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yournecessaryevil · 9 months ago

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🥀 Scream For Me 🥀

💀GHOSTFACE! CHRIS X READER ONESHOT💀

He's the one with the dark secret you were never meant to discover. And you're the one who almost got away....

• smut; language; TW dark themes of death, violence, blood/gore, and a knifeplay kink

You were never meant to find out.

He'd worked so hard to keep all of it from you, everything. And now, here you both were.

Him, towering over you, his anxiety and nerves and all that stress concealed ever so easily behind that familiar mask, his blade at your throat.

And you, lying prone and helpless beneath him, those eyes wide with fear.

He hated it, hated himself.

How had things become such a fucking mess?

"You guys leave to come home soon, right?"

You stared down at the sleeves of your sweater, your fingers toying with the edges of the fabric as you waited for Chris's response.

Him and his bandmates had gone on their tour about four to five months ago, and while you knew they were due to come home soon, it still wouldn't be soon enough.

Why, exactly?

About a month or so before Chris and his band were supposed to go on tour, there had been headlines in the news of a sudden string of murders a few cities away, with the location of each murder growing closer and closer still, up until the most recent one.

That one had occurred only within a two hour's drive away from the city you lived in. A month or so had passed without any news after that, everything seeming to calm down a little.

But while you were trying to remain positive, deep down, you knew it would only be a matter of time before the one responsible for the murders would strike again, maybe this time choosing your own hometown as their next target.

"Baby, I promise, we only have one week left, and then we're home," Chris's voice cut through your thoughts, startling you. Your wide eyes locked with his as you nodded, though the traces of a frown still marred your face.

Almost like he knew where your thoughts lay, Chris spoke up again.

"Y/N, sweetheart. I know you're worried about what's been happening in the news, but I promise, I'm gonna be home so soon, and then I can keep you safe," he tried to assure you.

"They got really close before you left, Chris," you mumbled, your gaze dropping to land once more on your sweater. "They won't this time, don't worry," he immediately answered.

There seemed to be something almost unintentionally dark about the way he said it, like he somehow knew. Then again, maybe you were just imagining it.

"Hey, so I know Halloween's coming up soon..." Chris began, trying subtly to change the subject. You couldn't help the smile that slowly made its way onto your face.

He knew, he always did.

Ever since the two of you had started dating and he'd learned that Halloween was a favorite holiday of yours, he'd made it his personal mission to go all out for you, every single year.

And each year somehow seemed to top the last, if that was even possible.

You nodded, grinning as your fingers began to toy with the edges of your sleeve again.

"Only one more week," you echoed his earlier statement.

"Any plans? Just- please, don't do any of the haunted fairs or anything without me. I want to be there to do that with you," Chris said with a grin.

"Nah, she's gonna go get possessed in a haunted house or some shit!" you heard Vinny chime in from the background.

You were unable to keep from laughing as you nodded, answering with a "Yeah, just for you, buddy," much to Chris's disapproval.

"You guys are the worst," he grumbled.

You grinned at him, offering an apologetic "I love you?"

He stuck his tongue out at you, before calling you a brat and returning your heartfelt sentiments.

"Also, to answer your earlier question, yes, I do in fact have plans. Might catch up on the Scream franchise," you said with a grin.

Chris raised an eyebrow at you, shaking his head. "Those old movies? Haven't you seen all of them already, babe?"

You shrugged in response.

"I dunno, can't beat the classics. It's like you with the entire Halloween franchise," you pointed out.

Chris shook his head, making a face of disgust. "Nope, not all of em. Halloween H²O was the worst one of the franchise, and everyone knows it," he countered.

"Agree to disagree. Anyway, you know why I like watching all those horror movies," you said with a smirk.

Chris did indeed know why you liked horror movies so much.

There was just something about the fear and the adrenaline that kind of got you going, and when he'd found out your little secret, he'd been more than happy to indulge and explore in it with you.

If you were being honest with yourself, it had led to some of the dirtiest, (and sometimes borderline dangerous) sex you and Chris had ever had.

You could feel your thighs clench together now as your thoughts drifted back to some of those nights, when he'd had you trapped beneath him during sessions involving knifeplay...

The way you'd been so willing for him, craving his touch and the touch of the blade, the way Chris was always so careful and his intentions nothing short of pure, even if the act itself definitely said otherwise...

"Pretty baby, penny for those thoughts?" Chris teased you, startling you out of your brief daydreams.

The smallest of gasps slid from between your lips as you met his eyes, noting the way a smirk now rested on his perfect face, making him very much resemble the cat that ate the canary.

Your cheeks flushed with heat as you stared back at him, unable to form words. His smirk only grew as he stared back at you, those warm brown eyes seeming to darken a shade or two.

"Oh, I bet I know where my pretty little baby's thoughts went..." he said with a wink, dragging his bottom lip between his teeth for a second before letting it go.

Your eyes locked onto the minute little movement, and you swear, you could feel your heart stop for a second or two.

"O-only a week left before y-you get home?" you asked him, your words stumbling over one another in their rush to get out.

Chris nodded, a familiar look settling in his eyes. It was a look you knew well, one that never failed to excite you.

"One more week, baby, and then I'm coming home to have my way with you," he confirmed.

"O-okay," you breathed, your thighs clenching together once more. One week, that wouldn't be so bad, right? Still...

Your mind once again started to conjure up the images you'd seen in the news, crime scenes and death tolls and pure horror...

Shaking your head, you bit back a frown, quickly masking it with a smile that you hoped would fool even Chris himself. And by some miracle, it seemed to work.

"Hey, Y/N, baby, I gotta go. We have to start getting ready soon, but I'll text you the minute we get back in that break room, okay?"

You nodded, exchanging farewells with Chris and the rest of his bandmates, before the video call ended, leaving you sitting there in silence.

One week...

Why did that suddenly feel like an eternity?

Only two more days.

He could make it that long, right?

Part of him felt incredibly guilty for not texting you to let you know him and his bandmates were already back in LA, had been for the past three days, actually.

But right now, there was an entirely different emotion taking over everything else, a much darker emotion, one he had grown quite familiar with.

There was just something so thrilling about all of it, about the fact that nobody, not even LAPD's finest themselves, had caught onto it yet, had caught onto him yet.

Not even his bandmates knew, although he could have sworn that his guitarist and closest friend, Rick, was slowly starting to suspect.

But how could he?

