Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13347507.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Scream_(Movies)
  Relationship:
      Robbie_Mercer/Charlie_Walker
  Character:
      Robbie_Mercer, Charlie_Walker
  Additional Tags:
      Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Smut, Shameless_Smut, Gratuitous_Smut,
      Anal_Sex, Anal, Rough_Sex, BDSM, Masochism, Gay, Gay_Sex, Dominant
      Masochism, Dominant_Bottom, Bondage, Rope_Bondage, Webcams, Dirty_Talk,
      Violent_Sex, Fluff_and_Smut, Fluff, Aftercare, Loss_of_Virginity, Consent
      Issues, Unfortunate_Implications, The_Author_Regrets_Everything, That
      sound_you_just_heard_was_Wes_Craven_doing_a_full_gymnastics_routine_in
      his_grave, Hand_Jobs, masked_sex, Not_Beta_Read, way_too_many_horror
      movie_references, Not_Canon_Compliant
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-01-12 Words: 11042
****** You Pretty Much Have To Be Gay ******
by veryconfidentsandwichshapedfreedom
Summary
     While he and Charlie are setting up for Stab-a-Thon, Robbie concocts
     a foolproof plan for the both of them to survive Ghostface's murder
     spree.
Notes
     I wrote this in bits and pieces over a two and a half month span
     meaning there's probably some continuity issues but I don't
     caaaaaaare enjoy the two movie geeks from Scream 4 fucking each other
     in a barn because this is what normal well-adjusted high schoolers
     write when the majestic and truly beautiful Rory Culkin awakens their
     sexuality at age 9
     AALSO I ONLY PROOFREAD HALF OF THIS AND I WON'T TELL YOU WHICH HALF
     MUAAHAHHAHAHAHA
     Enjoy the anti-Scratlet
Losing it is an interesting development.
Losing it after keeping a grip on it for so long in a situation where I have
the full right to go completely insane with fear is an even more interesting
development.
And, of course, given fate has already taken the beautiful Olivia Morris from
where she stood, inches away from my sex-starved clutches, I had to have my
composure shattered on what should have been the best day of the year for
Charlie and I.
Charlie is on the top step of a ladder, facing away from me, in the process of
hanging a Ghostface mask on the barn wall. He hammers away, one, two, three,
before he's evidently content with his hook and he hangs the mask over it. 
I should be helping him put up decorations, and, until a minute ago, I was. But
I'm scared, and unsure, and feeling weak.
Olivia died.
Why not Charlie?
My chest throbs at that very concept. Olivia was... something, to me, but I
can't really figure out what. I'd call her a romantic interest, but that's
difficult to say, given I wasn't romantically interested. Crush, romantic
interest, implies a bit of actual desire, at the minimum. Friend implies that
she gave a shit about me, and that I wanted only platonic interaction.
Girlfriend implies that we had something going. 
We didn't. I valued her. I thought she was cool enough to fill a room by
herself, and attractive, obviously, but had she tried to make advances on me, I
would have only accepted them to cover for something else.
That something?
Charlie dying would bother me the way Olivia's death should have.
I'd be fucking destroyed.
And that leaves me where I am now, hunting for a way, any way, to save him. 
A slam interrupts my thoughts, and so does the surge of terror that cleaves my
gut in half. We are alone. Safety in numbers, sure, but the numbers have to
actually be present. 
Ghostface?
Oh, it was Ghostface, alright. If the mask that's now on the floor counts.
"Motherfucker," Charlie hisses.
I glance at my hands. They're empty; might as well help him. I take a few steps
toward the mask and pick it up off the floor.
"Charlie!"
Charlie glances to me and reaches out one hand.
"Thanks."
I toss him the mask. It lands perfectly in his outstretched palm, as if by
magic, and then, he's back to hanging it up.
Of course, it falls again, and, of course, I end up diving toward the black
pool of fabric like a dog playing fetch. 
"Why do I bother?" Charlie says. I shrug.
"One more shot?"
"No reason not to. It worked last year."
