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girlsworldillusion · 10 days ago

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Scream for me little lamb

Ghostface!Aemond x Fem!Reader

Summary: You don't know him, you haven't even seen him before. Yet this cruel killer is in your mind, entangled like a parasite. For just one night you want to get rid of this feeling - to get rid of him. What's the worst that could happen?

Rated: Explicit (+18)

Dividers: @cafekitsune

Word count: 5k

Author's Note: This story contains themes that may be disturbing or triggering for some, such as: DETAILED DESCRIPTIONS OF PANIC ATTACKS, BLOOD, MURDER, OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, THREATS, AND SEX. Your health (mental and physical) should always be your priority, if any of these themes are too heavy for you to handle I beg that you ignore this post. To those who choose stay, I wish you a good read!

The reader suffers from some emotional issues. But who doesn't, right?

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

Come on, it’ll be fun, she said.

You urgently need to relax, she said.

It’s just a quiet night, what’s the worst that could happen? She said.

Quiet night my ass, you think.

“Come on, pumpkin, you’re not even trying!” Your roommate scolds you, shouting too close to your ear, causing you to flinch with a uncomfortable grimace. “There’s life outside the dorms, you know? Is it really that much of a challenge to just enjoy the party?” Her pout is exaggerated enough for anyone in the room to see, even with the shitty stereoscopic lighting in the place.

“Hey, just try, okay? Smile, drink more, find someone cool to flirt with a little. I don’t know, do something other than just studying nonstop! Please try to have fun!” The liquid in the red cup clutched between your fingers nearly spills onto your clothes with the not-so-subtle push she gives you, her shrill, excited voice echoing louder and louder in your ear, managing to accomplish the impressive feat of overcoming the already criminally loud volume of the music playing on the speakers.

"Your idea of fun is very different from my idea of fun." You say, a good few decibels below her tone, grudgingly sipping another sip of your sickly sweet drink. "Ugh, this is horrible!" You wince at the syrupy, artificial taste of alcohol on your tongue, the bridge of your nose wrinkling in disgust - the exact same reaction as the last four times you've had a drink. Mako notices it too, if the wry laugh that leaves her lips is anything to go by. But what in the world is this anyway? And why in the hell do you keep drinking?

"Here I am, just trying to be a good friend by getting you out of that depressing cave you call a dorm to bring some action and joy into your life to, you know, expand your horizons, and you pay me back with complaints and boredom? That hurts, pumpkin, really hurts!" She's a total drama queen and your completely unimpressed expression makes it clear.

"Seriously, gaslighting now?" You roll your eyes so hard you think you can feel them in the back of your head.

"Don't blame a girl for trying!" She holds up her hand in a peace sign, another unrepentant smile on her lips.

You shake your head in denial.

"Anyway, I still find it really weird that they're throwing a party so soon after those students were killed." Your voice drops lower, looking out at the noisy crowd with a frown of disgust.

She snorts, knowing full well that something like this was coming.

"Look, I'm sad about what happened too. But it's okay to relax once in a while, okay? Shit, you're young, single, and hot as hell. You should be enjoying your life. We can't let some weirdo with a death god complex stop us from having the best time of our lives!" Your friend gestures wildly with the hand that isn't holding her glass, the alcohol in her system making her even more giggly and reckless than usual.

She exchanges 'Rated: M' glances with a buff guy across the room - a popular member of the football team and one of the hosts of the party, you recognize - winking provocatively as she shrugs her shoulders to show off her breasts, being completely and embarrassingly open about her naughty intentions toward him tonight.

"Come on, you can't honestly tell me you don't think any of these frat guys are good enough to eat in one bite."

There’s a hint of reprimand dancing on the tip of your tongue, an almost natural instinct to tell Mako exactly how selfish she’s being right now, insensitive even, with everything that’s happened recently. You weren’t close or even knew those students directly, it’s true. But they were still students at your college, faces you saw every day among the masses. They were people who had been around for a short time, walking and breathing. And then they weren’t anymore. Their young lives were taken away before they could know exactly what they wanted to do with their futures, who they were going to be in the grand, merciless scheme of things.