He'd been incredibly careful, very meticulous with the way he'd gone about it, never leaving any evidence to suggest that he'd been the one to commit such horrendous acts.

No blood, no foul, right?

Except there'd been plenty of blood, exactly the kind of thing you just couldn't seem to avoid with these types of situations.

The faintest of smirks pulled at the corner of Chris's mouth as he recalled the most recent of atrocities he'd committed.

The way the light had slowly left the man's eyes, the way he'd begged and pleaded before he'd been slaughtered like an animal...

It was always one of the best parts, hearing them beg, seeing the fear in their eyes when they realized that no, in fact, it wasn't a game, it wasn't just a movie, it was actually happening.

It was kind of ironic, really.

His sweet, adorable little Y/N wasn't the only one who got off on horror...

And now, as he donned that familiar mask, another smirk crossed his features, concealed by that ever silent, eternally screaming face he wore so proudly.

Tonight was gonna be such a fucking scream...

Tomorrow.

Chris and his bandmates would be coming home tomorrow, and then you'd have him home with you for another several months, maybe even a year, before he'd have to leave again.

The thought made you smile, although unbeknownst to you, your good mood wouldn't last. Your phone pinged on the bedside table, and in a hurry, you snatched it up, expecting to see a message from Chris.

But what you were most definitely not expecting was a panicked text from his bandmate and closest friend, Rick Olson.

'Y/N. News channel, now. You need to see this, it's... bad.'

With a frown passing across your features, you slowly reached for the TV remote, switching the set on and flipping to the local news station.

And as you sat there watching, your heart slowly sank, an odd sort of cold settling deep within your bones.

Splashed across the bottom of the screen, a single news headline: 'DEATH TOLL RISES AS LA LOCAL IS FOUND MURDERED'.

You sat there, listening with an anxious sort of desperation, your heart thundering in your chest. LA, that was... here. Had it finally come to this, had the person responsible for the slaughter finally made their way to your hometown?

You continued to watch the ongoing news with rapt attention, until something the news anchor said caught your attention, something about how they had given the suspect a new moniker, "the Ghostface killer".

No... this had to be a joke, right?

It had to be a mistake, right?

Surely there wasn't actually some sick fuck out there taking inspiration from a movie franchise... right?

Your phone pinged once more in your hand, startling you, and as you glanced down at the text, your heart dropped as far as it could possibly go.

'There's something else. Chris is gone. He left an hour ago and hasn't been back since. And he's been acting... weird... lately.'

What exactly was Rick implying here?

Wait a minute... was he assuming Chris had something to do with all of this?

You typed out a response, your fingers working quickly, almost in desperation.

'Are you saying you think Chris has something to do with the murders?'

Almost immediately, Rick's reply came through.

'I don't know yet. But something isn't right. I think- I think I know what's going on, but I really hope I'm wrong...'

You were about to respond when there was a muffled clatter from downstairs, sending your heart into a frantic staccato within your ribcage.

Phone in hand, you slowly got up off the bed, trying to make as little noise as possible. You stopped near the bedroom door, glancing down to send a quick text to Chris.

'Babe, when do you guys get in tomorrow? Are you able to come home early tonight?'

You waited anxiously, but five minutes went by without a reply, so you sent another text.

'Please, I really need you right now... 😰'

Another five minutes went by, and still no response from him. Rick was right earlier, something was very wrong about all of this...

Slowly opening the door, you crept out and down the hall as silently as you could, your breath trembling as you carefully leaned over the banister to sneak a look downstairs.

Several seconds went by, until you heard footsteps, accompanied a moment later by a dark shadow cast on the floor.

You scrambled back from the railing, your heart pounding, each beat sounding rather loud in the silence of that dark hallway.

Back pressed against the wall, you stood there, waiting, hoping anxiously that your little intruder would give up and leave.

But to your horror, you heard footsteps ascending the stairs.

Trying not to panic, you made a beeline for your bedroom, and that's when you heard those footsteps behind you, growing louder before they suddenly stopped.

You cast an anxious look over your shoulder, immediately wishing you hadn't.

Behind you, standing at the end of the hall, was a black-cloaked figure, their face concealed by none other than... a Ghostface mask.

Fuck, they were here-!

You stood frozen in fear, watching as the figure stared at you, their head slowly tilting first to the left and then the right, almost like a hunter regarding their prey.

And then they were running towards you, before you had time to react.

A cry of fear left your mouth as you turned and ran into the bedroom, trying desperately to close the door, a struggle ensuing between you and the intruder.

Your phone clattered to the ground as you pushed against the door with all your strength, trying hard to get it to latch shut so you could lock it.

There was a loud thump from the other side of the door, and you staggered back a little, another cry leaving your mouth.

Abandoning the door, you ran over to the window, trying desperately to throw it open so you could escape, but you had only gotten it up maybe an inch or so before you felt strong arms close around your waist, yanking you away from the window.

Several pleading screams clawed their way up your throat, echoing off the walls of the bedroom, and you kicked your legs, fighting as hard as you could to get free.

Tears streamed down your face as you were slammed down onto the bed, your breath nearly knocked out of you. As gasping sobs slipped free from your parted lips, you stared up at the masked killer with wide eyes, your body numb with fear.

Is this really how it would end for you, dying at the hands of a masked murderer-?

Fuck-!

He had made sure to be as quiet as possible, and it still hadn't been enough.

Y/N...

You'd heard him.

As he made his way towards the stairs, he cast a glance upwards, and he could have sworn he saw you for a second, leaning over the railing.

But when he'd started ascending those stairs, all hell had broken loose.

You'd ran from him, actually ran from him-!

Why the fuck did they always have to run??

He stood there at the end of the hallway, staring you down, noting the fear in your eyes.

And you'd stood there, staring back at him like a little deer caught in the headlights.

His little deer...

In that moment, he wanted so badly to unmask and show you that it was okay, it was just him, nothing and nobody would ever hurt you.

He wanted to stand there and scream at you to move, fucking run, do something-

But it was too late. That familiar look of fear had already settled in your eyes, and Chris needed this, as sick as it sounded.

He needed you to feel that fear, he needed you scared for him, his frightened little bunny.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he took a running start towards you, and that's when you'd finally moved, running into the bedroom and throwing the door closed.

Or you'd tried, at least. He was faster.

He leaned heavily against the door, trying to push it open, to get inside and get to you, but you fought back, pushing harder against the door.

Under any other circumstances, he'd have been impressed, even a little proud of you.