It did. Last year was... less than fantastic, venue wise, and absolutely
stunning everywhere else. The movies themselves, obviously, and the music, the
lights, the attention, the fact that everyone out there who went for a good
time got a good time...and the decorations? Hell to the yes. We even got an
animatronic Ghostface that, rest its soul, did not reach the end of Stab
3 before someone who may or may not have been Trevor drunkenly attempted to
brawl with it and ended up disconnecting the base from the rest of the device,
leaving us with a very dead, very costumed Ghostface, dramatic reveal replaced
with sparking wires.
This Ghostface mask, this specific Ghostface mask, got to watch not-Trevor from
the wall as he threw himself into our animatronic so hard that he almost broke
his collarbone sliding along the floor of the abandoned warehouse we'd set up
shop in. Clearly, it'd had no trouble going up and staying there before.
"Goddamn it anyway!"
The mask falls again.
Charlie pauses on the ladder before starting his way down, one foot and then
the other on every step, like he's terrified of falling.
I've never seen him scared before. Not even startled. It's probably more of a
comfort thing, but I can't help but wonder if he'll be easy to convince about
my own fears.
Maybe.
He pauses on the last step.
"Robbie, have you just been standing there? We're not great on time, here."
My stomach lurches at the thought of being scolded by him, but I swallow back
the pain and continue. It's for his safety.
"Yeah, but..."
"But?"
Charlie backs down to the floor and tips the ladder over onto its side; I
freeze, knowing that the sound of the metal crashing against concrete would
likely drown out my words and kill all dramatic effect. There's a perfect
haystack for him to throw his stupid ladder on not four feet behind me, but
whatever. Make your noise, Charlie.
"Charlie, I'm scared!"
"Really? I thought it was creepy here, but not enough to actually scare you,"
Charlie says, abandoning his ladder to shuffle up to my side.
"No. Ghostface! Ghostface is coming for you, dude! You're not gay, and you're
gonna drink, right?" I feel my voice raising without me intending it to get any
louder, and any effort I make to try to stop it is utterly useless. "And, no
offense, but you're not exactly Channing Tatum enough to lead a sequel!"
There's a brief pause, and in that moment, I think that I've blown it, and he's
never going to speak to me again, and we're going to both die alone. 
Then Charlie speaks, vaporizing my fear.
"Robbie... really? I know the rules. We'll survive," he says, slapping a hand
against my shoulder before dropping it back to his hip. "You're funny, you know
that?"
"No, dude, I'm serious," I say, grabbing for his wrist. It's so unfair that the
best thing that's ever happened to us, this murder spree, this opportunity to
live out what we love, is also the worst possible thing that could happen,
because not only could it take the rest of our friends, but it could take us,
too, and most importantly, him. He could be the next victim. Charlie Walker, my
Charlie Walker, could end up just another bloody body on the pile, when he
means so much more than that.
It's so easy to watch the kids in movies die, with the comfort of the fact that
they're wholly, entirely fictional, and generally as bland as stale, unsalted
Wheat Thins. The entertainment comes in their deaths, because their
characterization is so oversimplified that it's impossible to connect or
empathize with them.
But Charlie's my friend. It's different. So, so different. I know him. I love
him. If he gives me the choice, provided we come out of this alive, I will
spend the rest of my life with him, no questions asked, and without a single
moment of hesitation, no matter what he decides to do with himself after high
school, because Charlie's everything I've ever wanted in anyone. He's sweet and
witty and quiet, with a fantastic taste in movies and music; it's like we were
made for each other, so that I could be his voice and he could be my mind, two
elements of the same body. If I lose Charlie, I'm losing a body part. I won't
feel whole again, and I will have to adapt to the result of the trauma.
Hopefully, he will be an arm or a finger or a foot, and I will be able to move
on with considerable difficulty, whether real or imagined. At worst, he'll be
vital to my existence, my brain, my lungs, my heart, and I'll die as soon as he
leaves me.
Best case scenario, if one of us has to die, it's both of us, and we'll die at
the same time, so neither of us have to grieve for the other's loss.
For the first time, I'm finding it hard to speak. How do I condense that all
into words? How do I condense something as raw and as real as my love for him
into a form as concrete as words? Every word has a definition, a meaning, and
there's a word for every possible concept, but I'm still struggling to piece
together the right ones to describe what I feel, the worry for him, the anger
that I should even have to think about the death of my best friend, my first
love, as something so probable, and the pure, unadulterated terror.
