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bisexual-horror-fan · 1 year

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"No One's Gonna Harm You." Buddy Swanson/Metal Killer X AFAB! Reader.

We re-watched Stage Fright (2014) in the Boiler Lounge and I miss Buddy and The Metal Killer so fuck it! Here I am doing this! It has been coming for a while and I hope you all enjoy it, some fluff, some angst, some smut, it’s got it all really, self indulgent and needed, lets go!

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Rating. Explicit. Length. 5.1K. Buddy Swanson/Metal Killer X AFAB! Reader. No Pronouns Specified. Warnings: Stage Fright Spoilers. Fluff. Banter. Emotions. Trauma. Mentions Of Assault And Coercion. Chase. Murder. Blood Play. Emotional Confession. Fingering. Vaginal Sex. Dirty Talk. Rough Sex. Confession Of Feelings. Begging. Forced Orgasm. Cream Pie. Cunnlingus. Mild Overstimulation. Roger Sucks. Artie Getz Sucks.

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Roger McCall was a weird dude.

You never liked him. When you first showed up to Centre Stage and were introduced you decided very quickly that something was off about him and you steered clear. Whenever he came around you would do your best to leave soon after and make yourself scarce, you had better things to focus on, other things you’d rather be doing anyway. Namely, a certain camp cook you had been shamelessly flirting with all summer long, Buddy was cute, funny, biting, sarcastic and an all around good time. He would write your name on your cup along with a joke every day, he would sneak you extra dessert and would talk while you lingered behind in the mess hall, speaking across tables that he was collecting messy trays, abandoned by your fellow campers without care.

“Don’t you have a class you should be getting to?” He inquired, expression light despite him picking up the truly disgustingly food-caked orange tray, moving it into the current stack he was working on and you fired back, “Shouldn’t you have these dishes done and be prepping lunch?”

You and he stare each other down over the three tables between you and him. The tension was going to kill you at this rate, a dance wondering who was going to make the first real move. The silence is broken but the eye contact is maintained as he says, “Seems we both have things we should be doing.”

“Seems like.” You said as you made yourself get up, you walked over, handed him your tray with a question of, “I’ll see you at lunch?”

“You will.” He affirms as he takes it from you, a small brush of your fingers makes you smile wider before stepping backwards, towards the door, eyes on him still, you ask. “What are we having?”

“You’re just gonna have to wait. Don’t let the suspense kill you now.” He teased and you threw both hands over your chest dramatically, as if you had been shot, as you continued your backwards walk to the exit. “I don’t know how I shall ever make it but for you? I’ll try.”

A fond roll of his eyes, head tossed back as he jokes, “So brave, your sacrifice won’t go unnoticed. Now get outta here! Go build a set or something.”

“Bye Buddy.” You called as you turned, finally close enough to the doors you pushed them open and set out.

You found yourself thinking of him all the time. In class, while walking the grounds, doing just about anything.

Even when you were actually set building, Artie Getz behind you, complaining that the text on the outside of the theatre set didn’t look “oriental” enough, (whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean), you were thinking of Buddy. Ignoring Artie Getz and his fucking racist bullshit was no easy task but your attraction to him outweighed your hate for the faux leather tribly wearing asshole you were all forced to call director.

The small moments you stole with him meant a ton. It wasn’t like you hated camp, there were some things to be learned here, actual skills, enjoyment to be had but there was still a lot to hate. Roger and Artie are big parts of that hate, the fact that you didn’t like theatre, and to be honest you didn’t like the show, the idea of reviving Haunting Of The Opera seemed tasteless, setting it in Feudal Japan with an all white cast downright crass. You found enjoyment where you could, in hammering nails and pretending they were Artie’s stupid fucking hat covered head, in paint, in the admittedly talented kids who played instruments in the pit, in the silly fucking moments you’d see and then share quietly with Buddy.

