Upon the Gaze (Ghostface X Reader 18+)

CHAPTER EIGHT - You Carried Me Home

There he was. Like a black angel. Or maybe my own personal demon? Either way, I was so happy to see the man who I thought had left for good now standing in front of me. He was crouched to my level, and his thumb caressed my face before it retreated away, back to his side. He spoke,
"What are you doing out in this weather, at this time of night?"
I tried to open my mouth but felt the sobs coming. I tried to mask them with laughter, and jokingly said, "oh, you know...life."
It was beyond apparent I was falling apart right before him, and I couldn't hold it back anymore. The emotions from earlier, like my body, had there time to rest and were now coming back again at full force. I didn't even try to hold it back anymore. I curled into myself and began to wail. A mixture of despair and relief. Though the recent events of my life weren't as bad as the many I faced in the passed, they were different now. I knew how to handle the loneliness and isolation of never having been cared for by family, never having true friends, and never falling in love. But this man, a man who I had never seen the face of, let alone knew his name, a man who should have been more dangerous than anyone I ever knew combined, was the one thing that brought me happiness. I began looking forward to seeing him. I waited on baited breath for his touch. I admired his work, for it was something I could never accomplish of my own volition. I was truly in love with this killer. In that moment I admitted that to myself.
I was in love with Ghostface.

I felt him shift towards me. His hand reached under my head, and drew up my face by my chin.
"Life is worth living." He said softly. His words completely threw me off.
"After all, death isn't fun without the living part. You need to be alive to be able to die." That was more so a line I would have been accustomed to hearing. To any sane person, that would have been taken in a negative way, a means to egg a person on, and maybe that was his aim as if trying to cover up having initially said something with an endearing value, but I sat there and felt his words in a way that I felt only I could understand. What's the point of dying if you never lived? Death is only appealing because we're alive.
A moment of silence passed, and my emotions began to settle. He maneuvered his hands around me, and lifted me up. He tossed me over his shoulder and began walking in the direction of the house. Not the most romantic gesture, but he is a killer, so being romantic probably wasn't in his agenda.
I let myself hang slightly from his shoulder, feeling exhausted from the wave of emotions I had experienced throughout the day. This was the closest I'd felt I had been to him. Sure there had been a lot of erotic tension between the two of us, but I'd never really been able experience him in a close vicinity in this way. I felt the warmth of his body heat coming through his coat, the way his leather gloves felt on my thigh as he held me in place. I took notice of his scent, the rain seemingly brining it out. It was a combination of someone's natural scent and iron, likely due to blood from his killings. I didn't mind though.

