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bisexual-horror-fan · 5 months

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"No Place Like Home." Leslie Vernon X FEM! AFAB! Reader.

Okay! So the amazing and wonderful @applesontheground wrote me a Leslie Vernon fic for my birthday and I adored it so much I didn't want it to end. She encouraged me to continue it, and so I did just that, and then she joined in and kept it going, and it became this beast of a collaborative piece that ended up being thirteen thousand words. It started off as being just for me, and true while it is still very self-indulgent, it's turned into something for all of you as well! I hope you enjoy!

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Rating. Explicit. Length. 13K. Leslie Vernon X FEM! AFAB! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: Reader Is A Killer Obsessed Freak. Banter. Drinking. Murder. Blood. Gore. Ropes. Restrained Reader. Threats. Reader Kinda Wants To Die But Not In A Suicidal Way. Canon Aligned Meta Talk. Man Handling. Vaginal Fingering. Cunnilingus. Blow Job. Messy Oral Sex. Throat Fucking. Cum Eating. Scar Worship. Many Feelings. Vaginal Sex. Multiple Orgasms. Overstimulation. Raw Sex. Cream Pie.

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You understood that it was a joke to begin with.

Living in a rural area, there were a lot of empty spots between the bricks that made up Glen Echo. Most of it was the usual urban legends and small businesses that just didn’t keep up with a world changing around it, turning to joke about it amongst themselves.

To you, though, there was something comforting and endearing about the pace. You were a bit of a way from home out here but found yourself filling those gaps and making the best of it. At the end of the day, being somewhere new had its moments that paid in turn for the shortcomings it could put you through.

Simply being “attracted to the area” was only half of a lie; you had shown up because of research on the mythos. You could admit that you even looked into it a little too much. The idea of the enigma who nested in the area – a man that fabricated his whole being just to relish in the spilling of unsuspecting blood – was utterly fascinating. You could find the Photoshopped news clippings and chase almost laughable clues sitting around town for days if you didn’t have a day job to occupy you.

Even remembering the life outside this Autumn night, silent and swift as a cat under a new moon, was something you finally decided to release from your attention. Halloween was no time to worry about a day job, and with that you began dawning your costume. Think like the woman you dress as, you told yourself with a smug grin to the mirror. The iconic blue and white dress fell into place on your body, resting on the midway point between your thighs.

Prudes would call it too short, and company you meshed with way better would tease that it’s far too long. It didn’t help that you wore accents that drew attention to your legs on top of that, those knee-high socks with laced hems and the ruby red slippers, which had a taller heel for an accent.

Life beyond the fantasy you were basking in was far behind you, tightening the red bows that kept two well curled pigtails hanging down behind your ears. With a touch like that, only the thickest of skulls wouldn’t know who you were.

Leaving home, following that yellow brick road that lead out of the small confines of the shabby town and into the rural space, you soon caught up with similarly dressed heathens who were raising their flasks and opened cans of alcohol to you, recognizing you were part of the pack that was heading to the supposedly haunted orchard as part of some middle finger to the belief that anyone smart enough to live out here would abstain.

The possibility had been mentioned that he – a walking spirit or man that pulled the strings as quickly and seamlessly as he did steal souls, whatever he did – would find everyone there, and he would not like what he was seeing despite the high spirits.

“Then what?” A girl expertly stepping along the uneven road beside you, a little too tough to be dressed as Princess Peach, but you quickly digressed because she wore the white elbow-length gloves well.

“Then, we become history.” Someone up the road replied, “Immortalized as the idiots who tried to party with Leslie Vernon.” Putting a fist up, you saw the blue and white Letterman jacket he was wearing had a few rips in it, and that his face was painted a ghoulish grey and rooted with purple veins along his jawline to accent it. Something about him seemed eerily familiar, but then you considered it could be something generic, very plain in the visage of an undead high schooler that the Halloween stores would sometimes parade for the uncreative minds. The fact he was holding a bottle of Jagermister only made you squint a little harder before centering your thoughts back to the road beyond the crowd again.

It was a joke to begin with, but you were still finding yourself wanting to believe it. Almost as if you wanted the party to be at real risk despite the blanket of calm everyone had draped over it, additionally nursing with booze and jokes. Surely, there would be a twist from him to combat the weak one that these costumed groups thought they were pulling.

He can’t deal with all of us, right?

You found yourself needing to take a deep breath at the thought that in your wildest fantasies that he somehow could.

After passing a fence down the trodden path, the air around you was wordlessly shifting. As though it was on a cue from where you were standing, trees were clearing from the sky to allow a half-moon to illuminate the dirt road before you, and somewhere in the lump of unclear horizon sat the dilapidated Vernon farmhouse. Bunches of yellow and rouge apples rest within the first trees that you were passing, a signal you had made it to the orchard.

A breath pulled tight into your chest; eyes as wide as you could make them while you continued to peruse, to listen to every little noise outside of the murmur of people. The Jager man offered you a drink from the cooler that they were lugging out with the rest of the crowd, and after fiddling through the soggy ice, your hand secured a vodka shot between index and middle fingers while the rest of your hand found the rim of a canned pre-mixed drink. He then said something in a pompous tone, but it was otherwise unintelligible to you, so you just laughed it off to go back to soaking in the sight before you instead.

Even after basking for a good portion of the party’s setup, you still weren’t done. You decided to give it a rest, be a little more social. It was the omniscience embedded within you to realize how you looked, staring wistfully into the orchard surrounding the clearing that everyone was gathering in, not interested in any person at a Halloween party. Too suspicious, and despite knowing there were no tricks up your frilly short sleeves, you were aware no one else knew yourself as well as you did.

You began striking up conversations to avert any of the oddly placed suspicion that might have been drummed up, complimenting costumes as the two drinks you had snagged were put down between giggles and conversations about what kind of final girl was the best kind You fell elbow-deep in bringing up a classic archetype, the movie buff who called plot twists and elements that would play out in their own story before they happened, someone locked eyes with you. You didn’t stop, of course, but held the stare from across the party as you went on.

“Please, where would we be without those dudes half-baked and quoting The Creature from the Black Lagoon? They’re the ones painting the picture for the rest of the clueless victims.”

You couldn’t quite pinpoint what about him really excited you. First off, the thrill of him being the Scarecrow and unintentionally matching you passed as you failed to recognize the shape worn on his mask, and the absence of straw in the torn holes of the rest of his getup was only a final nail in the coffin of your hopes. He was just…some mope-mouthed zombie, or a haunted doll.

The people you had been speaking to were well into buzzed territory, taking the lull in your conversation to go stumble into another aesthetically appropriate chat circle while you waited for this new acquaintance. He continued to wade through the crowds that you had been standing off to the side from, and finally piped up as soon as he could be heard from behind everything.

“Looks like you forgot Toto.”

You snickered at that, and shrugged, “Yeah. None of my friends’ dogs wanted to do it, sorry.”

He made an amused noise at that, then pointed to the drink in your hand. “Want me to grab you another one?” You shook your head, grimacing a bit, “No, no. I’m still working on this, and besides- Even in stoppers, not a great combination to keep drinking with these shoes on.”

