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whoreforhorror · 2 years ago

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Slasher with an S/O who self-harms

Included: Billy Loomis, Hannibal Lecter, Rusty Nail, Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair

Tw: Mentions of self-harm and blood

Billy Loomis

Billy had been out with Stu as Ghostface quite late into the night. He figured you would be asleep. Still, on the off chance that you weren’t, he made his way to your house. Realistically, even if you were asleep, he was just going to join you in bed.

He got to your window to find you were up, sitting on the edge of your bed with your back to the window. He was happy to see you up because he wanted to spend time with you, but it wasn’t really usual for you to be up quite this late. He snuck in quietly, planning to try and give you a scare, and got about halfway to you before he noticed a few more details he had missed.

You were incredibly quiet, the silence of the room feeling a bit suffocating at the moment. Your head was hung low and you had a blade in one of your hands. Your arms were bleeding. You were… bleeding? What the fuck?

Billy closes in on you, achieving his original goal of giving you quite the jump scare in the process. He didn’t care about that right now. Before you really know what was happening, you’re in the bathroom, sitting while he pulls out medical supplies. Billy was silent and methodical as he cleaned each wound, making sure they weren’t too deep before wrapping your arms in gauze and medical wrap. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t look at you.

He’d sit you back down on the edge of your bed, standing in front of you in silence. Even considering he didn’t really like to talk that much, he was too quiet. It put you on edge and made you worry. You couldn’t tell if he was angry or worried, and his face wasn’t giving anything away.

You avoided eye contact for what felt like an eternity before you came to the conclusion that you’d have to be the first to talk. “Billy-“ You couldn’t get anything out before he dropped to his knees in front of you and hugged your waist, burying his head in your stomach. You could hear him sob quietly into your shirt, and his hold on you was tight.

He cried for a while before he could gather himself enough to talk. Even then, all he said was “Why?”. He’d kill anyone responsible for making you feel this way. Point blank. No Stu, no Ghostface, no teasing or foreplay. It would be him, them, and his knife, and it would be messy. If it wasn’t that simple, he’d listen to everything you told him, anything you’d be willing to share. When you finished, he’d stand up to hold you properly and to talk in your ear. He couldn’t bring himself to talk anywhere above a whisper at the moment.

“I can’t lose you. You’re all I have. I love you so much-“ It was the first time he had told you that and you couldn’t ignore the sting created by having him say it in this moment rather than during something happy and romantic. “I need you here with me. Anything you want I’ll help you with. I’ll do anything to make you feel better, just say the word.”

Eventually, he’d get you to lay down with him and he’d hold you tight as you both slept. From now on, he’d keep a closer eye on you and anything your body language would tell him about how you’re feeling. Sometimes, when he’s really tired and you’re asleep, he’ll run his thumb over your scars and think to himself about how he’d missed the signs and what he can do to keep this from happening ever again.

Hannibal Lecter

The dinner party really wasn’t supposed to start like this. Hannibal had bought you an outfit he’d seen while he was out, and it had reminded him of you. It was a sweet thought, and you couldn’t deny it looked amazing, but there was one issue. It had short sleeves. You’d been able to get away with wearing long sleeves up until this point because of the weather, which was cold, but each day was just a bit warmer and it was to the point where it was too warm to add a jacket to an outfit. So here you were, looking at the outfit laying neatly on the bed, tears in your eyes as you thought about your arms and how Hannibal was going to react. Would he think you’re weak? Imperfect? Valueless? Would he think you were trying to damage his image?

Hannibal, who had been around for nearly twenty minutes, was growing concerned about how long it was taking you to get around. He knocked on the door, calling out to you and asking if everything was alright. You responded, saying everything was ok, but he could hear the distress and shakiness in your voice as you spoke. Of course, he could. He thought about his options for a second before announcing that he was coming into the room. You didn’t want him to but there was no way to keep him out. You knew that.

“What’s wrong, my love? Do you not like the outfit?” He knew it wasn’t that, but he’d rather you tell him what was really wrong rather than him having to figure it out himself. “I can take it back if it’s not to your liking.” You’d have to choose between acting as if you hated the outfit he’d gifted you or telling him about your self-harming. You hated sounding ungrateful, especially when Hannibal was always so gracious. You had to tell him.