You were fighting back so well for him, such a good girl. He'd have to reward you for that later.

But right now, all he felt was irritation.

If you'd just let him in, let him explain himself-!

Gritting his teeth, he threw all of his weight against the door, hearing you cry out in response, the noise igniting something deep within him.

God, you were so fucking good-!

But once more, the irritation flared up, drowning out any other emotion he may have felt in that moment. Jaw clenching, he slammed his weight against the door one more time, the wood easily giving way beneath him.

For a moment, he stood there in stunned silence, watching as you tried desperately to open a window, to get away from him.

That wouldn't do, he couldn't have you ruining everything for him just like that-

In three large strides, he was behind you, arms circling around your waist and yanking you away from that damned window, your screams echoing out into the night.

Again, something ignited deep within him, and he was unable to keep the tiny smirk from making its way onto his face.

Little Y/N.... you'd always been quite the screamer for him, hadn't you?

A soft groan left his mouth, too quiet for the voice modifier hidden within his mask to pick up on.

He threw you down onto the bed, leaning over you and pinning both of your wrists beneath one gloved hand.

You opened your mouth to call out for help, but before even he knew what was happening, he had drawn his knife, the blade toying with the delicate skin of your throat, your cries dying out into silence.

And as he stared down at you, taking in everything about you, his former irritation and arousal was slowly replaced by something more potent... a shred of remorse, perhaps.

Fuck.... what was he doing??

You weren't supposed to find out, it wasn't supposed to end like this. Something in your eyes made Chris briefly suspect that perhaps you already knew it was him beneath that mask, and that's why you were so terrified.

Because you'd trusted him and he'd gone and done terrible things in return.

He'd worked so hard to keep all of it from you, everything. And now, here you both were.

Him, towering over you, his anxiety and nerves and all that stress concealed ever so easily behind that familiar mask, his blade at your throat.

And you, lying prone and helpless beneath him, those eyes wide with fear.

He hated it, hated himself.

He hated how sick he'd become, getting off on this, getting off on you like this.

How had things become such a fucking mess??

Chris swallowed hard, staring down at you, and before he could stop himself, the words came tumbling out of his mouth, modified to sound exactly like the character he'd been masking behind this entire time.

"Hello, Y/N... This horror enough for you?"

The answering look in your eyes, the way you swallowed nervously beneath his blade, the way you clenched your eyes shut tight, tears streaming down your face as you just lay there...

It was like you were giving up, accepting the possibility that you might die tonight.

He hated that.

Where was your fight from earlier, where was his feral little thing from a few minutes ago?

It's like all the fight had gone out of you the minute he'd had you pinned beneath him.

"Y/N..." he breathed, leaning closer, his face inches from yours.

You stared up at him, unresponsive and numb with fear. This wouldn't do at all, he missed the excitement and the way you'd look at him when he'd play on your fear during all those knifeplay sessions, times that now seemed to be a millennia ago.

"Little mouse, pretty baby..." he tried again, his nicknames for you a last-ditch effort to get through to you.

And at last, his words triggered a response.

"Little mouse, pretty baby..."

Those words, spoken in the masked killer's rasping voice...

Your eyes went wide at the familiar nicknames.

There was no fucking way-

Chris??

He wouldn't really do all of this, would he?

Except... you cast a look down at the blade held against your throat, and that's when it dawned on you.

Though it may have been spattered with blood, probably from the most recent of murders, it was still familiar, nonetheless.

You recognized the engravings along the dark handle, the way the blade curved ever so slightly near the tip.

It was the same knife.

It was the exact same knife Chris had used on you countless times before, his hands steady and his focus only on you, always on you.

Even now, with your wrists confined beneath one gloved hand and his face inches from yours, the focus was entirely on you.

And you swore if you looked hard enough, you could see those familiar dark brown irises behind the mesh eye-holes of the mask.

You sniffed, blinking away more tears as you inhaled a shaky breath.

"C-chris?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

The grip on your wrists subtly loosened, just enough for you to feel the difference, to gauge the current mood in the room.

"No more tears, little mouse..." the voice rasped again, and the cloaked figure raised the knife, waving it back and forth once, twice, almost as an imitation of scolding you.

And then lightning fast, before you knew what was happening, he was bringing the knife down towards you, making easy and immediate work of shredding your thin nightwear like it was nothing, until you were laid bare before him.

You visibly flinched, and you could swear you heard a soft groan emit from behind the mask. "Now that's much better, isn't it?" the voice rasped, taking on a rather condescending tone. You couldn't help the spark of indignation that flared up within you, despite the lingering fear.

And the words left your mouth before you could stop them.

"Fuck you."

The masked figure tilted his head to the side a little, his blade once again inches from your throat.

"Are you asking me or telling me, little mouse?" he teased.

And before you could stop it from happening, he had reached down towards your thighs, dropping his blade for a moment to wedge one gloved hand between your legs, prying them apart and exposing everything for the world to see.

You watched as he dipped one gloved finger down along the spot between your thighs, looking on in silent, horrified shame as he brought that now-glistening fingertip towards the mask, slipping his hand underneath to taste your essence on his tongue.

"Fuckkk..." the voice groaned, the single word almost a growl.

"Still as wet for me as always, pretty baby..." he continued. With that, his grip on your wrists loosened just a bit more, but the gloved hand that had been between your legs was now wrapped around your throat, squeezing lightly in warning.

"You gonna be a good girl for me, Y/N?" he asked.

This was wrong, all of it, it was so wrong, on so many levels.

You knew that, you had already wasted so many tears on it tonight.

And yet...

No. No, no, no.

You had to know why, first.

"Chris, why?"

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, and you watched a sort of change come over the masked figure kneeling above you.

His grip on your wrists and throat loosened, a soft sigh coming from behind the mask. A moment or two of silence ticked by, and you almost didn't think he'd answer you... until he did.

"You don't get it, do you?"

The figure heaved another sigh, before he abruptly reached up and yanked the mask off, revealing a familiar head of purple hair.

Chris looked ragged beneath the mask, which he now let fall to the floor beside the bed.

"They all deserved it. Every... every single one of them," he said, a weary expression on his face. "Every single one of those greedy, self-centered, fucking narcissistic assholes-" he ground out through gritted teeth, reaching up to run one gloved hand through his hair, "they all deserved what they got. All of them."

You almost couldn't believe what you were hearing. All those times you had told Chris how you were worried, how you wanted him to come home, and the whole time... he knew.