You don’t feel comfortable celebrating when there are parents at home crying over their children whose bodies have barely cooled underground.

But Mako was right about one thing.

The idea of living in daily fear of a man you had never seen in your life was draining every bit of spare energy from you. This mysterious killer had managed to disturb you, making you constantly paranoid, scared, and fearful. You spent your days looking around, suspicious of everything and everyone, with the electrifying feeling that at any moment he could jump in front of you and make you his newest victim. He even controlled your schedule. Because of him, you barely left the dorms anymore, always declining your friends' invitations with lame excuses. Not that you were a social butterfly before this, but this was a completely different level of seclusion - high even by your standards.

The thought that this man, who probably didn't even know you existed, was dictating the way you lived your own life was disturbing, to say the least.

You looked around, uncomfortable at how everyone was shouting, dancing, smoking, laughing, singing loudly - acting as if nothing had happened. As if three college friends hadn’t been brutally murdered a few days ago. It’s wrong, and your whole body screams it. It’s not respectful, it’s not safe. And yet, for some reason beyond explanation, you seem to be the only one terrified; the only one who’s actually having your life changed to avoid becoming a statistic.

And in that moment, with that realization in mind, Mako’s words make some sense. You don’t want to give this psychopath that kind of power.

“God, is sex all you think about?” That’s what you choose to say after a long pause, sighing in boredom at the nothing less than shameless winks your friend is giving the guy through her eyelashes. The guy, surrounded by his usual horde of friends who are just as scoundrels as he is, is returning Mako’s advances with double the intensity and lack of decorum; splaying a large hand over his jeans, right where the bulge of an admittedly sizable erection is, grinning at her like a mediocre porn star. Any more obvious than that and they’d be fucking right here on the floor, in front of all these people.

That, coupled with the creeping onset of a growing headache with each deafening beat of the speaker and the unstoppable chatter of the students around you, is making you more anxious than usual. The mass of bodies squeezing against each other to the rhythm of the music is so thick that you can barely tell one person from another; the smell of alcohol, shared sweat, sex, and cheap weed makes you wrinkle your nose every few minutes.

For socially stunted people like you, there were few things as overwhelming as a frat party roaring at the top of its lungs.

“Hey! Don’t blame me for this, blame those thirsty youthful hormones.” She shrugs as she speaks, tilting her head to slyly wrap the straw between her lips and suck on some more of her drink, her catlike gaze dancing indecisively between you and the guy from the football team.

You roll your eyes, but can’t help but feel a bit tinge of envy at her easy, playful attitude, the way she could just tune out her problems and enjoy the ride. She’s at home here, you notice; a natural in her habitat. This is normal for her — just another night amidst the noise and blatant flirting, playing with lewd looks that by itself carry more sexual activity than you’ve experienced in months.

Mako has always been your antithesis; bold and vibrant, seeing a bright and fun side to every situation — no matter how fucked up it was. Always trying to color the monochromatic palette of the world with the eccentric catastrophe that is her personality.

You, on the other hand…

Suffice it to say, your way of seeing the world is far less optimistic.

You pinch the bridge of your nose in exasperation for a second, already knowing that you’re going to regret your next decision.

But you were already here, right? And she said it would be fun. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to try and enjoy it.

You sigh deeply before changing your expression, looking up at an expectant and anxious Mako, practically bouncing on her feet as she awaits your decision.

"So...you think I'm hot, um? Tell me more about it." Your lips stretch into a forced smile as you awkwardly shake your hips in that stupid Sailor Moon costume she forced you to wear, trying to have even a fraction of the blissful ignorance that naturally flows from your friend. You want to enjoy the ride. Even if the base boost of the music is threatening to tear down not only the walls of the frat house, but also the ones in your skull.

Mako's loud laugh assures you that you've managed to make her happy.