“No way.” He laughed, a shake of his head, a bounce of those curls, you said, “Yes! Way! Liz had the worst voice crack I had ever heard and it startled Sam so bad he tripped when crossing from stage right and fell flat on his face! Broke the fucking mask in two, they need to make a new one in like less than two days for opening night-”

He had to cover his mouth with both hands, bending slightly at the waist, the pair of you laughing it up and trying to keep it down. Everyone had been served lunch and was eating but you were lingering up near the serving line, talking with him and letting your tuna melt get cold. When he did finally pull his hands away, a deep inhale, wiping at the corners of those blue eyes, crinkled at the sides from sheer joy, steeped in mirth the same way the mess hall was in mid afternoon sunlight. “Holy shit that is too good.”

Reaching out, his hands on your shoulder over the trays he said empathetically, “Thank you for sharing that.”

You feel warm at his touch and you say, “No problem. I knew you’d be the only one to properly appreciate it.”

He lets you go, you wish he wouldn’t. Camp would be ending before you knew it, once opening night happens, they do another week and a half of just shows, then clean up, tear down for half a week and then it’s over. Maybe you should make that move sooner rather than later, you had the feeling inside that if you didn’t do something about this clear thing between you both that you’d regret it. You aren’t sure you can keep waiting for him to make a move, you might just have to be the one to do it.

“You gonna keep talking to me all lunch or are you gonna eat?” He asked and you fired back with, “Aren’t you gonna eat? Actually, better question, when do you eat? I’ve never seen you eat anything.”

“I usually eat after the freaks have.” He admits and you feel a bit sad at that thought, him eating alone in the kitchen, at least previously he’d have his sister with him before she ran off to join the play. You wonder if he’s lonely, instead of asking that question you pose a different one, “You wanna eat together?”

A gasp slips out, wide eyed he exclaims, “Are you asking me out?”

You laugh, “I’m asking you to eat lunch together, not out to the four seasons.”

“I’m just busting your balls, sure, let’s eat together.” He said with an easy kind of smile and a shrug.

Lunch was nice.

You helped him round up trays after the “freaks” as he called them cleared out, the longer you spent here the more you were inclined to agree with him however. Once back in the kitchen, sitting on a prep table, sharing the food he re-heated as well as a great conversation. Legs dangling off the edge and sitting nearly hip to hip and joking about something yet again, “Did you see him earlier?”

“When he spilled on himself? Yes! Does he just own that one flesh toned leotard or does he have a bunch of them?” You asked and he said, “Well did you see him go to his cabin to get changed? What do you think?”

You made an over exaggerated gagging sound that almost made him choke from how funny it sounded coming from you, a hand over his mouth, his other hand still holding half his sandwich, “Fuck, not while I’m eating!”

“Awe c’mon now, it’s not that bad. Not like you got soda out the nose or something.” You tease and he asks, “Have you ever had that happen?”

“Oooh yeah, so there was this time in fourth grade-” And you told him and he listened excitedly. By the time you were done with lunch you felt even closer to him, emotionally, physically too, you were almost leaning on him. When he had to get to making dinner you made yourself scarce, you were already almost an hour late to class as it was but you made plans to do it again sometime soon.

In the mad dash to opening night that ended up not happening, especially when Artie Getz turned up dead. Things got lost in the shuffle and you were honestly disgusted by everyone’s behaviour and insistence for the show to go on. It was fucking appalling and you were certainly not going to do anything to help put the show on and were not going to attend it, in fact, you were going to do what you could do stop it.

Turns out your feelings about Roger were spot on.

Roger isn’t a good guy.

You tried to talk some sense into him, multiple times, he wasn’t having it and when you were trying to speak to him while the show was going on he snapped. You didn’t think he had it in him, didn’t know he could put up a chase like that. You couldn’t circle back to the playhouse and that is where EVERYONE was so what could you do with him after you, capable of God knows what?

As if drawn, hopeful, maybe he would be there and if not at least you could get your hands on a knife to defend yourself, you run towards the mess hall and most importantly, the kitchen.

You break into the backdoor, run past the sinks and towards the heart of the kitchen, you hear the door slam open, he is hot on your heels and when you are about a foot away from that big fuck off knife you wanted to get your hand on, Roger’s hand, was on you.