Fucking hell, the terror. It's all terror, every last bit of it. Terror, and
indignance that he doesn't see how dangerous this is for him and how horrible
it could be for me to live without him, even for a moment.
"Charlie, dude, I don't want to lose you. I'm terrified to walk away from you
because I think Ghostface is going to take you next as soon as I'm gone." My
grip on his wrist gets tighter, like if I let go, he'll disintegrate into
nothingness and never return.
There's concern flickering in his round, distinctive blue eyes now; if that
concern weren't there, blocking me, holding me back, I would probably find
myself lost in his gaze, begging fate to let me show him how I feel for any
amount of time, no matter how short. In any other situation, I would feel my
chest tightening, distressed by his distress, but he should feel distress right
now.
We're going through with Stab-a-Thon to distract ourselves from the danger,
distract ourselves from what's at stake. I was the most passionate advocate for
doing this, aside from Charlie, and yet, when confronted with the idea of his
death, I can't seem to lose myself in the festivities and the desensitizing
nature of it all, not in the way I swore to myself would be so easy.
Then the concern in Charlie's eyes fades out, like he knows something that I
don't. It's the same way he looks at me when I'm making predictions about the
ending of a movie he's seen and I haven't. He can't be this cocky, can he, to
think that he's immune to Ghostface? I must convince him how we're playing with
our lives, or risk losing him forever. I must. There is no other choice. And as
long as he believes he's safe, there never will be.
"You'd be the perfect victim, Charlie! The genre-savvy nerd, arguably the one
that should know the most about survival, dies? Then anyone could be a victim!
It's the perfect twist!" My words come out unsteady, crackling at the edges,
like they're finally giving in under the unbearable weight of my own anxiety.
My cheeks sting with heat, and in my throat, a heavy lump is building, the kind
which chokes me up when I'm about to cry. I can feel the moisture pooling in my
eyes, ready to fall as I finally break down, the first casualty of our duo to
the fear Ghostface hasn't yet managed to instill in us.
I don't want Charlie to die. I don't want to die. But those possibilities both
seem so real. I just wish I could escape it all.
Maybe that's what the alcohol's for.
Charlie slides his hand up my back, until it comes to rest between my
shoulderblades. I release his wrist from my palm. He knows better. That's why
he's the one who runs Cinema Club, and I'm just his vice president. He always
knows better. He's smarter and stronger and perpetually one step ahead, no
matter what I do.
Though I'd never resent him for that, and I never, ever have, I find a bit more
comfort in it than I usually do. He's right on Ghostface's trail. He's an
expert. He'll keep me safe.
"Robbie, calm down. You're overthinking things," he says. A reassuring smile
blossoms across his face, bright and wide and flawless. His gaze meets mine. If
my stomach weren't binding itself in thick, twisted knots, and there wasn't any
hot, acidic bile stinging the back of my throat, perhaps I would be feeling my
knees go weak or my heart fluttering against my sternum. He's trying to calm me
down, and like he has experience with it, when I'm normally so carefree. He's
so good at this.
"Am I?" I sputter; my voice is still heavy, and lumbering, and unsure. We're
powerless. All we have to protect ourselves are the rules and the hope
Ghostface won't turn up at our party; is that really enough to justify a small
amount of concern as completely unwarranted?
"You are." Charlie brushes his hand down, until he meets the small of my back.
He slides his other hand onto my hip, as if to brush me closer, into an
awkward, incredibly low hug. "Besides, if you were in a horror movie, you'd be
like... number eight. You'd get plenty of screentime."
My heart melts into a hot, bubbling slurry that oozes down my torso to fill the
pit of my stomach with magma. Charlie's going to be safe. We're going to be
safe. And all because I love him. We're stronger than Ghostface. We're better
than whoever's behind that mask, because, right now, we have the power of the
rules on our side.
Gays survive. I'm gay. He's going to take my advice. We'll be fine.
In fact, after this, if the way he's holding me is any indication, we're going
to be even finer.
"What would you be, tough guy?" I sneer back, teasing. I can't miss an
opportunity to knock him down a peg, even if it's the source of incredible mood
whiplash, worse than the masterpiece of the feeling solely describable as being
unsure whether to worry or laugh, Shaun of the Dead.
