solid legs trap your thighs together as he lines up behind you. You don’t dare look back. You ground yourself instead with your own teeth planted deep in the rear of your hand as the heavy head of his cock parts your folds. Steady, insistent; without hesitation or remorse. It is more than you expected, the size and stretch burning wild as he bottoms out too fast for your body to accommodate; almost more than you can handle as you squirm and wail at being so quickly overfilled, ignored by his focused indifference. “That’s it,” he grits out strained in your ear, “just fucking take it.”
His pace is drawn but brutal, long, deep strokes that scrape your knees forward through the forgiving ground with every thrust. He's draped over your back, his long hair brushes against your upturned cheek. He fills every inch of you, hands like magic stroking over your wounds in a way that sends delicious whisps of pain straight to your fluttering cunt. You feel that burning coil begin to tighten again as the discomfort gives way to a sinister sort of pleasure.
“Jesus fuck, you're so tight,” talons grip your hips and pull you back to meet him each time you drift away. He will have left marks there too should you see morning. “See how much better it is when you just let go?”
To your own self loathing, you're beginning to. Your rational thoughts are muffled by the rough way he fucks into you, a claiming declaration of primal need. A last bit of violent pleasure before a blissful end.
“I've watched you, you know,” a fist is in your hair again, the wrench of your neck, a low whine from your lips. “Back at camp. Trying so very hard to practice what you preach like the rest of them. To be a savior to those wicked, little things. Woe to you, hypocrite.”
The new angle turns your face toward the half buried axe and he holds you there by the throat. Metal glints back like splintered ice, distorting the reflection of your own stricken eyes and those blackened above you. Two vengeful shadows colliding again and again as one… to be known by such a man…
It briefly punches you back to yourself, your arms flailing out wild at your sides as if you mean to fight yourself free and fly away. Plucked feathers of snow float high in the air with your thrashing and drift flightless back down to the earth all around you. Crimson streaks all across the disturbed ivory in a smeared mixture of both your failures.
“Who are you?!” you gasp one final, desperate time as your arms are tugged together and pinned behind your back in one of his. Two fingers glide beneath you to circle quick and rough against your clit as you are forced flat beneath him once more. His strokes have grown more erratic since your struggle, every one hitting that delicious spot that arches your spine and trembles your walls, your own body drawing him in impossibly deeper.
“I am your new purpose,” he promises like scripture, hot lips brushing the base of your neck. Each word is punctuated with a punishing thrust. “Your new God.” Sharp canines follow close behind, clamping deep in your flesh. Pressure breaks with the skin and you are coming. Every muscle in your body spasms. The world flashes white, luminescent-like at the edges, the ring of shattering glass fills your ears. Fear, pain, and guilt joining a pair of rough hands to inflict a pleasure on you you've never known.
Your cries reach the treetops as you clench and writhe. They coax him along to follow as he growls out his own pleasure; hips slamming hard against your abused backside once, twice more. He stills and you feel the warmth of his seed fill your belly and mark your insides; the ichor bled from his very bones and fed deep into you.
He slips from you without warning or theatrics. Flips you so that your back curves wrong across the bent banks of his knees. His eyes are back to a cavernous blue.
“And you just may be mine.”
He strokes your dirtied face with the meat of stained fingers; gentle, soothing. Curls over you in adoration.
The pinpricks of light between his horns fade black as you are swallowed whole by the night.
+++
You can hear the whine of plastic against metal from behind the safety of closed eyes.
The locking latch of a door. Old nicotine and the first start of the heater in winter. The sudden warmth of the air is like the blaze of an oven, dry ice dropped too quick into a molten pit.
Three little bodies rest like sunken skipping stones beneath the frozen lake behind.
Dozens more sleep undisturbed in their safe, warm beds.
You burn and tremble against the hot, dirty metal floor of a van. A new sort of unknown you'd never thought to fear.
You've crossed the devil, no doubt. And this, you think, this surely must be hell.
Summary: You take a job as a counselor at an old Youth Camp near home. But as the sun goes down, strange things start happening.
CW: f!reader, reader is 21+, horror, estranged family, mentions of murder, misogyny, cat calling, dark romance, implied supernatural elements, intruder, age gap, panty ripping, fingering, p in v, scratching, creampie, cockwarming
a/n: SPOILERS FOR TBP2 (Grabber’s real name). I just made up some other counselors, but it’s world building :)
title track 🎶🌬️
Sexy Monstober Masterlist ❤️🔥
My Wedding Registry 🖤
~~~
The lake was completely frozen over. Snow pillowed every inch of the surrounding woods. Trapped beautifully up in the high Colorado mountains.
You took this job for the few weeks you were home for Christmas this year. Your office was closed for the holidays, and Alpine Lake was close to home for you. And it was not like you wanted to see your parents. Things had never been good with them. Magic in the air surrounding the season would not change that. All it meant was your mom was drunk on eggnog instead of her usual wine, and your dad was a little meaner when the sun went down sooner.
It was going to be fun. Make some friends, teach kids things they would take with them through life, cook some incredible meals, enjoy the nights around the campfire. Atleast that’s what you thought. The blizzard raging on had other plans. Accompanied by the Lake’s reputation proceeding it. An omen for outsiders to stay away. The incident back in the fifties. The three boys. Anyone with a head on their shoulders would stay far away from somewhere with this much darkness surrounding it. But there was no darkness like that in the belly of your childhood home.
It was only you and the three other counselors that showed up. Three men around your age. All other women your age having the common sense to avoid this hellhole. Or having people in their lives to warn them.
The owner had commented on how surprised he was that anyone showed up. The blizzard had postponed the children’s arrival indefinitely. He would advise you to go home, but there was no world where a vehicle was getting through this. Not safely. Deciding it was his responsibility to keep you all safe for now. The men all acting above the idea, yet here you all still were. Sat at long, camp like tables in the mess hall. Bowls of soup grasped between gloved hands. The fireplace hit against your backs as you ate. Your makeshift coworkers droning on about all the things they could be at home doing instead of being stuck here. Annoyingly humble bragging about their achievements and accolades.
Lucky for you, you finished your bowl. Standing and heading towards the back of the kitchen where the sinks were located. Not before one of the men, Jared, made an offhanded comment. Snarking, “Woah! That girl can eat!”
You scoffed when they all erupted in laughter. Ignoring the way they all high-fived and acted like that was the peak of comedy. Dustin and Landon, the other men, cackled and made noises to push his point further. Oinking like pigs. All entirely childish. Continuing to rinse out your bowl and lay it in the sink before walking back out to join them. Walking in on a conversation that you had no interest in joining.
“Yep. And she was screaming all night. Every fucking thrust, ‘Fuck yes, Jared!’ So hot,” the young man smirked, making eye contact with you as he reenacted the girl’s moans. Some sick attempt at flirting. Your lip arched in disgust. Walking back around to grab your thick puffer jacket.
“Awe, what’s wrong, honey? Too much for you to handle?” Jared smirked watching you round the table.
You chuckled, “If I wanted to hear sleezebags lie to their friends, I would’ve went to a bar.”
The two other men agged your comment along. Acting like you had burned Jared. Face flushing with embarrassment. Typically, girls fell for his charm. If you could call it that. Yet here you were, not giving him a second thought. And it made him angry.
Jared stood quickly to his feet. Tall and lanky, he loomed over you. Placing his palm on the table in front of your chair. The soft slam of it caught you off guard. “Running off so soon?”
“I’m going to the girl’s cabin,” you said putting your arms through the sleeves of your secondary jacket.
“All alone? Hah! You’re a prime target!” Landon laughed.
You scowled, “What?”
“Don’t you know what happens to snacks like you?” Dustin chimed.
Another scoff, “Grow the fuck up, Dustin.”
“You really don’t get it, huh? Back in the fifties some kids went missing here. One second they’re with the group, then next — POOF! Gone. The only things the could find were bloody clothes. No bodies were ever found. They say, the killer still roams the woods now. Looking for his next victim,” Jared’s tone fell down to campfire levels of story telling. Wiggling his fingers to creep you out further.
You rolled your eyes so hard you swore they could’ve fallen from your head. Jared attempted to tickle your sides with an evil laugh. You shoved him off of you, “You’re so full of shit!”
But you knew he was not. You knew all about the missing kids and even the rumors about burned clothes. It made you sick if you thought about it too long. The place was under new management, it’s not like anything like this had happened since.
Chills danced down your body from his touch. Violated and grossed out by his actions. Quickly zipping up your puffer while stepping back away from him. Glaring at Jared as he turned back and smiled at his friends.
“You’re all assholes,” you rolled your eyes.
“Yeah? Well, don’t come crawling to our cabin tonight when you freeze. Not interested in bitches like you,” Jared crossed his arms over his chest.
You laughed, “I’d rather fall in the lake than share a cabin with any of you.”
The three mocked you. One last childish antic to put the nail in the coffin. You grabbed your gloves from your pocket and slipped them on. Opening the door and refusing to look back.
“You can come snuggle with me, Y/N. I can keep you warm all night long,” Dustin called.
You hurried out the door. Angry that you let their childish comments get under your skin. Face hot to the touch causing the wind to burn harder. Almost like getting lashed at by the blizzard’s hand. You squinted, trying to keep the giant flakes of snow from your eyes. There was no short of four feet of snow on the ground now. Even for Alpine Lake, this was heavy.
The moon above was full. Shining as a secondary sun. Blinding you as it caught every cold flake. Reflecting into your eyes like a flashlight. Wind howling with each strong gust. Urging you to turn back now. Spend the night in the mess hall. Curl up next to the fire and wait until morning. But that would also mean admitting defeat. Letting the boys win, and risking them overstaying their welcome with you.
So you continued on. Lifting your legs higher with every stride. Steadying your heavy breathing. The cold air burned the back of your throat. Subzero temperature cutting into your body through the layers of clothing.
It was only a few more yards away.
Passing by a clearing that allowed you to look across the entire lake. Snow piled across the hundreds of feet of ice. Dancing along itself when a particularly rough breeze would blow. You thought about the depths of the water. Wondering just how deep it went. How easy it would be to get lost under it.
Then you noticed the old phone booth at the edge of the lake. No lights on, most likely meaning it was out of service. Stating at it for moment. Contemplating why they would place it there. Of all places, the edge of the lake. Odd.
Continuing to face the cold, you eventually arrived at the girl’s cabin. Ascending the stairs, you nearly slipped. Catching yourself on the railing before you busted your face. Laughing at your own clumsiness.
Finally at the landing, you jimmied the handle open. The large wood door hauntingly creaking open. It was dark. Only the soft glow of heaters on the walls and a fireplace at the end. Compact enough that you could always easily access the door, but spacious enough that if you had to be sharing it would not be uncomfortable. The owner had brought your bags over to the cabin while you were in the mess hall. A kind and considerate man. You wished the other boys would take after him.
You walked over to the mattress with your bag on it. Fresh linens made to look like home. A precaution so the kids did not freak out, you imagined. The squeaking of the boards and the howling of the wind would already be a bit much for them. Recalling how when you were a child, your mother would have to accompany you to the bathroom. Scared of the dark as many children were. The unrecognizable is easily misinterpreted in a child’s mind.
Shedding your mass of layers, you rummaged through your bag for your long-johns. Soft enough to sleep, but thick enough to keep you warm. The stress of the day was engulfing you. Dragging you down to bed.
