#soap would absolutely love to have a pen pal to delight while he's in and horrify when he gets out

[dragonnarrative-writes]

I had a dream last night that I was pen pals with slasher Johnny while he was still locked up and now I'm depressed that he didn't really show up at my door unannounced despite never having given him my name or address and he ate Chipotle with me on my couch before fucking me within an inch of my sanity 😭

You know what's absolutely hilarious to me about the whole Slasher Handler universe? I'm not actually a Horror Girlie. Having dreams about slashers showing up at my house - with or without food - sounds like the most hilarious nightmare. Soap???? John "Soap" MacTavish???? That unhinged motherfucker???? In my house??????!? Have a drabble. CW: Kidnapping/reader is taken hostage, implied stalking/surveillance, disrespect to a puzzle, implied dub/non-con

The knock at the door should have been the mailman. He was nice, a bit more chatty than you really wanted, but you never complain. It’s nice to have a friendly face while you adjust to your new city. But the man standing on your porch hadn’t been James, the affable, middle aged mail carrier.

Your whole body had locked up as blue eyes you’ve only ever seen through a google search met yours. You'd stopped sending letters two years ago, but you were undeniably face to face with John “Soap” MacTavish. He had grinned like a devil as he held up a wicked looking knife and a brown paper bag. Chipotle.

“Brought yer favorite!”

That had been two hours ago. Now, arms and legs bound to a chair in your kitchen, you feel almost calm. Soap sits across from you, sorting the edge pieces of one of your new puzzles and chattering like you aren't gagged and unable to answer.

“And then,” he declares, pointing at you. “Nae more letters from my bonnie pen pal! Figured ah was bein’ punished, that maybe yer letters were bein’ returned to sender. Nae yer fault, nothin’ f’r it. But in the last letter you said you was movin’, an’ ah didnae get the new address. Too bad, that!”

He puts his chin in his hand and taps the table with an index finger as he contemplates the box of the puzzle. Something in him shifts. The silence, the way his eyes go intensely focused, makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

“Ye ken why ah like puzzles? Because all the little fiddly pieces fit together,” he turns the box toward you. “So why in the fuck would anyone make one with pieces that stick out the sides like this?”

He gives you a significant look, so you make a muffled noise behind the gag and shrug.

“Bonnie as anything,” he says, apropos of nothing, reaching out to take your chin in one strong hand. “Used to think about fuckin’ you all over that house of yours. Especially that old leather couch.” His grin turns predatory at the way you jolt, heart in your throat. “Oh, hen, the dreams ah’ve had of your old place. Used to jerk off to a picture of that laundry basket. Cute pair of black knickers right on top. O’ course, we’d’ve had to lock the cat out. Much as ah love an audience, ‘e don’t need to see his mam that way.”

You never mentioned a cat, or your furniture, or anything like that in your letters. Certainly, you never sent photos. The terror that had clenched around your heart while he bullied his way into the house and forced you into your kitchen comes roaring back.

Please, you try to say around the gag. What do you want?

“Ah’m only in town for a couple more days,” he says, carelessly dumping all of the pieces he’d separated back into the box again. He stands, one hand going to his belt as he gives you an exaggerated wink. “Hate to rush, but we’ve got to christen your new place. An’ if ah’m not back tomorrow, the Ghost will come lookin’.”