The smile doesn't pour off of Charlie's face faster than blood down Emmanuelle
Vaugier's arms in Saw II, like I expect it to, but it is instead replaced with
a half-hearted smirk, one that seems to be begging to regress back into what it
was prior.
"Eleven, probably. I'd outlive you."
The hand on my back navigates itself to the opposite hip, the one Charlie isn't
already holding; I find my hands a place perched on his shoulders. They're not
soft, not that I expected them to be, given that he's small and thin and a good
candidate for protruding bones, but they're certainly relaxed, and I find a bit
of pride in claiming my position as the one who put him at ease, even if he
wasn't exactly alarmed beforehand.
I don't think I've ever been this close to him before, not on purpose. I
tripped over my own feet and fell on him, once, while we were preparing for a
Cinema Club meeting; he was talking to me about something, and so, he was
facing toward me, but not expecting it, and I scared him so bad that he jumped
about a foot in the air. But there was a moment between the impact and his
reaction, one where the world seemed to stutter upon its axis and where
everything made sense, when our chests brushed together as I slid against him,
and our eyes met, and I felt just this way, with a warm giddiness coursing
through my veins and every muscle in my body struggling not to erupt into
uncontrollable spasm at my own joy, and at the contact, and at my own
realization that this, this is how things were always meant to be.
"Then you'd protect me, right? For as long as you could?" I whisper. His heat
is so close to me. It engulfs me. It consumes me. It becomes me.
I need him, and not just for the protection. I've always wanted this. I've
always needed this. If there's a bright side to this all, besides the obvious,
it's that we've been forced together to survive, in a way that I might have
been too terrified to ever confess to desiring before this.
Charlie gives a small whimper; his gaze scorches through me, and his firm hands
are tight on my hipbones. He's leaning in, closer, closer, until his breaths
burn against my skin, and his lips are an inch away from mine. Even that
distance is overpowering.
"Yeah," he says. "You bet your ass I would."
He kisses me then, brushing his lips against mine. They're soft, and warm, and
everything, everything, everything I thought they would be.
I expected our first kiss to be more aggressive, less tender, especially when
coming under these trying circumstances where lust is more beneficial than
love, but then again, I never expected it to come as the result of a murderous
rampage taking inspiration from our Lord and Savior, the Stab series.
Charlie acts first, opening his mouth over mine, and forcing his tongue to
brush the rim of my lower lip, and then, when I allow him in, against the
surface of my teeth. Is he a natural, or does he have experience? I think I
would have been the first to know if he finally charmed Kirby into giving in
and kissing him, because he'd want to brag to someone, anyone, about achieving
something like that after pining for her for so long, so he's probably just
good at this, like I thought he would be.
I feel guilty that there was even a fleeting moment of doubt. He was made to be
perfect. I should have known that.
Charlie's tongue probes inward, pressing further, desperate in its flickering
for attention. This is how Charlie is supposed to treat Kirby, not me—he is not
greedy, hungry, a voracious slut for acknowledgement, around anyone but her,
and that realization makes me enjoy this just a little bit more. I'm enough to
make him defy his character. I'm enough. I part my teeth just far enough that
he can slide in between, to reach my own tongue, and for a while, he stands
there, lapping wildly against the underside of the muscle, lips warm, shoulders
stiffened against my palms, and his chest hard and solid, like it's the only
thing supporting me and preventing me from dropping to my knees like I've been
stabbed in an overdramatic death scene under the pressure of all my dreams
coming true at once, culminating into a single moment.
I let him take control, and he accepts it gracefully, without question or
hesitation, something that anyone else would probably find as unexpected as the
ending of Sleepaway Camp from someone as introverted and socially uninterested
as he is. When his tongue brushes mine, I take it as him guiding me into a
wrestle, a control game; when he slips his hands lower, past my hips, onto my
thighs, and then around, groping greedily, claiming me for his own, I take it
as a signal to lift my hands off of his shoulders and begin to fondle the first
button on his shirt, getting us closer to the end goal.
Charlie is the first of us to pull away for air, as I'm unlatching the second
button. I didn't realize I had my eyes shut until they open, as if by reflex,
like Charlie releasing me yanked back the lever that kept them closed.