You laid flat on your back. Hands folded neatly over your stomach. Staring blankly into the ceiling. The old wood not keeping the cold as far away as you would have liked. Crackling of the fire took your mind off of it all.
Had one of them happened here?
It made your stomach drop. Rolling onto your side so you could watch the flames in their recessed hideaway. Reds and oranges swirling together. Your only source of warmth for the nights ahead.
Three campers. All boys. They never found their bodies. Maybe they were out in the woods. Hidden in their unwanted graves. Lives taken too soon; and, from the rumors, brutally so. What kind of psycho would even keep this place open? A gateway to heartbreak and pain. Their souls had to be suffering. Begging for a rest they could never find. Stuck in the dark limbo of lost souls. While nothing else had happened, that did not mean something could not happen. What if it was one of your campers eventually arriving?
What if it was you?
It would do you no good to loathe on it. You were here now. Stuck here. There was no surviving a storm like this. Record setting temperatures. No one could. So you rolled to have your back to the fire. Letting its soothing warmth guide you to sleep…
… A harsh shiver woke you up. Blinking so you could focus. The flames were dying. And your door was wide open. Allowing the moonlight to dance across the wooden floor. Letting anything to crawl its way inside. Or anyone.
Your heart sank.
Rushing to force the large wooden door closed. The cold knocked your breath out of your lungs. Snow reflecting light and blinding you momentarily. Taking you aback. It was so beautiful. Calm and tranquil. No one to disturb the peace of nature. Your breathing steadied, allowing a wave of relief to wash over you. This would be okay.
Closing the thick wooden door, you turned on your heel. You froze. All the air trapping itself inside you. A man. Kneeled down in front of your fire. Hands extended to help thaw them. Mask sitting over his face, and was that… horns on top?
There was no way he was here before.
Tears welled behind your eyes. Preparing for the worst when you saw his axe resting on the floor beside him. A shaky exhale rolled through you. Tears burning against your frozen cheeks. Lip quivering as you begged your body to move. You could run. Run fast and scream loud. Praying that some of the others would hear you.
But you could not.
Your legs weighed a million pounds. Being swallowed by the floorboards below your bare feet. The frosty earth preparing for your arrival. Icy underneath readying your new home.
It was like that horror movie that came out a few years ago. The woman slaughtering unsuspecting camp counselors on the lake in Jersey. Counselors dumb enough to work at a place with a history of death and evil. A place that had closed many years ago because of all the tragedy surrounding it. Just like this place. Just like you.
The boy’s cabin was within running distance. The door was right behind you. You could make it. Scream loud enough to wake everyone up. You had to. This could not be how you went out. With a peep instead of a raging shout.
“Sorry about the draft,” was all he said. Voice low and husky. Muffled by the mask resting on his muzzle. Face still forward. Flipping his hands forward and backward to revive the frozen skin. More nonchalant than you would like.
A soft shake rippled through every inch of you. Fear making its home in your ribs. A hum of noise resembling a response was all you could muster. Closer to the squeak of a mouse. Timid and meek.
You tried to take in details about him in the darkness. His hair was long and ratty. Icicles forced the pieces together. His snowsuit was old and worn down. A large belt buckle caught the spark of flames that tried to breathe back to life before him.
There was something unrecognizable in the air. Putting a pressure on your chest that made it hard to breathe. Vision blurring as tears waterfalled from your tear ducts. Something in the moon.
“It’s a cold one,” he began as if any of this situation was normal, “I was out in the woods. I saw the glow through your window. And when I found out your door wasn’t locked, it’s like you were practically inviting me in.”
Why would you be out in the woods during a blizzard?
You nodded. Lashes fluttering to try and better focus on him.
It was locked.
Nostrils flexing as you tried your damndest to stop the tears streaming down. You needed to seem strong. You needed to stand your ground. You were raised better than this. To allow someone to overpower you so easily.
Maybe he worked here. Maybe he was just someone that lived near by that got caught in the storm. Maybe none of it was a lie and his intention was to simply warm up. The girl’s cabin is closer to the woods, he would have seen it first.
No. Not even that would give you solace now. You knew. Knew that he did not work here. Knew that he had been stalking and preying. Waiting for the perfect moment to creep his way inside. Most likely familiar with how things went here. There was no lying to yourself now. The only truth you could hold onto was the fear that seeped into your guts. Warning you of your fate.
“Why is there no one else in your cabin?” he finally turned to meet you. Eyes sparkling with the soft glow of the night pouring in from your window. Not with infatuation. No. With hunger. Like he was a starved animal and you were the runt abandoned by the pack. Perfect for feasting.
Your teeth chittered together. Tears prickling at the corners of your eyes again. Swallowing to stop them from breaking the crest. Nostrils flaring as panic set in.
“There’s usually five or six of you counselors per cabin,” your masked guest looked around the large room. Empty beds. Heaters on some of the walls. Their coils a bright orange indicating just how hot they were. Then his eyes locked back to yours, “So why are you alone?”
The heel of your foot bounced rapidly. All your fear manifesting in the fast movement. You fiddled with your fingers as they interlocked in front of you. Unable to speak.
The man sighed. Over exaggerating an eye roll and shaking his head in disdain. His head fell to the side as he looked up at you, clicking his tongue. One of his hands reached for the axe, noticing how your body tensed immediately. Tears silently falling down your cheeks once more.
The stranger picked up his weapon. Holding it loosely in his grasp, “Is this scaring you?”
You blinked. Lip quivering as you tried your hardest to respond. Nodding in agreement.
He scoffed. Sliding the heavy metal across the floor and under one of the beds. Completely out of either of your reaches. His arms extended to show that it was gone, “Better?”
Not a single motion. Feet glued to the floor and eyes focused entirely ahead. He could still easily overpower you. Thick torso and arms bulging against his clothing. Not watching his soft, almost condescending tone.
“Am I scaring you?” he asked slowly, pressing his fingers into his chest.
A blink.
His shoulders bounced with a laugh. Shaking his head in disagreement and stretching his neck. A huff fell from him, “I guess we haven’t introduced ourselves properly.”
You shook your head.
The man stared blankly for a moment. Gesturing towards you with his hand. Encouraging you to go on. His patience dwindling away. Typically, you would not tell a stranger your name. However, fear had its hooks in you. And maybe if you played along, he would spare you.
“I-I’m Y/N,” your voice cracked and shook.
His head tilted to the side as he looked up to the ceiling. Like he was rolling it around his mind. Testing it out in different situations. A hum vibrated through his chest.
“Y/N…”
You nodded. Chewing the inside of your cheek as you waited for something more from him. The depth of his tone when saying your name made your stomach tighten. Flexing your toes to try and make the blood flow through them. The cold was beginning to get to you. The backs of your legs completely numb. Tingling as a reminder of the temperature.
“And yours?” You finally asked.
Catching him ever slightly off guard. Not expecting a blunt question from the girl who only spoken two words to him since his arrival. Stuttering through them at that. Air blew through his nose, “They called me Wild Bill.”
A nickname. Better than nothing.
“Now we know each other. So why don’t you come over here with me and warm up?” he motioned you over. Acting like being on the simplest introductions made you less of strangers.
You shook your head no.
Which he did not take well. Growling under his breath and looking back into the fire for a moment. Fingers flexing into fists at his sides.
“You’re freezing,” he gestured up and down your body. The shivers that made you look like a newborn deer were obvious. Arms crossed tightly across your chest, hands tucked under your armpits. His head tilted a little, “You can’t stay by the door all night. You’ll get pneumonia.”
The irritation lacing his words made your stomach slosh. Your instincts were failing you. Toes and fingers numb. Tip of your nose similar. Able to just barely see your breath as it fell from your lips. Chapped certainly to be raw by the morning. Even with the lack of words you were speaking.
Suddenly, he stood to his full height. Heavy boot stomping into the floor as he commanded, “Come here. NOW.”
Almost without thinking, your legs began to move. Stepping with a wobble across the icy floor. Nearing your warm sanctuary. The newly risen flames calling to you like a siren. Able to ignore your unwanted guest for only a moment. His stout body stood before you. Breathing loudly behind the thick mask. Your eyes stared down to the floor. Too embarrassed to meet his harsh gaze.
A hand extended out towards you. Your body flinching before you could realize it was. His fingers pinched your chin. Slowly guiding you up to meet his eyes. Shining their blue hue behind the old, cracked mask. Capturing you in them. His lashes jumped for a moment when your eyes finally held his. Having only seen as much of you as you had him. Shadowed by the dark of the cabin. Leaving the finer details to his imagination. But no more.
His hand ghosted across your cheek. Tucking your hair behind your ear, traveling to frame your jaw. Thick fingers splayed nicely against your skin. Borderline frostbitten. Still somehow cold despite his close proximity to the fire.
The wicked grin carved into his mask a stark contrast to the look in his eyes. Hooded and pupils wide. He was older. Crows scratching their claws beside his eyes. Bags heavy under his waterline. No pure thoughts behind his glistening orbs.
A sudden wave of courage came through you. Slowly reaching up to his own face. Preparing to remove the mask from him. Wishing to see the face of your guest. Needing to put a face to the stranger. Until his own hand grabbed your wrist, paralyzing it before you could even touch him. It hurt. He was strong, no doubt about it. Turning his head, he looked at your hand. Eyes jumping back to your face and shaking his head no. Your lip quivered under his stern glare. Blue eyes focused on you entirely.
You swallowed, “Why… do you wear that..?”
“It keeps me safe,” he said like the answer was obvious. Gently, he dropped your hand from his own. Running his fingers through your hair for a moment, eyes taking up and down your body. It was a struggle to look up from the floor. Your own eyes scanning what bit of him you could see while keeping your view down. The large belt buckle around his waist. The thick snow boots that cuffed around his pants. And oddly enough his smell. Woodsy and musky. Catching your nose with a similar frost to outside. Manly, like he worked day in and day out.
“You’re very beautiful, Y/N,” his tone darkened. Hand cupping the side of your face once more. Guiding your eyes back to his.
There was something alluring about him. Maybe it was the way he looked at you. Maybe it was the fact you had not been laid since your senior prom. Something about this whole situation had moths fluttering in your chest. Captivated by his presence entirely. Older, mysterious. Clearly holding the power over you. It was a perfect storm of a taboo night together.
“You’re… cold,” you whispered.
His thumb dragged down your lip, “That’s why I’m here.”
Your lashes fluttered. The implication lingered in the air. Hard to read if that was truly what he meant. Uncovered eyes only giving you so much of a window into his mind.
“Think you can help me?” he lowly asked.
Your eyes widened. A lump forming in your throat. Your lips catching on themself as they tried to mumbled out his name. Babbling over the first syllable.
His palms gripped your hips. Pulling your body closer to his. Allowing him to take in your scent, his breath ragged under the mask. Your arms curled into your body. Fingers nearly touching his chest. Your instincts begging you not to give into your desires. But that small voice in the back of your mind made a compelling argument otherwise. It was one night.
Fingertips danced along the tough material of the snowsuit. Cascading until they met the freezing metal atop his waist. You pulled your lip between your teeth, eyes jumping down for a moment. Able to catch a glimpse of the material tightening against his groin. His want for you making myself known.