“Even in what?” He stooped a little to hear better, and you demonstrated it by walking perfectly stable along the uneven terrain, wading off the dirt clearing everyone was gathered in to show off a pair of high heels in all their red, glittery glory on forest brush. “Heel stoppers. They keep me from sinking in all this mud and dirt around the property.” He whistled a bit as you did a fancy little turn, accenting the agility they provided, and he complimented, “Pretty smart. You do that just for parties?”

You bit your tongue, smiling as you walked back over and admitted, “More to just keep in the race should I need to run.” The inquisitive glow to wide eyes suddenly narrowed, and he scoffed, “Run from what? It’s pretty harmless out here, save for those dudes who won’t stop saying they’re gonna climb the roof. It’s gonna give out the second any weight gets put on it…” He faltered, arm shooting out to the farmhouse like it was obvious from where the both of you stood, “Looks that way, anyways.”

“That’s what you think, dude. Do you know where you are right now?” He was silent; merely staring on at you, almost through you. You smiled and elaborated for him, “The Vernon Farm. Leslie Vernon’s resting place?”

He scrunched his eyes and hummed, “Can’t say that’s ringing a bell. Enlighten me.”

You felt as though the words couldn’t fall faster from your mouth, crafted into the same story you loved to tell the locals (as if they weren’t native to the area that it all started in, hearing the tall tale since they were in grade school).

“Isn’t that fucking ingenious?” You paused partially through the story on how he had committed a few murders within a span of the last three years, part of you trying to steady yourself as you realized you had spilled your guts to a man whose face you hadn’t even seen, “He’s up and coming still, but I think he’s taking a lot of cues from the greats of these serial killer types. I mean, morally abhorrent, but I’m no snob to that.”

“Wow.” He looked away in a rather brisk motion, but seemed amicable to the subject, “It sounds like you’re really banking on this dude to be some kind of mastermind.”

“Please.” You shrugged, “I mean, these murders that happened over three years seem pretty real to me. Whoever, whatever’s been utterly elusive on a rural farm for so long – still Vernon as we see him – he absolutely knows about stuff like this coming on the horizon. I can see it already, it’s so practical now that I have my actual eyes on this place.” You pointed up to a tree you had been perusing, “There’s an electrical wire trailing up this tree, perfectly on the outskirts of the crowd where someone can – no, will run towards it if they get spooked. Seriously, doubt anybody in our group put that up there, it’s not covered in all these goofy Halloween decorations.” His own eyes slowly trailed up your arm, catching on an exposed tattoo before briskly tearing away to see what you were talking about, following your pointed finger.

You then gave the unimpressed tone right back, “That’s going to do something. Electrocute someone, take power to something that’s even more gruesome. It’s too high off the ground to be some sort of cutting wire, right?” His eyes went back down, sizing up your confident expression with a halfhearted blink, “Pretty sure whoever, whatever Vernon is, has more than rocks in his head. Fueled by more than just hearsay, ghost stories…”

Finding humor in your almost asinine explanation, you found this was better timing than anything that’d come afterwards. You were surprised he was even still standing in front of you, as you figured you may as well introduce yourself, still caught in a starry-eyed smirk. You offer up your name.

He shook your hand nicely and replied, “Nice meeting you. I’ll let you in on mine after the party.” Finding it almost bold in nature, looking to fulfill some type of promise with that reveal, you blew him off. Rolling your eyes, you asked, “Sure. Then what can I call you until then?”

Still holding your hand in a mockingly polite way, he mulled, “Just call me the wizard himself. … Or the Scarecrow. Whatever works for this costume, Dorothy.” Taking his hand out of yours, he flicked one of your pigtails while pulling away slightly, just enough to leave you able to recall the subtle warmth from standing beside him as something so much stronger just mere seconds ago.

He had glanced at your arm again, so you decided to keep the topic going. “If you can’t tell, I’m kind of fascinated by these slasher types.” You gave him a good view of your tattoos, and his eyes traced over it, silent at first but the approval shining through in a thoughtful roll of his neck as he took in the entire picture again, every detail having soaked in through painted eyeholes.

“You know, I didn’t take you as someone who saw so much in a dynamic like that. The killer and his final person, I mean.” He carefully crossed his arms, like he was letting this creepy façade rest its head for a moment as he speculated, “Almost sounds like you want that for yourself, or at least to see it for yourself, straight out of the movies and the stories.” You smiled unapologetically, and although it sounded like you were playing along it was spoken in earnest, “Oh, do I.”

He stared off into the tree line with you for a beat, and hummed, “A girl like you really seems to chase after that, stick around in places where it can’t help itself.” You rolled your neck a little, adjusting in the scratch of the costume, as alcohol started permeating on your tongue a little heavier. You admitted, “Can’t help being such a go-getter with this. I almost live for it, which means I have to die for it too, I guess.”

“Go-getter.” The words themselves felt like they could be sarcastic when he echoed them back to you, but something earnest coated his voice as he suddenly affirmed that, “You’ll find it. It’ll find you. One or the other.” A hand came up, grasping at an imaginary subject in front of him as he spoke in even more earnest. “Ghost stories or not, something about that attraction. It’s palpable…magnetic, even.”

He then pulled a handle from his pocket, and you soon saw from the size of it that it hadn’t been inside, but rather sitting right in plain view over the top. The stranger shrugged rather peacefully. “It’s like the two can’t keep away from each other.”

That blade didn’t look plastic. You raised an eyebrow; it didn’t even look chrome; it was chipped in certain spots and narrow in a way that fake weapons just couldn’t emulate. Wear and tear made marks like that. You got one more look at his mask, a few second thoughts shutting you up well and fine.

“I’m keeping that promise, by the way. We’ll talk a little later. Can I count on you?” he asked, friendly enough as you merely nodded, trying to act like you were thinking before the nonverbal answer. He slid right past, not towards the crowd, but into the shadows of the apple orchard that surrounded the farm. No one even looked twice at the noise, so minor that it was easily blamed on the wind, should you not know better.

“Oh.” You spoke to yourself, staring down at your drink, “Oh, now that just isn’t fair.”

What in the fuck was he doing?

You felt the rope constrict tighter, one of his long arms stretching over one shoulder to take the other end towards your back. Silent, you merely matched his own lack of words because you were more confused than terrified. Maybe even a little let down.

This was how you told him you had wanted to go, at the hands of some dude like him, and he isn’t even killing you.

Between the small talk by the tree and reuniting with him now, to say you had been put to the test to be his victim would be an understatement. Between the classic straggler at the party who disappeared for far too long only for a severed arm or head to turn up to people hanging from the rafters of the farmhouse or in the trees, everyone had scattered, herded together by the supernatural entity of Vernon, and picked off to the best of his abilities. The ones he hadn’t been able to physically get a hold of got caught, you had noted when you ran by that wire and saw someone electrocuted at the foot of the tree it was wrapped around.

What do you know? I was fucking right.

Securing the entire hog tie, he suddenly lifted his haunches from you. Before you recognized he was gearing to leave, that was it. Turning onto your back and haphazardly sitting up, ignoring how your dress rode up slightly in favor of looking through the trees, he had slipped off again like the ghost that he was trying to emulate. You almost wanted to holler at him: The fuck is THE Leslie Vernon doing taking live captors? Is he getting bait? Playing with the food before consuming it?

