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It was all a game. That much was evident. When you were injured, whether it be by a sword or tentacle, you were always injured the same way. You could get stabbed in the head by Myers, or caught in the foot by Pyramid head, it was all the same, because you got two chances. That’s just how it worked. In the same breath, you might’ve patched up a stabbing with little more than a bandage but as long as you put some elbow grease into it, the Entity healed your wounds. Logic and reason had no merit in her realm. She liked to watch you run desperately with your tails between your legs. She was a sadist.
The trials were games. It was all a game.
So when you found yourself encountering a certain comically masked killer outside of a trial, in the woods, things got a little complicated.
Your first instinct was to hide. The cold air bit at your exposed ankles as you slipped behind a tree. You steadied your breathing, knowing he might see the white puffs your breath left in the cold. Taking a peak from your hiding position, you saw what he was doing. He had his knife in hand, and was carving something into the tree. A word, or a name. It didn’t matter, he was distracted.
That’s how you ended up crawling in the dirt towards his knife that had gotten flung away among the autumn leaves during your fistfight. Ghostface was pulling at your foot, and you remember the sensation of leather panickedly trying to slow you down. It didn’t work. You gave a fierce kick to his mask and heard a crunch — which may have been his nose or the mask’s — and a wheezing groan. Then, you snatched the knife up.
It was funny. This scenario was a microcosm of the dynamic between hunter and killer, and yet you held the steely knife of your tomenter. You held the cards. This was your moment to be the dealer. This was your game.
You were on him while he was still recovering from the (certainly broken) nose you’d gifted him.
“Hope you’re ready. I’m about to enact some revenge, you motherfucker.”
It was easy enough to straddle him and drag him down by the cowl. Another breathy grunt escaped him as his head hit the hard forest floor. You raised the knife, prepared to rain down the same executioner’s fury that he had so many times wrought unto you. But, gently — so gently, like you wouldn’t have felt it if you hadn’t been wearing paper-thin leggings gently — he lifted a gloved hand to your hip, keeping there as he anticipated your attack. What he did not anticipate was the slight grazing of his fingers to stop you dead in your tracks. You stared at him for a split second, wondering if he could really see you through the masks’ black holes. He didn’t move an inch.
Then, with a sense of uncertainty, he drew a slow line down your thigh. Clearly, he was gauging your reaction, tipping his head in a cliché but still endearing way. The moment sent your mind reeling, and it distracted you enough that he was able to catch you off guard, swing you around and squeeze your wrist tight enough to disrupt the nerves in your hand. You dropped the knife, and it seemed to fall in slow motion. In real time, you felt the edge you had over Ghostface blunten.
“What was that?” You panted below him.
He made no response, only leaning over your body and pushing you further into the soil. The twigs and rocks had started to dig into your back. It was irritating.
“Just kill me, then.” You said. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d been mutilated outside of a trial.
The knife whizzed past your face, burying into the soil beside it. Your heart began to race like an athlete. Your worldview narrowed down the blade. Ghostface above you was like a foggy memory. That didn’t last when he leaned over you. Your field of vision was suddenly confined to his cowl and his mask. It was his turn to straddle you.
The two of you were in such proximity, you counted his heartbeat. It was a strange reminder that the one who impaled you each day was merely a human — aided by the Entity.
Ghostface’s breaths stuttered to a staccatto as he trapped your head between his hands and leaned down, burying his mask into your neck.
It was weird. Cheap, cold plastic against your throat made you wince. You tried to move, to push him off, but your desire only succeeded in wanting him. You compromised with yourself. You grabbed him by the neck and yanked him backwards, before shooting up into a sitting position. You held him still, like a dog, by the scruff.
It clicked. He was coming onto you. “What the fuck?” You said, mostly to yourself, breathless. You looked at him. He didn’t say a word, ever mute.
There was one option — “If you want what I want-“ You lifted your thigh to nudge between his legs, but he stopped you with an iron grip. He shook his head, and you relented. So he didn’t want to fuck you?
You reached for the knife behind you, “Then…“ The second option. Fight to the death.
He grabbed your wrist, shaking his head once more.
You two stayed like that, static for a few moments.
He didn’t want the first or second option… What was the third?
Survivors and hunters alike were forbidden to talk during trials. Bill, an old veteran, tried to teach the survivors some sign language. However, when you started testing it out in trials, black spikes spurted from the ground, skewering your hands. The Entity had spoken. Only whines and vague gestures were permitted in trials. Outside of trials, though, the survivors were free to congregate and converse. You assumed this extended to hunters too, but perhaps not. Or maybe the entity made a special rule for Ghostface, since that Pinhead fellow could talk up a storm.