Of course he knew, he'd been the one committing the murders in the first place.

Despite the fact that it was your boyfriend sitting here in front of you- or maybe it was because of your boyfriend sitting here in front of you- anger flared up within you, hot and quick.

"So all those times I begged you to come home, to stay with me, to be careful on tour... none of it fucking mattered, did it?" you ground out through clenched teeth.

Chris heaved a sigh, releasing his grip on your throat to push back the few sweat-drenched purple locks of hair clinging to his face. "Baby, I-" he began, but you cut him off.

"No! You don't get to justify this! Instead of coming home and spending time with your girlfriend, you'd rather get your fucking kicks murdering people!" you spat.

Chris immediately went on the defensive, grabbing the knife from where he'd dropped it and pointing it towards the spot at the base of your throat, his face contorting into a snarl.

"Do not be a fucking brat!" he hissed, leaning closer to you, those brown eyes like dark embers scorching through to your soul. The way he said it, the dark inflections in his voice, something about the way he was glaring down at you right now- you hated it, hated him.

And yet... it ignited a spark of arousal in you, starting from deep in your lower belly and spreading all the way to the tips of your toes.

You narrowed your eyes at him, the words lingering on the edge of your tongue before they slipped out.

"Fuck you."

An irritated growl rumbled deep within Chris's chest before his mouth was suddenly on yours, silencing any further sharp words and choking them out on your tongue.

"Gladly, little mouse," he hissed, his mouth working furiously against your own, his tongue and teeth working in unison to send you down, so far down, into that familiar spiral, unraveling so easily beneath him.

With another irritated growl, Chris broke the kiss for a moment to sit up, yanking off the glove on his left hand with his teeth, tossing it aside before he grabbed you by the jaw, forcing you to look at him and only him, always him.

"Open your fucking mouth," he growled, glaring down at you. You stared defiantly back up at him for a moment, drawing it out as long as you could before he raised a brow at you.

You did as you were told, opening your mouth and sticking out your tongue for him, just how he liked it. "Good fucking girl," Chris muttered, before he shoved two inked fingers into your mouth, nearly choking you.

"Suck. Now," he growled, staring down at you with narrowed eyes, that knife once again pointed towards the base of your throat.

You glared up at him through narrowed eyes before reluctantly doing as you were told, but not without biting down softly once, twice.

Chris let out a hiss, gripping the sides of your jaw with his few free remaining fingers, his eyes darkening. "Don't you dare bite, you little fucking brat!" he warned you, his tone firm. With that, he withdrew his fingers from your mouth, but the minute you went to close it, he shook his head at you.

"No. Mouth open, now," he ordered. You rolled your eyes at him, but complied, opening your mouth for him once more.

And Chris leaned over you with a snarl, his eyes narrowing as he spit into your mouth, the taste of him lingering on your tongue.

"Fucking swallow."

You did just that, glaring him down the entire time, your former hatred for him flaring up again, along with that delicious little spark of arousal.

Chris offered you a smirk, though there wasn't a single trace of humor within it. "Good girl," he muttered, the words of praise only adding further fuel to the steady blaze slowly burning away in your lower belly.

And yet that hatred was still there...

"I hate you-" you started on a hiss, but Chris shook his head at you, his gaze softening the tiniest bit.

"No. You don't. You love me, Y/N, you always have," he argued, before leaning down to kiss you.

And it was true.

You hated it, but he was right.

There was a small part of you that refused to be silenced, refused to die out.

You still loved him.

You hated him and you loved him, all at once.

You know what he'd done, the atrocities he'd committed, all of it was an unspeakable sort of horror. What he'd done to you tonight, was another horror entirely. And despite all of that...

You couldn't bring yourself to hate him, to truly hate him. At the end of the day, he was still Chris.

Chris, the sweet man with a heart of gold for those he cared about.

Chris, the goofball of his friends, the one who could make anyone smile, even on the worst of days.

Chris... the man you'd fallen hopelessly and endlessly in love with, who you'd given your entire heart and soul to.

You knew you'd always love him, you knew it in the way you kissed him back right now, in the way your leg slid up just enough to rest against his thigh, in the way his touch left you wanting more.

And he knew it too.

A soft groan left his throat, followed by a mumbled expletive, his mouth working urgently against your own. "Shh, baby, that's my good girl," he whispered, his tone less harsh than before. Your hatred slowly ebbing and fading into nothing, you let natural instinct take over, too exhausted to keep fighting, to keep trying.

You loved him too much.

Your leg hitched up a little further against Chris's thigh, a groan leaving his throat as he set the knife aside to grip tightly on your outer thigh, keeping you pinned against him as he kissed you.

"Such a good fucking girl for me..." he breathed against your lips, his forehead resting against yours for a moment. You arched up into his touch, wanting more of him, all of him.

"Need..." your breath was coming out in soft pants as you stared up at him, silently begging him to take control, to give you what you needed, what you always desperately craved from him.

"What, pretty baby, what do you need?" Chris murmured, leaning back to smirk down at you, a knowing look in those warm brown eyes. He knew exactly what it was you wanted, the smug little fucker. You glared at him, your breathing heavy as you waited.

"Don't look at me like that, use your words, Y/N," Chris told you, his eyes narrowing for a split second. You huffed, your gaze softening and turning into a pleading look, begging him again.

"Please?"

That one word seemed to set something off inside of him, because in one second, you'd been silently begging him, and now here in the next second, he was leaning down over you, his inked fingers reaching down to toy with your clit.

Then before you could even blink, you felt him push two, three of his fingers inside of you, curling perfectly against that sweet spot deep within. Your back arched up off the bed, a soft cry leaving your throat as Chris slowly worked his fingers to bring you closer and closer to that edge, ready to fall at any moment's notice.

And then all too soon, right as you could feel that warmth blaze deep in your belly, he was withdrawing his fingers from you, eliciting a noise of disappointment from deep in your throat.

"Shh, little mouse. Don't worry, I'm not fucking done with you yet," Chris murmured, his eyes darkening a shade or two as he stared down at you. "On all fours, now. Turn around," he added, leaning down to kiss you once, twice, before releasing you.

Your thighs trembling, you got up on all fours, turning to face away from him. "Head down, eyes closed. I want you to fucking feel this, all of it," Chris's voice was in your ear, all dark seduction.

And how easily you obeyed him.

A satisfied growl rumbled from deep within Chris's chest, and you had maybe all but five seconds before you heard the sound of a zipper being undone, followed by the feel of Chris pushing into you, burying himself deep inside, his hips settling against yours.