Pondering had honestly brought you to a comfortable seat on the dirt beneath your backside, not caring if it was starting to pour into the backs of your socks, or even accidentally slip under your skirt, peppering your bare thighs before you readjusted with a huff. You had a hunch, one that finally helped your dry throat find its gloss and find its voice again.

“Not gonna lie, you’re kind of screwing this up.” You called out, and he emerged from the dark, like he knew your own speculations that would come to the light, much like himself: He couldn’t run off yet. Still saying nothing, he tilted his head to one side. It was impossible to tell if he meant it in admiration or disbelief. Regardless, you heard a shuddering breath behind his mask.

“You know,” You crossed one ankle over the other, calming the pulse between your legs, “I always assumed you’d want to keep this brief. Especially if I’m not your final victim.” He made a beeline back over to you, crouching to one knee. Instead of an unnerving whistle or hiss, he gave you an honest mutter in disbelief. “Please. For you?” He asked, and you curiously let him go on, “If anything you’ve told me tonight is true, about yourself and about your passion for what I’m doing, I almost want to ask for permission.”

A hand came up, sans his weapon but nail just as pristine, as he ran feather-light tracks over the outline of the tattoo resting. “I mean, you weren’t lying about your commitment to this sort of lifestyle. These all look pretty real to me.”

“Rub a little harder, even.” You dared, looking down at the primed muscles stretched on the back of his hands, “I don’t mind if you need to prove to yourself that I’m the real deal.” The pristine curl suddenly became lighter, intimidated even as it fell away, and he quickly digressed.

“It isn’t about that, the sweet honeypot at the end of every horror movie. I always thought it had something more to do with the journey, the planning…” He swung the sickle, breaking through the itchy rope and not courteous enough to keep it from catching threads from your dress. He gasped, “I’m a lot like you, in that I will admit it’s nice, but…I want this whole event to be special, you know?”

Pausing, his eyes scoured your body for a couple seconds before his two hands, the curved blade falling in his lap to give way for nimble fingers pulling the rest of the rope apart, taking it from your body and letting it fall along with the weapon. Still, most of it fell to your own lap. Looking at each other, the sigh practically tumbled from behind the mask. Whether it was relief or exhaustion, neither of you cared to label it. He almost seemed put off by something, squinting at himself more so than anything about you or what you were doing.

Then, with the same hands, he pushed the mask up over his face. Seeing him, not the mirage he had been flowing through the entire evening like water vapor, he smiled through a painted on frown. It had been an accent paint, it seemed, something to abscond in case the wooden face didn’t fool a wandering eye. Everything was smoke-colored and smudged over his expression, beginning to get sweat through, and somehow making the smile lines in his face more prominent simultaneously. It was as though you could see everything and nothing at once.

“Special,” You echoed, “I know what you mean. I know exactly what you mean, Leslie.” You cocked your head at the sound of his name on your lips, “Can I call you Leslie?”

“Absolutely. Think we’ve both earned the right to be friendly with each other.” He answered with a harmless nod, and just as swift as he had stripped down to the man that he was, he was shoving you backwards with the heels of his hands. “I honestly don’t know why you’re asking. It’s so clear you knew to use my name long before-“ He framed your arms against the dirt, pinning both the extremities, “we ended up here.” You let your head fall back, the earth supporting heavier realizations as you simply murmured, “Yeah, maybe I did.”

He shifted, as though physically feeling you would do something about this. Rough denim pulled against your bare leg, and even if you could attempt to fix your skirt, you knew you were far past the point of wanting to. Anyone who could see either of you was dead, or rather you could notice from the peripherals of your stare into his own that there was a body nearby.

Whether or not it had been intentionally turned away from the two of you, that was something you enjoyed leaving up to the imagination. You couldn’t even register before he collided into you a little too hard, his hand slipping in a pure excitement that made it hard to keep steady when he was on top of you the way that he was.

It made the fact you talked about the things that you would do about your interest in him all the more diabolical, eyes snapping open and looking past his short dark hair that had been styled by accident to stand on end from how he had removed the mask. You told all of that to his face.

When he finally pulled back, he peered down with an almost euphoric, electrified look to his eyes. “Sorry. I get a little antsy – and you probably knew that, too.” You had no idea what he was talking about until the slow ooze of blood went over the cupid’s bow of your lip. “You’re fine, they happen easily.” You almost coughed through your speech, laughing at imagining just how dishevelled he had you in a matter of a few movements, a few touches that were far from the only ones going forward.

He flicked the sickle, and you watched some stray streaks of blood fall into the dirt, permeate into a diabolical splatter of what you could assume to call mud. “…Listen, we can discuss this away from the rest of the…the party, maybe?” He asked breathlessly, and when you nodded once again leapt off of you with the same pace, the same ethereal ability.

“Well,” You let a string of bloody spit fall from your mouth, as ruby in color as your lipstick and as your shoes, letting him pull you back up by the back of your neck and suddenly hoist you off the ground. You didn’t move as he hefted you over one shoulder; rather, you turned your head and asked, “So, let me just ask this. You’re not gutting me? Stabbing me? Not even slitting the throat, letting me go out in a more iconic fashion? Where the hell are we again?”

Leslie stopped. Readjusting you, the loose threats of your dress along with your soft hip pressing into the side of his neck, he straightened the skirt over your backside with a lingering hand and hummed, “I’ll put it like this: you are not in Kansas anymore.”

Your hands rest on his back, not for lack of support, or fear that he’d drop you, but just because you could, he was right here and he was letting you. Through rough thermal material you could feel how firm he was underneath, defined muscle definitely present, fabric slightly damp from sweat and whatever else from the effort he’d expended this evening thus far. Your nose hadn’t stopped bleeding, a slow drip, he was still carrying you away, somewhere, and you watched as stray drops fell to the ground, bright red standing out amongst dark and loose dirt, like a farewell to the rest of what the party had originally thought it had got itself into. In all honesty, they all assumed it was what it was: a joke.

This was no goddamn joke, tangible as the flexing back underneath your palms.

It’s quiet for a moment, your mind is whirring, wandering as it always is, and watching the faint blood trail, dressed as you were, perched on the monster himself’s shoulder?

It’s like something out of a fairy tail in a way. The big bad wolf and the little red victim, but instead of a trail of breadcrumbs leading to a gingerbread house, it’s a pathway marked with blood mixing into the earth, and it’s leading to-

A glance around, gaining your bearings. It clicks as soon as your eyes leave the ground. The Vernon farm house.

Oh, this is what he had in mind. He wants to bring you inside.

You would have been fine getting anything from him, you would have let him fuck you back there in the dirt and loved every single second of it, but apparently he had other plans, better plans.

You love who he is, and more importantly, you love who you are.

Furthermore, you have no illusions about yourself either, and certainly no shame. You would have let him do all manner of things in the cool evening air and under the light of the moon, no less than ten feet from a body that he himself had brought to the ground. He deemed you worth more, better than a nasty fuck in the dirt- No. He thinks what you are going to do together is better suited under a roof, in a proper bed.