If Ghostface could talk, or sign, or give some elaboration into his intentions and desires, that would make this whole exchange a lot less sexually constipating.
“Do you-“ You stopped your own sentence short, coming to the realisation you had no idea how to proposition a serial killer who had carved your guts out quite a few times before.
Jesus, this was awkward.
You swallowed, waiting for any kind of signal from the Ghostface. Nada.
Maybe this was forbidden. It didn’t matter. The entity could not stop this. Most of her power lied in the trials, where she was fuelled by the survivors’ blood and the killers’ lust. It took her years of charging her power to drag someone in from the overworld. The entity was almost powerless outside of trials.
Fine, then you’d fuck the Ghostface. Then what? Do the walk of shame back to the camp?
Above you, Ghostface snapped you out of your thoughts with a small gesture. His index, pointedly running down your midriff, lower and lower. It was a steady wave of movement dragged along by temptation. He stopped, just short, below your navel. Then, he looked up at you. Well, that somewhat answered a few things.
It was a question — well, as close to a question he could get in a mute situation — and now the spotlight was on you. Perhaps this situation’s resolution would come far quicker if you had taken more initiative, after all, you could talk. That didn’t matter. Your pride would never allow it. You swallowed in the cold air.
“Y-yeah.” You whispered, but then, with more fervour, said, “Fuck it. Let’s do it.”
Ghostface slipped his hand into your leggings — curse the entity for making you wear something so thin in weather so cold — and the cool leather touch on your groin made you wince. You instead shifted your attention to his cowl and tried to pry it off his face but it was attached to those stupid fucking straps around his chest. You sighed in frustration, but the sound twisted into a more pleased sigh as you felt his leathered finger calculatedly run up and down your hole through underwear. But he lingered there for too long. That wouldn’t do.
“Properly, if you’re going to do it at all.” You hissed, and dug your sharp nails into his shoulders. “You’d better— agh!“
You grunted and curled in on yourself as he pushed the pad of his thumb upwards, and landed on your clit. He started drawing slow circles and there was that vaguely familiar sensation of being utterly trapped. This ghost- killer- thing had put you in a reverse bear trap, and the clock was ticking. Frankly, it was humiliating how quickly you lost your breath, but it had been so long.
Pleasure inside you was winding on a spindle, threatening to pull taught, until he slowed his roll to a stop. Then, it began again. It sent you headfirst through a windshield and your hips stuttered as you wanted to cant up into him but he had that stupid fucking entity powered-grip that held you down and-
“God damn you, bastard- prick- It’s-“ You reach up, trying to tear his mask away, but he doesn’t relent.
The fucker had his fingers on your cunt but wouldn’t let you see his face. You guide his fingers from your wrist into your mouth and bite. Hard. The flesh crunches wetly between your maw but Ghostface doesn’t flinch — he just keeps that steady whirlpool of foggy pleasure swirling.
Okay. Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. The now and the what was feeling pretty good right about now. Just don’t think too much about the who. Your head lolled to the side, twitching and gasping, trying to stifle the sounds he was ripping from you with every twist of his hand.
As you were left to stir in your pleasure, your mind wanted to waterboard itself. You groaned. this was worse than fucking other survivors. You saw the survivors for every waking moment (which was always, the Entity didn’t permit sleep,) so you never bothered putting out. Not even to Ace. Don’t fuck someone you’ll wake up in the same room as — you’d been there and done that at college. You’d fucked far stupider people in far stupider scenarios.
Ghostface. What a stupid fucking name.
Shame bubbled in your chest when you looked up at the one making you forget your senses. He was wearing a latex dollar store mask and he was making you forget your own name.
So instead, you muttered his name, over and over, “Ghostface, a little faster,” and “that’s good. Ghostface.” Ghostface, above you, let out a little shaky breath each time. It was airy and quiet and you wanted to hear it more frequently. You wanted to amplify the sound — pull it from him like an aux cord and plug it straight into your blood.
It was around this moment that your idle hands started to get antsy. Your fingers dug a little deeper into his frame. He clearly didn’t want to be touched. Despite this, you had a strange desire to have him under your thumb.
The slow drag of the leather on your clit was making you feel dizzy, and eventually you threw your head back, just twitching and gasping every so often. In your foggy brained pleasure, you wondered if this was too weird. At least you couldn’t get permanently killed if he suddenly turned on you. Or pregnant, you guessed, if that was where this was going.