It's like she said...

What's the worst that could happen?

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

"No, no, no, not now..." You get your answer about two hours later, with your hands resting on the bathroom counter of a random suite upstairs, staring at your helpless reflection in the mirror.

There is some kind of purple LED in place of the conventional bulbs, flooding the entire bathroom with low lighting typical of a gaming room or something, a fact that only serves to make you even more distressed. The nuances in light and dark shades of violet almost mockingly highlight your blatant desperation in the mirror's reflection.

It is true that the intense blush on your cheeks and the bridge of your nose and the skin damp with sweat could easily be justified by those drinks and every attempt at electrifying dance and involuntary contact with countless heat bodies in the cramped party room, as well as your unstable breathing and disheveled hair.

But the way your hands are shaking violently where they’re flat on the granite, or the way your heart trapped in your ribcage seems to swell until it threatens to burst, and how your throat is tightening to the point where you’re choking on tiny, fragile wheezes…

These symptoms speak of something else…

You’re about to have a panic attack on irrefutable evidence.

God, how long has it been since you’ve had one of these? A year? Maybe longer?

It doesn’t matter. Fuck, it doesn’t matter now!

You sigh a thin, impatient sound between your teeth, the strands of hair on the side of your face trembling along with your entire body, your hand letting go of the edge of the sink to palm in anguish the space between your breasts beneath the garish purple lace of your costume — where your heart feels like it’s being crushed in a tight fist.

Could it have been the deafening beat of the music? Has your seclusion for so long left you so unprepared to deal with something like this? Or could it have been the incessant chatter of the students? Maybe the sheer number of people crammed into this godforsaken frat house that was clearly not designed to hold so many at once? Could it just be a consequence of your obsessive neurosis about him?

"97..."

You're falling. Or maybe flying?

"89..."

Floating in time and space. Deaf to anything but the terrors of your own mind. Reciting decreasing prime numbers like your therapist had taught you, a conscious effort to control and distract your collapsing nerves and the painful pounding of your heart.

"Fuck...fuck...83 -, ugh!"

Your eyes squeeze tightly together, unwilling to face your ravaged reflection in the mirror any longer, your head spinning in denial. The walls are too close, the floor too far beneath your feet, your own skin too tight around your flesh.

"79," you force the number from your lips, force your breath out in shallow puffs, cold sweat trickling down the back of your neck.

The thumping music downstairs is a bit muffled now, though the party is as lively as ever - but up here you feel your world shudder and crumble beneath your feet.

But you'll survive. You always survive.

Keep breathing...just keep breathing -

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

"7..."

You've been counting prime numbers for longer than you can keep track of right now, but somewhere along the grueling hell that is imploding in your own mind, your voice has regained a bit of strength. Your fingers are also shaking less, you notice distantly.

With a pained sniff, you look up at the mirror as you feel you've regained a fraction of control of yourself, taking in the humiliating image before you.

Your gaze is dull and tired. Your nose and cheeks are redder than before, your skin sticky with sweat that's now almost dried. Your whole body still trembles slightly in the aftermath of the panic attack, and the hair around your face is messier than before from all the times you pulled it in the middle of the crisis. You're a mess, undeniably. But you feel less like shit now than you did a few minutes ago, and that should count as some kind of bittersweet victory in your book of failures.

With a tug, you pull the long white gloves off your hands to turn on the faucet, letting the water run down your cupped palms to spray a little on your face. The cold water on your overheated skin makes you sigh.

This is the kind of person you had become, isn't it? Someone incapable of going to a simple frat party without having a damn panic attack. How pathetic.

"That's it, no more parties for you, young lady." You mumble as you dry your hands and cheeks on the fluffy towel hanging next to the sink, silently praying that your shaky legs will cooperate on the walk to your dorm on the other side of campus.