He thinks you are worth that extra care and effort, and he thinks you deserve the Vernon home’s comfort, warmth, safety…

You suppress a laugh as the word safety floats through your mind. He takes you inside, barely mindful enough to close the door, but enough to give the needed privacy. Up the stairs, you have to stifle another giggle, his shoulder driving up over and over into your sternum inadvertently. He doesn’t even care to notice, let alone say anything about it – especially since you seemed to be thoroughly enjoying yourself. Into the closest guest room, he slings you off of him and onto the bed.

The idea that you are safe with Leslie fucking Vernon is, laughable, hilarious, and yet – seemingly and inexplicably – true. He looks like he is too excited, like he doesn’t know what to do first.

You jump into action, knowing the role deserves such from both parties. You reach out to him, propped up on one elbow, your other hand is open, a move of your fingers, a small invitation to join you on the surprisingly plush surface, it certainly beat the dirt outside (mythos ingrained couldn’t make it any more pleasant after all). He takes you up on it, starts to crawl onto the bed, it’s not as slow as before, as if now that he’s experienced it once, he is craving to be on top of you again too much to not rush it, and soon enough he is.

You revel in his weight on top of you again, your hand that was previously reaching out touches down on the back of his neck, you sink further into the mattress with a sigh. You speak, you ask, “How are you feeling?”

“How am I feeling?” He asks, and you nod once, “Yeah, after everything, we kept you pretty busy tonight, running around, you feeling tired yet, Vernon?”

A shake of his head, small smile, addressing him by his last name is fine too it seems, good to know. He tells you, “No way, not at all.”

“No?” The question is innocent in tone, but not in what you hope to gain from it, and he says, “You have no idea the stamina I am capable of.”

“Show me?” You asked, tone thoroughly hopeful, almost offended by the notion you’d underestimate him. Still, you wanted him to make you understand, and not only that, but to not stop until he was sure you understood.

The implication is obvious, the motives clear, yet he still tilts his head a little and asks, “And just how should I do that?”

He’s being so fucking coy about it, he has to know how endlessly attractive that is to you. You fight the urge to grouse, a playful musing of, must you do everything is left unsaid.

Hand on the back of his neck moves up, fingers slide through short dark hair and thread slightly, twist as much as they are able, and you use that to tug him down as you move up so your lips meet. It’s fitting you suppose, there has to be a point where this happens, right? A shift in your dynamic. He’s still instigating, doing the set-up, but you can’t be stock static forever.

That isn’t the point, it isn’t your role. It isn’t any fun if he’s the only one doing the moving, otherwise you might as well just be one of the bodies abandoned in the dirt outside, chilling and succumbing to the elements as you two lay here.

The flavour of him hits your senses due to the union you’d just forced, mostly it’s salt and the paint he wore. It doesn’t taste like any normal make-up you’d ever worn, but it’s him, just as much as the light apple you managed to gain a sense of was. The idea of him taking a small break and eating from the orchard on the job is weirdly endearing, if not a bit funny, but there are better things to focus on. Mostly like, where the fuck did he learn to kiss like this? Was he this good, were you this hard up, or was it everything else? The tension, the build up, the chemistry or as he so succinctly put it earlier, the magnetism?

Either way, you simply cannot bring yourself to care as he settles in closer to you, body more flush to yours, really letting you soak up the feeling of him on you, letting it consume you more easily not just into him, but the moment itself.

The rhythm and ease, back and forth, push and pull, inhale and sigh, your lips part more, and then you’d realized something vital just now, in your haste to kiss him you’d honestly forgotten about the fact you were still bleeding. You pull back, about to apologize, but that look in his eyes makes you stop again, shining in the low light of the room. The words die a quiet death on your tongue, lingering there before being buried with the taste of iron on your palette.

He doesn’t let you, his hands are on you now, too. Your grip loosens while his tightens, another shift with one hand in just about the same place yours was on him, the back of your neck. His mouth stained differently than before, more red like yours was, and he says, “Not yet.” before leaning in to take further.

He is getting bolder, more confident, dare you even say a needier edge to this, the thought passes through your mind, How does he like it? He definitely knows himself and what he’s doing. Also, how long had it been for him?

When was the last time he had someone in his bed, kissed someone, touched another person without the express purpose and idea being violent fanfare? Clearly you are not the first, no way anyone is this capable on their first go with no previous experience to back themselves up, but when was the last time he had penetrated a warm body below him in a different sense? It sends a thrill through you, weeks, months, fuck, years? The very idea certainly made you feel special.

You’d been returning his affection this whole time, matching him in enthusiasm and pace. You wanted to ask, to know, but should you ask right this second when his mouth felt so good slotted against yours? You could talk more later. Right now, your body is betraying what you really crave: a move of your hips against his, a grind upwards, and you feel with perfect clarity how much this is getting to him too. The friction is good but nowhere near enough, the move is repeated twice more, and it just gets better, it makes you want to go further at the warmth that is blooming inside as well as kick off your sparkly heels and shed much more clothing than just that. Something eager, like how he had collided so harshly with you just prior to this, was rushing to the hilt. Practically gagging on its leash, the seams of your panties rubbing you to near pain before anything even passed the barrier of clothing.

Again, maybe you were just that predictable. His hand tracing from the waistband of your skirt to glide along the socks, his mind was going straight to those heels. You crease your brow slightly as you feel his fingers stick past the spot where the shoes still wedged fast to your foot, and without taking his mouth off of yours, he pushes one of them off. Then, the other with a similar urgency to his movement, the same brisk shuffle of the other hand. When you glance down, he’s holding both of them in one hand, caring not to throw them to the floor but rather set them gingerly by the foot of the bed.

“Those shoes got some thought in them,” He commented when he saw where your eyes had been, “I respect the craft, so I’m not here to wreck those heel stoppers.”

“Well, that decides it,” you say in a serious and emphatic tone, with your brows still pinched together, "I have to blow you."

A laugh, small and shocked, before he asks, "Right this second?"

"Do you have a better or more appropriate time in mind, Leslie?" You say it teasingly and even after you expounded earlier about all the things you would do, even after proving your devotion to the supposed “cause”, it was as if he still didn’t believe you to back it up and be so forward. He had a lot to learn about you.

In the interest of continuing to be forward, you lean in that direction, sitting half up to meet his now kneeling position he took when removing your heels, hands are back on, setting to work on his overalls as you say, “I think I can pencil you in for around four pm next Wednesday if that suits you better?”

“Lots of jokes from you right now-” He starts, and you laugh, as if he didn’t open with one himself earlier, didn’t set the tone, the snaps undone you tell him, “Trying to keep the mood light, it was getting pretty hot and heavy there for a minute.”

“Are you complaining about some good, solid sexual tension?” He asks as you tug the denim down. You admire the way the dirty off-white material is stretched across his arms and torso, eyes linger while your fingers abandon the straps, settling into the openings near his hips to get it the rest of the way off. “Never, just don’t want you to blow your load too fast, you know?”

“Be honest.” He implores with a smile, and you shrug, eyes break away as you say, “Maybe I want to make this last a bit longer, don’t want to rush something I’ve been wanting for so long.”

It is honest. You want to savour it, especially because who knows if this is a once in a lifetime offer that will expire after tonight. Perhaps the sun will rise in the morning, then proceed to set on whatever is between you and him right now.