You were dragged out of your haze when he made a gruff noise and tapped your thigh. He slowed his roll and, with the hand not circling your clit, he ran them up and down your lips, testing the waters. You tried not to shiver. Once you were wet enough that the slick dripped down into the soil, he began to drive a finger into you. There was friction, of course there was, but the bumps of the leather inside made you see stars. See, his fingers were not particularly thick. But they were oh-so-long. You deliriously conflated the sensation with having the entity's tendrils inside you. He curled, pressing against that sensitive spot with ease you didn’t expect, and let out a moan in an embarrassingly high register.
Then he was going again, carefully slow-fucking you, deeper than you thought was possible, and twisting your swollen head. You were shorting out. The pleasure built was building, in your chest, in your insides, in your head. Each thrust felt better than the last. You were so close — “Ghostface, I’m gonna- I’m-“
Of course, in the cruelest fashion, he pulled back the reins. You’re abandoned, teeming pleasure sinking downwards. But there’s no sense of relief. Like you’ve hid in a locker but the adrenaline is ripping through your veins. Want superseded dignity as a flurry of pleas pour from your mouth onto deaf ears. He held you still. So still.
And you were still pinned beneath the killer. His expression was as unreadable as ever, meanwhile you suspected your every thought was worn on your sleeve.
Ghostface was still holding you down by the hip. It had been an uncomfortable amount of time now, and the seconds stretched to eons as Ghostface stared holes into you. You couldn’t help your stertorous breathing, that only worsened when he ran his hand up to your chest and applied a deep pressure. You were sweating, certainly.
But then, once you realised the hand on your sternum was not there to restrain you, but to placate you, you untensed and leaned back. You sighed, and acquiesced.
Dangerously, one of his hands stayed at your hip, and the other began trailing up to your side. He stopped short just of a cut you’d earned in your earlier altercation. It was nothing more than a flesh wound. A slit in the skin carved out by his knife. It was oozing blood in thick blots, but you’d live. That’s when Ghostface continued trailing his finger upwards.
Gently, he swiped his fingertip through the wound. It was another invitation, another way of asking. He wanted to be inside you, in many different iterations. You grabbed his wrist — tight enough that he felt your nails dig into the skin — but not tight enough to stop him. With a lump in your throat, you nodded.
He dipped the tip of his finger into the wound, running it along the slit, carefully treading the depths of your epidermis.
That’s when he started to pull the skin up, and tug on it from within, like he was trying to pry it open and flay you.
“Is- that’s… Fuck- Whatever the hell your name is just don’t stop.”
It was invasive and scary all at once. When you had the sudden urge to pull his hand deeper, let him feel the curvatures of your organs, that’s when you decided enough was enough. You grabbed his hand, slipping on the leather because of the blood. You wanted to get off- no, you wanted him to get you off.
“Please-“ You asked, but he shook his head slowly. You asked, begged, he did not relent. Wrath began to flourish inside your fists. You had been here before — dissatisfied and horny. Too many times you’d been left wanting and alone. He did not plan on giving you what you want. It irritates you, if he’s not going to get you off he’d better get off you so you can have a wank or something.
You pushed at him, but your hands, lubricated, do not do anything. So, you went to knee the bastard in the dick. Hard. You landed, and he keeled over you with a pained groan.
Except… oh. Ghostface didn’t have a dick. At least, not in the typical sense. Well, that wasn’t exactly expected nor was it a surprise. It wasn’t that you’d assumed he was a man, or cis. The Entity placed knowledge into the survivors head about certain killers. You certainly knew Ghostface was a he but you never were told he was a man. Suddenly, the dots we’re connecting.
It was difficult to come out to the other survivors. There was little reason to bring it up, and sometimes they didn’t quite get it. You tried to explain your transmaculinity to the camp, and David had even made an awkwardly supportive pass at you, before you rejected him. It wasn’t very flattering though, considering most men at the camp would fuck a fish. There was also that close encounter with Yui — but you backed out at the last second. Somehow, it was more intimidating to sleep with her than the literal Ghostface.
Speaking of, he was hopping off of your legs, scrambling away from you in a panicked hurry.
“Hey- hey, hey!” You grabbed one of the tendrils and the force of it stopped him. Comically, he fell flat on his face. You crawled up to him, guiding him to turn on his back and face you. “You’re not gonna just ditch me, are you?” You asked, in the most seductive voice you could manage. You straddled him for the second time tonight, leaning in and pressing your lips to the shell of his ear,
“Let me return the favour?”
The shiver that ran through him was palpable.
You lowered yourself, fingers dancing along and slipping up his joggers. You weren’t going to just stick your hand in his pants like he did. Tramp.
You slipped them down, prepared, at any moment, for the Entity to shoot up and stop you dead. She doesn’t. But you could feel her. She was right beneath the soil, writhing, squirming, watching. Of course. But she wasn’t strong enough here to stop you.