Hand locked on your wrist and he pulled hard, you stumbled and crashed into him, his other hand on your shoulder, “You talk, way, way too much.”

You tried to struggle, he didn’t let go, he gripped tighter and kept talking, “I knew you were a bad fit here, you aren’t like everyone else! Running your mouth all the time. Do you know how hard I’ve worked to get back to this point? I’m not going to let-”

He was hurting you, red faced and spitting and you were honestly terrified, “-some stupid, idiot, smarmy fucking camper who can’t carry a tune in a basket ruin my show coming back!”

You were stuck, there was no way you were getting out of this one, his hand lifted, he was reaching for the knives and your eyes shut tight, you waited for the first blow, reluctantly accepting your fate but instead of a stab of pain you felt a spray of warmth and hear a sound of pure agony. Your eyes shoot back open upon the sticky warmth hitting you, to see Roger standing there, seemingly shocked and his throat slashed open.

The shock hit you too, his grip was loosening and you see him next, the tall imposing figure clad in black and white, holding what looks like a saw blade with finger holes cut into it for a handle?

You were terrified, wondering if you were next, what the fuck was happening but he ripped Roger away from you, threw him to the ground. Roger was choking on his own blood, coughing, apparently the masked stranger wasn’t satisfied by that. He swung one leg over, a flourish of that long black coat, his boot falling heavy to the floor and he crouched down, got closer and with one hand fisted in Roger’s shirt, the other gripping the saw blade he wasn’t done yet.

It was brutal.

By the time he was done hacking and cutting he was heaving, bloody, that mask was stained red, droplets of it were caught in the creases and groves of the mask, the wild black hair of the mask was weighed down by sticky crimson.

You felt glued to the spot. Watching him, kneeling over Roger’s now lifeless and disfigured body, breathing heavily behind the mask. Finally, his head turned up, he looked right at you, he stood and you started to back up, “No, no, please! Don’t hurt me! I-I won’t say anythin-”

Gearing up to run away but he stood up fully, coming forward quickly, you try to move at the same speed, stumbling as you attempt it but you are still in shock, he moves quicker, drops the saw blade in his hand and calls out loudly, “Wait!”

You stop.

Eyes wide and he is less than a foot away, you weren’t sure you heard him right, that voice. You swallow thickly, tongue feels too big for your mouth, too dry and you watch black leather clad gloves push his mask up and you see it’s him. A face that is smeared with spots of blood, smudges of black makeup and sweat soaked curls come into view. He is still breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling in time with his breaths and then he speaks again, “I’d never hurt you.”

“Buddy?” You ask it so quietly, he sets the mask down and he has his hands out, holding them out in front of him to show you he wasn’t going to attempt to reach for another weapon, he eases his way to you, slow steps he asks, “Are you okay?”

A small sniff, tears welling up and you aren’t sure, you say, “I-I think so? M’ not hurt-”

Thanks to him.

You could still see it, running through your mind, weapon in hand, Roger’s throat slashed open, you kept your eyes up, refusing to look at the corpse still leaking blood on the ground. Roger was going to kill you, he was clearly nuts, you should be thanking Buddy, but you were so confused, why was he at the ready? Did it no hesitation, in that costume, with those weapons too, you KNOW he isn’t in the play, so what was he planning to do tonight in that get-up? Your mind was running a mile a minute, his head tips forward, a sigh of relief, “Thank fuck, I’m so glad.”

“You were…Worried about me?” You asked softly and his head came back up, brows furrowed and he said, “Of course I was! I came in here and saw him and was so terrified of what he was going to do to you, he had a knife in his hand and I just-”

A shaky exhale before taking a deep breath in, eyes closed, he clenches his fists as if the thought of Roger doing that, harming you, killing you was too much to bear. The question is too much, weighs too heavily, you ask, “I am really thankful you were here to stop him but Buddy…Why are you here in the kitchen right now in this outfit?”