And when you did, he goes quiet for a moment. He’d known something was wrong but he certainly hadn’t been expecting that. He hadn’t noticed. How hadn’t he noticed? He’s panicking internally but refuses to let it show at the moment. For the first time in a very, very long time, he’s feeling fear, sadness, confusion, and anger toward himself.

He’ll do whatever is needed to make you feel comfortable. If you want to cover them, he’ll figure it out. If you don’t want to, he’s more than supportive and will shut down anyone who would dare say something about them.

Once dinner is done and the guests have left, he’ll question you. In that moment, you don’t have Hannibal, you have Dr. Lecter. He will want to know how long you’ve been struggling with mental health, how long you’ve been self-harming, what triggers you, how can he help, etc.

He’ll pay close attention to you after he knows. You and sharp objects, that is. He won’t lock away knives or anything of that sort. He knows that will only make you feel worse, but he’ll make sure to remember exactly where sharp objects are and how they’re positioned. He’s going to know if you do it again. Once he knows, it’s impossible to hide it. Point blank. Still, he’ll be gentle about it. He doesn’t think you’re wrong or damaged; he just thinks you need a bit of structure and help.

Rest assured, you’ll get the best care with Hannibal. He’s a psychiatrist after all, and one of the best at that. However, he might use this as a way to subtly manipulate you into sharing his… unique food tastes. After all, why harm yourself when you can take all of your emotions out on others?

Rusty Nail

Rusty is gone A LOT, that’s no secret. But, that means you’re left with a lot of time to think, and thinking leads you to, well, the predicament you’re in now. You didn’t think he was supposed to be home for another day or two, but he’s early. He’s early and your arm is leaking fresh blood. If that wasn’t bad enough, you also hadn’t heard him (you were too wrapped up in your thoughts) until he was opening the bedroom door.

“Darlin’?” He’s walking towards you slowly, like you’re an animal that could lash out if he moves too quickly. Gently, he takes your hands and holds up your arms to give himself a better view. He wipes his thumb across a drop of blood to convince himself that this is real, and not a sort of twisted hallucination. “Darlin’.” He says it softly, this time.

He’s incredibly gentle as he guides you to the bathroom to tend to your wounds, quiet too. You’re sat on the side of the tub and he’s kneeling before you. As he finishes, he lets out a deep sigh, looking up at you before circling his arms around your waist and burring his face into your stomach. His hold is tight, and this lasts for quite a while.

When Rusty gathers himself enough to look at you again, he’ll pick you up and carry you to bed. You don’t feel like arguing. He didn’t have to say anything for you to know he was right, you were tired and you weren’t going to fight him on it. Even if you wanted to, the shattered look in his eyes acted as a foolproof deterrent.

As you nap, he cooks a meal for you. He wakes you up after a while to eat and draws you a bath after you’re done. He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t know what to say. For every moment he can, he’s going to take care of you like your royalty. Gradually, as the tension loosens, he’ll talk more and so will you but there is still a heavy sadness and tension in the air around him.

He’ll ask you quietly in the morning, as you two laze in bed, why you do it. Whether or not you tell him, he respects your choice. If you do tell him, he’ll want to talk through the issue. If it’s a person, he’s already thinking up ways to draw as much suffering from him as possible. If you don’t want to tell him, that’s ok. He’ll hold you close and whisper things about how much he loves you and what he would do to prove it.

When he’s on the road, he’ll call you every afternoon. Talk to him about anything, he just wants to hear you speak and get insight on your day. He wants to make sure you’re ok, as well.

He’d take you for a drive if you wanted. He absolutely loves having you in his passenger seat, riding alongside him in his rig. It makes him feel happy and possessive. One night, when he’s not on the road, he’d stock his truck with snacks, drinks, and blankets. He’d drive you out a field and stargaze with you late into the night, possibly until you fell asleep. If that happened, he’d carry you back into the truck so he could drive home.