You grinned to yourself at the thought. Lacing your fingers around the large buckle and spinning around him. Tugging him waist first as you stepped slowly backward. His heavy boots echoed through the cabin. Leading him to the bed you had claimed as your own for the night. Nearly frost bitten legs bumped the wooden frame, telling you to stop. Your eyes looked to his, almost asking permission. Making sure what you were doing was okay. His eyes were squinted up with the smile hidden behind the false one of his mask.
“We can… share the bed,” shaky words betrayed you. Tongue darting out to wet your chapped lips. Your fingers traced along his belt, almost teasingly. Waiting patiently for him to make the next move. Wanting him to lead in this game you were playing.
“I’ve got an idea how to keep up both nice and warm,” his hands danced along your sides. Faux nose bumping yours. And you could not deny how badly you wanted his lips on yours. Longing to feel a deeper connection to the stranger allegedly named ‘Bill’.
“Lay down,” he commanded.
You obeyed. Sitting on the mattress and taking your normal sleeping position. Legs spread preparing to accommodate him. He exhaled in approval. Joining you on the mattress. Dipping with your combined weight. Some shimmying and he was positioned above you. Propped back on his legs. Thighs bulging against his suit. His thick fingers rested along his belt.
The heavy belt buckle clanked against the wooden floor beside the bed. Sensually, he took the zipper down his chest. Stopping right below his groin. Beginning to shove the sleeves off his body. Leaving the thick snowsuit to pool around his waist. Torso bare. Muscular shoulders and arms with a soft tummy. Scarred and bruised. Veins decorating his forearms.
You could not help but admire his body above yours. His chest rose and fell harshly. Breathing in the same cold air that had woken you from your slumber. His collar bone softly defined as his muscles flexed. Strong shoulders rolling as he leaned forward and caged you between his arms. Nose to nose with the old mask. His oceanic eyes watched your face. Anticipation clouding your vision.
Hesitant hands reached out for him. Fingertips meeting his bare chest. Dancing along the cold skin. Cascading over his pecks, all the way down to the white elastic band of his underwear. Barely exposed from how his snowsuit hugged his waist, zipper not revealing the part of him you were to receive. Your fingers splayed along the band, dipping only the tips underneath. Feeling the soft hair of his pubic area. His steady breath caught in his throat at your touch. Making you fear for a moment you had made a mistake.
“Eager girl,” he cooed.
You tucked your head against your pillow in embarrassment. Heating up from his simple statement. Shyly nodding. It made him grin behind his mask.
“Come on. No need to be shy with me,” he encouraged. Brushing his knuckles down your cheek. Dewy eyes looked up at him. His eyebrows laid flat against his eyes, hooding them. The bright blue of his iris being drowned out by the width of his pupils.
There was a beat of silence. His labored breaths the only sound echoing off the walls. Caught in his mask. One of his hands ghosted down your body. Fingers catching the elastic of the thick pajama pants you wore. He leaned back on his legs, looking down at your clothed bottom half. Letting both hands frame your hips. Massaging and squeezing the meat.
“Have you done this before, Y/N?” the slight tinge of condensation made your body tingle.
You coyly nodded, “Not in a long time.”
“Good,” his smirk was palpable. He began to pull your long-jons off your legs. The cold stung against your bare flesh. He sighed when his eyes met the soft cotton of your panties. Tilting his head before flattening two fingers along your mound. Dragging them down until they met your soaked lips. Making you squeak.
Discarding your bottoms into the floor, he arched his hips so that he could shimmy the snowsuit further. Allowing his erection free from its confines. Curving towards his soft stomach. Heavy looking with a vein curling around it. Blushed red with need. You unabashedly stared.
It made him chuckle. His palms expanding against your bare thighs. Hooking around the curve of your leg. Placing it around his waist before scooting closer to you. He wrapped his hand around the base of his cock. Absentmindedly pumping himself as he stared at your cotton panties. Your knee pressed into his side out of pure animalistic need. Mindlessly trying to press your knees together for relief. Almost like your body was unaware of the position it was in.
Swiftly, he grabbed the front of your panties. Ripping them clean off your body. The sound of fabric I aggressively cracking had your heart skipping a beat. The pure strength he was showcasing. It made your loins flutter.
“Better,” he purred. Discarding the now ruined panties, his fingers returned to your core. Flattening along your mound and dipping them into you. Swirling two of them methodically around your far too sensitive clit. Whining in response to his touch.
“So warm,” he cooed, “This outta keep me warm all night. What do you think, Y/N?”
You were losing it. The firm pressure on your nub, the fingers that barely dipped into where you needed him most. The goddamn teasing. It seemed to be his favorite part of it all. A game.
You nodded, “Yes. Please, yes.”
He laughed at your pathetic request. Your voice breaking and needy. Thinking how lovely you were like this. Practically clawing into him to make him stay. Get him as close as possible. Your need nearly surpassed his own, and he could sense it.
“Pretty voice,” he mocked, stroking his hand along your hair. It sent goosebumps down every inch of you. Culminating in your core where his fingers pulled away slowly. Framing his member to line up with your entrance. Slapping the head against your needy clit a few times. Sound lewdly echoing through the cabin.
Taking position, he was ready to enter you. His hips barely inched forward when you yelped. Body still in flight or fight. His own stopping. Blue eyes widening at how your face contorted in uncertainty.
“I’ll go slow, okay? That’ll help,” he said more as a command than a request.
Mindlessly, you nodded. Accepting his word like gospel.
His hips began to gently thrust into you. Only allowing the head to dip between your folds. Letting you adjust to his girth at your own pace. Putting the primal urge inside him into submission if only to let you enjoy this more. Edging himself inch by inch further until he felt your walls give. Letting himself fully sheathe between them with a low groan.
“Oh… there you go,” he purred, “It’s good, isn’t it?”
Your head was thrown back. Mouth gaping open as you tried to breathe. Eyes forced shut. Voice captured in your throat. You hugged your arms around him. Nails scratching down his bare back as you arched into him. Your torso pressing into his, finally letting the moan stuck in your throat escape.
He rolled into you steadily. Gradually building speed when you got louder. His heavy breaths fanned out the bottom of his mask, hitting your neck. Heating the two of you up. Nearly forgetting about the harsh blizzard that raged on outside.
One of his hands traveled down to your core. Planting a soft pressure against your clit. Matching the rhythm of his thrusts. Longing for the feeling of your walls clamping around his thick cock. And he could tell it would not be long before he had you cumming. Far too inexperienced and sensitive to last.
“Tight pussy,” he groaned when your walls fluttered. The head of his cock brushing the spongy spot that would coax you to an end. You fought to keep air in your lungs. Rapidly inhaling and exhaling. It was like music to his ears.
“B-Bill—“ you called out, feeling the knot inside you tying itself tightly. Earning a growl from him. Perhaps not the biggest fan of his name, or just not used to hearing someone say it this way. It made him thrust harder. Growing aggressive and animalistic. Grunting with every motion. The sound of skin smacking together heightened.
“Cum,” he demanded, “I need you to cum.”
You threw your head back once more. Eyes flying shut as you attempted to focus long enough to let it all flow through you. Never wanting this to end, but your walls were fluttering and it would not be long now.
With a few more circles of his fingers, your nails were digging into his muscular skin. Screaming his name with a moan. He wrapped an arm around you so that your hips were arched higher. Letting him stay deep between your folds through your orgasm. Fucking into you as you milked him. Edging him along to his own high. Leaning his head against yours, he moaned loudly. Coating your insides with his thick seed. Cock twitching and hips jerking with each spurt. Voice jumping an octave when he tried to catch his breath. Sounded utterly wrecked trying to hide how good it felt.
The familiar silence took over the room. His arm still hooked around your middle. His plastic forehead rested against yours. Neither of you saying anything. Letting your groins stay connected.
Then he shifted. Flipping so that you were lying atop him. His cock never leaving your insides, even as it softened. You nuzzled your head into his chest. Listening for a heartbeat that you could not fully place. Probably just from the way your ears were burning and your own heartbeat strummed in your ears.
The sandman must have visited. Your eyes grew heavy. Engulfed by the shared warmth between you. Letting the stranger remain here with you. He was the one keeping you warm after all.
~~~
[END]
// Thank you so much for reading! I haven’t wrote for the Grabber in years, so it was nice to explore his character again. He’s diabolical, but damn is Ethan Hawke so hot. If you want to see more of him, feel free to shoot me a request! My inbox is always open. Comments and Reblogs are appreciated! Love ya! //
Pairing: The Grabber x Female Reader
Summary: A raging blizzard brings an injured man to your doorstep. Against your better judgement, you decide to help him and show some compassion. But as the snow piles up, so does the tension, and you begin to wonder if your kindness was a terrible mistake.
TW: DARK content, non-con, gore, blood, stalking, power imbalance, kidnapping, foul language, violence, choking, degradation, unprotected sex, bondage, loss of virginity, rough sex, abuse, and more. Read at your own risk.
Word Count: 12,453 -Damn, she's long.
MDNI- NSFW
-----
You always hated the cold.
The frigid air was teeth-chattering inducing, causing your breaths to come out in steamed huffs. Another gust of wind whipped through the empty streets, and you tugged your coat closer to your body, trying to fend off the chill seeping into your bones. Thick globs of snow fell intensely in the December air, each singular snowflake seemingly making it their goal to cling to your layers and burrow into your skin.
Crossing your hands over your chest, you tilted your head down and continued to brave the blizzard. Trudging through the sludge, your toes burned within your boots, mentally cursing you for not wearing warmer socks. It would take a miracle to keep your boots from becoming soaked, and your bones ache at the thought. Gritting your teeth, you questioned your sanity at the idea of walking the few blocks home instead of waiting for the storm to pass.
December was always like this in Denver, with snow piling up until you felt as if it could sweep you away among the banks of frigid white. Living in a snowglobe, as some would say. Sometimes the weather looked like it came straight out of a Hallmark postcard, with the picturesque pine trees dotted with snow and Christmas decorations adorning every house in aesthetic symmetry.
Being in the postcard however, was a completely different story, with frigid nights that left you burrowed under multiple blankets next to the fireplace of your house. Looking up into the night sky at the silent snowfall around you, you almost would have said it was pretty if you were trying to keep your teeth from chattering beneath the wool scarf strung around your lower face.
The streets were almost empty, with most preferring to huddle up indoors rather than face the wrath of the cold. A stray car would creep down the streets, headlights blinding you for a moment before veering onto another street, almost as anxious to get home as you were. Pushing onwards, you picked up your pace, boots crunching against the snow on the cracked sidewalks.
At this rate, there would be ice coating every surface come morning, and you mentally noted to salt your section of sidewalk to prevent any hazards as the snow died down. Trudging past yet another snowman, you glanced at the bulking individual. Twigs adorning both sides, a warm scarf strung around its neck, and buttons pushed into its midsection; a true gentleman of a snowman. Two stones gazed soullessly back into your own, and you shivered at the sight.
Creepy.
Tearing your eyes away, you sighed in relief as the familiar brick of your home met your gaze. Settled on the outskirts of Rocky Mountain Arsenal National Wildlife Refuge, your home seemed tucked away from the bustling life of Denver. The house was old, with creaking floorboards and a sagging porch, but it was all yours. The brick was chipping in places, worn by weather, but the structure had never looked more inviting against the cold air.