You push the thought aside as easily as you do the rest of dark muddy blue fabric with his help, no time to think about all of that when you have this right now. Enjoy the moment as it happens, for what it is, or regret it forever. Either this is the one and only, the possibilities as infinite as the entire evening felt, or the hopeful first of many, and in either scenario your full attention is deserved.

“That is something I can completely understand.”

You’re sure he can. Tossing the clothing on the floor with much less care than he gave to your shoes, you notice his current state and ask, “Woah, commando under there, huh?”

“Freedom of movement is important. Gotta stay aerodynamic with all the running, chasing...” He points out, and your hands come up. “Never said it wasn’t”. Verbally, you reply, “Fair enough.” That doesn’t put you off, the idea of him doing this so unencumbered wasn’t bad at all. You reach out again, hands help him with his shirt, and he is more than amicable but at the same time points out, “You are still awfully dressed.”

“You know you can do something about that, anytime you want to.” Making your own point in a similar tone that he did earlier, but before he can start to worry about removing white and blue checkered frills, you are much closer. Hands on his shoulders, another kiss not stolen, but willingly given.

If the excitement you felt when making out fully clothed before was good, him bare under your exploring hands was incredible. You are torn between the feel of his mouth on yours and how the planes of his skin under your careful palms. He had some good scars, ones you would be getting a much closer look at if you weren’t so consumed with how his tongue was working into your mouth. Lower and lower, fingers trace until you are down past his ribs over a particularly gnarly scar on his side that makes him tense. A small breaking apart, lips hardly lifting from his as you ask, “You good?”

A hum of acknowledgement with a nod as you trace over it again, you think this is it, you think this is the big one he got from Her and you are touching it, evidence of their bond and connection, foraging your own private moment with it.

You don’t linger, you don’t want to make him uncomfortable but from the way he is breathing you don’t think he is bothered by it, you think he’d let you do more to it and maybe later you will.

For now your hand is concerned with going lower, thumb slipping over his hip bone until you find what you really want, a fleeting thought of empowering yourself makes a smile pass your lips briefly before you kiss him again, swallowing up the gasp he lets out from the firm grip you take.

Christ, this was going to be good, you could tell, but you can make it better still. You break away to lean down a bit, spitting into your palm before taking back your position, your hand is gliding much easier. You think of putting your mouth to better use. You don’t want to use just your hand; can anyone blame you for wanting to satisfy an intense oral fixation, something that made you hit the ground running at the drop of a dime? Not only that, but you were good at it, and you wanted to show him just how good you could be. To see what reactions you could draw from him when your fingers dig into his hips and pull him in close and down your eager throat made a mantra clear as day cross your mind, almost blinding you as you felt yourself tense slightly in anticipation.

Stop thinking, start doing.

You make the move, sliding lower on his body. More passes of your mouth, brushes of your lips, quick pecks placed as you travel down, admiring as you go and your hand never stopping. The look on his face made him seem that he was merely allowing it, but as he got more sensitive to each meeting of your mouth against his skin, his posture was starting to slack.

Jaw to neck and neck to shoulder, his shoulder to chest and his chest down his stomach and fuck, you see it: the edge of that brutal scar. You lick your lips quickly, and the pure impulse pushes you to lean in. While tightening your grip on his shaft, your tongue licks up along the length of the raised tissue. He responds as if he’s been electrocuted, a choked sound that was desperately trying to abscond itself made you clench the empty space between your legs. It seems you took him by surprise yet again. Thank God for the hand you have on his opposite side while you work him over, or he might have just toppled right off the bed.

You let the underside of your tongue pass over it once more on your way down until you are finally stomach down on the sheets, right where you need to be. After all, previous thoughts of knowing where Her story ended and yours began was a line you were willing to dance along.

The hand on him slows as you make that first contact, you start with a kiss, something soft and akin to reverent. It’s just to kick it off, but quickly the experimenting turned to knowledge, then knowledge to want. You’re quicker now, and a hungry mouth opens as you take almost half in one go. A light moan around your mouthful, lips close and with the seal formed you suck deeply.

Some people might be grossed out by the taste of him after a night's activities. You are not one of those people. The tang of him is strong, and it is very welcome. The taste of him and heavy weight on your tongue along with remnants of the drinks from what felt like an entirely different night ago made you grind your hips into the mattress as you bob back once before driving down again – harder, taking more.

A hand finds your hair along with a quiet curse, a half smile can be heard in his tone, “Shit, you’re eager, huh?”

Eyes glance up through your lashes, along with a nod that doesn’t stop your pace. You merely slow for a moment, fingers on his hip squeeze, and you use that to draw him closer. You are going to take him to the base and swallow around the head of his dick, even if it suffocates you. Forcing your head down is easy, taking him deeper is no issue, you are plenty motivated, a straining of your neck as you keep leaning, hand pulling him towards you until finally you achieve your goal.

It took a few rocks back and forth, a minute amount taken more each time, until your nose is buried in trimmed coarse hair. Another moan reverberates out of you, somewhere deep in your throat and then up his shaft. Nails bite into his hip as you move him back a hair, and you suck down a deep breath through your nose before your lips are locked once more around his base.

You suck, your tongue moves in slow lazy circles on the underside of his shaft as an opener, yet you still listen as his breathing pitches, becoming laboured. You take the chance and give a strong swallow.

He lets out a groan, the hand in your hair threads, and he tugs, “Fuck-”

That is what you need to hear. No, that is what you live for. A telling tone, rough and faltering into something less confident. It was almost like he was vanquishing that idea, and letting it go where it needed rather than where he saw to fit. You swallow him again, and another sound pours out from above you. You repeat yourself with another swallow, a sound to match once more, and you throb.

Finding some guarded clarity for a second, he then says, “You know you, ugh, you don’t have to do all this.”

Brows quirk, and you move back, pulling him out and noting how he’s dripping in your spit. Your hand locks onto him tightly as you move seamlessly, not breaking stride, and you squarely look up. “I thought you were smart.”

He laughs breathlessly, eyes hard to see from a half confused and half pleasured grimace before he questions, “What?”

Your opposite hand comes up, thumb dispatching the spit that had slipped out, while you maintain eye contact. You tell him, “I’m not doing this to impress you, Leslie. This is just how I like to do this, or else… What am I doing here?”

You lean in and slip the head back between your lips. You suck again, his head tips back as your hand works his shaft in tandem with your mouth and then a few pumps later pop him back out, finishing your previous train of thought, “This? It’s just as much for me as it is for you. Trust me.”

You set back to work, hand slows, and you work him back into your mouth, sucking indulgently all the way, a blanket of bliss taking over. Fingers are loose around the base of his shaft, and you bob your head up and down. The rhythm is casual and easy, you are just having fun with it at this point.

Like the loosening grip on control, he seemed more than happy to let you play. It gave him the time to have what you said linger on his mind.

A minute later, he then let his head fall back down and asked, “What do you mean, it’s just as much for you?”

You didn’t want to stop, so you think you can show rather than tell. Your hand that wasn’t holding him in place while you continue to fuck your mouth with him slips down. A hand goes up your skirt and into your underwear, finally giving reprieve to that wall that kept the last of hidden details from what was before both of you.

Fingers slip down, and you are soaked.