Michael Myers

Micheal knew something had been off for a while, but assumed you’d come to him when you were ready to share. He’d grown impatient though, and decided to watch you while you thought he was away, to see if he could figure out what was wrong.

He’d caught you in the act and was shocked. Well, he felt as much shock as he was capable of feeling, which is far more than he is used to but not like a person might normally. Still, the pang of emotion was something he didn’t feel often. He’d suspected something was up but he hadn’t suspected this. Not in the slightest.

Of course, he’d seen people self-harm before. He had his time in the hospital to thank for that. He remembered how the doctors would react. Restraints, heavy surveillance, taking away anything even slightly dangerous, frequent and consistent check-ins, and medication, loads of medications. He also remembered how much the patients hated it. He had a few hours before you expected him home, which meant he had a few hours to think.

When Michael came home, you greeted him as you always did. You were cheery and excitable. It put a weird taste in his mouth and a feeling like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It didn’t sit right with him and made him very unhappy.

He was still for a moment longer than normal, catching your attention and causing you to ask if something was wrong. He responds by pointing to your arm, confusing you. He grabs your wrist and pulls up one of your sleeves, and you freeze, looking at him in the eye holes of his mask in shock.

Michael would give you the materials needed to take care of your wounds and watch as you patch yourself up. He’d teach you if you didn’t know how. After, he’d lay on the couch with you and watch movies until you fell asleep. Only after you’re asleep would he leave a kiss on each arm. A promise to you and himself that he’d do what he needed to make you happy.

Michael will be around more after he finds out. Not in an overbearing way, but he realized that he doesn’t spend as much time as he should with you. He’ll bring home little gifts that he thinks you’ll like and will make you masks that he thinks fit your personality. You might even sucker him into cleaning the house or cooking from time to time.

Bo Sinclair

It was WAY too hot for long sleeves in Louisiana. It was the middle of summer, and mid-day at that. Bo thought you’d knock more than a few screws loose to be dressed for late fall at this time of year. And to be outside on top of that?

Bo had asked you to come to the church to help with some minor repairs, and you’d been more than happy to come along. Problem was, you’d had a relapse the night before and your arms were covered in fresh wounds. You were practically dying in the summer heat, but you’d risk the heatstroke to avoid Bo finding out.

“What’re you doin’ with them sleeves? You look like you’re fixin’ to go out in winter, not the Louisiana summer.” You hadn’t really thought of a cover story, which was coming back to bite you in the ass. You’d decided to say you just weren’t feeling too great, causing Bo to look back at you.

“What’s wrong sugar?” You’d responded and said you felt cold and you were tired, and you could tell he wasn’t sure if he really believed you. He put a hand on your forehead as you looked up at him. “Well, you’re burnin’ up but that’s probably because of them sleeves. Why don’t ya take it off? Certainly wouldn’t mind the view to give me a lil’ work encouragement.”

You turned him down and suggested that you’d go get some lemonade, to which he agreed was a good idea and wanted to join you. He was at a good stopping place anyway. While you were washing up to serve the lemonade, you’d had to push up your sleeves a bit to avoid getting them wet. You hadn’t accounted for Bo coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around you.

He was about to say something when he saw them. When you felt him tense up, you tensed up too. You froze and waited for him to say something, to do anything that gave you an indication of how to respond. After a few seconds, he took his arms away from your waist and grabbed your shoulders gently, turning you around to face him.

“You know… I’ve got some scars too…” It was the first time you’d seen the scars on his wrist. It was the only thing he could think to do in the moment. You started fretting over him, asking what happened, if he was alright, who did this, and other things along that line in a continuous stream of worry. He had to interrupt you and raise his voice to get you to quiet down. He agreed that he would tell you what happened if you told him why you’d harmed yourself.

In the end, you both wound up having an hours-long conversation about both of your histories and troubles. You both talked until you passed out, holding each other close and feeling leagues closer to him than you had before. It was a rare, bittersweet moment to bond and it would result in a permanent, noticeable shift in the interactions between you two.

