#🔪 ————— sᴀʏ ᴀ ᴘʀᴀʏᴇʀ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʏᴏᴜᴛʜ ᴏғ ᴀᴍᴇʀɪᴄᴀ — v3.

[woozyhere]

🔪 ————— @bullsh1tterz

This shit was so fucking lame. Sitting around, listening to people trauma dump about their mediocre, b-grade survival stories just to keep up appearances? Give him a break. Half the people in this support group were only there for the attention their stories brought, and the other half took the healing process far too seriously.

And then there was Stu.

Stu, who had survived - barely, in fact - a traumatic event, though had brought upon the horror all himself. Well, not entirely himself. His accomplice, however, was hardly in any condition to say otherwise. Stu had killed everyone in that fucking house, and now he was here. If only they knew.

Seating himself farther away from the group, he's rolling a joint. What, can anyone really get through these sessions sober? He's invaded the space of another man; not entirely, just close enough to give him an excuse to yap at someone, but far enough away to be appropriate. "This shit suuuucks, dude."

He lolls his head back theatrically, huffing a sigh before turning his attention back to the task at hand.

"Do you, uh," Stu mimics smoking before presenting his finished joint with a proud smirk. "'Cause, fuck, man. I don't think I can handle another minute without bein' stoned outta my gourd."

[woozyhere]

🔪 ————— closed starter: @andtheylive (sam)

He doesn't know what's prompted him to track Sam down. Maybe it was because it was all that was left of Billy. Maybe it was the only connection he really had to his lover best friend since, well... Stu doesn't like to think about it. There isn't a day gone by in over twenty years that he doesn't hear a final gunshot in his sleep. Muffled and shouted cries. He smells gunpowder and smoke at random, and maybe his pulse quickens every time, but Sam?

Well, if Sam were anything like her father, she'd be a loaded gun as well. Maybe the only gun Stu could handle being around these days.

Word travels. He can't remember exactly who told him about Sam, but he remembers it was quite some time ago, and it had been told to someone, who told someone else, who had overheard a conversation - something about Sidney, something about Gale. Stu hates them. But he doesn't hate Sam. He doesn't even know Sam yet, but how could he hate an extension of the boy he loved?

When he finally sees her, he doesn't know how to react. He's parked outside her home, just a few paces down so as not to appear suspicious - but a grown ass man waiting outside a young woman's house was suspicious enough. "Hi, uh- Sam? You're Sam?"

He approaches slowly, offering a dorky little wave before shoving his hands in his pockets nervously. He can practically smell the gunpowder now. One hand leaves a pocket to scratch at his face, the flesh there marred and scarred, tiny spiderwebbing, pale marks from a broken television screen two decades ago.

"Sorry, this is- well, it's weird. I'm Stu." He pauses, feet shuffling awkwardly in the gravel next to the driveway as he feels for words on his tongue. It isn't often he's tongue-tied, but this was a ... delicate situation. "I knew your dad."

[woozyhere]

Stop pretending you are not thinking about me. ( romeo!! )

So maybe he's been hanging around the library a lot lately. You can't blame a guy - it's not exactly the first place anyone would think to cruise, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and with knowledge came power or some shit like that. Stu was reading, but he wasn't so focused on the library so much as the librarian himself.

He's just placed back a book from the non-fiction, crime section. Stu is in there, reading, because he's searching. He's always looking for more Ghostface mentions, always curious about whether it has inspired other artists to perform, with words instead of knives. The problem with obsession is that it's unpredictable. One moment, you're obsessed with your own murders, seeking out a morsel of the meal you left behind. The next moment, your entire focus falls to the librarian across the way. It happens often. Each visit, in fact.

A lop-sided smirk curves the side of his mouth; eye contact is kept for a lingering moment as he slowly, swiftly - with more grace than should match a tall, lanky male such as Stu - turns his back and begins to leave. His steps are only paused when he hears the other speak. That smirk remains, though he doesn't turn around, not yet. "I'm not pretending anything."

Swiveling on his heels, Stu hardly hesitates. He steps forward, closes the distance between the two of them, and allows that smirk to part his lips in a toothy grin. Maybe his eyelids fall just a smidge, a softer gaze, though intense all the same. There's amusement and intrigue in those baby blues. "I am thinking about you. I think about you a lot, these days." He offers, head tilting. "But you've been thinking about me too, haven't you?"

[woozyhere]

okay finally getting my FECKIN !!!!!!!!! VERSES IN ORDER HERE !!!!!!!