Practically leaping up the steps of the porch as you fished for your keys, you leaned against the front door to support your weight. The door creaked open, causing your hand to freeze within your pocket. You had always locked the door, especially during the recent boogeyman stories you had only heard in whispers.
The Grabber.
A fitting name, seeing as he stole boys out of their beds at night, only for them to completely dissipate into the air. Only having recently moved in last month, you took extra precautions with the news, trying to stifle any panic that would arise from living alone on the outskirts of the refuge. Pushing the door open fully, you stepped inside before shutting the door behind you quickly, grimacing as the wood slammed from the force.
Although in the comforting warmth of your home, a new chill seemed evident, weighing heavy with every step you took. Shedding your sopping coat, you kicked off your boots before padding against the wooden floorboards, trying to remain as quiet as possible. Heading towards the kitchen, you ripped the scarf from your body, winding it in your hands anxiously. “Hello? Is someone there…?” you called out, praying for silence.
When your wish was granted, dread began to settle in your stomach, and you gnawed on your bottom lip from nerves.
Had you locked the door? Did you forget in the bustle of trying to beat the storm on the way to work? Creeping into the kitchen, you sighed in relief when being met with nothing. Leaning against the counter, you finally let the scarf drop onto the , a laugh forcing its way of your lips due to your paranoia. You really needed to take some time off, the boogeyman clearly getting to your psyche from the long hours.
Taking a deep breath, it felt as if the house took a breath of relief with you as you finally relaxed your spine. Tugging open a cabinet, you grabbed a wine glass and decided to treat yourself before bed. After all, nothing helped cure the chill of winter than alcohol. Rummaging through the fridge, you pulled out a white blend, pouring it to the glass absentmindedly, wracking your brain for any movies that sounded interesting to unwind to. Leaving the bottle on the counter, you scooped up your glass and moved to make sure the door was locked before relaxing.
A cough ripped through the silence.
You froze, the glass slipping through your fingers, shattering against the tiles of the floor, and a startled yelp clawed through your throat at the sound. Whipping your head to the source of the sound, your eyes landed in the living room. A dark figure sat on your couch, blending in with the shadows. Immediately, you rushed to the wall and flicked on the lights. The first thing you noticed were his eyes. Striking blue clashed with yours, seemingly tearing you open and reading your soul.
Brown hair messily clung to his forehead, with sweat and grime covering his skin. Rough, hagged breaths seeped from the figure, and he hunched over his stomach, a hand clutching his side. Your frantic reaction didn’t seem to startle him at all, his steely gaze watching your every move. Your mouth opened, but you found yourself gargling on the words, nothing coming out. Sensing your shock, he shrugged slightly.
“Sorry for the scare, hon. I’m sure you’re confused but–” he grimaced suddenly, removing his hand from his side, which was covered in crimson. “I–... I could really use some help.” He said plainly, as if he had known you his entire life and was casually talking about the blizzard raging outside.
There was a man in your living room. A man who needed help. Trying to still your breathing, you warily approached him, back hugging the wall as you neared the couch. “I… how did you get in here?” you squeaked, cursing yourself silently for not having a weapon on you. He could be anyone, anything, and his intentions could be far from innocent. Sensing your apprehension, he lifted both hands up, surrendering.
“I was in the woods when I was charged by a bison. He only nicked me in the side, but as you can probably tell…” He gestured to your surroundings, chuckling slightly. “...There isn’t much around. I had to get shelter from the storm and hopefully get patched up. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He jested, a smirk adorning his face at your anxious state. You stared at his appearance blankly, trying to piece together his story.
Bison were well known to the refuge area, but to have one charge… you grimaced at the thought. “I… stay here.” The words fell from your mouth before you could stop them, and you whirled around, rushing up the stairs to your bathroom. Throwing open the door, you rummaged through the drawers, grabbing towels, a first aid kit, and anything else that seemed remotely useful.
If you had any sense about you, you would have called the police at the sight of the strange man in your living room, but the threat of him bleeding out would have added even more problems to the predicament and you didn’t want to be deemed as a murderer after just moving in. Shuffling down the stairs, you almost sighed in relief when realizing he hadn’t moved.
At least he listens… you thought, and your feet gravitated to the wounded man before you even had the chance to stop yourself. Looking up at you, the man grimaced again while keeping his hand on his side. “I… I can help, but you have to stay still.” You say, dropping the first aid kit to the empty cushion next to the man’s leg before unpacking any supplies that seemed useful. He nodded curtly, fingers gripping the edge of his shirt before pulling it over his head, discarding the clothing onto the wooden floor.
Your eyes widened at the sudden movement, heat flushing your cheeks at the sight of the now shirtless man sitting before you.
A nasty gash sliced through his right side, moving from his sternum to below his pec, blood pooling from the wound. Your eyes lingered on the wound before traveling to the rest of the exposed skin. He was pale, lean, but very fit, with sinewy muscle adorning his frame. His bicep curled as he moved to put pressure on the wound, causing his stomach to tighten from the pain.
Sweat trickled down the cavity of his chest to his belly button, where a dark brown happy trail slipped seductively down his hips and into the confines of his jeans. Your mouth gaped open again, unable to stop staring at the very mysterious, very attractive man spread out before you.
A chuckle tore you from your thoughts, and your eyes ripped to meet the icy blue eyes that bore into yours once again. He smirked at you, brow cocked at your obviously flustered state. “Sorry…” you gulped, and grabbed the towel on the couch, knuckles brushing against his upper thigh before you retreated into yourself. Turning, you rushed into the kitchen and drenched the towel under warm water, cheeks burning as you tried to shake the image from your head.
Focus… there is a man injured and he needs your help, you chided yourself, ashamed at the heat that licked against your skin.
Wringing the towel between your hands, you approached the living room again, trying to muster a brave face while racking your brain on how to clean a wound. Eyes never leaving your form, his smirk seemed to burn into your brain as you approached the man. It all felt so… lewd, the air having a tense atmosphere that seemed almost suffocating. You pushed the rag into the man’s hand, almost shaking as his fingers brushed against yours. “Hold this to the wound… I have to sanitize it.” You muttered, refusing to make eye contact as you grabbed a bottle of iodine.
“This will sting…” you warn, unscrewing the bottle cap. “Albert. My name is Albert.” He answered, trying to lighten the tense atmosphere. “Albert… It’s nice to meet you, although I would have preferred to not have someone break into my house in the dead of winter.” You teased slightly, earning another chuckle from him. He shrugged slightly, muttering off another apology before wincing again.
You grab another towel and drench it with iodine, the pungent smell invading your nostrils. You gag slightly from the chemical scent before scooting across the floor in between the man’s legs. Brushing off just how inappropriate the position was, you pushed yourself up onto your knees before pushing Albert’s hand away from the wound. Albert’s gaze seemed to burrow into your skull, but you braved onward. Pushing the rag onto the open wound, a hiss escaped the male.
He flinched at the contact, and you had to fight the urge to watch him squirm beneath your touch. “Fuck…” He seethes through gritted teeth, and you swallowed thickly at the noise. You dabbed at the wound, sanitizing it until his right side was coated in a deep orange. Grimacing at the sight, you moved to grab the tissue adhesive. “This will hurt, I have to glue the skin together.” You said, praying that watching medical dramas after work had any resemblance to reality.
“You really know what you’re doing… should I be nervous?” He teased through gritted teeth, and you flushed. “...lots of television.” You muttered before cradling the wound on his side. He immediately tensed at your touch, and you felt the warmth from his skin seep into your hands. “Shit… you're freezing.” He bit out, and you stuttered out an apology. Squeezing the glue onto the wound, you worked quickly to close the wound, trying to ignore the feeling of iodine and blood coating your fingertips. Once the gash was glued, you grabbed gauze and packed the wound, ignoring the curses flying from the man’s mouth.
“Sorry, sorry, I’m almost done.” You said, before taping the final block of gauze on top of the wound. You marveled at your work, thankful that the wound wasn’t as deep as you initially thought. He sat up, inspecting your handiwork. “Not bad… I guess all that television really pulled off, right hon?” Your cheeks burned at the nickname. You grabbed three acetaminophen and dropped them into his open palm.
“Here… I’ll grab you some water.” You moved to the kitchen to grab a glass, sidestepping the now ruined wine glass and puddle on the kitchen tiles. Now that the immediate crisis was out of the way, questions swirled in your head. Why your house? Why was he out in the refuge in the dead of night in winter? Who really was this man? Brushing off the thoughts, you filled up the glass before padding back into the living room.
“Thank you…?” He looked expectantly. You chewed on the inside of your cheek nervously. “Y/n.” You stated quickly, gaze dropping from his once more. “Y/n… I appreciate it.” He thanked again, smiling.
The lights flickered around the house suddenly, and your heart almost burst out of your chest. Glancing to the window, the flurry of snow continued its onslaught furiously, wind howling and battering against the old brick. No one in their right mind would travel now, especially injured. “I have to clean up my mess… are you hungry?” You queried, bending to pick up the broken glass.
“That’s sweet of you, hon. I’m famished.” Heat rose to your cheeks again, and you cursed yourself for being so easily flustered by his words. Throwing the pieces into the trash, you dabbed at the spill before opening the fridge. A stray takeout container, some sauces, and more wine stared blankly at you within the barren container.
Groaning, you pushed open a cabinet, grabbing a can of soup. Comfortable silence enveloped you as you worked, and Albert decided to move to the kitchen and watch you cook. As the soup heated on the stove, you turned to meet the man’s gaze. It dawned on you that he was much taller than you expected, towering over you to the point where you craned your neck to maintain eye contact. “I hope chicken noodle is fine… I wasn’t expecting guests.” You joke slightly, grabbing two bowls from the cabinet before setting them on the counter.
Albert shrugged, unphased by the intrusion of space. “So… a bison? You’re lucky you got away…” you said. It became apparent that you barely knew this man, and you couldn’t decipher if you found that intriguing or terrifying. He nodded, leaning against the fridge, fingers drumming against the metal. “Could have been worse… I was lucky enough to choose a house with a good samaritan.” He jested, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the statement.
Ladling the soup into the bowls, you sat at the small kitchen table, and Albert made himself comfortable across from you. Poking at the soup, small chat ensued between the two of you. You talked about being new to Denver, and not being used to the cold. You vented about work and the day-to-day tasks you did in your spare time. You learned that Albert worked at a hardware store, and had lived in Denver his whole life. He had a dog named Sampson and was also a part time magician.
As you talked, the picture of Albert became more personified, he was just a simple man who was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was nothing to worry about. “Storms like this don’t usually go on this long… it would have been hell to be caught out there.” He grumbled out, spooning another bite of soup into his mouth. You hummed in agreement.
The blizzard would only get worse throughout the night, and after hearing Albert had abandoned his car at the refuge, your heart clenched at the misfortune of the man. You decided that Albert could spend the night to ensure his wound would properly stay sanitized and dry and let the storm blow over. When he protested, you ignored him, shoving a pillow and quilt into his hands. “It’s decided.” You smiled, guiding him back to the couch.
Throwing his bloodied shirt into the laundry, you stretched, joints popping as fatigue began to seep into your bones. “Goodnight Albert.” You called, heading upstairs into bed. Practically flopping onto your bedsheets, you rolled over to change and get ready for bed, the events of the day wearing you out. Finally situated in bed, you pulled the covers over your body, turning to look at the snow falling outside.