"Fuck... You're so fucking wet for me, you don't even need lube, little mouse..."

His words brought back that fire in your lower belly, a groan leaving your throat as you tilted your head back. His hand was on your throat in an instant, his fingers curling to grip just tight enough, exactly how you loved it.

All of this felt so familiar, so easy...

He had you exactly where he wanted you, and you didn't mind in the least.

Your thoughts were suddenly disturbed, your mind going deliriously blank as Chris's hips met yours repeatedly, each thrust seemingly rougher than the last, his hand holding ever steady to your throat like it was his own personal lifeline, his salvation.

And then he pulled you up by the throat, your back meeting his chest, the new angle causing little stars and dots to splash across your vision, soft cries to rise up from your throat.

Looking back over your shoulder, you saw him use his teeth to rid his other hand of its glove, before those inked fingers grabbed ahold of your jaw, tilting your head back far enough for Chris's mouth to meet your own in a harsh, unforgiving kiss.

"Still... fucking... hate me?" he gasped, in between kisses. You inhaled a sharp breath, your eyes meeting his as he waited. "No..." you finally breathed. And you could see it in his eyes, the way he knew you were speaking the truth.

Sure, you'd probably come to regret this a little the next morning, but here? Now? Right in this very moment? You still didn't hate him, you couldn't.

How could you hate someone who, despite having a near god complex this evening, despite committing horrendous atrocities, even despite hunting you down like nothing more than weak prey, still somehow had your best interests at heart..?

How could you hate the one person who had been there for you from the beginning, who had loved you more than you loved yourself at times?

"Say it," Chris's voice cut through your thoughts, his words firm.

"I... I love you," your answer was immediate, your breath coming out in soft pants.

"Mm... of course you do, pretty baby..." Chris buried his face in the crook of your neck, leaving little kisses and bites along the skin there, bruises sure to form the next morning.

The hand on your throat moved down to rest between your thighs, his fingers toying with your clit and drawing you closer and closer to that sweet high, the blaze in your lower belly burning brighter than ever.

"Hah... fuck... m'close..." you groaned, leaning your head back to rest it on Chris's shoulder. He nodded, his grip on your jaw tightening a little as he bent down to kiss you softly on the mouth. "I know, baby... come on, Y/N..." he gently coaxed you, his words only adding fuel to the fire.

And then his next words had you tipping over the edge, falling blissfully down into that delicious darkness, his name leaving your mouth in a garbled shout.

"Scream for me, little mouse..."

Scream you did; your throat felt raw as your hands rose to claw at his, clinging on tightly almost out of fear of losing him, your first climax only working to bring on a second, more powerful one in its wake.

Somewhere in the white noise filtering in through your brain, you could hear Chris groan from behind you as he reached his own high, finishing inside of you, your name leaving his mouth like a swear word.

"Y/N, fuck, that's my good girl..."

His words of praise had you going completely stupid and sick in the head, your thighs trembling beneath you, and had he not been holding you tightly to him, you're sure you would have collapsed under your own weight.

As the two of you slowly came down from your unified high, Chris gently pulled out, tugging you down to lie next to him on the bed, shoving the earlier discarded knife to the side until it clattered to the floor, where it would most likely remain until the next morning.

Your heart thundered in your chest, the white noise gradually fading as you curled into Chris's side, your hand resting atop his still-clothed chest, your fingers tracing the collar of his robes, before a frown marred your features.

"Off.." you murmured, earning a deep chuckle from Chris as he sat up, tugging the black fabric over his head before discarding it on the floor, next to the knife.

"C'mere, lay down. Is this what you wanted, mouse?" he asked, pulling you closer to him. You nodded, your hand resting atop his chest again, your fingertips tracing over the ink there.

"Subby as shit, look at you, Y/N..." he teased you. Trying to hide a yawn, you lightly swatted at him, grumbling to yourself. "Shut up, I could kick your ass, you know..." you sleepily mumbled. A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest as he kissed the top of your head.

"Says you, who wouldn't even have survived in her own horror movie," came his lighthearted response. "That's 'cause the villain is always hot..." you mumbled in response, yawning again.

That earned you another laugh, followed by a soft kiss on the forehead. "Hard to argue with that. Here, stay here a second. Let me clean you up, baby..." you heard Chris murmur, before you felt the bed dip under his weight.

You could hear his footsteps fading away, followed by the distinct sound of the tap running in the bathroom, before he came back.

And despite you trying your hardest to stay awake, there was just something so soothing about the warmth of the cloth down your back, in between your thighs, along the back of your neck...

"Stop fighting it, mouse. Get some sleep for me..." Chris gently chastised you, before you felt him lean over the bed to kiss you gently on the cheek. You mumbled a response before your eyes grew heavy, sleep waiting to overtake you.

And as his footsteps faded again, you finally gave in, letting your eyes fall closed, succumbing to the welcoming darkness of sleep...

You had done... surprisingly good.

Not even that, you had done exceptionally well for him. Better than he'd thought you would.

He had expected you to put up a bigger fight, sure, but... he knew you better than you knew yourself.

You loved him, you always had, always would.

The way you'd surrendered so easily to him after putting up quite the little fight... he had rewarded you decently enough for that.

At least he thought he had.

Either way, judging by the way you were currently passed out on your bed, tucked under the blanket he had taken great care to drape over you so you wouldn't get cold, he had worked you over pretty good.

God, the fucking noises you'd made for him tonight-! Always a good girl for him...

A gentle smile passed over his face as he leaned against the bedroom doorway, watching you sleep for a moment or two.

And then he noticed your phone lying there on the floor, completely forgotten from when you'd dropped it earlier.

Crossing the room to lean down and retrieve it, he glanced down at the screen, a small smirk settling over his features as he read the most recent text, from his bandmate and closest friend.

'Y/N!! Where the fuck are you??'

Ah, so that's who you'd been texting earlier...

Unable to help himself, he opened the chat, snapping a quick photo of you asleep in your bed, before hitting send and typing a reply, his smirk still in place.

'Little mice asleep in their beds... Y/N is safe with me now, she sends her love...

XO, Ghostface'

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nerdraging4point0 · 9 months ago

Text

Underdog//Motionless one shot

The work below consists of fictionalized ideas and stories. It is an alternate universe story with only names and likenesses used in creation of a character. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction. Please review the content warning before proceeding.