After the conversation, you two held each other closer. You were softer when speaking to each other, and arguments often got resolved much quicker and with fewer tears than there used to be. You both understood each other more than anyone else had, and it shows.

Bo would do the best he could to make you feel comfortable showing your arms, no matter what stage of healing they were in. Bo would even show his scars more if it helped, granted that there was no chance of visitors. If tourists said anything about it, they wouldn’t get to be a sculpture. Vincent wouldn’t be able to reconstruct them well enough if he tried. No, they’d wind up in the pit with Lester’s roadkill.

Bo would kiss your scars in intimate moments if you’d let him. It’s his way of showing that he loves every part of you, regardless of how much you like it yourself.

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slxsherwriter · 5 months ago

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Pay for Past Sins

Fandom: Joy Ride

Pairing: Rusty Nail x single mother female reader

Word count: 2,529

Warnings: Kidnapping, violence, blood, injuries, threats to a child character

Author's note: I wanted to play with the idea of allowing Rusty to show off that more violent and aggressive side of him since I've written him more softly. In the end, I actually struggled a bit with the way that he would handle things, so I think I found a way to go about it that suited everything. As always, not beta read. Mistakes are my own. Enjoy! Likes are always appreciated, but reblogs keep the creative muse fed.

Tagging: @tinalbion @umnitsa

Stickiness on the side of your face. A deep, pulsing throb in your head. You made a move to reach up and touch where the pain seemed to be radiating from, only to not be able to move your arms. A quick jerk confirmed the fact and panic welled in your chest. What the hell? The tightness around your wrists registered as well as the stretch in your shoulders. Your hands were restrained behind your back.

The last thing that you remembered was having dinner with Rusty and Michael. Michael. You tried to push yourself up. It took a little more effort than expected and only made your head feel worse, the pain sharpening briefly as you righted yourself. It took a moment, some slow breathing with your eyes squeezed shut, to let the worsening pain pass. Once it felt like your head wasn't about to pop like a grape, you opened your eyes. The room around you wasn't all that impressive. Dark, dingy. A dirt floor beneath you meant any movement caused little clouds of dirt dust to whirl in the air. It was quiet. Eerily and uncomfortably quiet. Panic curled in your gut and your chest, for a moment, leaving you feeling breathless. You had to get free. Where was Rusty? Where was Michael? Were you the only one who was tied up in this? There were a lot of questions and no answers. As you shifted your wrists, causing the material to bite further into your skin, you looked around for any sign of your son first.

“Look who's awake.” A voice off to your right spoke. There wasn't a body that you could see, just shadow movements. Blinking, you tried to clear your eyes more and find the shape of the individual that was speaking. “You aren't going to get yourself free. Might as well stop now.” The voice wasn't one that you knew, unrecognizable. But still, the hairs on the back of your neck stood up.

“Who are you? What do you want?” In case he didn't have Michael, you didn't want to say anything right away. As much as you wanted to know where he was, protective instincts demanded that you didn't put him in any more danger.

“You know, you must be really sick in the fucking head, being with him.” Nothing about the statement made sense. Him? Who the hell was he referring to? Did this have something to do with your ex? The two of you had been separated for nearly a year now, the divorce done and over. He was the one who initiated it. Despite the warning, as you thought about what could have brought you here, you continued to wriggle your wrists to try and get free. Footsteps sounded out, moving closer by the second. “That the case? You get off on the shit that he does?” Without warning, your hair was yanked back, forcing your head back, and pain to worsen again. A cry slipped from you before you could stop it. That's when you tasted blood in your mouth. The stickiness on the side of your head had to be blood.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Bullshit!” He used the hold that he had on your hair to force you to your feet, no other choice in the matter to avoid any additional pain. “That fuck killed my friends, tried to kill me. Too bad for him that I survived. Me and my girl. So, now is time for some payback. We came prepared and you are the key to that.” He kept talking like what he was saying was supposed to make sense to you.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” you pleaded, hoping the man would either believe you or at least give you a little more context as to what was going on. If you knew what he was referring to, maybe you could talk your way out of it. Maybe. But if he had kidnapped you and had hurt you, it was likely not something that you could talk your way out of, but you would give it a try.