Maybe being kind to strangers isn’t a bad thing after all.
—
There was a body in the woods.
Albert barely spared it a second thought, his luck finally running out from a clean kill. The little shit deserved what was coming to him– having the nerve to pull a knife on him. It didn’t make a difference in the end, however. Albert wasn’t thrilled to end the game that quickly on a whim. It was too easy that way. He always stuck to a motto: grab, hide, kill, repeat. Simple, quick, and always calculated.
Trudging through the refuge in the pitch black while injured was not his forte, especially after having to abandon his jacket due to it being drenched in brain matter and blood. When he approached the residential neighborhood, he hadn’t planned to stay, just grab some medical supplies from a house and circle back to his van. Silent, predatory, deadly.
He never planned on running into you. Innocent, naive little you. He almost felt bad for startling you so badly. Almost. Something about the way that fear radiated off of you just made him want to reach out and grab you. He had half the mind to lunge at you and steal the life from your eyes, breaking you. But when the apprehensive nature you had immediately faded when you saw he was wounded, the pulling of your heartstrings to help was too good not to indulge in.
You were so gentle, so kind in a way that made the darkest parts of him want to corrupt you. The most thrilling part of his… habits was the ability to completely and utterly destroy something, then pick up the pieces and mold them into whatever his fucked up desires had in mind. You were no different. You seemed so compliant, such a good girl who is too kind for her own good. You saw the best in everyone, and it made the monster within him want to take that kindness and twist it until it shattered.
It was your achilles heel, and no amount of good intentions would be able to keep him away from you.
Still high from the adrenaline rush of his most recent kill, the darkness called from the most depraved parts of his mind. He wanted you. He wanted to grab you and mold you into the perfect little toy for him to ruin. It would be so easy to creep into your room and ravage you beyond repair, but Albert was a patient man. He wanted to gain your trust, make you feel safe around him, before dragging you down to the depths of hell with him. Sweet unsuspecting you and your naive way of trusting strangers.
Didn’t your mother tell you not to trust others, especially if one of them was a big, bad killer? Now that his basement was empty, he had plenty of time to prepare for the perfect time to take you. He wondered if the betrayal in your eyes would be just as delectable as your fear, it made his fingers itch to see just how far he could push you. He was always easily fascinated, especially when you were just so trusting. It was laughable really.
Poor girl, your fate was sealed the second he walked into that house.
Maybe his luck didn’t run out, it must have been fate to choose the house with such a perfect, malleable toy waiting for the taking. You didn’t even realize it, did you? Taking care of such an evil man, yet being so trusting to let him sleep in your home. So trusting… so vulnerable, he had to teach you a lesson not to trust strangers. You thought you could fix him, patch him up and send him on his way, but what you didn’t seem to realize was that Albert didn’t want to be fixed.
He didn’t want to do anything other than completely destroy you, ruin you for anyone else other than him. He was never good at taking care of his toys, but the thrill of pushing you until you snapped seemed like a worthwhile challenge. The thought alone had his heart racing. You were his, his to love, his to ruin, you just didn’t know it yet. How cute, almost adorable even. You took him in like a stray, and now Albert will make it his goal to never let you go.
The thing about strays? They always come back.
—
A knock on the door jolted you out of your cooking, causing you to bang your head on the open cabinet door. Hissing at the sensation, you rubbed your head before shouting, “The door is unlocked!” The door creaked open, and you glanced at a snow-covered Albert shedding his extra layers, kicking his boots off while cursing the howling wind.
You rolled your eyes at the sight, turning back to the bolognese sauce simmering on the stovetop. Albert hung up his drenched coat before waltzing into the kitchen, making himself comfortable at one of the stools situated by the kitchen table in order to watch you cook.
It had been two weeks since he had nearly given you a heart attack, and after your consistent begging, he finally went to the hospital to get his wound checked out. It turned out that your medical television obsession had pulled off, with him only needing fresh dressings and a prescription of low grade pain medication before he was discharged. Albert had begun to see you consistently, bringing takeout or random trinkets he thought you would enjoy.
“It’s a gift… I promise, hon.” He would always muse at your attempts to pay him back for his endeavors. It turns out, Albert lived only a 10 minute drive from your house, and most nights he was more keen on crashing on your couch versus making the effort to go to his home. You didn’t mind however, feeling more safe with your new friend nearby.
Another two boys had gone missing, the news flashing across the screen upon his most recent stay. A gasp of horror had escaped you as the anchor reported the details of two boys, one 13 and the other 16 seemingly disappearing into the night. Vanished, as the anchor said. You screwed your eyes shut at the thought. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how their families must be feeling, losing their children to a monster in the middle of their night, stolen out of their beds. “He’s like the boogeyman– The Grabber.” You had said, and Albert’s expression had darkened at the television screen.
“The only difference, sweetheart, is that The Grabber is very much real.” The words haunted you throughout the night, causing you to toss and turn with paranoia. Albert seemed very… detached about the situation, so you decided to not bring it up again, his lack of emotion towards depicting The Grabber as a very scary, very real person that could be anyone made unease seep into your bones.
“Everything okay?” The sound of his voice brought you out of your thoughts, and he cocked a brow at you out of amusement. Looking down, you realized you were gripping the wooden spatula, knuckles deathly white from the pressure. You chuckled awkwardly, releasing spatula from your grasp and turning off the stove. “Yeah… sorry, work has been tense.” Stretching against the counter, you felt his gaze burn into your frame.
That’s the one thing that unnerved you about the older man, he was very… observant. Always seeming to know what you were thinking before the words fell from your mouth, always watching your every move. Maybe it was his eyes, maybe it was just a habit, but either way, something about those eyes drew you in. His gaze held a type of darkness, like someone who had seen too much and the depths latched onto them.
“Tense? That’s no way to spend the holidays… you should take a break. I make a mean eggnog, if you think that would help you relax.” He mused, and you scrunch your face at the mention of the sweet beverage. “I’m sure you do… of course you drink eggnog. I find it disgusting.” You shudder, moving to serve two helpings of bolognese pasta.
Glancing at the calendar, your eyes widened at the date. December 24th. “It’s Christmas Eve…” You muttered. “You think I just came to visit out of the goodness of my heart? Sweetheart, with a schedule as busy as yours, I would be surprised if you remembered New Years.” Albert teased, taking his plate from your grasp, your knuckles brushing his fingertips.
You flushed slightly at the comment.
Albert always had a sense of charm around him that never failed to fluster you. His endearing smile, flirtatious nicknames, and tokens of appreciation made your heart skip a beat at his affections. You found yourself trusting him over the past few weeks, excited for his presence in your otherwise empty house and the attention he gave you.
It felt like a fresh breath of air, being looked after when your long shifts finished for the day and you were stuck in the solace of your home. He knew how you reacted around him, almost enticing him to push your buttons and turn you into a stuttering mess. It was infuriating, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.
“That is not true. I remembered Christmas, I just didn’t realize Christmas Eve was today.” You chided, earning a chuckle from across the table. Rolling your eyes at his teasing, you continued to pick at your pasta, glancing at the calendar once more. “Actually… I have something for you, Albert.” You said, standing quickly before rummaging through the cupboard before your hands settle on a wrapped package, the paper crinkling under your fingertips.
Albert’s spine straightens at the table, his food abandoned due to his curiosity. Shyly, you approached the seated male and set the present on the table. Albert’s long fingers reached for the gift tenderly, eyeing you with suspicion. “You didn’t have to get me anything, hon. I don’t have anything for you.”
Yet. He didn't have anything for you, yet.
You shrugged. “It’s not much, but I had some time over these past few weeks and…” You swallowed thickly. “- I thought you could use it.” He smirks at that, and your cheeks burn. Gently unwrapping the gift, Albert lifts a blood red scarf from the package. Holding the soft material in his hands, he looks at you, expression unreadable. Fingers dancing along the blood red fabric, his eyes darken. A knot wedged into your chest, worried you had been too personal.
“I know you lost your coat… and I thought you could use all the help you could get in this cold. If you don’t like it, I can-” “You made this?” His words sharply cut you off, still unreadable. His fingers tangled in the material, and his jaw clenched, his blue eyes drilling holes into your skull. Anxious you had overstepped, you chewed on the inside of your cheek, eyes downcast. “Yeah… I had some extra wool and thought you would like it.” He holds the scarf up, wrapping it around his neck quickly, snapping out of the daze that you had put him in.
Eyes meeting yours, the blue clashed so starkly against the bold red of the wool that your breath caught in your throat. Finally, he spoke, warmth seeping into his words. “It’s perfect. I love it. Thank you, hon… you just made my Christmas.” He teased, unraveling the scarf from his neck and tenderly folding it in his lap. You laughed bashfully, flustered at the praise. “It’s just a scarf, Albert.” You paused, then muttered: “Red suits you.” Albert chuckled, a wolfish grin spreading across his lips.
“Yes, hon, yes it does.”
—
A scarf. How oxymoronic, how perfect.
You were too sweet for your own good. You had given him a gift out of the goodness of your heart, yet it wasn’t the warm fabric that kept him warm on the chilling journey to his basement, it was you. You couldn’t have possibly imagined what this gift meant… or did you? The scarf was a promise, a vow to show your affection directly devoted to him.
Your hands tirelessly worked at the fabric that was now slung across his neck, and if he wrapped himself tight enough within it, it would be as if you were caressing his skin yourself. So intimate, the thought made his heart race. With one simple gift, you had bound yourself to him, and he couldn’t help but imagine how good the scarf would look like on you.
So sweet, so kind. He was certain that he had cracked his jaw from the force when you gave it to him. It took every ounce of strength to not grab you from across that table and hide you away for only him to see. He wanted all of it; your kindness, your dreams, your happiness, your life. It was his now, and only his. “It’s just a scarf, Albert.” Your words circled in his head, a constant reminder of how much, it was not in fact, just a scarf.
You made it for him, only him, as a testament to your adorations. How could he not want to return the favor? You wanted his attention, you spent your precious little time trying to show him how much you cared, and he saw it; he always did. He understood the meaning completely, even if you were too stubborn to admit it. You naive pure little thing, your fate was already sealed when he first saw you, but now? You were undoubtedly his, even if you didn’t know it yet. The scarf symbolized a bond, a bond you forged, and he was more than happy to comply.
You wanted him, so he will show you what that really meant.
The darkness within him screamed to respond to your devotion, to tear down the rest of the world and watch it burn if it meant he would be able to repay the love that you bestowed upon him. All he needed to do was reply, reciprocate. For that, he needed a plan. A plan to show you just how much this confession meant to him– how much you meant to him, and he knew the perfect gift to give to you. All of him. He would show you his worst, most twisted self, and bind you to him in ways that only he knew how to do.
“Red suits you.” You had no fucking idea.
He couldn’t wait to see how much it suits you too. He was sure it was going to look sinful. His hands balled into fists, giddiness coursing through his veins. He knew the basement was a vile place, a place where many have been subjected to his mercy, but with you… he had so much more in store for you. Sweet, innocent, angel, you really were about to give the man the best Christmas gift. And he was going to savor every last moment of it. Glancing at his handiwork, he finalized his preparations, a sinister smile breaking across his lips. “Merry fucking Christmas, hon.”
Now all he had to do was wait.
—
I’ll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me.