CW: 18+ MNDI, Coach/athlete au, coach athlete sexual relationship [all parties regardless of being fiction are of legal age of consent. This does not mean that the behavior is ethical or acceptable in reality-does it happen, yes. Is that something I am going to go into? No. I am not an attorney. Per ChampionWomen Sexual contacts or “romantic” relationships between an athlete and a person who has a position of power over the athlete are prohibited. Person of power includes but is not limited to coaches, administrators, judges, referees, employers, staff, medical personnel, and even volunteers or older athletes and teammates.] the following one shot includes unprotected sex, P/V sex, fingering.

A.N: @mysticdoodlez and @ladyveronikawrites I present to you and owe you for this fucking piece of art.

Exhibition

Coach Cerulli stood off to the side in the coach's box, not saying a word, his legs shoulder-width apart as he swayed back and forth on his feet. He wears his disgustingly dark ensemble of worn high-top Converse and straight-leg jeans. Already obnoxiously tall, the dress style made him look even more intimidating. Glancing over him once, you notice an apparent sweat triangle starting at the collar of the black cotton tee he wore under his polyester team jersey. An electric green sea turtle was stitched on the right side of his chest, and Cerulli was stitched on the back. Trying to focus on your drill partner, Rachel, you steal quick glances after each ball toss. Under the black bill of his ball cap, Coach Cerulli's jaw clenched as he chewed the pale green gum between his teeth.

Rachel rolled the neon yellow ball across the rust-colored dirt toward you; spreading your legs apart, bending at the waist, glove in hand, you dip to the ground, catching the ball on its roll, securing it with your other hand, you take a step, and toss the ball to her again.

As a team, you'd been at this for an hour now; the humidity from the earlier rain made beads of sweat start at the back of your neck and under your cap. The gray storm clouds rolled over the Florida coast, looking angry; another storm was approaching.

Balmy tropical air and classic South Florida smell were something you'd missed when you were on break. Some of the girls decided to pack up and hit the slopes of Colorado for a week; you were more than eager to go. It had been a celebratory and bittersweet season last year, and you were all due for a nice getaway. Coach Adams announced last season that she'd be retiring sooner than expected. Her youngest had just graduated High School, and she struggled to adjust.

Enter Coach Cerulli.

He was overbearing and a perfectionist; he drilled and worked the team till he felt you were perfect. It worked, or maybe it was because you wanted to impress Coach Adams for her final season. Leaving the season last year, you were nearly undefeated. And it was no surprise now that he demanded the same perfection.

"You're looking soft, ladies. Let's pick it up. I wanna see some sweat, some determination, act like you fucking want it." He crossed his arms, kicking up some of the dirt from the field before he dropped down, squatting on one knee as he stretched the other to its entire length.

Several players on the team turned to look at the coach; it was no secret most of the team found him hot. He was older. Way older. But that added to the heat of the idea. You were aware of Coach Cerulli's attractiveness, his dark hair and eyes; the only part of his skin not covered in tattoos was his achingly beautiful face. Once you'd gotten close enough to see his three little scars on his bottom lip, it only added to the mystery of what had been his past. Fantasy is what it was; it was all fantasy. There was no room for error when your college life was riding on a full sports scholarship.

The team continued to drill, the breeze from the water bringing a salty taste to the air. Soon, the sun started to get lost behind the gray cover, thinking it might rain you guys out; the team slowed on drills, looking to coach and back at the sky. Coach stands up to his full height, his powerful form casting a shadow over the field. Deep and commanding, his voice brought the team's eyes and attention to him.

"I've high expectations for my team; this isn't just any season. I have my sights set on the championship title, and we won't settle for anything less." Clapping his hands, you can hear the friction of him rubbing the skin together, his tattooed fingers lacing and curling over each other in a frenzy. A low rumble of thunder sounded from the sky; Coach Cerulli pursed his lips and looked at the foreboding weather.

"One scrimmage, and we'll call it a night."

The team scrambled to their gear as he called out names and positions. You adjusted your cap, pulling loose strands of hair around your ears and reaching for your glove when the coach's voice called out your name.

"y/l/n. You're batting." There was no nonsense in his voice, and when you turned to protest, he smacked his gum between his teeth, heading to stand behind home plate.

You never bat, at least not first; the pressure is too much. You were a fielder on the team with the best reflexes and speed. Others were better at this than you. Grabbing the bat, you lower your cap and head to the base. Coach is droning on about how he demands perfection from all players.

"We won't be putting people in places of their strength. I want you uncomfortable; it's the only way you grow." He turns to look at you and nods his head. Stepping up to the plate, you take your spot, raising your bat, eyes locked on Sammi, who is pitching. She gives you a look of pity, and you know she'll take it easy on you, at least.

"Bat up." Coach growls.

"It is up," you snap back.

"If 'up' means hanging off your shoulder. It needs to be up higher. Fix your grip."

You tighten your hands on the bat's base, nails nearly touching your palms as your hands turn white.

"Too tight, you're not strangling it."

You huff out the air in your lungs, rolling your eyes. Just let me hit the ball, goddamnit.

Sammi pitches the ball. It's a simple pitch, and you swing, barely ticking the ball; it doesn't even get air, hardly leaving the home base as it rolls back to her. Just great, I look like a peewee player in front of the coach.

"Jenson, if you're gonna pitch. Pitch." he snaps.

You watch as her face turns apologetic; great, no easy out this time.

"Fix your stance." a smack of his gum between his teeth follows his command. You can hear the wet smacking sounds, throwing you off concentration. He continues to throw useless advice your way each time you miss the ball.

"You're off center."

Your patience is running thin, and you can see the players on the field becoming bored from the lack of action, just standing in the field and talking back and forth.

"Ladies, look alive!" Coach booms, and they jump into their stance.

Sammi nods at you, winding up to pitch; you lose all of the coach's advice, squaring up how you want. The swing is powerful, but the ball still whooshes by your bat and hits the fence behind the coach.

You let the air out of your lungs, turning around to see Coach Cerulli looking right at you, arms crossed over his torso. You can see his brown eyes sparkling under his ball cap.

"Nice hit," he says sarcastically.

Tossing the bat, you walk off the field, tears stinging the back of your eyes and starting to burn your throat. You've had enough for one night.

You can hear him bark orders to the team as the practice continues without you. Walking from the field, you walked around campus once, then twice; on your second lap, you realized you were halfway to your dorm and didn't have any of your gear. Your hands drag down your face in frustration, pushing your cap off your head. Your hair is sticky as you put the cap between your teeth and readjust the ponytail. Throwing the cap back on your head, you turn on your heel and head back to the field.