🔪 ————— ɪ'ᴍ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴀ ᴘsʏᴄʜᴏ ʙᴀʙᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴏ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴍʏ ᴍɪɴᴅ — v1.

general verse — where most interactions will fall. this timeline is set during the events of the 1996 film before the massacre. age: 18

🔪 ————— ɪ ᴜsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʙᴏʏ sᴏ ᴏʟᴅ ɪɴ ᴍʏ sʜᴏᴇs — v2.

general adult verse — where most interactions will fall if stu is requested as an adult. this timeline is set after he's released on parole - having served a 25 year sentence. age: 45

🔪 ————— sᴀʏ ᴀ ᴘʀᴀʏᴇʀ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʏᴏᴜᴛʜ ᴏғ ᴀᴍᴇʀɪᴄᴀ — v3.

sole survivor verse — where Stu has manipulated everyone into believing he is the "sole survivor" of the massacre. Billy is dead in this verse, along with the rest of the friend group (unless otherwise assumed or plotted). Stu is far more cynical and cruel without Billy's influence. age range: 19 - 45

🔪 ————— ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪʟʟᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴍᴇ ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪʟʟᴇʀ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜ — v4. (@popularmxnster)

starting over — where Billy and Stu run off together to the Macher family cabin upstate California. they start their domestic life together, as a couple, and while Billy stays home to spruce up the cabin, Stu finds a boring ass desk job to keep busy. yes, that bloodlust is still there. Stu is always on the verge of asking if Billy wants to re-write and make their movie anyway. age range: 18 - 45

🔪 ————— ɪ'ᴍ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪ'ʟʟ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ — v5. (@dead-blondie)

i'm a what now? — where Stu is released on parole and tracks Tatum down ... only to discover that she had a child while he was locked up and the child is, wait for it, his!? Stu pushes to try again with the relationship, he wants to be involved, he wants a family and he wants to be a father. it'll take a lot of time to trust him again, this he knows, but he's trying- why can't she see he's really trying? age: 45

🔪 ————— ɪ'ᴍ sᴏ ᴜɢʟʏ; ᴛʜᴀᴛ's ᴏᴋᴀʏ 'ᴄᴀᴜsᴇ sᴏ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ — v6. (dead-blondie)

you're sick like me — where Tatum finds out Stu's nasty secret of being a Ghostface killer, and instead of offing her on the spot, he recruits her. he knew there had to be a sickness inside of her as well, and he tries to train it out of her. full of toxicity and gaslighting and manipulation. age range: ???

[woozyhere]

Sometimes he just needs a walk. A walk to clear his head, maybe. A walk to clear his lungs. Not that that is working out for him, as he's just sparked a joint and inhales deeply. It's dark out; he doesn't care. Narcissism states he's more dangerous than anything out there. Especially with the knife he pulls from it's sheath on his hip.

He twirls it, showing off the equal weight of it in a form of lazy showmanship before drawing in another inhale.

Oh, he knows. But only had for a little while. Stu's a hunter, in practice. The proof hidden away as rifles and bullets in a gun locker in his basement. One doesn't hunt without picking up keen senses, and although his are keen, they weren't keen enough to notice until only a few minutes ago. He doesn't know who is watching, but he feels eyes. He hears sounds that aren't nature; faintly, but enough.

He pretends not to notice, the thrill of it like static under his skin as he fights instinct. Fight or flight. Stu has never really done much of either. Stretching his arms up, languid, he makes sure the knife is on display; a buck knife, nothing pansy and certainly no tiny pocket knife. It glints in what little dim light illuminates - mostly moon, but far away street lamps as well. An exaggerated groan leaves him, a perfect punctuation to the stretch.

Only when he hears a louder sound, something akin to a shuffle, does he side-eye his surroundings. The sound enough to make him slightly flinch and prick the thumb he'd just pressed to the blade to test the sharpness. "Fuck."

The word is stage whispered, more intrigue than fear. More pleasured than pained. He pauses, stares, swaps the joint to the same hand holding the knife so he can inspect; draws the bleeding digit to his mouth to suck clean. It's just a knick but sometimes the little cuts bleed like a sonuvabitch too.

— @woozyhere liked for a starter.

stuart is tall enough to spot through layers of shrubbery, long-limbed enough that oliver can catch his profile from a distance. and what had begun as curious tailing, unravels into a quiet (and independent) game; one he's all too enthusiastic about when he trips over an excusable ledge. he peers, doe-eyed.

[woozyhere]

Stu gracefully bows at the waist - a perfect little gentleman as she enters his home. Same home, same murder scene; his parents couldn't handle the scandal, moved away closer to Leslie, upstate, left Stu the house to handle. And he was fine with that. He's an adult now, he has a job, even though he's receiving pretty hefty cheques from the government and Mom and Dad still pay for practically everything.

Their lil baby boy, their sweet survivor, their pride in him never quelled, their love and admiration of their only son for surviving and continuing on in the very house where he almost died.

Stu grins, wide and lazy and cynical. Cruelty paints his features for a flash as he glares hotly at her back, only for the mask of politeness to settle on his face again when she turns to look at him once more. The lazy grin grows, something playful in his eyes as he shuts the door behind them and motions with his hand toward the living room, offering she make her way inside if she intends to stay. He kind of hopes she does.

Maybe he can't kill her, but maybe he can play a bit of cat and mouse. Maybe he can fuck her. Maybe he can do a lot of other things, but he can't kill her; not yet.