His eyes opened again and he looked at you long and hard. As if debating something heavily in his mind before he decides it’s worth it, that you are worth it. “Roger…Is terrible, he is a disgusting, awful man, an abhorrent monster. He used to be involved with my…Uh my mom. I know how people talk around here, I am sure you heard that Cam and I’s mom was the lead in the original Haunting and Roger was the producer and they were seeing each other and my mom she…”

He stopped, a deep breath again, “She cheated on him, he found out and he…He butchered her on opening night.”

You gasped and he pressed on, “He did it in front of me he told me it was my fault, he hit me, and worse. I was so, so fucking scared this whole time ever since then I just…When he wanted to do this show again and Cam got the lead it was like I was ten years old again, like it was some unthinkable nightmare, I thought the worst would happen to the only family I had left and I was scared, I felt so out of control and weak and powerless.”

He was coming closer again, but you weren’t scared. “Seeing how everyone was treating Cam, her falling victim to the same things…It was more than I could take and I realised something, I’m not that kid anymore, I could do something, could stop him, take revenge for mom, for Cam, for me.”

His hand skates across the stainless steel prep table you were next to as his approach continued. He was now so close to you, he reached out, gloved hands took yours, he said, “I care about you. Nothing is going to happen to you while I’m around and can do something about it, okay?”

You believe him. All of it, every word but especially him saying nothing would hurt you while he was around, I mean fuck, he killed for you, saved your life. “Buddy I had no idea, I am so-so sorry.” A ghost of a smile and he mouths, “Thank you.”

After a pause you ask then, “And does Cam-”

“Know? No, no she doesn’t. I tried my best to keep her out of it but she doesn’t know what Roger did, doesn’t know I’ve been holding onto this all this time I wanted to…Fuck, save her, protect her from it if I could.” He looked like he was hurting so much, the pain in his eyes is soul crushing and you reach out, touch him, hands cup his face and your thumbs brush over his cheek bones, more makeup is smeared, “You’re a great older brother.”

It makes sense. Artie Getz must have been his work too and you didn’t blame him, you had stumbled in one afternoon on him and Cam and she seemed less than happy about his hands up her shirt, you caught on quick that he might be making her do things she wasn’t all that enthusiastic about to hold her place in the play. You are glad he is looking out for her. Your heart goes out to him. His hands squeeze yours and he asks, “You’re not scared of me?”

You shake your head, “God no. I…Buddy I don’t think I can ever truly understand all you went through but I don’t need to in order to understand why you did it. Hell I would probably go on a killing spree for less if pushed.” You joke and he lets out a weak laugh, that smile you love coming out, white teeth cutting through messy black paint.

“You’re the best, you know that?” He asks and you laugh, “What? You’re saying this now?”

“I mean it! When else am I gonna say it? You made this summer fucking bareable! Getting to talk to you was the best part of my day.”

It’s still him, that smile breaking through the charcoal and the sweat and the blood, he felt the same was as you had, you weren’t crazy there was something that had been steadily building between you both all summer long and you say, “I feel the same way, getting to spend time with you kept me going through every horrible singing practice and all the splinters I got building that awful set. Buddy? You’re the best.”

You were still holding his face, he was still holding your hands and yet you both got closer, you tugged him nearer and he took that just as you wanted him to, as his in, releasing your hands, his now settled on your waist and he kissed you. He tasted like cheap make-up, iron and salt and something under all of that was slowly starting to reveal itself, the true taste of him, head swimming you tug him nearer still.

Hopped up on the adrenaline of it all, the almost murder of you, the actual murder of Roger, the mutual confession of your now painfully obvious crush, the fact you were still alive and here and even more than all of that, him, totally high on him. He was being rather bold, pushing you back into the table, holding you there, kissing you fiercely, you were completely swept up in it, he was the first one to break away, a panting breath of, “I’ve been wanting this for way too long-”

His hands were starting to move, “-I’ve been fucking dreaming of this and when I came in here and saw Roger with that knife, fuck, I thought it might never happen, thought he was going to take you away from me.”

