Buzzfeed Unsolved/Ghost Files Imagines

Afraid of Me | Ricky Goldsworth (SMUT)

A/N: Okay guys, I'm not going to lie. This imagine is NOT for the weak at heart—it's honestly more for people who are a tad on the crazy side LOL. I will readily admit that you may totally think I'm a psychopath after reading this, and that's okay with me😂 But if you love/are a fan of Ricky, this one is for you. Also, as I edited this part, all I could think of was the song After Dark by Mr. Kitty. I highly recommend listening to the slowed version while reading :)

Pairing: Dark!Ryan Bergara/Ricky Goldsworth x Reader

WARNING: Mentions of blood/murder, foul language, and S M U T!!!

Summary: After returning home from what you presume to be a kill, Ricky tries to get you into bed with him. The blood on his hands and clothes makes you afraid, but your fear only fuels his fire ;)

   The knock at the door at four in the morning made my blood run cold. What had started as a quick, half-asleep trip to the bathroom around three had unfortunately resulted in a miserable attempt to fall back asleep once I had realized that my boyfriend, Ricky, wasn't in his apartment where we had crashed the night prior. I looked at the door from the sofa and took a deep breath inward. Was it the cops? Was it Ricky? Was it Ricky with a body? Yes, I said a body.

    I know what you're going to say—any sane person would run after finding out that their boyfriend of over a year was a murderer. But yet, here I was. It had only been a few days since he told me what he had done in his past, and although I probably shouldn't have, I was already done processing it. Although, even now I can't help but feel like I'm Ted Bundy's girlfriend or something. After he told me, all I could think about whenever Rick left home was, "Is he killing someone right now?" It's sick, I know. But when you love someone so hard—someone you would do anything for no matter what—it made it so inexplicably difficult to walk away. Deep down, while half of me wanted to run into the arms of the LAPD the moment he told me, the other half wanted me to stay to see if maybe, some how, I could fix him. I've been running everything he told me through my head countless times, each time asking myself a new question. Why was he doing all of this? Was he neglected? Abused? Rejected one too many times? Not that that makes it okay—it doesn't. But I wanted to see if I could show him sense—even if it meant putting my life on the line.

   I hesitantly stood up and made my way to Ricky's front door, mentally cursing him for not having a peephole, leaving me with no choice but to open the door to see the presence beyond, both shapeless and nameless, yet heavy enough to rattle the stillness inside me until the door knob inevitably turned in my hand.

   As the knob shifted, my heart rate crescendoed—a symphony of dread thudding against my ribs. With one small peek from behind the door, there stood Ricky, glancing up at me from under his black baseball cap.

"Hey, darling," he stated softly, sending a small smile my way. My eyes immediately took the chance to scan him. It felt as though the blood in my veins was gasoline the moment my eyes saw it—my limbs became paralyzed, but my insides lit up in a silent blaze. I stood there, burning from within, staring at the red smears staining his hands.

"R-Rick—" I began, but was swiftly cut off when Rick rushed into the apartment and locked the door behind him.

"Ricky," I repeated as I watched him grab a container of bleach and Windex from under his sink and pour it over his hands in a manner so swiftly and skillfully that it was undoubtedly rehearsed. With that, he began to lather, ensuring to get his palms, between his fingers, and under his nails.

"What...What did you—"

"Could you get me a new change of clothes, sweetheart? I laid some out on the chair in my bedroom," he said stoically, his face appearing heavily concentrated on his hands. As his hands turned the tap on, the stainless steel became painted red, causing my stomach to coil in on itself.