You pushed two into yourself, and gasp as much as you can with him in your mouth. You rock back and forth, fucking yourself on your fingers, and God, that felt so good. You linger for a moment before your hand is pulled out and held up, still shivering from the inside out from its protrusion. His fingers catch your wrist, and he brings it closer to see them slick, a mess running down them and strings of arousal breaking apart when you splay your fingers.

Undeniable evidence of just how much this particular act does for you.

You’d hoped he would understand, and he does. Synchronicity is further bliss, so much so that you have this much of a read on him. It was something more satisfying than just grazing the books, the articles written capturing mere glimpses of him. For fuck’s sake, he has your fingers in his mouth. He sucks and tastes you, and apparently likes it so much he moans (not in a dissimilar fashion to how you did upon tasting him.)

Fuck, you had it so badly for him.

You hadn’t wanted to stop. Urges to keep going until drool was trailing down your chin and neck were throttling you, and you were a breathless mess who was somehow even wetter by the end of it. Looking up, it was becoming clear that he had other plans. It’s shown on how his face once again grew dark, similar to what you had seen when the mask had come off. Eyes fixated on your face, taking in features with a few restless heaves of his shoulders, a still ocean in his expression as he thought for another second.

“You want to know about me?” He asked, smiling as he let go of your wrist. “Let’s scratch that. This business is a lot about improv, if you didn’t already know, and here comes an improvised thought.” He readjusted, finding some footing in the way he was kneeling, and he leaned in a little more – to a point where you could smell yourself on his breath. Another grind against you, he shuddered out the words.

“Let me get to know a little more about you for a second.”

You were frozen in place, merely humming in response as he suddenly turned his attention lower. With a smoothing motion, your skirt rode up your hips along with the heels of his hands, pushing it like something in his way, which you suppose it is.

Suddenly, just as quick and almost erratic as he had been the more he was enjoying himself, enjoying this, and enjoying you – he was off the bed for a split second. You didn’t watch, just waited, made yourself more comfortable, because it was a pattern of his to come back when he did that. Your mouth feels tragically empty at the loss of him, but you have a good feeling whatever he is about to do will more than make up for it.

“God, they’re the same color as the slippers-” He lamented for half a second, speaking of your red panties he had revealed when he moved your skirt out of the way, but as soon as he had left he was back. Something cold slid underneath the fabric of your underwear, and with a thoughtful turn to rest on a small edge between your skin and the elastic made you realize what it was.

How did you not see that coming? He held it with a steady hand, a semblance of trying to keep some control with something so sharp, as he caught his breath. Pulling upwards in an almost savage motion shattered the otherwise serene, quiet moment.

“Sorry if you were thinking about wearing those again.” He shrugged, no remorse in his tone. You chuckled at that and replied, “You think I’d get rid of them even after that?” As you finished the rhetorical question, you saw him holding them in an iron grip with the hand that didn’t have the sickle.

“Not what I meant.” He said the obvious aloud, and in a quick move of his arm he threw them out of sight, “Good luck finding those again.” You scoffed, head falling back on the bed as you lamented, “Will it be as hard as learning your na-”

He cut you off again, this time with a hand feeling your entrance with the same careful precision he had given with the weapon. It was your turn to shudder, fingers curling in response to the feeling almost immediately as you got your last word out, “Naaaame?”

“Everyone knows my name.” Leslie reminded you, “At least, around here. I’ve done a great job with making it all common knowledge, but…” You stared with lidded eyes as he finally let the middle finger pass your walls, unable to keep the expression of a surprise that broke the final assumption that you couldn’t feel this wet, this hot. Neither of you could keep talking, awe striking both of you from making the connection.

The moment overtakes, there is one thought that breaks through the haze, lingering in the now mostly empty space of your mind, “Leslie Vernon is inside of me.”

To be fair, he always has been it seems, once you learned about him, it was like he set up camp in your mind, your heart – fucking Hell, into the very marrow of your bones, he took root, curling around your spine all the way up your brain stem. It’s like an infection, poisoning you, making you sick.

You never wanted to get better. If this is what being ill is, then you want to be staying under forever. He’s been in you in every way but a very physical way, but now?

As he almost totally withdraws his middle finger and then adds his ring finger next, he has broken that last barrier, and you need to hold on for dear life to keep yourself from spiralling out. You writhed slightly, trying not to clench your legs and prevent him from doing what he needed to. He started to pump a few times, but it was growing too much again. That same face falling over him like a blanket, he ducked down. His fingers felt incredible, but his tongue was something that made an involuntary gasp come with an inhale, then a shaky cry fall from you with an exhale.

He was mute, focused with a furrowed brow as his mouth merely ghosted, then settled into where he felt fit best. One lick up through your folds had him deciding quietly that he needed to get more comfortable for this, wanting as much of you exposed as possible. Fingers leave you and his hands lock onto your hips. He tugs you down as he moves, showing his strength, no matter how you had made him look weak in full view. The reminders he could do anything he wanted prompts a small moan to slip out.

He has his knees to rough hardwood, your legs remain splayed, and he gets to it.

You’d thought about this very thing often. It had been an impossibility, a complete pipe dream to be taken by his mouth, but here he was turning the thoughts into one hell of a reality. There had to be a figure that he was rather good at that, even outside his other work. You look down the length of your body to see those weathered hands resting atop your thighs, his eyes closed and that mouth of his getting into a rhythm of doing some frankly criminal things, neck muscles flexing in the process.

His tongue was eager but minded its pace, going from bottom to top, hole all the way up and over straining and hyper sensitive flesh before repeating the action. It made you tense with a quick inhale as your body became taut, the easy simmer of pleasure from the first contact. The tension and tease of a rise upward culminating in the bright burst of feeling that hits when he passes over your clit, to then the leftover buzz when he pulls away briefly to drop back to do it all over again.

It’s wonderful, it’s maddening, and before you could even hope to start to put together the thoughts to form a sentence to complain he knew, somehow he knew just when to move on. His mouth becomes much more focused, the movements are drawn out and unhurried. Very comfortable, light brushes of his tongue over your twitching bud through the hood make your body respond in kind, unable to remain still. You are so perfectly worked up, it is like you can feel every move, no matter how miniscule with rough palms holding your legs in place during the times they jerk more heavily, and a rough stubble scraping against the edges of your inner thighs. His lips, soft, slick and pliable – they’re phenomenal.

He’s intuitive. You knew this going in, but he is paying very close attention and realizes that gentle passes of his tongue are doing more than something firmer and with more pressure, the real winner though? Using his lips to, not even suck really, more he was just using them to provide smooth gliding and very wet friction, the heat and careful attention is doing you in, the amount of touch is perfect, the pleasure it hoists upon you is near overwhelming.

It’s like a kiss, honestly. A filthy, completely mind-bending, make your knees give out if you were standing kiss, but a kiss all the same. It’s intense, passionate, makes your head spin and fingers twist into the sheets harder. You aren’t even aware of the sounds you are making as your thighs squeeze his head, pitched moans and cries, out of breath and broken praise and encouragement that spills forth without thought. It’s quiet, whispered out hushed over the wet sounds of his mouth as he worked, “Leslie-”

You sound wrecked as you tell him, somehow finding the words to utter, “-jus-just like that-” and he does as asked, keeps the stride. In moments, it has you begging, a weak and pathetic plea of, “-don’t stop, ple-ase, fuck!”