He felt your chest up through your tank top, bloody head prints stain white fabric, his head tips back with a groan, he kneaded the flesh and you matched him vocally, it felt right, needed, you’d been thinking about him touching you like this for just as long as he had. “God, Buddy, you’ve been dreaming about me?”

A shaky nod, “Fuck yeah I have. Been thinking of feeling you, tasting you, craving you so bad.”

Tasting you? He dreamt of tasting you. The image of thick brown curls between your thighs with your fingers tangled in them takes over your mind and you moan.

Lord did you want to know all he did to you in those dreams he had, every sordid detail. He kisses you deeply, like he needs to, a hum against his lips, you return it, your hands reach and land on his shoulders. The mess of make-up and the rest makes your lips glide smoother against his, you were sure your own face was being made a wreck in the process but you don’t care, this is way too good to stop. He breaks this current kiss and you were breathing much harder along with him, his hands lifted up, ripping his gloves off, throwing them down on the table behind you, he wanted to feel you, really feel you.

“I was so fucking angry seeing him put his hands on you.” It seemed like it, there was this manic look in his eyes, almost like he seethed at the memory, “Yeah?”

Soon as he had the gloves off you pulled his hands back to you, he slid them up under your shirt, felt the lace underneath and you arch closer with a sigh and he curses at the softness of the cups in his hands. “Yeah. Made me see red, him touching you, I coulda cut his hands off, no, I should have.”

You inhale sharply, he was being shockingly possessive, saying he wished to commit a violent act so cavalierly but it didn’t bother you, it did the opposite, it turned you on, made you press your thighs together. You feel a bit weak in the knees as pads of his fingers brush over your nipples, a shiver runs through you. A whimper of his name, your hands slide down, one between your bodies, you feel him through his pants, painfully hard the same way you were achingly empty. He pushes his hips forward into your touch, a low groan and you are encouraged to open his pants, nervous and trembling fingers unbutton, yank the zipper down and his hands move quickly too, freeing you from the confines of our own clothing. More heated kisses exchanged as you tug and pull and enough skin was exposed to do what you were both desperate for.

It’s rushed but so fucking good, your underwear is pushed to the side, skirt hiked up and strong hands lift you up onto the table you were leaned against before. His fingers touch you, bare skin on bare skin and you shudder, his fingers feel sticky, you realise the blood must have leaked through his gloves and your legs jerk from the rush of arousal that tears through you at the thought. It was filthy, he was still painted scarlet from the man he killed for you and touching you with his tacky blood stained fingers. He found your clit with ease but when he brushed it your loud moan, head falling back gave it away.

“There?” He asks, even though he knows, you love that he asked and you tell him, “Yes, right there-”

His own pants open, your hand is around him and starting to touch him in kind, stroking up and down and he groans, his own pace quickens on you and it works, the sound he pulls from you is beautiful. His voice cuts through, rough and strained; he says, “He’s always touching my stuff but you’re not his.”

You shake your head, panting out, “No I’m not.”

“No?” He asks, he wants to hear it, and you shake your head, “No.”

Your wrist twists on the down stroke and it proves too much, he pulls his hand away and you do the same, legs spread wider and his hands on your hips, you shift, adjust, help him as he lines up and finally with another deep breath slides in, you both share a moan. You cling to him, arms loop around his neck, your fingers bury in his curls and you tug, he grunts as he bottoms out and his hands grip your hips tightly, it aches in the best way. He holds deep and asks low in your ear, “You’re mine, right?”

“Yours, all fucking yours.” You pant and he starts to move, the pace is anything but slow or easy. It’s hard, rough, possessive and needy.

It’s making up for lost time.

His hands are everywhere just like yours are, the force of his thrusts causing the table to shift, the pleasure far outranks the slight pain from how his digits dig into your skin or from the bites laid on your throat. He was surely leaving marks, bruises, as if he needed evidence carved into your skin, signs of ownership so you couldn’t or wouldn’t be able to forget this, even after the blood and grease paint is washed away.