With his trousers lost in the frey, and you not saying a word, all that was left was the muffled sound of Ghostface panting. You slid your hands up his ankles, under his knees, and leant over him and just stared. Drank the sight of him up. You couldn’t see his face but he had his hand up to his mouth, as if covering it in shyness, and his legs adjusted to your every movement, malleable and easy to manipulate. And his cunt — it was puffy and glistening and he needed it- needed you so badly.
You noticed Ghostface was hot, not just metaphorically — though he was very attractive right now — temperature wise, his skin was searing against the icey cold forest. Perhaps his unnatural temperature was courtesy of the Entity, or maybe he was just a weirdo. Thankfully, he kept his gloves on when he fingered you otherwise he might have cooked you from the inside out.
Speaking of, you wanted easy access to him,
“I’m going to push your knees up to your chest. Hold them there.” You wondered if he was flexible enough, and then bent him anyway. With a little grunt, he complied. You smiled. If you wanted him to fold, he’d fold.
You dug in. You gingerly licked at his cock growth, and he jolted. You had barely touched him but he was soaked and just so fucking warm. It was almost a relief when you dug in, burying your face into his cunt.
Lapping at his soft folds, you tried to focus on the task at hand but it was so hard when the Ghostface was above you, making those low sounds and gripping your hair so tightly. You took his cock in your mouth and sucked at the tip. It was worth the effort. He threw his head back, and groaned out a wet, desperate sound.
You decided to up the anti, gently pressing a finger at his hole. You lifted yourself and asked, “Can I..?”
He nodded fervently. Slowly, you started to enter him, but he gave you so much resistance. “Relax,” you said, and he did, but it was still so tight. “Jesus, do you ever have fun?” You asked him, althought it was the kettle and the pot talking here.
He nodded again.
“So why are you so fucking tight?” You managed to fit your finger in all the way to the knuckle. “Fuck… Do you ever let people do this? Touch you?”
He shook his head.
Then, he didn’t take anything in his hole often. Pride bubbled in your chest at the knowledge that he’d let you do this for him. Let you eat his pussy and make him a mess.
It wasn’t long before Ghostface was whining and twitching and the way his back arched told you was coming. You fucked with him through it, steadily plunging your finger in and out and giving kitten licks at his head until he was trembling.
He was all fucked out, barely even moving. You laid down on the forest floor beside him. There was dirt all over his cowl and you leaves were sticking to you from the blood dripping down your torso.
“So, uh.” You started, “You got a name?”
You almost jumped when he rasped, “Danny,” and then coughed. He could talk. But his voice was raw and scratchy, maybe from disuse.
Your heads snapped as you both heard a noise from the distance, behind you, deeper in the forest. A twig snapping — and then thunderous, fading footsteps. Someone had heard. They’d heard and they’d probably seen. Someone was stalking them and the Shroud, the Ghostface didn’t notice.
This startled him, and suddenly he jumped on you, and clamped down on you with his legs, locking you in place — which would have been heaven if he didn’t scramble for his knife and plunge it into your shoulder. You screamed, feeling hot ichor begin to pour down your shirt, which only worsened tenfold when Ghostface ripped the knife from you with a wet shlep.
There was that morbid terror as you tried to plug the wound with your fingers, collecting the blood to try and keep it inside you as it gushed between your fingers. You knew it was fruitless but your basest instincts to survive seized you and you whimpered. Every second was your life fading from you. This wasn’t like trials. You could bleed out here. Fast
“I- I don’t wanna die,” You wheezed, “Danny.”
But this only seemed to spur him on.
Well, of all the ways you’ve died, getting stabbed by a killer with his cock out was far from the most unique.
You were trembling by now. He looked down at you, and then wiped the blood from the knife with his glove. He brought the hand under his mask, and you heard him suck the liquid off his finger. Despite yourself, you shivered.
You felt his leather straps wind around you, and you relented, releasing your wound and letting him bind you as he pleased. Then, one of his leather tendrils wrapped out your eyes. You were bleeding, bound and blind. Honestly; that sounded like an ideal Friday night.
But you heard some shuffling, and then — soft lips to your cheek. A kiss.
Then the Ghostface leaned into the shell of your ear and whispered your name, thanking you. He said your name like it was a little secret.
Then he spat out bloody foam. All over your cheek. You could smell the metallic scent. Yuck. It seemed the Entity didn’t want him to speak after all. That was his punishment.
His knife poked at your neck. You knew you were screwed.
“Oh, you cun—“
And then you felt the knife cut your throat, and then you felt yourself fading, and then you didn’t feel much else after that.
• • •
When you got back to camp, everybody was staring at you.
I mean,
everybody.
“Ghostface? Really?”
“Fuck off, David.”