Making your way back, you pass several teammates; keeping your cap down, you avoid their eye contact, but the sudden silence as you pass and the sad voices that follow behind your back don't go unnoticed.

Rachel caught sight of you, jogging up to meet you halfway walking backward as you continued your walk of shame to the field.

"What's up? You walked off?" She has such sadness in her voice. She knows that you are sometimes too hard on yourself. You only have a little social life between studies and sports; your trip out of state lets you loosen up and gives you a good one-night stand. But it made you realize how much you hated having unsatisfactory sex with some drunk frat boy.

"Rough time, that's all," you confess.

"I know you hate batting. I'm sorry." you only shrug your shoulders in response.

Coach Cerulli is tossing bags of extra bats and gloves next to the storage shed; the way he lifts the gear bag, throwing it over his shoulder, you catch his shirt ride up just a bit to reveal his tattooed torso.

"Need me to wait?" Rachel asks, offering a soft touch on your shoulder.

"No. I got this." She jogs back to the campus as you enter the field. Turning at the dugout, not meeting the coach's eyes as he looks your way.

You are gathering your gear in your bag, trying not to make eye contact with the coach. The thunder is rumbling overhead again, closer than before; you can smell the rain coming. A heavy set of footsteps, and suddenly, he's clearing his throat behind you, your shoulders dropping in defeat.

"Sorry, coach." You keep your voice low and sincere. Feeling the pain in your throat again. Don't cry. Don't cry.

"What's up with you out there?" The way he sounds less demanding, and the friendly tone in his words makes a lump form in your throat.

"I just get choked up."

"Why, you're here on a scholarship. Adams said you were the most dedicated player."

"And I am." You don't bother turning around. Tossing your glove and a few extra things into your bag.

"Didn't look like it today."

"People aren't perfect; not everyone can play every position you know." You turn around to face him; he's leaning against the dugout rail, ankles crossed, hands resting on the dark blue rail.

"So, what is it that holds you back?"

"I just…. It's the crowd, the ump, and the pressure. The crowd is watching me, the team is watching me, and you're watching me." He adjusts his cap, turning his head to spit his gum out in the grass.

"Grab your bat."

"What?" He kicks off the rail, stopping till he is only a foot in front of you.

"You heard me. Grab your bat."

You scrambled for the bat as he walked back onto the field. You follow close behind, with no other teammates around the field that looks like it goes on for miles. Taking up your space next to home, you get ready to bat.

You are barely set before he criticizes you.

"Okay, first, your grip is too much." He stepped forward, putting his hands over yours, pulling your fingers loose from the neck, his large hands encasing your own as he helped re-grip the bat properly.

"Loosen up, spread your hands out a bit. There," the last word comes out as a soft whisper.

His brown eyes softened as he looked into your face, calloused hands brushing your skin; they were surprisingly well taken care of, the tattoos accenting every knuckle. The sweet smell of wintergreen off his breath, the fragrance winding up your insides.

"Your feet," he circled around till he was standing behind you, twisting your body around till you could see him again; he tsked, circling the air with his finger for you to return to where you were.

"You're always on your toes,” he complained.

His words were almost lost to the electricity in your brain; he squatted down behind you, one arm sliding between your legs to wrap around your thigh, a hand bracing on your knee, as his other massaged down my calf to have your heel flatten on the ground.

"Now, for your hips." Coach's words sound scratchy; you can hear him swallow hard behind you. His hands ghost over your hips, carefully not to actually touch you. "You must bend at the waist and practically fold yourself in half."

"Arch my back?" you offer. He clears his throat the way it sounded like he was uncomfortable.

"Yeah, sounds about right."

You adjust your hips arching your back, with your feet firmly planted against the ground, your cleats into the dirt, pushing your ass back. You feel yourself brush against his body, and he hisses.

"Easy there, tiger."

"S-s-sorry." you stammer as you try to step back. His hands grab your hips and place you back in your stance. His body is so close you can feel the heat building on your skin; suddenly, you aren't distracted by nerves but by something else.

"We aren't done; just watch it," he whispers. "You want to keep yourself firm in this spot until you're ready to swing."

A drop of warm water hits your arm, then another, and another. The rain starts to pour down in a gentle storm.

"Shit." Coach releases your hips as you both jog back to the dugout. Safe under the awning, you lose footing on the last step, stumbling into the coach. He catches you, arms around your waist, as he stumbles back.

"Sorry," your voice barely audible over the rain tapping on the metal awning; you place your hands on his chest, feeling the stiff muscles underneath. Trying to push off to create distance between the two of you. Coach Cerulli's hands don't move as he looks down at you, those dark eyes glistening under the shadow of his cap. This close to him, your senses are overwhelmed with the smell of him-palo santo and amber, a rich blend like a robust coffee in one of those expensive coffee shops.

His hands slid up your back, gently caressing over the upper part of your arms, stopping at your wrists and taking them in a grip before pulling your hands off his chest.

"Let's work on your hips some more. It looks like we've got the time." The way he says the words suggests he doesn’t mean anything about batting anymore.

He spun you around so seamlessly, releasing your wrists to take your hips in the vice grip of his tattooed fingers. Pulling your body toward him, you could feel yourself make contact with his chest; he was so tall, the feeling of what was unmistakably his own arousal resting at your lower back.

Flames licked into your lower belly as his hands tightened, then loosened on your hips. He started to move you, sliding your hips from left to right in slow motions. "Keep your feet planted on the floor." The harsh whisper in your ear made every part of your skin tremble with anticipation.

You tried to steady your breathing as he moved you in slow motion against his body. Was this all a dream? Were you asleep in physics and about to be highly embarrassed when you woke up?

Your hands rested on his, trying to prove to yourself that all that was happening was real. Leaning back into his chest, he groaned as he pulled you in closer.

"This is so wrong." your voice trembles as you speak.

"Very," he growled, kissing the soft flesh of your neck. "Tell me to stop, and I will."

Fuck, please don't.

It wasn't a good idea to continue, but the feeling, the expert way his hands held you without touching anything intimate, made you melt.

Leaning your head back into his chest, your face turned to him, desperate for his kiss. Sensing your desperation, Coach took the bill of his hat between two fingers, spinning the cap on his head so it faced backward. Closing in on your face, his full lips consuming your own, two fingers brushing your cheek, tapping twice, asking you to open.