Another bite makes you cry out, you tug on his hair again and he groans, his hips falter and you know now that he really likes having his hair pulled. You attack his mouth since he let up on your neck, another deep kiss, your tongue in his mouth and he was on cloud nine.

The need to have him closer overtakes and your leg hooks around his hip, pulls him tight and he wasn’t expecting it, his footing slips and you pull him with you. One of his knees on the table, one of his hands on the table top next to your head and the other now under you on your lower back, he is almost chest to chest with you, not so much thrusting, more a grind, a slow writhe deep in you that brushes a spot in you just right that makes you sob. Your leg is still hooked around his hip, hands never leaving in his hair, your back arches and you beg, “Fu-fuck! Do-don’t stop-”

“I won’t, no way-” A breathy laugh and a shake of his head, “-not till I make you scream-”

You clench around him, your clit is throbbing, you are being forced to the edge by this new angle, his head dips down, nips at your collar bone and at your neck and you twitch under him, a small and quiet chant of his name spilling out between gasps for air. You have the smallest, quietest thought in the back of your mind, “Where does he get the energy?”

He wasn’t letting up on you for a second, holding you to him as he was deep in the process of fucking you totally dumb, seriously where the hell was this spot inside you before and how did he stumble across it so easily and learn to abuse it so totally? Praise fills your ears, fractured between the sound of table legs scraping the ground, skin on skin, how soaked your cunt is and the heaving breaths and moans, “God, you’re addict-ing, wanna live in you, cou-could die inside you happy.”

Christ he was going to kill you at this rate. You whined, you are almost there, so fucking close, you tug on his hair again, your knuckles ache and you want to cum on him, need it more than the air you are struggling to suck down between moans, an attempt of warning him, a feeble, “Cl-close.”

“Can feel it, practically sucking me in, c’mon, please.” The way he says please, as if he is needing it as much as you are, as if he wants it more than his own pleasure, as if every second you aren’t cumming is physically paining him does you in. You tumble over the edge and do as he wanted, couldn’t hold back, the scream ripped from your throat as the pleasure tears through your core, head thrown back against the table as you tremble through your high.

He fucked you through it, held you tighter to him, didn’t let you squirm away and only when you are coming down, panting out you realize he is the one who is almost whimpering, panting out, “Gunna cum, fuck, so close, cah-can’t hold it, shit-” You know what he needs and you tell him that one word, leaning up before you lips meet his you choke out one rushed word, “Inside.”

You kiss him and he melts into you, another few rocks of his hips and he does, cums deep, holds to the root as he unloads inside you, groaning into the sloppy open mouthed kiss. That same kiss slows, less hunger, it becomes lazier and softer, sweeter until you pull your tongue out of his mouth and your head lays back, his body is on top of yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he tries to catch his breath. He slowly pushes himself up, light kisses over your neck, jaw, cheeks and he slowly pulls out with a hiss. You lay there on the table, not wanting to move even as he gets off of you, not in any rush, your eyes slip closed as you feel him leave, no more points of contact.

Hands lock onto your hips and tug, you make a sound of surprise as your sweat slick back slides across the metal table with ease, you prop up on your elbows and the view is heart stopping. Him there, on his knees, your legs now over his shoulders, his mouth dragging up your inner thigh and more smudges of black paint are transferred. He looks insanely hot right now, hungry eyes, his face a wreck with all those different aforementioned substances, his mouth getting higher and higher and you ask, “What are you doing, Buddy?”

“I made a big mess tonight. I’m just taking responsibility-” His thumbs rub over your hip bones and he leans in, tongue licking from hole to up and over your clit, you tense with a loud moan and he pulls back, licking his lips and a soft laugh rumbles out before he tells you, “-and cleaning up.”

You are sure he is more than capable of cleaning up his messes and after he cleans up the one he left inside you then he will deal with the one that has grown cold on the floor, but he wouldn’t have to do the ladder alone, you would help. It’s the least you could do.

#Buddy Swanson X Reader #Metal Killer X Reader #BHF writing #ENJOY #THE SELF INDULGENCE #I LOVE HIM SO MUCH GOD

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