He hums in acknowledgement, and that makes your legs move involuntarily again with a gasp. One of his hands lifts off your thigh, but you are much too consumed with the seal of his lips around your clit, the quick passes of his tongue and the pressure building steadily to notice his hand moving. The loudest moan of the night is torn from you when his hand is back between your legs, those same fingers taking up the same space they occupied before.

You are even wetter by this point, the two fingers slide into you with no resistance at all and at first? He doesn’t do anything with them, he just allows himself to sit inside, let you use him as something to clench on, to feel the effect he is having on you, the flex and pulsing of your walls. Within another minute of your breathing getting worse, more pleas that somewhat resemble words but fall short, that is when he curves them, curls them up and with one pass he finds it, the rougher and spongier tissue and he presses.

You choke out the first half of his name, a cry of, “Les-!”

His mouth is still providing that light and simple stimulation, exploiting how sensitive and easy you were, but his fingers decide to be steady, relentless, consistent presses to that same spot over and over.

You were done, gone, fate was sealed, right on the precipice and nothing was going to stop it from happening, as inevitable as him and you ending up here, you were going to come.

Words were not needed, as if you could form any right now. He knew, all too aware, with lips around your clit and two fingers deep inside you. Your eyes slip closed, brows are creased, and you are trembling; that bad habit of yours creeping up again, so totally consumed with feeling and sensation, on the bleeding edge of what might be the biggest orgasm of your life that you are not currently breathing. Holding a lungful of air in, your form taut and your body rife with tension. In that wonderful plateau of fantastic torture of that compact moment before it all hits, the space prior to the world splitting and your mind going blank from pleasure. He is consistent and that is just what is needed to slip over and finally fall.

The first natural reaction is to let out that breath you’d been holding in, as the string snaps and the pressure begins to unravel you, an unsteady exhale that is broken in the middle leaves you, a sharp gasp back in. The sound you let out could be read as his name, it is like it starts off with the “Le-” sound and then instead becomes a chorus of this breathy sound, not a laugh, but close enough. It seems that way because of the open-mouthed smile that has taken over your face. Losing control of the breaths that followed after, you let yourself tumble through an ether of forgetting who you were, who he was – you just knew there was a connection feeling one hell of a hot flash, a touch between one another that could fuel your interest for lifetimes.

You squirm and shift, his fingers were still pumping in and out of you, the other hand on your hip, holding you firmly in place, so you couldn’t wiggle away, making you feel every second of it as he feels it from his side too, every twitch and clench. His tongue has slowed, light passes over your clit still caught between his lips, keeping the stimulation going is vital, ensuring the most feeling out of your peak but still managing to not overwork you.

You don’t think you can adequately describe how good it feels, but you can’t describe much of anything when you are totally thoughtless like you are right now. It takes a while for the feeling to ebb and slow and eventually stop, and you to return to yourself. Your breathing returning to some semblance of normal was still a ways off yet. You felt weak, boneless and helpless. You barely notice him lifting his mouth or his fingers slipping out of you, the only acknowledgement of the loss of contact a short exhale and your eyes starting to open, you feel the movement of him before you register the sights, eyes taking a moment to refocus.

How could you even begin to describe the look on his face at this moment? Eye’s alight, chin wet, grin on his face and teeth partially exposed, you’d think the look he wore was one full of mischief and promise of what is to come, pure unadulterated excitement for what is next. You think your own face is betraying your own true emotions as well, and you are positive that yours match his, if anything you think you have a much more distinct tint of want. When he adjusts, between your legs, hands hooked under your knees and grinding himself against you? That shows that you are more than ready, more than wanting. The small smile that was on your face, playful and light, drops as his shaft cuts through you, sliding up over and through your folds, the head of him passing over your clit, and it steals your breath again,

Another movement of his body against yours, of his hips slotting against you, has you sucking in a hard inhale, and the next move to rush the exhale. Head tipping back, a hushed call of his name for the who knows how many-th time tonight. Enveloped by a thud that brings his hips into yours, a cover of heat that fills your entire body and makes you nearly lose grip of the bed underneath you as you adjust to the push.

Your vision is fixed on the main point of contact between you and him, of him hard against you, soaked, it felt much better than it had any right to. In the frenzied process of him eating you out your costume has gotten even more messed up, the hem of the skirt pulled higher, you are glad for that, more skin on skin contact is always good of course but with the blue and white out of the way there is no worry of the view being obstructed.

The visual was stellar, his breathing was matching yours and that makes you tear your gaze away up to his face. Your eyes catch his, your breathing is pitched and in sync, chests rising and falling and staring into each other, it escalates further without direct communication. His body moves a tad lower, your hips angle, and then he is lined up just right, slick tip leaking pre-cum prodding at your more than prepared hole. It takes less than ten seconds for you to be telling him in a half annoyed and hurried voice, “Do it already Verno-”

You don’t get his last name out. A hand suddenly comes up from where it had been placed lower on your body to find a hold around the base of your neck, pushing the muscles on either side together. It was something secure, helping to keep your head angled up, but also a reminder of who needed to stay in control. Especially catching the glimpse of his eyes, elusive as ever. If you hadn’t been far too down this rabbit hole, you’d want to bargain that. Truly, who was pushing whose buttons?

His own face changing, a setting of his jaw, eyes harder and committing to focus on yours. He takes, slides home fucking finally and fills you to the hilt. You don't cry out yet, instead opting to make a sound akin to a strangled whine. Hands reach out blindly, unconsciously, wanting to cling to something, to him, a desperate attempt to ground yourself using his body as the means to an end. Your nails scrape against skin as he moves back, taking half of himself out before forcing back in all the way, changing the previous sound to a gasp and that sound, is what changes all of this, really sets it all in motion. Like he knew you had doubted the control within him, and that just made you all the more palpable to what came.

It isn’t tentative or nervous, confidence is gained quickly, it feels right, correct, a give and take that has you and him not working against each other but instead with one another. His hands lock back around your waist, you arch closer, a flick of your tongue against his throat, tasting the salt of his skin has him driving into you deeper, and so it goes. You are trying to hold on, literally, while you adjust to the stretch of him as well as the gravity of the situation, Leslie-fucking-Vernon is inside of you right now, holding you, fucking you.

How the Hell are you meant to cope with this? You hoped, but weren’t even truly sure he was real until you met him, and now a good roll of his hips had you moaning something close to his name. You’d wonder what your life was, what it had turned into, but why would you question such a good thing? In fact, where you would be and go after this was as far from you as it possibly could. You, instead, in a very healthy move by the way, lean closer still, lips brush the shell of his ear, nearly chest to chest you ask quietly, rushed, “Fuck me harder?”

You are met with a simple and single word, hummed out in a tone that tried to find some sort of sharp edge of condescending but falling just short of fascination instead, “Demanding.”