The second your jaw relaxed into the kiss, his tongue was assaulting your own. He tasted so good, that gum he'd been chewing and something nutty at the end filling your taste buds.

You let your arm snake behind his head, cupping the back of his neck to bring him closer. One of his hands takes your breast and squeezes the flesh through your clothes, your nipples sensitive to the touch even through all the layers. His other hand slides over the front of your shorts, pushing between your thighs; your hips start to grind into his hand, desperate for friction, earning a sound of approval from the coach.

Pulling apart from each other, lips wet, red, and swollen, you were panting to catch all the air you'd lost in the kiss.

"Brace yourself, tiger," he warned.

Pushing hard against you, he shoved you forward till you folded over against the railing, his body pressed tightly against yours. Forcing your hands to grip the rail.

"Remember your grip." he teased, releasing his hold. His hands slid slowly down your sides, thumbs hooking into the band of your shorts to tug them and your panties down to your ankles. You gasped being exposed like this, the adrenaline of being caught coursing through your blood, the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.

He kicked your feet apart, having your legs spread till you could feel the resistance of your shorts tight around your ankles. He took your hips in his hands, bringing your ass against him again, "Remember your stance." the words going straight to your center as he nipped at your ear.

His hands disappeared, and you let out a whine from losing his touch. He shuffled behind you, dipping his head in the crook of your neck to place soft kisses on your pulse point. His hand slid up the inside of your thigh, and feeling the muscles quiver under his fingers, you paused to consider what you were doing, your mind telling you that this was wrong. You'd get caught, and you'd be a disappointment to your parents. The thoughts of calling it off stopped when two fingers slid inside your warmth. His fingers scissored open and closed, swirling around before opening and closing again, stretching your walls with expert skills.

"So tight." He continued to whisper dark and dirty words as his fingers buried into you to the knuckle. The rough pressure pushes you forward and off your heels. Feeling your release boiling just under the surface, you start to grind down on his fingers as they thrust up into you, whimpering for more. You have started to lean over the rail, seeing the field's dirt and glancing down more to see both your feet and his. His pants at his ankles like yours, and the thought that his cock was out and ready for you, made you moan.

He wraps his hand around your hair, still pulled into a ponytail under your cap; rolling the strands around his hand, tugging you back so his chest is pressed tight to your back, fingers still buried deep inside you.

"Say the word, and I'll stop."

Past the point of no return, you moan, rolling your hips into his hands, still chasing your release. He presses his face into your cheek, nose running through the hairline above your ear as he inhales your scent; it's feral, it's animalistic, it's so fucking hot. His lips press into your ear, and you feel his hot breath against her skin. "You gonna come for me, tiger?"

You barely managed to nod your head before he curled his fingers, pressing on that soft spot inside you, making your walls clench around his fingers. He lets out a strangled sound of approval and surprise, taking the slick of your orgasm to rub on his erection. His left hand cupped your ass before delivering a harsh slap to the skin, making you rock up onto your toes.

He slides his length between your thighs, coating the head in everything left of your orgasm. Muscles in his chest are tight with anticipation and what you hope is desire. "Listen carefully, tiger," his voice breathless as he pants in your ear. "This is the only time I want you on your toes for me. Got it."

"Yes, coach." you gasp as his length slides into your warm center. He pumps slowly as you stretch around him, the hiss from your lips echoing across the field through the rain. "F-f-fuck." you moan.

Bottoming out with hard thrusts, Coach's hands rested on the railing on top of yours, his fingers lacing between yours as he held you and the rail in a vice grip. Your bodies molded into each other so well you felt the hem of his jersey wrap around your thighs; god, if only you could take it home with you as a trophy for this.

"I should stop," he was panting, his voice strained. "I'm gonna get fired."

"Please," you begged, turning your head to see his beautiful flushed face, mouth agape, tufts of his black hair sticking out from under his cap. "I won't say anything, just please don't stop."

"Fuck." he groaned, continuing to thrust into you, the force pushing you practically over the rail still on your toes, the muscles in your calves straining. Your thighs shook, the rain coming to an end as another tight coil wrapped itself in your belly, ready to snap.

"One more, give me one more, tiger," he growled, nipping at your earlobe. The scream as you clenched around him echoed off the field, causing him to clasp a hand over your mouth. "That's it. Scream for me."

Your noises were muffled by his hand on your mouth, and the hot breath as he panted on your cheek brought another orgasm on the wave of the first. One final snap of his hips and warm ropes filled your body, and all the tension of his muscles was released in one minute.

The magic of whatever you two did was gone when he pulled his softened cock from you, reaching down to pull up your shorts and letting you get them back on the rest of the way; you barely turned around, seeing him taking a little bounce to get back into his jeans.

"Head out, tiger. I'll see you at tomorrow's practice."

You nod briefly, grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and bat in the other hand. Just as you are about to leave the field, you turn around to see Coach sitting on the bench in the dugout, hands running through his sweaty black hair.

"Coach?" you let the rasp fall off your tongue, and he turns to look your way. "Extra practice tomorrow night?" giving a wink to let him know what you mean. He doesn't skip a beat, a smile tugging at his lips.

"It'll be a late practice. You game?"

"Anything for you, coach." you leave the comment in the air as you walk back to your dorm.

Crashing into your dorm with shaky legs, you throw down your gear.

"Whoa." Rachel commented, "You look brutal!"

"Thanks," you meekly respond, flopping onto the bed before curling up under the blanket.

"What did he do to you?"

"Who?" you mumbled, feeling your eyelids start to get heavy.

"Coach. You look like he had you do suicides for leaving the field?"

"Nothing gets past you, Rach." you smiled as your body drifted to sleep.

Several months later, and one game win thanks to you and a home run hit, Coach Cerulli announced his retirement. Disappointed but not surprised you accepted the new coach with open arms. She was sweet and spicy, a good coach, making your focus back on the game. The rumors were Coach moved states, you’d had his number but the digits disconnected a few weeks after his departure.

Just as well, you thought.

It was almost winter break, and a final due in Psychology had kept you up most nights, your body riddled with tension from the stress. 10 p.m., and you hadn't even bothered to try and sleep yet, your phone buzzed with a new text. Opening it up, it was a number you didn't recognize, but the message was clear.

How you been, tiger?

#miw band #miw #chris motionless #chris motionless imagines #chris motionless smut #chris cerulli #motionless au

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