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shalotttower · 11 months ago

Text

Sweetcheeks

Title: Sweetcheeks

Fandom: Black Christmas (1974)

Summary: You've been getting these odd calls for several months now.

Word count: 2000+

Characters: Billy Lenz x Reader (female)

Notes: Yandere!Billy (I'm not sure if there's a point to specify it, seems like his normal state), stalking, voyeurism, explicit and degrading vocabulary, some regular Billy perversions, NSFW, noncon touching, implied noncon by the end.

You've been getting these calls from a stranger for several months, ever since you moved into the sorority house. When the phone rings, what you might hear is easy to predict: creepy panting accompanied by lewd remarks. There's a breathy, slightly raspy voice on the other end; Hello, sweetcheeks, whatcha got down them pants?

He calls you that, "sweetcheeks". Says your name as if it were the loveliest word ever. "Naughty girl," he croons, "let me lick your hot cunt". Nasty bitch. Angel. He has an extensive collection of nicknames, and keeps expanding it with every passing day. Some of them are quite creative, others made your skin crawl at first, but eventually you got used to his bizarre expressions.

He never gets tired of these calls.

The sorority girls named him the Moaner, because he does it quite a lot - moans. Moans and says obscene things, which make your face flush in a hot wave of pink.

"Did you think of me?" he asks.

Do you ever think of me?

"I could-" he groans those filthy words, and you want to wash your ears with soap, "fuck your brains out. Dirty whore. Your... mmm."

You slam the receiver down. It always happens when least expected. In the middle of a conversation with other girls, during study hours, when you're cooking or getting ready for bed, he calls. There's no pattern, so it's impossible to anticipate; normally you just answer the phone when there's no one else around or let others tell him to fuck off.

Today is almost the same as usual, with the only exception that you don't pick up.

What follows can't be described: the unbearable, insane trilling of the phone ringing without a pause. You don't want to go downstairs, there're finals, tests and assignments weighing heavily on you and no time to indulge the ever-breathing presence behind the line. So you don't. Luckily, a set of ear plugs from the local pharmacy helps a lot.

***

You don't bother answering for the whole week, yet despite your neglect he still calls as if desperate for something you can't place.

***

If only Billy could tell you how sweet you look when getting ready for bed. Through the attic floor cracks he sees every small detail of your routine, the room which is nice and smells of a woman - clean, soft with the hints of perfume, it makes him want to bury his face in your sheets.

If only Billy could tell you how exhilarating everything about you is. From the way you move through the day to the sound of your bare feet padding on the wooden floors in the evening. His favourite part is when you shake off your jeans; it's a clumsy movement which makes your ass wiggle.

Billy has a small box where he stores the pieces of your life. There's a receipt from the bakery, two pencils, a silver chain that broke off from your neck and he grabbed it like a treasure, a lip balm. You are all his, every bit of you in those little things you leave behind, even if you don't know it yet.

He knows so many things by now. What time you usually go to shower (late at night when all other girls are asleep), what you are going to wear in the morning (he saw you ironing a blue fluffy sweater and a checked skirt). He knows what's in each of your drawers, from cosmetics to panties, soft cotton that smells like laundry detergent.

The box is hidden carefully in the dusty corner of the attic. Sometimes he opens it, caressing the items you left so carelessly on the desk or bathroom counter - they burn his fingers.

You have a mole under your left breast, a beauty mark on your inner thigh. He also knows that you haven't been answering his calls for a week.

Engrossed in your books with sticky notes, you don't even pay attention to the ringing when he's trying so hard. Too bad Billy can't read, letters dance before his eyes, mocking him with their squiggly shapes; maybe he'd know what exactly is keeping you so occupied if he could. He heard some girls talking about upcoming finals but didn't understand what that meant.

Billy knows how to handle a girl who doesn't answer the phone, a naughty, mean girl who ignores him and gets under his skin like the itch he can't scratch, irritating, driving him crazy.

Patience is a virtue - that's what they told him in the looney house, but it must've been a lie. Patience won't bring you closer, he thinks, sitting cross-legged on the attic floor with a phone clutched in his palm. Patience won't help him touch you, lick your soft skin and hear you moan for him. In the cramped space smelling of old wood, dust and cobwebs, patience only leads to days crawling by like sluggish worms.

He knows how to handle the girl who doesn't answer his calls, but you do look tired, the shadows under your eyes are too heavy and prominent. Billy watches you rub your temples for the fourth time in an hour, yawning. He's seen this gesture before, saw you massaging the back of your head after reading for too long.

He likes watching you when you think no one's looking, because then you're most honest. Just you.

Maybe Billy will let you rest. Yes, maybe...But his hands itch so much. Itchy-itchy-itchy when he holds the phone. He wants to dial your number again, listen to your breathing and tell you something that will make your voice waver in confusion, just like that time when he asked what sounds you make when touching yourself.

He strokes the cord and imagines when you'll finally start picking up again. You'll say your name and ask, "Who's this?" and Billy will laugh, because you're silly, so silly and should've known it's him all along.

***

When did it begin to snow?