“You don't know what I'm talking about, huh? Maybe if you see his work then you'll remember. This is your home after all since you're his bitch, isn't it?” He pulled you forward before forcing you to sit down at a table. To your horror, your son was tied up to a seat across from you. Michael seemed to be knocked out, or sleeping. There wasn't any markings that you could see but it still didn't stop the rush of emotions that came over you.

“Listen, you can do whatever you want to me. I don't care. Just….leave him out of it. He's an innocent boy.” You struggled against the hold and the restraints with a renewed vigor. That only pissed the man off further, and the next thing that you knew, you were slammed face down. There was an audible crunch, and blood filled filled your mouth as it poured down from your broken nose. The pain caused your eyes to water and a small sob to escape.

“You think I care about any of that? You're both connected to him, so you both get the same treatment. He needs to know what it's like to lose.” Your heart just about stopped in your chest, despite the dizziness that caused the room to spin around you as your head was yanked back once more. “Now, I think you need a little taste of what my friends and I experienced.” You had no clue what that actually meant, but you knew it wasn't any good. Ears ringing still from the blow to your head, you missed the fact that he stepped away. There was rummaging behind you and then metal hitting metal that made you flinch.

Michael began to stir and your heart leapt into your throat. No. If he saw any of this….

Something rumbled in the distance. The man behind you laughed.

“Right on time.” He cut the restraints on your wrists and yanked one of your hands forward. You struggled against his hold but couldn't break out of it, even as you nearly fell out of the seat. A metal spike was driving through the top of your hand into the table. The pain was jarring. Hot, intense, and overwhelming, causing your vision to blacken at the edges. The scream that came from you was reactionary, a response that couldn't have been controlled and enough to wake up Michael.

“Mommy!” Shit. The nerves were on fire, and it radiated up your arm. Muscles spasmed, causing your fingers to twitch uncontrollably. The man moved towards Michael.

“No, no! Don't touch him!” The words choked through your pained sobs, tearing a raw spot in your throat. Shaky legs held your weight against all odds as you stood up. There was no chance there you could reach across the table and stop whatever was about to happen. Even as you tried, despite the way that it caused sheer agony to yourself. You couldn't let the man touch your son. Even seeing the fingers trail through your son's hair was enough to make your blood boil. “Mike, it's going to be okay, baby.” He was already crying, and you knew that there was only so much you could do to reassure him in the moment. The room wobbled around you, blackness creeping further into the edges of your vision.

He had mentioned something about another person, and the thought came to your attention. Where were they? Potentially others. As in more than one. A scream came from behind you, somewhere in the depths of the barn looking thing that you were in, and it caught his attention. It was a minor miracle that his hands came away from Michael. Though, that relief was short-lived when he produced a pistol from the back of his pants. His attention had been fully pulled away from the two of you. As he moved from the table, you tried to watch him, confirming that he wouldn't look. More screams before he was hollering out names. Ones you didn't care about.

“Michael, baby, I need you to close your eyes, okay? Please, just listen to Mommy. I promise everything is going to be okay.” You needed him not to watch what was about to happen. He nodded, sniffling, but ended up listening to you. Gritting your teeth, you grabbed at the metal spike that was keeping your hand pinned to the table. There was enough, just enough, for you to grab. Biting in the inside of your cheek and on your tongue in an effort to muffle the pained noises, you tried to yank it out. Getting free from the table was imperative to your health. More voices began to sound out, causing your hand to slip. “Shit…”

“Easy there, darling.” You jumped at the sound of the familiar voice, tugging at the wound and causing another cry to slip. “Shit, don’t move.” The warm familiar touch pressed into your lower back, and a low hiss came from the man as he inspected the wound on your hand. He murmured a soft apology and did what you had just attempted to do. His large hand, already covered in blood, dwarfed your own. He made it seem like the spike was nothing. It hurt just as badly as it came out as it had when it had been rammed into your hand. He pulled a rag from a pocket and quickly wrapped it around your hand. If you didn't focus on the movement of his hands, there was a significant risk that you would fall to the floor, feeling the way that your legs shook. His touch was gentle, seemingly going through familiar actions as they never faltered as he wrapped the rag tightly around your hand.

