𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋

𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕨𝕠 𝟚/𝟚

❛𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐜𝐫𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐞𝐭. ❜

☎

Thin gauze curtains danced in the breeze pouring in from the open slit in your bedroom window. The night air was cool and tiny goosebumps rippled down your exposed arms. You fell asleep so easily, cradled by the army of stuffed animals that watched over you in your canopy bed.

Your room was the perfect blend of horror-freak and normal teenage girl. An impressive collection of Care Bears were sorted in a long arch beneath your bay window, lounging side by side with the tall stacks of VHS tapes labelled with dripping red letters. The pink-painted walls were barely visible behind layers of gorey film posters and polaroid photos of you and your friends.

In the stark darkness of your bedroom, the shadows folded into each other like tides in a black, empty sea. It was a wonder you had been able to fall asleep at all, but the plastic orange cylinder on your bedside table absolved any mystery.

Benzodiazepine. Sleeping pills. Strong ones.

If only you knew how easy it was to scale the white-painted trellis right outside your bedroom window. Maybe if you did, you wouldn't have left it unlocked. Maybe then, you wouldn't be sleeping as soundly as you were just now while a cloaked figure stood deathly still in the furthest, darkest corner of your bedroom where the moonlight cowered and never dared to reach.

Benzodiazepine only took twenty minutes to reach maximum effectiveness. He'd done his research and was proud of it. He counted each second with sickening glee and bated breath, knowing that every minute that he restrained himself carried him closer and closer to being at your side.

With the quiet midnight chime of the cherry cola clock mounted on your desk, a single leather combat boot escaped the black veil that shrouded the figure entirely and obscured any trace of his identity. With an exhilarated shudder, he took a single experimental step toward your bed, shattering the sanctity of your space with every boot print he carved into the pink shag carpet.

Your four-poster bed was an altar to your sleeping form, holding you safe and warm whenever he wasn't there to watch over you himself—which was rarely these days, if he was going to be entirely honest.

A skewed Halloween poster was taped haphazardly above your headboard and the empty, soulless eyes of Michael Myers dared anyone to try and misplace a single hair on your pretty little head. A sticky note had been slapped over the image of his butcher knife. Poor thing, he cooed, head tilting to the side as he studied each breath that passed through your barely-parted lips. He almost felt guilty for scaring you so badly.

A leather glove flexed at his side and the material groaned under the sudden pressure. His opposite hand was planted on his hip where his knife was sheathed, begging to be released. He rolled his thumb over the blunt end of the handle, eyes closing briefly. There was no harm in stealing you for just a few moments. Besides, the game just started. There was no going back now.

The clasp securing the knife to his hip popped open and the hushed sound seemed to echo off of the silent walls of your bedroom like a firecracker. He watched you for barely a second longer, curious as to how far he could go before your basic instinct coaxed you awake. Would your body even recognize him as a danger? Or did it know just as well as it should that he could never cause you harm?

He'd happily take the blade in his hand straight to his chest before he ever used it against you.

Each of the five members of NSYNC watched helplessly from the poster clinging to the adjacent wall as a silver blade caught the moonlight still streaming in from your open window. The breeze seemed to pick up as if suddenly realizing that you weren't as alone in this room as you should have been.

Such a good girl, you barely even stirred as he twisted the blade in the air a few feet away from your face, watching the light bend and flicker under his ministrations. Such a good girl for me and we've barely even started.

Your eyebrows knitted together as you struggled to wrap your head around the nightmare you were caught up in. The little breaths escaping your mouth turned ragged and your bottom lip became pinned between your teeth.

"Shh," the cloaked figure whispered, lowering the knife closer to your face. Perhaps you were picturing him playing with you just like this, making you shiver under the smooth, chilled end of his knife. Perhaps it wasn't even a nightmare at all, but the manifestation of your most carnal desires. "Don't cry, baby." Each word was a strangled whisper. The urge to abandon the game that he had so meticulously orchestrated for you was a dangerous temptress, but one that he would not so easily give into. "Not yet. There's plenty of time for tears later."

(A/N: Lmao hey. I have no words for this and I really don't know where it came from. Don't mind me, just posting this before I run and finish my final math project that's due in 10 minutes. Stay horny!)