Mako wouldn't much like knowing that you were already leaving, but you'd like it even less for her or any of your friends to know about your little meltdown in the upstairs bathroom. It was bad enough that you had no control over it, you didn't need to see the pity reflected in her eyes when she found out, only adding to your humiliation.

Poor little broken thing, she would think.

Maybe you could just slip away without being seen and text her when you got dorms to say you were okay, leaving her questions to deal with later. You had already handled more than you could handle tonight, she would understand eventually. Not that she would notice your absence for a while, busy as she was swapping saliva and other bodily fluids with that guy.

Your phone vibrates abruptly on the counter and you jump at the unexpected noise, blinking rapidly at the letters on the screen.

Unknown Number.

With a eye roll and a still-racing heartbeat, you decide to just ignore the call, as you usually do every time an 'unknown number' pops up. Honestly, who still makes calls these days when you have a messaging app that works just fine, thank you very much? But whoever is behind that call doesn't feel the same way, and soon your iPhone's screen flashes again, bright as a beacon in the purple bathroom lighting, the device moving a few inches across the counter with the vibrations. You sigh and ignore it once more until you're done, but it vibrates again on a third try. And a fourth, when the last one doesn't work.

On the fifth try, you pick up your phone and answer with an exasperated huff, summing up your mood perfectly.

"Hello?"

The person on the other end of the line has the audacity to let out a sigh of relief - dramatic even, you might say, upon hearing your voice.

"There she is. For a moment there I thought you weren't going to answer, princess." The voice that greets you is soft, laughing, a satisfied and calm masculine purr.

"I tried. What do you want?" You answer sullenly, not in the mood to deal with this probable pervert who has nothing better to do with his life than to disturb random people late at night. You were never the brightest star when it came to social chess, and you certainly wouldn't start being so soon after your first panic attack after so long without any episodes. You were out of practice. Your head throbs, your nerves are frayed, your voice is fragile, the muscles in your body ache from the time you spent tense and trembling during the crisis. You just want to go bed.

"Easy now, little girl. I just want to know if you're okay." He hums, oblivious to your irritation.

You know he clearly hears the disdainful snort that leaves your lips. Before you can respond, however, he continues with the sentence that would change your life forever.

"That was really bad...are you sure you're better now?"

You blink at the mirror, your brows furrowed in irritation and headache. You know you should just end the call, not entertain any malicious intentions from this stranger. Yet, you find yourself answering before you even realize it.

"What are you talking about?"

"Your panic attack, love. That was a big one, hm? I thought it would never end." He hums nonchalantly, as if discussing his favorite ice cream flavor, and you part your lips at your reflection, a warning shiver settling at the base of your neck and slowly making its way down your spine.

"Um," you swallow uncomfortably, subtly glancing up at the walls and tight corners of the bathroom, looking for possible openings or hidden cameras. You had the bad luck to walk into some weird, perverted frat nerd's room, is that it? "So you're at the party too. Having fun time?" You shrug in the mirror, trying to sound blasé about what he said, but your voice is noticeably shakier than you’d like.

There’s no reason to be nervous, you try to reason with yourself when your visual scan doesn’t point to any apparent cameras. This guy probably just saw you hurrying up the stairs and is curious about your delay in returning to the party, that’s all. Although it’s still weird, since you made sure to hide in the privacy of the bathroom before your meltdown was actually noticeable to any prying eyes.

And how the hell did he have your number anyway?

"Oh yeah. Having a great time." The man answers, the lightheartedness in his voice fading to a deeper, darker tone at the end, though the smile in his voice is clear - mocking, even through the call line.

"By the way, I loved your costume. Which Sailor are you?" He prompts, returning to his airy tone, and you entertain once again the urge to just hang up on him, your already severely damaged nerves not quite able to handle the load of honest, and pointless, curiosity in the stranger's husky voice. The abrupt change in intonation makes your headache throb more by the second.