There was a brief reposition, making sure both of you were ready for some goddamn finale that this night deserved. He’d more than proven his strength to you by this point, and yet you still find ways to be amazed by how he shows it to you, in the sheer force he exerts as he complies with your needy request. It’s good, more than good, but you know it could be better still, the mental stimulation was incredible alone, just a little more was needed. His grip on your waist is keeping you right where he wants, holding you firmly to the mattress, but you do what you can, what you need, feet finding some purchase on the sheets, a slight bending of the knees and you, or rather he, found it. The reaction is immediate and obvious, the moan you were midway through is choked, a tremble that nearly rivals the first ones that wracked your body when he made you cum with his mouth and your own mouth clamping shut. Thighs squeezing his hips and your soaked hole clenching around him tighter, he doubts the hint could be more obvious if it was a neon sign flashing in his face.

Doesn’t mean he still wasn’t going to be just a bit of an asshole about that, mostly, because he knew you got off on that kind of thing. He holds in you, a purposeful grind that stimulates you both inside and out, a pathetic sound tries to break out as your eyes shut, and he asks, “You okay?”

You nod, short, curt, he isn’t relenting, another grind but this one ends with him pulling halfway out before filling you completely again, this time you can’t stop the moan that slips out, “You sure? You are being awfully quiet.”

Before you can try to conjure a reply or attempt to defend yourself, he stops playing around, no more easy but devastating grinds he is back to the previous pace he was setting. There is no true reason to be holding back, who was going to overhear you? The corpses outside? It was laughable, further still, you couldn’t shut up now, not with how he’d locked onto just where you needed him. The litany of moans and gasps might be embarrassing if you weren’t currently drowning in pleasure, you are very unaware of much, just focused on the fact that you needed this feeling to continue, it was overwhelming in the best possible way. Nails biting into his skin and your eyes locked on his, hardly able to process any visuals, you can hear his voice again over the heaving breaths and skin on skin.

His question makes you realize he was responding to you speaking, brain on autopilot it’s sluggish but catches up. You are connecting the dots through the context clues of his words, his near saccharine and condescending tone and question of, “Yeah? Right there?”

Makes you come to the fact that you must have been letting out a surely pitiful chorus of, “Ri-right there, right there-”

You lean in further, hoping if you debase yourself further still he’d continue, he’d see this through, he’d make you break apart as strongly and beautifully as he did before. “Yesss-”

You were not far off at this rate, perfectly worked up and so sensitive.

If the build up before could be described as a slow climb of a staircase, you’d say this one is more akin to an elevator ride that you can feel in your stomach, a rushed ride to the top but one you wouldn’t dare dream of complaining about. The height feels as though you were on top of the world all the same, where nothing could reach you quite like the view would. Looking to him, you concurred it was just as breathtaking. You don’t need to tell him, again, everything else about your body language and the fact he is stuffed to the hilt inside of you tells him you are nearly there.

The state of being stuck in that lovely frustrating plateau was nowhere near as long as the first, from near the edge, to on it, to thrown the fuck over happened faster than you thought possible. He helped you, continued to hold you, fuck you through it and wring every ounce of pleasure he can out of your spasming cunt. The come down isn’t easy because he simply is refusing to let up, even when you try to pull back a bit, adjust, he isn’t having it, hands slide from your waist to under your legs, resting behind your knees. You can’t escape, he holds your legs closer, pressing them down, he abuses you further, enjoying how you reacted to the intense over stimulation.

You find your voice again, use it for something more than moaning incoherently, “Leslie-fuck, please, ease up-”

A minute shake of his head, his grip under your knees tightens, a hard swallow he tells you firmly, forces out, “You can take it.”

You clench around him again, another pulse of heat races through you. “Oh my God-” You gasp out, he’s right, for him, you could and would do just about anything.

You try not to be crushed under the intensity as you look up at him, and that’s when it hits you, the uneven pace of his breath, thrusts becoming more erratic, he’s close himself and the prospect of him reaching his own end buried inside you is unbelievably exciting. One more word is grit out, “Almost-”

In your fervent excitement, you nearly cut him off, begging for it, “Do it.”

You don’t plead for him to not pull out, you don’t wrap your legs around his hips, you want him to make the choice himself, willingly, craving him to take that leap and that risk with you. Your streak of good luck has not yet run out because he does just that, another slam of his hips into yours, and he cums, holds mostly still, the force of it makes him shudder with your name on his tongue, and you feel near endless pride at that. The shudder of his shoulders completes an already perfect picture, something that would linger like cobwebs in your head.

It’s quiet now, no more noise from the bed or from your bodies against one another, just heavy breathing, and you aren’t in a rush to go, but slowly you do untangle. Your hands slip away as do his, legs are back on the mattress, and he slips out of you, the mess that follows that action staining the sheets and thankfully not your hiked up costume. He falls beside you, and you aren’t sure what to do from there, is it weirder to want to cuddle up with him or to not?

The same question about whether you should leave is on your mind but, he answers both, an adjustment, an arm around you as he sighs out, “You already ran enough earlier, you can stay a while.”

You let your eyes close as you get comfier and do just that, he might be a killer but he’s courteous enough to let you get a few hours sleep in his bed before you go.

Even as you began the long walk out, you still weren’t quite sure what to do to cope with meeting Leslie Vernon. Even waiting until the Sun was up to let yourself be known to the world again, a new soul forged from a night you couldn’t even begin to explain to others – let alone rationalize to yourself – didn’t do much for your mind, bogged with a confusion that only knew one thing.

You had enjoyed it despite all that had happened. It still touched your skin, scents still held in your costume, and stepping onto the uneven earth again, you then concurred you knew two things.

You still had the heel stoppers on.

Traversing the uneven road back towards Glen Echo. They were doing their job fairly well, albeit the muscles in your legs were singing another kind of song, straining at any sign of a bend or a shift in your weight. Scanning the surrounding area, you were nearly left thoughtless – because speechless was well and achieved, sitting like a plug in your throat.

There was no one left. Presumably all of the people who had come with you were dead – or left in a state of hopeless confusion just like yourself. For them, it’d be time to put together the facts on what had really happened that night.

But for you? It was the time to paint alongside Leslie’s own fantasy. You had spoken with him about what to say, where everyone had gone, and what had exactly happened to you. It was as gorgeous as the rest of his work, and something you felt rather unique to be touched by, to know the truth behind the…

Behind the mask.

The feeling you were being watched was well weighted on your shoulders, and there was something ever so taunting about knowing when you turned around or tried to meet it, there would be no way to talk to him. Leslie was an open book – you could even call him an open heart, but he also had a job and a name to keep pristine and mysterious as it had been when you had entered the domain of the Vernon orchard.

You considered it a little funny, then a little unexplainable. That just made the thoughts tread foggier water. Part of you wondered if it had even happened, knowing that it didn’t sound serious as you kept telling the story to yourself while walking home. He had given you something straight out of a fantasy, and you then concurred that was his specialty, wasn’t it? There was a solemn recognition that you were going to be the only one that should hear about it.

Still, you then shifted, feeling that there were no longer panties under the dress, (he ended up being right, you couldn’t find them, unsure if they were genuinely lost, or he stole them). That was no joke.

#I TOLD YOU I WAS WORKING ON SHIT BEHIND THE SCENES #Leslie Vernon X reader #slasher x reader #BHF writing #MWAH #This was such a long project #Such a labor of love #I hope you all enjoy it as much as Ri and I did writing it #My GOD #I know shes a long one

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