You remember the sun peeking from behind the clouds a few days ago and now there's nothing but whiteness outside. White paths, white street lights and white flakes melting on the glass windows. The kitchen feels quiet today, walls drip with the evening chill which crawls inside your veins; it's a week before Christmas and the radio is playing jolly songs about sleigh bells and presents.

Something's been off lately.

Another pair of your favorite socks is gone; you bought five, but three vanished without a trace. Maybe you lost them, maybe they got mixed up with others' laundry. Yet you distinctly remember washing the two and putting them away in the drawer. Usually you're not that forgetful, but perhaps it's finals stress shows.

You glance at the clock - past six - the sorority house is mostly empty, everyone's either in the library or went home for Christmas. The last few hours passed in decorating the living room area with tinsel and ornaments, you even put a wreath on the door. A festive mood is slowly seeping in, and all that's missing is a tree. You know that one should be in the attic, Allison told you there's a lot of stuff up there. The house is old, and whoever owned it in the past had a lot of things, from clothes and books to trinkets, all stored away in cardboard boxes and plastic containers.

Sturdy and narrow, the attic ladder is hanging down to the hallway, beckoning with its crooked wooden rungs. Allison mentioned some odd noises coming from there sometimes. Probably rodents. "Go take a look, girl," she laughed and made spooky sounds, wiggling her fingers. "But don't tell me if you find something nasty, I don't wanna know about it."

Your eyes wander over the ceiling and stop at a small trapdoor. There are rusty hooks holding it closed, and you wonder if it's safe to go up alone. It's probably dirty, a real mess, but the living room looks empty and unfinished without a Christmas tree.

Just a quick look. As long as there aren't spiders swarming the corners it'll be alright.

Everything's dark up there, nothing moves and the sound of your quiet breath is the only thing breaking the silence. You pull a flashlight out of your pocket. Flick. Nothing. Stacks of boxes crowd the space, pressing together, on the side of a particularly large container is scribbled: BOX 23. You look through the labels - toys, photographs, china, books - dozens and dozens of them, some haven't been opened for years.

Dirty. Stuffy-dusty, Billy's saliva gets sticky, leaving wet stains on his sleeves as he wipes his mouth. He can see you from where he's hiding. It's hard to breathe. Harder when you bend over to open a box with Christmas decorations; you've got nice thighs. Nice legs. It's so good to have you here, sweetcheeks, you won't leave soon, pretty kitty. Dumb bitch. Sweet angel. You really should've stayed downstairs, in the warmth and light of the fireplace, instead of crawling up here into the darkness.

Into him.

You go through the attic space looking for something, and Billy thinks that your soft slippers will be covered in dust after you're done poking around, all filthy, so messy. But it doesn't matter, Billy will clean you up later with his tongue, and you can sit on his blanket while he licks your hot cunt till you scream.

Billy knows exactly what kind of sounds you'll make.

He's heard them countless times already.

A sudden clank makes you jump. Your heart flutters, but there's nothing except for shadows dancing on the walls under the ray of your flashlight. Maybe a rat? Oh, there it is. A green plastic branch of a fake Christmas tree is sticking out from the nearest pile, just what you were looking for. You tug at it, trying to free it from the clutches of old furniture and junk, but the thing is stuck tight.

Billy wants to grab you. Wrap his arms around your waist, press his face to yours and whisper in your ear that you shouldn't worry about the Christmas tree anymore, because now you're going to stay forever and ever with him. He'll let you stroke his cheek and kiss him softly on the lips before carrying you down the ladder to celebrate together. Billy will take care of it, he's always liked Christmas; there was a time when everything was different, a man dressed up as Santa brought gifts, he even remembers what he got - a shiny red truck and a candy cane.

The flashlight slips from your grasp and rolls over the dusty floorboards. You curse, crouch down and reach for it though the hole between the boxes.

The trapdoor shuts close with a loud thud.

Your hand freezes.

There's a breath. Not yours, it tickles your fingertips and the skin of your palm like a feather; it shouldn't be there - you scramble away from the darkness. Or try to. Something warm catches your wrist in a vice grip, pulls and next you're tumbling forward, right through the hole with Christmas ornaments spilling everywhere.

"Nasty piggy," says someone's raspy voice, "why don'tcha pick up my calls anymore?"

In the dim yellow of your flashlight too far out of reach, you can barely see anything, only glimpses of dirty auburn hair, brown eyes and a green stretched jumper.

It's not a rat in the attic, you think. It's not a rat, he smells like a wet dog and has hot lips which press into your throat. His hands shake as they travel up your sides, touch your breasts through the sweater, squeeze, and then he moans.

You've been getting these calls for several months now, from a stranger who pants on the other end of the line and makes obscene remarks. And you know him by voice, the one who likes talking filth and making you blush every damn day.

"Santa brought presents," he whispers in your ear. A hand slides down between your legs and cups your mound through the fabric. "Merry Christmas, sweetcheeks."

#black christmas (1974)#billy lenz #billy lenz x reader #shalott fanfiction #fanfic #slashers #slasher fanfiction #yandere #I'm late and I don't care #it's Christmas

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