"Uh, Sailor...Mars...I guess?" You shrug, unsure why exactly you bother answering, the tip of your index and middle finger on your other hand coming up to massage your temple in slow circles, eyelashes resting on the top of your cheeks as you squint tiredly. Honestly, you're not sure if your answer is right. Having barely time (or interest, to be honest) to assess the costume before tonight - when it was shoved rudely in your face by a Mako determined to bring you to this party. You don't trust your knowledge of Sailor Moon, or any anime for that matter, to confidently answer the man's question. But...yeah...you think you might be right.

"It looks so cute on you, sweetie." He purrs on the other side; sickeningly sweet, sweet as molasses. And that's what makes you straighten up in front of the mirror - his voice suddenly sweet. Your eyes become fixed, a small hitch in your breath; suspended, alert, waiting for his next words. "I've thought so since you arrived at the party. So cute and so fucking pretty. Tiny and pretty in that silly costume."

"W-what? Who's...?" You swallow uncomfortably, but he interrupts you.

"So pretty, and so lonely too. Always lonely, aren't you sweet girl?" The way he says it, confident and calm, as if he’s absolutely certain of what he’s saying, as if he knows you. You squirm, agitated and raw, but you clench your fist at your side.

“And how would you know that?” You want to sound sharp, but you know your voice betrays how much he’s upsetting you.

“Oh, I can see that, princess.” He breathes, followed by a low hum, stretching out an enigmatic pause until your fingers are trembling around the phone. “I see how you’re always alone; misfit and scared, like a little deer hiding from the glare of headlights to avoid being caught. Isn’t that what you do, love? Trying everything to get away from that airheaded friend of yours and others equally idiotic, burying your nose in some book in the quietest part of the library so you don’t have to talk to anyone. Your hiding place, isn’t it?” He laughs with clear disdain and you feel your vision blurring, the discomfort in your stomach worsening with each word he utters.

But he doesn't stop there.

"I see how those beautiful eyes are always brimming with emotions, emotions that you deliberately refuse to share with anyone, no matter how much they insist that you open up. It's interesting how you have social options, but you choose solitude every single time. Not that that's a complaint, of course. Solitude suits you well, sweet thing."

Your breathing is faster now, loud enough for the stranger on the other side to hear, but you don't care about that. All you can think about is the information the man spewed into your ear.

He knows where you retreat to escape the incessant noise of the world around you, he knows the walls you've built around yourself, the emotional blockage in opening up to anyone - your complete unwillingness to do so. He’s not just talking about the color of clothes that you usually wear around campus — a quirk that anyone could notice and use to scare you at a time like this. No, it’s not that simple. He’s talking about intimate things, about feelings; things that only someone who lives with you could say.

The thing is, you’re not an idiot. A self-imposed hermit with anxiety issues? Of course yes. But not an idiot. You understand enough about human psychology to know that every word that comes out of this stranger’s mouth is a threat cloaked in a teasing, sugar-coated tone. And the fact that he’s telling you personal things isn’t coming from some bizarre attempt to initiate a social interaction with you, but a demonstration that he knows exactly who you are. The game is blatantly in his favor, because he knows you, but you have no idea who he is. He holds the power here, and he’s making that clear to you.

"Are you okay there, princess? You've gone so quiet on me sudden." His voice snaps you out of your trance once more, eyes flickering rapidly to your horrified reflection in the mirror.

"W-who are you, a fucking stalker? How the hell do you know this things about me?" He laughs at the false bravado in your voice, your discomfort obvious and clear to him, no matter how much you don't want it to be.

"Nah, more like a secret admirer, I'd say." He answers you matter of factly, the acidic smile on his lips bleeding through the line. "Secret not for long, of course." There's a hint of suspense in it, something ominous that lingers in the silence that follows, as if he's purposefully fermenting you in his dark insinuation.

That's it, you need to hang up.

"Don't call me again or I swear I'll report you to the police, idiot." You threaten with a venomous sigh. A bluff, of course. There was no way you could make a minimally consistent complaint when you not only had no information about who this crazy man could be, but there wasn't even a real number registered for that call that could serve as evidence in a future police report. Unknown Number, that was all you had to work with. He knew that too, judging by the amused laughter buzzing on the other side of the line. You still hear it clearly when you pull the phone away from your ear to click the red icon on the screen, ending the call.