Please have snow, and mistletoe,
And presents on the tree~
You hummed slightly at the song playing from the television, scrubbing the tiled countertop hastily. Dinner with Albert went smoothly, yet something about that scarf sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes looked so… cold, with an intensity that sent your head reeling. The last thing you wanted to do was make him uncomfortable by overstepping, so once he left you immediately baked some sugar cookies as an apology gift.
Working in the kitchen with Christmas music playing softly in the background felt inviting, reminding you of fond memories with your family in the past. Sighing softly, you poked at the sugarcookies to ensure they were cooled before slathering them in red and green frosting.
You were always the type of person to give people gifts as a token of appreciation, but sometimes that made others uncomfortable due to the intense giving nature you had. Although it was a fair response, your throat burned with rejection at Albert’s strange reaction of the gift. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you coated the last cookie in a glob of green before throwing the frosting container in the trash.
Letting the cookies sit, you stretched, joints groaning in protest from standing in front of the oven for hours. Untying the dirtied apron from behind, you padded into the hallway, throwing the soiled clothing into the washer. Yawning tiredly, you stumbled up the stairs into your bedroom, grabbing a pair of pajamas and stripping out of your clothes. Your skin immediately prickled, hairs raising on the back of your neck.
You were being watched.
You glanced around, seeing nothing. Scoffing at your paranoia, you continued to change before throwing your old clothes into the hamper, making your way into the bathroom. You needed to sleep, stat. Standing in front of the sink, you laughed at a smudge of green frosting covering your temple.
Rolling your eyes at your clumsiness, you reached for the toothbrush, coating it in minty paste before harassing your gums. Spitting in the sink, a shuffle downstairs caught your attention. Worried one of the baking trays toppled, sending your desserts face first onto the tile below, you quickly rinsed your toothbrush and padded down the stairs.
Scurrying into the kitchen, you sighed in relief at the undisturbed baking sheets, turning to grab a container. Shuffling throughout the kitchen, your gaze landed on a red pen and small sticky note. “This will do…” you mumbled out, trying to figure out what to write. Hey Albert, sorry for being weird and giving you a heartfelt gift? No, too forward. Biting on the tip of the pen anxiously, you opted for a simple message that conveyed your feelings.
“Dear… Albert….” You mouthed as you wrote, “-thank you for having dinner with me. I hope you liked your gift,” you paused. Humming slightly, you ripped the sticky note from the stack and tossed it to the counter. “To Albert. Merry Christmas.” Simple and straight to the point.
Placing the sticky note on top of a container, you turned to load up the cookies into the tray, stuffing as many as possible into the circular container. Eyes sweeping over the red and green desserts, your gaze faltered as it reached the furthest pan.
A singular cookie was half eaten, the gingerbread man-shape missing its head and arm. Eyes narrowing, you apprehensively approached the cookie as if it would jump back out at you. Picking it up, your brow furrowed, confusion sweeping your features. Did you happen to snack on it while frosting?
The soft sound of guitar quickly pulled you from your thoughts, causing the half-eaten sugar cookie to fall absentmindedly to the counter. Peaking your head around the corner, the television stared menacingly back at you, Bing Crosby’s I’ll Be Home For Christmas playing at full volume. Heart stuttering, you approached the television. “That’s weird… I thought I just played this song…”
I’ll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me.
Please have snow, and mistletoe,
And presents on the tre-
A grunt sounded out from behind you in the kitchen, and you whirled around, panic seeping into your features. Your eyes widened, a shriek tearing through your throat as your gaze met with a mask, its soulless eyes burrowing into your soul. A grin adorned its features, while horns protruded from the forehead of the mask. The white material was splattered with red, and you prayed it was anything other than blood.
The figure towered over you, dwarfing your kitchen counter, another sugar cookie in hand. You felt like a deer trapped in headlights, completely frozen in place, eyes raking over the figure in front of you while your lip quivered with fear.
Christmas Eve’ll find me, where the love light gleams~
“These are divine, doll. So good, I could reach out and grab them.” The masked figure mused darkly, voice dripping with hostility. Your breathing quickened, and you immediately took a step backward. It’s him, your personal boogeyman.
The Grabber.
Tears immediately fell at that thought, dripping down your cheeks and plummeting to the wooden floor. A sob wracks your throat. This isn’t happening, this can’t be real. Yet the taunting chuckle that erupts from the monster in front of you was very much real. The hulking figure takes a step forward, and you flinch at the movement, another sob wracking through your body.
I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.
“Cat got your tongue? You’re shaking, you poor thing.” The voice drawls, and the familiarity of it all haunts you. The mask cocks to the side, and the light catches his eyes. Icy blue meets yours, and you swear your heart stops. Your lip trembles, and you want to scream for being so stupid, so trusting.
Denver’s uncaught killer, your personal boogeyman, was Albert.
The same man you nursed back to health, who had been in your house countless times before, who stood before you in that god forsaken mask now. Your knees almost buckled from the realization, causing another bone chilling chuckle to pierce the air. Albert reached into his back pocket, producing a string of blood red.
Your eyes narrowed and the sight of the scarf wound perfectly in the hands of the killer before you. “This lovely gift had me thinking…” He took a few more brisk steps towards you, closing the distance between the two of you, cold and calculating. “- it’s only fair if I give you a gift too.” His words echo in your mind, and you refused to acknowledge him.
A hand shoots out, grabbing you by the throat. You scream, broken out of your frozen stupor, clawing at his hand. He drags you forward, the nose of his mask brushing against your skin. The smell of dried blood invades your senses, and you fight the urge to retch.
He smells like death… rather he was death, holding your life in his hand as his fingers dug into your skin.
His eyes burned holes into your skull, and you sputtered for air beneath his touch. You could practically feel the smirk that he was sporting under the mask at the vulnerable state you were in. Tears welled in your eyes, skin burning at the lack of oxygen. “Tell me, does your fear taste as good as it looks?” He murmured darkly, black spots beginning to coat your vision. Your hands gripped at his arm, the pressure on your trachea making your eyes roll back.
His grip released suddenly, and you fell to your knees, clawing at the wood while greedily drinking in gasps of air. He glared down at you, seemingly satisfied with the view of you sprawled beneath him. Grabbing your wrists, he heaves you up, and you hate how easily you move. Holding your wrists in one hand, he moves the scarf closer, causing something in you to snap.
Screaming, you pull back as hard as you could, kicking and crying for this to all just be a bad dream. Yanking you forward by your wrists, Albert… no, The Grabber, weaves the scarf around your wrists briskly, pulling them so tight you hiss at the sensation.
“This scarf binds us.” He seethes, yanking you closer by the tail of the scarf, causing you to stumble into his chest. He catches you effortlessly, one hand cradling the back of your head, fingers digging into your scalp, the other pulling the scarf tight. You never thought how your endearing gift would be turned against you, your wrists raw from rubbing against the material.
A choked sob escapes you, and you can do nothing but stare in the icy depths of his eyes, swallowing you whole. “You think I wouldn’t notice?” His tone softens slightly, cocking his head slightly, the breath peeking through the mask and fanning your ear. “You gave me a part of yourself, so I’ll show you what it means to belong to someone.”
If you weren’t terrified, you would scoff at the words. Sensing your defiance, he pulls you by your hair to your feet. You whimper, scalp burning under his harsh touch. “Why are you doing this?” You bite out, stumbling as he drags you into the kitchen. He chooses to ignore your venomous words, instead glancing back to you, eyes sweeping over your form.
“I can’t wait to see you like that,” tugging on the material again. His voice hardens, “-wrapped up, bound to me. All mine.” The finality of his words sent a wave of terror down your spine, as if your fate was sealed forever. He rummages in his back pocket, the grip on the scarf loosening as he pulls a white cloth into your field of vision.
Freedom. This was your chance.
For a split second, you froze before adrenaline pushed your limbs into motion. You turn to flee, wrists bound tightly in front of you, scrambling backwards across the kitchen tile, almost tripping over your feet. Time slowed. You can feel the wrath radiating off of him in waves. You refuse to turn to look, crashing into the kitchen wall, jolting sideways at the impact. Steadying your feet, your legs pump vigorously at the prospect of escape.
You almost tumble over the steps leading upstairs, opting to head for the door, your only hope. The thought of freezing to death in the cold was better than what was in store for you. The silhouette of the door reaches your gaze, your savior, and you bolt towards it without a second thought.
A sharp pain stabs into your skull. White explodes along your vision, the world spinning as you crumble to the ground. The cool wood bites into your skin as warmth pools from your temple, dripping across your face and onto the floor beneath you. The taste of copper fills your mouth, ears ringing from the impact.
Darkness licks at your vision, and you turn to see The Grabber standing over you, a sauce pan in his hand. Triumphant, his haunting smile glares down at you, head cocked and poised to strike.
Everything goes black.
—
A slow, rough throbbing pulls you from the darkness. It hurts to open your eyes, your pulse hammering into every crevice of your skull, causing the world to shift across your vision. You blink; once, twice, the swirls of grey and shadows gradually coming into focus with every attempt. Finally, the world seems to fall into place, your left eye burning from the crimson dripping from the cut above your temple.
The faint hum of a singular fluorescent lightbulb buzzes from the ceiling, casting an eerie glow across the cramped room. The room was mostly bare, with a singular chair sitting across from the ragged mattress you were laid upon. The air was thick with the smell of mold alongside the faint scent of blood. You didn’t want to know if it was yours or not. A singular sliver of window adorned the top of one of the bare walls, the pitch black of night staring tauntingly at you through the thick glass. Squinting, you could barely make out the soft fall of snow against the dark sky, globs of white sticking to the glass momentarily before melting away, abandoning you.
You were in a basement, his basement.
Your blood turned to ice, pushing your body into action. You tried to sit up, body groaning in the process before you are ripped back down onto the bed. Your right arm hangs above you, taunt against the wall, secured in a chain. A sob wracks your throat as you tug on the metal, the clattering deafening against the silence of the room. A swish of fabric stops you in your tracks, and you look down at your chest, where the blood red scarf is tied into a perfect bow over your pajamas. You pale.
To him, the scarf was never the gift, you were.
“Finally awake, hmm?” His voice cuts through the air like a knife. You jolted, turning towards the menacing figure in the doorway. His mask was abandoned, leaving you to gape at your capture. Albert’s soulless eyes burned into yours, and you wondered if he was there the whole time, watching you. Stepping into the room, the door slammed shut, the noise jarring you slightly due to the force.
“You scared me for a moment there, doll...” He sighed out, crossing his arms and leaning against the closed door, eyes never leaving yours. “-I was nervous I hit you too hard,” He gestured to your head, and instinctively you put a hand to the prickled skin. Your hand pulled back red. “-ouch.” He taunted, chiding you for your attempt of escape. As if you would ever get away from him. “It would have been such a shame to ruin our plans before they even began.” He mused darkly, and you fought the urge to gag.
“What… what do you want with me?” You force the words out, voice hoarse, throat raw from crying. He cocked his head amusingly, striding forward to close the space between you. He crouched over the mattress, towering over you. “What do I want with you?” He echoed, fingers ghosting over your cheek, brushing away a stray tear. He smudged the liquid between his fingers, looking at it while contemplating.
“You gave me a piece of yourself…” He mused, hand gripping the edge of the scarf tied around your chest, playing with the material endearingly. “-now I’m going to give you a gift. Something only I can give.” The scarf dropped to your chest, his head snapping to meet your gaze once more.