“Need you to listen, okay? Get Michael out of that seat.. Can you do that for me?” You gave a shaky nod, knowing that if you didn't get your son out of the seat, it wouldn't be good for either of you. “Good. Get him out of the seat and then find a spot to hide. I don't want them getting to you again. I'll find you soon, and we'll get you patched up.” His hands cupped your cheeks gently, taking in the bloody mess your face had become. There was something else he wanted to say, the familiar hesitant look coming over his face. Thumbs brushed softly over your cheeks. He had always been gentle with you. They dropped away, and he let you do what was needed.

Rusty watched her shift towards a darkened corner, behind some junk that remained inside the barn. The one place that she should have never been. With her and Michael safe for the time being, he could turn his attention back to the few that remained inside with them. None of them would survive the night. That much was certain. They touched what was his, harmed her, and risked harm to the boy. He had to shift gears quickly once more and go back to the anger that had been present from the moment he had found them missing at the restaurant. He had no doubt that she would have just disappeared on him, and that instinct had been right.

There would be explaining that needed to get done later, but it was hardly a worry. She couldn't go anywhere. There were two of the group already dead. He didn't know how many were left. At least another three, judging by the cars out back and the walkie system that they had set up. He grabbed the spike that had been shoved through her hand and pocketed it before shifting back through the quiet of the old barn. Their downfall? They didn't know every inch of wood like the back of their hand. It was different from anything he had dealt with before since he was worried about the two bodies in the corner rather than focused on wiping out everything that moved. He didn't have time to plan, time to use to his advantage. But it hardly mattered. Improvisation would have to work for now.

Silently, he slipped through the space, fingers curling around an old rusty metal pipe flecked with the blood of previous victims. Rusty paused, careful with the sounds around him. One was close.

Under normal circumstances, there was a sense of enjoyment in the actions. The swinging of fists, the gurgling cries and pleas, the warmth of blood as it soaked his hands and clothes. A sense of poetic justice that he delved out for discretions committed by those that just wouldn't learn otherwise. But this? This was entirely different. The movements were almost autopilot. His focus was getting through the entire ordeal as quickly as possible. He wanted to get back to far more important matters, which were huddled hidden in a corner. Crimson slowly coated hands further, violence unleashed in the brutal manner that left no question of what the outcome would be.

When the last one fell, Rusty let out a huff and glanced down at the body before him. Fucking asshole. He hadn't gotten away this time. The thought brought the realization that he had brought this upon both of the people that mattered the most in his life. Guilt and worry churned in his gut now that the job had been done. The barn could be cleaned up later. He had others to take care of and that would require a hospital given the extent of injuries he had seen.

You shook as you clutched your son to you, trying to cover his ears and shield him from whatever horrors were happening beyond the darkness that concealed the both of you. Adrenaline was wearing off, and the blood loss combined with head trauma had left you feeling woozy. All you could really do was rock your son gently and try to assure him everything was going to be okay through the quiet crying he was doing. Even when it wasn't. There was no way things could be okay. Heavy footsteps came closer to your hiding spot, and you scooted backward, pressed tightly into the tiny corner. It was instinctual that your torso shifted, protecting Michael as much as possible from whatever was about to come.

It was Rusty. The large frame of the man appeared and unconsciously, even though you didn't want to, your body relaxed. He was at the end of the junk pile that you had taken refuge behind.

“It's okay now, darling. Come on. Need you to come on out for me. Okay? Gotta get you, and Michael looked at.” Looked at? The room spun around you, the words sounding further away and more fuzzy by the second. “Sweetheart I…” The rest of the words couldn't be made out, hell, you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore. There was wriggling and the weight against your chest and in your lap vanished. All before the blackness at the corners of your vision seeped inward and overtook everything.

#joy ride #joyride fic #joyride #horror writing #slasher writing #slasher x reader #slasher x you #rusty nail fic #rusty nail x reader #rusty nail joyride #rusty nail #heed warnings

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