You're shaking when you look up at your reflection in the mirror, the woman in front of you staring at you with wide eyes and a scared face, the rush of raw adrenaline in your veins making your body vibrate like a power cable.

She said it would be fun.

Mako said it would be fun.

You shouldn't be here tonight if it weren't for that damned promise.

The prospect of change wasn't appealing to you; safety was appealing. Habits and routine were appealing. Habits and routine kept you healthy, safe. Nothing outlandish ever happened in your life, and you almost preferred it that way — if there were no surprises, there would be no disappointments, no risks, no panic attacks.

You weren’t supposed to be here tonight, and there was no other explanation than the folish notion that some cosmic misalignment had occurred and you were stuck right in the middle of an anomaly.

You try to take a deep breath, the discomfort in your chest indicating a possible second wave of panic approaching. No, no, not again. You just want to leave, you want to get out of this damn house and back to the safe confines of your dorm room before any more horribly improbable things happen to you tonight.

Rationally, you know that leaving the bathroom doesn’t seem like the most sensible option, especially when the stranger on the phone has offered you clues that he’s lurking outside. But all your scared, adrenaline-fueled mind can process at the moment is the urgent desire to get away from this place as quickly as possible. And that’s why you take one last deep breath, offering one more look at the forlorn woman in the mirror before quickly grabbing your gloves from the counter and turning to open the bathroom door, walking out without looking up as you unlock your phone with trembling fingers to text Mako.

"Ouch!" You gasp as you hit your forehead on something solid as soon as you step out, your phone dancing between your hands with the impact until it falls to the floor with a loud thud, along with your white gloves. Your instinctive reaction is to bend down to pick it up, already fearing possible damage to the screen, a damage that you certainly couldn't pay at the moment, but the tip of a black boot immediately appears in your line of vision, kicking your phone into the bathroom with a rough blow.

"Hey, what's your problem?!" You growl, looking up, your neck craning to glare at the rude idiot in front of you.

However, the indignation dies on your tongue and your heart sinks in your chest when the empty eyes of a masked figure stare back at you.

It's a costume party, of course, and the guy is in costume. There's nothing really suspicious about it. Nothing you should think twice about.

But when your eyes slide to what he holds between his fingers; the blade of an intimidatingly large kitchen knife, dripping thick liquid in fat crimson drops onto the floor, the smell is ferrous and acrid and so unmistakable; so strong that not even the smell of cheap weed and wet sex that seems to be embedded in every square inch of this frat house is enough to cover up that odor. Blood. Human blood. Dripping and heated.

And you just know.

You know it's him.

God knows how many days (fucking weeks) your hyperfocus has been on this man. The search bar of your browser and social media was full of questions about him, hunting like a detective in the safe solitude of your dorm room, eagerly searching for any clues to his identity. Nothing but "tall masked man" was what you came up with, no matter how hard you tried. His victims didn't live to tell the tale and the few, rare glimpses of him were too vague to confirm anything.

It’s insane the idea that you could tell it was him when there was barely any information about who he might be or what he looked like, but you know — you just know.

He stands there, relaxed and unfazed as you study him with growing horror, as if it were the natural thing to do — as if he’d been waiting all along for you to open the door so he could enter. And then the masked figure takes a casual step into the bathroom, the easy confidence in this simple act foreshadowing his ease in overpowering his victims.

You swallow hard, backing away slowly as you lock eyes with the killer’s empty mask holes. The notion that there’s no way out of the room becoming painfully obvious to you. The man takes up the entire space of the exit; the width of his shoulders spanning almost from one side of the doorframe to the other, his long legs slightly apart to fill any gaps.

The only way out of here would be if you stepped over him; and that wasn’t going to happen.

So much for a fun night.