I zoned out as he carried me. Eventually we made it to the front door and without even pausing, he casually opened it as though he owned the place and proceeded to carry me in. He brought me upstairs to my room, and gently rested me on the bed. He seemed to be looking down at me. I wondered what he was thinking, what kind of expression he could have been making under that mask. The moment passed however. He turned to face the door and began to walk away from me. I was reminded of the last night I saw him before he vanished for a week, and without hestitation and beyond my better judgement, I reached out and grabbed the cloth of his coat on his arm. We both froze for a mere second. He then slowly turned to look at me, and I was prepared to be faced with a punishment. The previous time I had grabbed him, he didn't seem to be too pleased with it. He painstakingly slowly made his way back in front of me. He loomed over me and I felt my heartbeat in my chest. The feeling that had become so familiar to me was within me once more. The feeling of uncertainty, of excitement, of not knowing what this man could do to me next but being ready to willingly let it happen.
His hidden eyes seemed to look right through me. His mask meeting my gaze. I felt his hand begin to lift, and he pressed two fingers to the lower center of my waist. He guided his fingers up, between my cleavage, to my neck and rested under my chin. He held me there, and moved his masked face only a few inches away from mine. I could feel his breath again, coming through the cloth of the shrieking mouth of the mask.
I shivered a bit.
"Your clothes are wet again." He informed me, in a low tone. "You don't seem to learn your lessons." Seemingly without looking away from my face, his hands found their way to the hem of my shirt. They hooked underneath the wet cloth, and gradually pulled it over my head. The air hit my skin and I shivered once more. He moved himself in a way where he partially straddled me at the edge of the bed. He leaned into me, and I felt his hands maneuver their way behind my back. They rubbed my skin, sore from leaning against the tree for so long. He traced my shoulder blades, then one of his hand's fingertips slid down the center of my back to the clip of my bra. I felt the anxiety of the coming exposure but also excitement. Without needing another attempt, he unclipped my bra instantly and I felt the straps fall. He brought his face back to my front, and his hands moved to hook underneath the center of my bra from the front, between my cleavage. He began to pull the rain soaked garment away from me. My shyness got the better of me, and I instantly went to cover myself when the garment hit the floor.
"No need to be shy." He said and chuckled slightly as his hands pulled my arms away. One of his hands held one of my own in place, while his other gently glided to my breast. For the first time I felt the leather of his gloves on my bare chest and a moan escaped my lips. I shivered between the cold and the sensation of his hands roaming along my soft flesh. His masked face leaned so to be level with my ear, and he whispered, "who's your favorite killer?" His hands not stopping there work, making more soft moans emerge from me. I was unable to speak, completely absorbed into his actions. He stopped his movement, then squeezed one of my breasts and spoke again. "I asked you a question, (y/n). Who's you favorit killer?" His words were slow and demanding. "Y-you are." I responded in a meek and yearning voice. "That's a good girl." He whispered the praise in my ear. His hand now moved down to my pants, and as skilfully as the last time, unbuttoned them in one motion. He lifted me up from the bed, and slid his hands down my sides, vanishing under the waistline of my pants. He pulled down, slowly until they were on the floor. I was now clad in only my underwear.
His hands felt my thighs, and moved to my rear, giving a squeeze to it. I tilted into him upon this action. I was now aware of his own heavy breathing. This had me feeling more confident in realizing he was also becoming excited. I leaned slightly more into him, and I tucked my face in the nook of his hood, feeling the cloth of his mask against my face. I moaned as his hands roamed my body. He seemed more hurried in his movements for once.
He pulled away unexpectedly, and this time sat in my place on the bed. He gestured for me to come forward, so I obliged. His hands moved up and down my thighs, and started making their way dangerously close to the area between them.
"You're much naughtier than I expected you to be." He said. I felt my face begin to flush. "How so?" I asked. "How many people are this aroused by someone they know to be a killer?" He made a good point. Nobody in their right mind would want the hands of someone who brought death to be on them, let alone in them, but I knew I certainly wasn't normal, and I was more eager than ever to keep this going. I thought briefly before speaking, unsure really how to describe to him why I was like this, hoping to convince him to continue.
"I like serial killers." I said blatantly. He tilted his head in a way that drove me crazy. "I always have. They accomplish something I wish I could do everyday, and they do it with ease." His thumbs made little circles on my thighs.
"You wish you could kill someone?" He asked in a slightly curious tone, seeming intrigued. "More so," I started, "I wish I could have pulled the trigger on my self. Jumped off the bridge. Kept my head under water." Each flash back of attempts I brought up had a pause in between them. "I'm not going to lie anymore though. I certainly don't have to lie to you. There have been times were I wish I had the guts to take a bat to someone's head, or hit them with my car." His hand squeezed my thigh slightly as I continued and he laughed a bit at my words. Perhaps the talk of someone else expressing murderous intent was arousing to him?
"I know I couldn't pull it off though. I can't even off myself. I don't have the guts to do it." I finished my explanation in a self deprecating tone. His hands rose from my thighs and instead held my face.
"Baby girl, it only takes one kill to change your whole life." He said in a whimsical tone. "How do you even begin though?" I asked genuinely. "I always presumed you had to be a born killer. How do you make that first strike..?" He laughed a bit, seeming very amused with my morbid curiosity.
"Starts with a desire. A need. We all have it. After all, we're only animals when it comes down to it." He further explained with a darkening tone. "Sometimes you just need something to help trigger it. A cheating partner, shitty boss at work, or maybe..." He continued, "-you simply experience having that bloodlust." He made the shape of a gun with his hand, and cocked his fingers to my temple. "Is it a matter of accepting your madness? Just never seeking help?" I questioned his advice.
"You don't need help." He said bluntly. His words rang through me. Surely saying that was like saying a smashed plate wasn't broken, but society as a whole was fucked up regardless. Who's to say the true madmen weren't the people at the top, with all the money and fame, calling the shots and walking all over the people below.

His fingers stopped mimicking a gun, and moved to my lips. "I'm so glad I didn't kill you the first night. You've been beyond entertaining." I could sense a smile under his mask, and pink dusted my cheeks. His fingers traced my lips. I felt so bliss. Not only was I blessed with his attention, but we were actually speaking! Ghostface and I just held a conversation. I was beyond happy.