Your breath caught in your throat.
“So scared… It's adorable. Your fear is addicting. It makes me want to reach out and bite you.” His calloused hand grips your chin roughly, forcing your face to move closer to his. His breath fanned across your face, a warmth that you savored against the frigid air. His fingers trailed over the bow again, gentle. “Look at you…” He breathed out, voice hoarse with restraint. “-like a gift, the perfect toy. There’s so many ways I could ruin you.”
A sob rips out of you at that, and it only amuses him even more. Tugging at the bow, he undid the fabric as if unwrapping a present, the undone material loosely falling to the mattress. Tracing your jaw, he cocked his head. “Tell me, after we first met, did you trust me?”
You did. He knew you did. You trusted him completely, your caring nature not only nursing him back to help, but igniting a spark within you. You found yourself pining for the man, his attractive features and those eyes bringing a sense of warmth around you when he flattered you.
He knew that too, and used it to push all the right buttons to make you fall apart like putty in his hands. It wasn’t hard for him to break down your walls, he was just so charming. So rough in all the ways that you were soft, and it made your heart melt. But that warmth turned to ice as his fingers brushed against your bottom lip.
“Well?” He quipped, and your head nodded immediately. He smirked at the action, your compliant nature getting the better of you. “So obedient, so sweet. You understand why I had to take you, right? You’re just such a good girl.” Your cheeks burned at the words, ashamed at how easy it was for him to stir the warmth within you from something as simple as his words.
He sucked in a breath, fingers trailing down the column of your neck, causing goosebumps to prickle at the sensation. You shuddered at the contact, squeezing your eyes shut. It was so wrong, so incredibly skewed in a way that made you question your sanity, but his touch… it left you breathless.
His fingers brushed the collar of your pajama shirt, fiddling with the fabric like a nervous schoolboy, giddy with nerves. You sucked in a breath. “So pretty… so soft. All dressed up for me, how sweet.” He mused, hands trailing down the expanse of your chest, brushing against the buttons holding the shirt together. His nose brushed against your neck, and your eyes snapped open.
Trailing upwards, you shuddered as he neared closer, breathing in against your skin. A low moan tore from his throat, and your chest tightened at the noise. Glancing at you through half lidded eyes, Albert’s gaze was heavy. His stare was suffocating, devouring every reaction you gave him, as if committing it to memory. He looked at you as if he was starving, and you were everything he could have ever wanted, the intensity of his gaze causing a broken whimper to snake from your throat.
That whimper sealed your fate.
His lips were on yours in an instant, his resolve shattered. His lips were rough, moving fast against yours as he pressed so hard against you felt you would crumble beneath his touch. His hand delved into your hair, blunt fingernails scraping against your scalp and pushing you further into the kiss. He hungrily sucked on your bottom lip, tasting the copper that lingered in your mouth, groaning at the taste.
Warmth radiated from his touch, and you pushed closer to relish the feeling, melting into his embrace. You were falling from reality, the morals slipping from you as he held you close, stubble raking across your chin. The smell of smoke, sweat, and blood invaded your senses in a way that left your head reeling, and the chain rattled as you gripped his shoulders as if he was a lifeline.
Albert shuddered at the feeling of your fingers digging into his clothed skin, teeth sinking into your bottom lip so hard it drew blood. You gasped at the pain, the metallic liquid seeping into your mouth. Albert persisted, pupils blown from the taste, tongue lapping up the liquid feverishly before deepening the kiss, pushing into your mouth.
His tongue was rough, invading your mouth so quickly that you felt like you were choking. Tangling his tongue against yours, your saliva quickly mixed with his as he explored your mouth, pressing so hard against you that your skull buzzed. He moaned into your mouth, the vibrations leaving you breathless. Shocked into place, Albert persisted, sucking on your tongue while pulling you even closer. You choked down another whimper, his musk invading your senses in a way that made your head spin.
He was so warm. Skin pressed so hard against you it felt as if you were melting against him, burning like a furnace. His lips tore away from yours, a mixture of saliva and blood connecting the two of you. Your breaths came out in ragged huffs, lips swollen and sore from the onslaught of teeth and tongue. Albert’s gaze darkened, eyes taking over your disheveled form, soaking in the sight. His hand retreated from your scalp, skin tingling dully. His hands gripped your shoulders, mirroring your movements as he pushed you down into the mattress. You fell willingly, sinking into the fabric while trying to catch your breath, head reeling.
Albert was on top of you immediately, arms caging you in as he knelt over your form. Ducking into your neck, his lips feverishly left open mouthed kisses along the column of your neck, and you squirmed at the feeling of his tongue against your skin. Your skin burned as if you were on fire, shame pooling in your stomach from how good it felt.
His stubble scraped against your sensitive skin as he searched for more ways to make you writhe against him, teeth sinking into your skin with a bruising force that left you gasping for air. Sucking on the tender spot, his fingers ghosted along your skin, mapping your curves. It felt as if he was devouring your skin, biting and sucking your soul from your body.
He was marking you, leaving blots of red and purple along your skin so dark that nothing would cover the sin he was painting onto you. You would have been lying if you hadn’t thought about Albert during late nights alone in bed, but the reality of it all was all the more addicting. Your eyes rolled as his lips trailed the junction of your neck, chin grazing your collarbone.
Spit coated your skin as Albert practically drooled on you, making his way across any exposed piece that was deemed to be untouched by his ruinous intent. “You taste divine…” He muttered into your skin, barely audible as his lips rubbed against a fresh bruise. He peered up at you, eyes almost black from pleasure, and you sucked in a breath at the sight, shrinking under his gaze.
His fingers toyed with your top button, and your heart stopped within your chest. Before you could protest, his hands ripped at your shirt, the plastic buttons popping from the force, rolling across the cement floor of the basement. Your skin prickled at the cold, gooseflesh as the frigid air coated your damp skin. Practically tearing away the shredded fabric, your chest was left bare to his hungry gaze, and you fought the urge to cover yourself from the icy eyes dragging across your skin.
Terrified of his wrath, you stayed still, trying to slow your breathing as his fingers immediately made their way to your exposed flesh, desperate for contact. His hand made contact with your breasts, palming the skin lazily, causing you to squirm beneath his touch. “Oh don’t get shy now…” He growled, a dull pain stabbing into your chest as he pinched your nipples roughly, rolling the sensitive flesh under his fingers. You yelped at the sensation, squirming, trying to cower away from the harsh grip. “-we have so much to do.” he finished, releasing your abused flesh from his hands.
Gripping the mounds more tenderly, he squeezed them teasingly, thumbs ghosting your nipples again, causing your spine to straighten. He chuckled at your reaction, head dipping into the valley of your breasts, rubbing against your skin. Your brain short-circuits as his tongue licks at the skin of your sternum, warm and wet.
His saliva coated your flesh, teeth nipping as he moved, fingertips trailing down your sides. You shuddered at the touch of his fingers ghosting over your ribcage, nails sinking into his shoulders so hard you were certain you drew blood. Albert stiffened, straightening against you so quickly your arms dropped to your sides abruptly.
Rolling his shoulders, he tilted his head, looking down at you with such a dark gaze it was deadly. You swallowed thickly, lip quivering as you shrank further against the mattress, fear stabbing into your chest. His fingers hooked onto the black button-up he was wearing, lazily undoing his buttons, eyes never leaving yours. If your heart wasn’t in your throat, you would have called his movements seductive. His calloused fingers traced his shirt while his pale skin became more exposed as he went lower, lower. The black material fell haphazardly off his shoulders, the shirt balled up and thrown into a forgotten corner of the room.
You bit the inside of your cheek to suppress the whimper building in your throat at the sight, all too similar to that godforsaken night you met him. He was just so attractive, too much so for your own good. The rest of the world seemed to melt away as your eyes trailed the exposed flesh in front of you, watching him roll his shoulders again. Albert clenched his fists, arms flexing as he leaned closer, nose brushing against yours.
“It’s adorable, watching you struggle like this. So intent on hating me while fighting the truth. You want me.” He muses, grabbing your hand and laying it flat against his chest. Your lip quivers at the action, the heat of his skin seeping into yours as you fought the itch to explore. His heart hammered against your palm, and a small voice inside of you relished in the fact that it was beating for you. You clenched your jaw shut at the thought.
It was wrong, so wrong, but you couldn’t stop your head from reeling at the sight of him in front of you so intimately.
Crawling over you, Albert easily caught your wrists within his hand, taking advantage of the war waging within your head. Immediately, you squirmed beneath his grasp, confusion wracking your form. Everything was moving so fast, too hard to process. Your heart felt like it was hammering out of your chest, about to burst at any second. Albert knew that though, he always knew, and he was going to use it against you.
Pulling the discarded scarf from the mattress beneath you, he knotted the material against your wrists once more, aligning your limbs to the chain that was bolted into the wall above your head. You hissed at the contact of the material against your raw wrists, itching to rip it off and burn it. You tugged on the scarf, but your efforts were all in vain, doing nothing but irritating your abused flesh even more.
Albert clicked his tongue, admiring his work before tugging the tail of the scarf closer to him, mirroring his previous actions at the house. “So squirmy…” He teased, his other hand slipping down your naval, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to prickle. He toyed with the drawstring of your shorts, and your eyes widened.
“W-wait… I don’t-” You babbled onwards, praying, pleading that the train moving a million miles a second would halt. Albert, however, was less easily convinced, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric, brushing your hip bone. “-I… I haven’t done this before.” You begged, sinking your back further into the mattress to try and get space from the very eager hand toying at your clothes. Albert paused, fingers hooked on the waistband of the shorts, eyes dilated.
“Poor girl… so innocent.” He growled, fingers digging into the waistband while his other hand pulled the scarf impossibly tight. You whimpered at the sensation, pain stabbing into your wrists. “Don’t worry… I’ll break you in nice and rough.” He finished, yanking the shorts down your thighs in one swift motion. Immediately, you snapped your legs shut, hips locking into place as you cowered, watching as your shorts were discarded at the edge of the bed, dangerously far from reach.
Guilt gnawed at your stomach as you felt the slick between your thighs, mentally cursing your body for being so traitorous. Completely bare beneath Alberts prying gaze, you flushed, trying to ignore the warmth that blossomed within your stomach. Albert dropped the scarf that connected your wrists, opting to grip your hip instead, his nails digging into your flesh so hard you were sure there would be bruises in the morning.
His fingers ghosted over the exposed flesh of your thighs, trailing inwards so slowly it caused a shudder to rip through your body. He chuckled at your response to his touch, braving onwards, pushing forward. Your toes curled in anticipation, whether from terror or excitement you couldn’t decipher. Wedging his hand in between your thighs, his index finger scraped against your unclothed center, and you squeezed your eyes shut. He hummed slightly, satisfied at the slick that gathered between your legs, and you swallowed thickly, shame rippling off of you in waves.
“So compliant. I’ve barely touched you and you’re soaked for me… such a good girl.” Albert praised, teasing your folds. Your eyes fluttered as he eased in a finger, the length scraping along your gummy walls. You tensed at the foreign feeling, naval tightening as he stretched you out, testing the waters. Brows furrowed, you sucked on your bottom lip for comfort, trying to clear the battle of morals within your mind. It felt… good, Albert’s long finger reaching further than you ever could have on lonely nights, the stretch within causing that oh so sweet bundle of nerves to stir to life.