"I can guarantee you that my sobriety has nothing to do with the quality of my dick." His smile dulls to a sultry smirk, head tilted and arms lifted in an motion that suggests defeat. Yeah, yeah, he's just playing - Sort of. He'd totally fuck Gale despite everything. Moving into the kitchen for a moment, he comes back with two glasses of water; he thinks it more appropriate than beer, when she's already mentioned his drinking. "I'm a young buck, ready to fuck. You think my stamina isn't off the charts right now? I'm in my prime, babe."

Cue: Toothy grin as he sets the waters down and flops onto the arm chair next to the sofa. "So what are you doin' here anyway? If you're not lookin' for a late night booty call, is there somethin' else you wanted?"

'   Pity,   but   then   again   I   am   not   looking   for   anyone   else   at   this   party   but   you   Stu.'   Gale   said   as   she   stepped   into   the   entrance   way   of   Stu's   house,   looking   around   the   house   as   It   was   once   a   crime   scene   she   turned   to   face   Stu,   her   hand   moving   onto   her   waist   as   he   spoke   once   more,   he   kind   of   sounded   drunk   if   she   was   being   honest.

'   Hm...that   you   say   that   for   certain   sober?   seems   like   you   had   abit   too   much   to   drink   there,   why   don't   I   come   back   in   the   morning   or   afternoon   when   you   are   sober   kid.'   She   chuckled   at   his   poor   attempt   of   a   flirt,   or   so   it   seemed   shaking   her   head   she   tilted   her   head.   '   You   wouldn't   be   able   to   handle   my   stamina,   thanks   for   offering.'

[woozyhere]

Kid. Kid? Stu wasn't a kid anymore, and he'd make that clear !! But Stu pauses before he can sort out some form of witty response, because, well... he's been calling people 'kid' since he was a kid himself. A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth briefly at the similarity, but bright blues focus on the joints pulled out instead, and then all thoughts are thrown directly out of the window.

Licking the paper of his own that he'd been rolling, he sets it aside, reaching for one of the joints with an appreciative nod. It's far better than his rolled one, but it was tough, okay!? "Thanks, man."

Sparking the end and passing the lighter back, Stu pulls in a deep drag, holding the smoke for a few beats as he listens before exhaling the smoke in a billow - he's an expert. He'd been smoking since he was a teen, he totally had this stoner thing down pat. He feels the tickle in his throat, but he's far beyond coughing now. Never could understand why people hack their fucking lungs up when they smoke. That hit the spot, though...

Offering a breathy laugh, Stu nods lazily, flicking what little ash has gathered already at the tip of the joint next to him on the ground before rolling his head to the side to stare at the other. "Naw, man. It's an attention grab for sure. Somewhere to dump your trauma to people who don't actually give a shit." Another drag, and he huffs a sigh.

"You been to a few of these then, huh? It's all the same bullshit fuckin' story. My boyfriend tried to kill me," And that was true enough for Stu, but he kinda liked it. "I got kidnapped for three days, wah, wah."

Insensitive? Absolutely - but Stu wasn't a victim here. Despite the scarring on his face and abdomen that might suggest otherwise.

"Just smoke some weed like the rest of us and get over it, man." Another drag, and it's finally starting to settle in - he feels heavier and lighter at the same time. Much better than he did a few minutes ago, anyway. "Stu," He finally offers, stretching out his free hand to shake in introduction. "Glad to find someone who thinks this is bullshit too."

Support group shmupport shmoop, Adam's never been one to sit down and process his trauma in front of a circle of strangers - half of which, of course, are pretending to have similar trauma, and half of which think this is going to help them much more than it realistically can. Morons. He's only here because he had to find Lawrence - he figures he owes the other survivor a check-in, a 'hello. I'm not dead. goodbye,' perhaps to relieve him of any guilt which might dissipate from having shot Adam or simply to see him one last time and confirm to himself once and for all that yes they did survive.

He's been through three separate groups, now, one even special to Jigsaw victims, all in vain. It's starting to piss him off; so much so that any sense of courtesy or social boundaries has been thrown out the window for him today. He's sitting perched up against the wall in a sad little corner of the room as the rest continue to stuff one another with varying degrees of survival stories. He figures he might as well get some safe alone time in before returning to that crummy apartment of his and sleeping with one eye open.

But alas, Adam Faulkner-Stanheight is never really one to get what he wants. What he does get is some dude - in his early twenties, must be - sitting down beside him. He expects some boring conversation about said dude's trauma - oh I ran away from a guy with an axe, that was spooky! I will never be the same ! Which is perhaps why he doesn't yell at his face when he actually speaks and seems to be sharing Adam's sentiment.

"I hear that, kid." he says, fishing for two out of four blunts stashed in his little cross-bag. "Here." He slips them out and offers the other one, reaching back in to pull a lighter out and handing it to the other first as he begins to speak. "I swear to ya half o' these people are absolutely embellishin' their stories or outright bullshittin' the rest." a little huff. "Then again - that's what I've learned ta expect from this sorta bogus sorrow-fest."