Pleased with your warmth, Albert sunk another finger inside of you, and you gritted your teeth at the slight sting. Working his way into you, Albert’s fingers curled within you, searching for ways to make you more reactive. The pads of his long digits hit that hidden spot within you, and you writhed against the scarf, tugging at the material sharply. A whimper slipped, your facade quickly fading as his fingers continued to sink into you, prepping you.
Albert sighed at your noises, eager to draw more out of you, fingers picking up their pace. His free hand left your hip, and he palmed himself lazily over his slacks, growing impatient. This was for him after all, not you. Slipping in a third finger, you felt like you were being split open at the intrusion, glancing down at him knuckle deep inside of you.
Your arousal was evident, slick coating his hand and dripping down your thighs, and you flushed at the squelch that emitted when he withdrew his fingers from your core. You wanted to slap yourself when your hips jerked to meet his fingers, body betraying you as you subconsciously chased that high. Albert’s thumb brushed against your clit, and you almost jumped out of your skin, a gurgling moan ripping through your throat at the contact.
Albert’s lips twisted into a wolvish grin at that, thumb continuing to draw circles on the bundle of nerves as he pumped his fingers within you until you were a breathless, blubbering mess. You felt like a furnace, skin hot to the touch as you writhed beneath the male’s sensual strokes, jerking at the rough touches to your clit. Obscene noises slipped from you, facade completely cracking as he scissored his fingers, stretching you so far you felt you would tear in two.
Practically gurgling, you clawed at the scarf, hips rolling into his touches as you abandoned all hope of shame or guilt. The feeling was addicting, your inexperienced body reacting in ways you never thought possible. “Shit… you’re sucking me in, doll… so needy.” He teased, thumb pressing against your clit so sinfully your eyes rolled to the back of your head.
Your stomach tightened, pressure building within you as Albert fucked you with his fingers. Your core tightened as you throbbed around him, practically milking his fingers. So close… you were so close. Albert’s fingers brushed against that spongy spot again, and you almost tipped over the edge, a broken moan tearing through your throat.
Then it was gone.
Albert’s fingers withdrew from you so quickly it hurt. You clenched around nothing, tears lining your vision as you felt the emptiness overtake you. Nails digging into your palms so hard you were sure you left marks, you writhed against the mattress, gritting your teeth at the denial of pleasure.
Albert chuckled darkly at your suffering, and you wanted to scream. “Look at you... practically begging me for it.” He brought his fingers to his mouth, drenched in your juices. Albert’s tongue ran over his fingers, slurping your slick off his digits, groaning at the taste. Humming in approval, he smirked down at your form, tongue running over his bottom lip.
You flushed at the action, embarrassed at the way your stomach flipped at the sight. Screwing your eyes shut, you tried to shake the image burned into your eyes, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. The jangling of a belt buckle ripped you from your embarrassment, and you cracked your eyes just enough to see Albert rip his belt from his belt loops, the item of clothing clattering noisily as it skidded across the cement floor.
Albert quickly unbuttoned his slacks, the black fabric straining against his form. Glancing downwards, your eyes almost bulged out of your skull at the tent sported in his pants, looking dangerous. You paled, reality setting in as Albert tugged his fly down, hissing at the cold air. Impatiently, he shoved his slacks down, and god you were not prepped enough for that.
In the dim lighting, Albert’s cock stood proudly, straining against his abdomen. Ridged veins crawled along his length, trailing upwards seductively until they reached his head, red and angry and very hard. Precum leaked from his tip, and your mouth instantly watered at the sight.
Wasting no time, Albert’s hand lazily stroked his length, running his thumb along his slit, gathering the precum that settled there. He squeezed his cock, a hiss escaping his form, and you swallowed thickly at the noise. His hips stuttered forward, and Albert pushed in between your legs, causing you to nestle around him. Your lip quivered as his head brushed against your slit, gathering your slick.
“This is going to hurt…” Albert cooed sadistically, hand gripping your jaw roughly while his other continued to align himself against you. You sucked in a breath, trying to steel yourself against his harsh words. With that, Albert thrusted forward, plunging inside of you. White hot pain exploded within you, and you felt as if you were being torn apart. A sob tore through your throat, tears filling your eyes at the painful stretch.
Unphased by the intrusion, Albert continued, pushing so deep you were sure you were dying, his hips flush against yours, moving immediately with no room to adjust. Groaning, his grip on your jaw tightened so hard you felt as if you were going to snap. “Fuck… you’re so tight. Just like a bitch in heat.” He murmured, bottoming out before jutting forward again, causing a gargled yelp to escape you.
It was too much, you were too full, feeling as if you were bursting at the seams and filled to the brim with nothing except him. He was ruining you, practically tearing you apart and stuffing you so full there would be nothing left. His hips rolled again, cock dragging against your sore folds so roughly you were sure you were stretched to the brink.
Albert moved at a bruising force, fucking into you so roughly you felt as if you couldn’t breathe. With every harsh thrust, the searing pain began to subside, an indescribable warmth beginning to take its place. Albert’s hand wrapped around the scarf, tugging it closer, and your back arched off the mattress to meet his grueling pace. You subconsciously clenched around him at the action, the thrusts of his cock becoming much more clear against you at the shift in your position.
The other hand dug into your hip, forcing your legs even further apart as he drove into you. Heat prickled across your skin, the stretch of his cock becoming everything except pain with each thrust. Your toes curled as he hammered into you, a sheen of sweat coating your skin. Quick, heated huffs escaped you as he ruined you, the pain completely shifting into white-hot pleasure.
Albert practically growled as you succumbed to his ministrations, broken moans filling the air as he fucked you into the mattress. “Taking me so- hah… well… I knew you needed it…” He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder as his scarf-entangled fist met the bed, pulling you even more upright. “-Such a- fuck… dirty slut.” His degrading words burned at your skin, yet the way his hips rolled against you made any semblance of a response die on your lips.
The warmth returned to your stomach, kneading so heavily within you it felt like you were going to burst. Your legs trembled around Albert’s waist, the tension continued to build with every stroke of his cock through your slick walls. Uncontrollably, you clenched down, causing a hiss to escape the male hovering over you. “Shit… you’re milking me. You- mmh… you wanna cum?” He mused, dropping the scarf completely to wrap both hands around your neck, pushing you flat into the mattress.
Pushing his weight against you, his hips slammed into yours at such a bruising pace your eyes rolled to the back of your head. Using your neck as a lifeline, Albert barred down, cutting off most of your oxygen as he pounded against you. “Cum for me, let me- ah… let me ruin you.” He pushed, thrusting so deeply you swore you saw stars. Your heels dug into the mattress, tension building within you so tightly tears welled in your eyes.
And finally, you burst.
Your orgasm hit you so suddenly your nails cut into your palms, body spasming as pleasure cut through your whole body, the dam releasing. A guttural scream tore through the air, rough and jagged, before it dawned on you that it was coming from you. Albert’s paced faltered as he fucked you through your orgasm, the pleasure radiating off of you in waves to the point you felt like jelly in his hands.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck-.” Albert chanted into your neck, riding out your orgasm before his hips stilled within you, stuttering as he reached his own orgasm. Hot, wet ropes of cum spurted within you, and you clenched at the feeling. Albert shuddered, practically collapsing against you, hips shallowly thrusting against yours. Sweat clung to your skin, and the smell of sex, blood, and saliva coated the air heavily.
Albert’s grip on your throat released, and you gasped for air. Albert tore his head from the crook of your neck, sweat dripping from his temple as he took in his handiwork. You were sprawled beneath him, skin adorned with love bites and bruises, covered in blood and sweat as you tried to catch your breath. You were his, ruined for all others.
A wicked grin spread across his lips, and he gently unwrapped the scarf from your neck, rubbing the raw flesh of your throat endearingly. He hummed at the way you melted against his hand, brain turned to mush and still reeling from your orgasm. So sweet, so compliant, all it took was a little breaking in, and you were all his. Albert withdrew his hips from yours, his softening cock retreating from your folds.
You jolted at the feeling, a hiss escaping you as the emptiness consumed you again, soreness creeping into your form. Crawling off the bed, Albert quickly dressed, shoving himself into his slacks before glancing at your fucked-out form on the mattress, a mixture of cum and blood dripping onto the mattress from between your legs. Albert huffed at the sight, buckling his belt into place before moving to crouch beside you.
His fingers brushed your hair, and you sleepily opened your eyes to meet his own. Albert smiled at the empty gaze within them, only trained on him.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, hm? How about some of that eggnog?” Albert mused, grabbing your ruined shirt and pushing you upwards. You limply complied, jerking slightly from the shift in position. Albert produced a small key from his back pocket, unchaining your wrist from the wall before slipping the ruined shirt back onto your form. You hummed slightly, relishing the way the fabric brushed against your sore skin.
Releasing your form, you flopped backwards onto the mattress, exhausted. Albert chuckled at your almost broken state, standing and grabbing his shirt. Shrugging the material back onto his body, he buttoned the bottom few buttons before turning towards the door. “Merry Christmas, hon. I’m sure it’s one you’ll never forget.”
Your eyes met his once more, and he smiled, knowing he had won. Bound by kindness, he thought. Turning, he creaked open the heavy door before slamming it shut, leaving you alone in the cramped room. Rolling on your side, you brought your knees to your chest, the warmth fading from your skin.
Shame and guilt blossomed like a pit within your stomach, the pleasure seeping from you as you stared out at the wall. You winced at the pain from moving, groaning slightly as you felt Albert’s cum leaking from you onto the damp mattress. Mind swirling with emotions that were too complicated to decipher, you waited for Albert to return, craving his warmth, yet hating yourself for wanting him near you.
His betrayal was a fresh wound to bear, yet you couldn’t find yourself despising him, a much more primal emotion forming in your gut. You couldn’t tell which was more terrifying. Figuring out how you felt about Albert and how to adjust to your… new life was a tomorrow problem, for now you needed to rest. Staring out at the small window by the ceiling, you watched the snow fall once more, the frigid air creeping into the room and seeping into your bones.
You always hated the cold.
—
A/N: This was definitely a labor of love... requests and suggestions are still open for anyone interested!
❤︎ He’s extremely old school but has about a 10% open mind would rather see you be a stay at home wife then getting a job
❤︎practices his magic tricks infront of you asking for your opinion
❤︎ Absolutely adores it when you wear dresses drives him nuts
❤︎Gives you his credit card when you have to buy groceries or anything for the house (woman could legally have her own credit card starting in 1974, when the Equal Credit Opportunity Act was passed)
❤︎stalked you for several months before getting the courage to talk to you memorized your schedule and found a perfect opportunity
❤︎very romantic at heart the 1st date was probably a cute picnic at a park
❤︎the more he kept stalking you the bigger the urge for him to kidnap you and keep you all to himself
❤︎ like I said old school probably asked your parents for permission to marry you brought flowers and anything
❤︎ he gives me the vibe to have his wedding in Vegas like the little Vegas chapel or a outdoor wedding
❤︎loves showing you off to other people your his praised jewel
❤︎gets extremely possessive over you he tries to keep his controlling habits in check
❤︎talked about you to his brother so much so that max thought you were already dating even though he has yet to even speak to you
❤︎has snuck in to your home on multiple occasions to steal some of your stuff