His blue eyes are conflicted with guilt, and his mouth, half-parted, begging
for air, is stuck in a loose frown. Maybe he's upset about Kirby. Maybe that
was his very first kiss, as I suspected it to be, and he's terrified that he
had it with me, someone whom he feels nothing for. Maybe the guilt's there
because he does feel something for me, and he hates it, hates himself for
having it, and would do anything, anything at all, to rid himself of the
thoughts he is suffering through.
I don't mind any of that. The urge rises in my chest, anguish, hot and sharp,
to comfort him, but at the same time, it is more important than anything else
that we hurry up and do this. Charlie cannot agree with even himself what being
gay means in the context of a horror film, so we must continue, in case a kiss
is not enough to save us from Ghostface, in case a kiss is not enough to
guarantee survival, in case a kiss is not enough to establish that we don't
need to circumvent or disprove the rules to live.
"Charlie," I whisper, unsure of what else to say. There's so much to say.
There's just so many things to tell him. But there is not time, and I do not
have the strength. "I don't want to fight this."
That is all I have prepared to reassure him with.
I didn't expect to feel this numb, this empty, this completely drained, in my
fantasies about our first kiss. I didn't expect him to regret it, and I didn't
expect to feel as though someone pricked me with a needle and drew out all of
my energy like it was nothing more than a blood sample. I didn't expect
anything like this. But I cope, and it is flawless in its flawedness, because
he is here, and that is all that matters to me.
Charlie looks at me as if he wants to say something, anything, to break the
tension, but he doesn't, instead soundlessly reaching to remove my jacket from
around my shoulders. I pluck out another button from his shirt, and then drop
my arms so that he can wrestle them free. When he finally gets my jacket off,
he tosses it on the floor a few feet away, where it pools into a sad light blue
puddle.
He leans in for a second kiss, and it has the passion that the first one had,
but that passion is much more permanent this time around, refusing to subside
even after Charlie breaks us apart again to grab a big handful of fabric off my
shoulders and start to force my shirt off. Whenever I blink, I see a flash of
his intoxicatingly bright smile, his endless waves of dark, fluffy hair, his
slim shoulders, his piercing, handsome eyes. I would do this if Ghostface
stayed in the past and in fiction. I would do this without hesitation, without
a second thought or an inkling of regret, as soon as Charlie gave me the word.
I would do anything for this, just for the right and for the permission.
It sucks dick that Olivia's dead, mostly because now, without her, I have no
way to convince everyone that I don't literally suck dick; the fact that I do
is beside the point. But if this massacre can bring Charlie and I closer, and
kickstart the best Stab-a-Thon yet, then perhaps her death, and all of the
others, weren't for nothing. Maybe life is just God's movie, and we're all
actors who can't read the script, but there is a script nonetheless where
everything is predetermined and arranged to fit perfectly, collapsing like
dominoes one to another to another, and they were all merely pawns given life
only for the purpose of death.
I shouldn't wonder why, and only be thankful of the lives taken to get me to
this point. If I'm right, then they existed, breathed, laughed, lived,
suffered, remembered, waited, believed, aspired, and had it all, every last bit
of it, snuffed out with a callous disregard for morality just for this to
happen. The least I can do is spend this time carefree, enjoying it all.
I ease my arms up alongside Charlie's hands as he lifts; this makes the process
of removing my shirt simple and painless, and before I can so much as take
another shallow, anxious breath, there is no turning back. My shirt is balled
up in Charlie's fist. I'm pale and flaccid and scrawny and every last inch of
it all is exposed to the world. We can only proceed forward. Everything we've
ever had, everything less than this, is a storm of smouldering ashes blazing
across the path at our backs, and in one action, our friendship is lit on fire,
scorching, and then dies into nothingness, charred beyond recognition, like
Freddy Krueger without the molestation. Not that someone's dick won't end up
diddled. Dick diddling is sort of a requirement, provided we want to live
through this bloodbath; but if Ghostface jumped out of nowhere and stabbed me,
I could die right here and die without regret.
What would happen if Ghostface attacked us? It's practically a recipe for
death, if watching Stab 2 has taught me anything about fighting the killer in
your lover's name, but I like to think Charlie would leap in and protect me
with a rage-fueled superhuman strength his small, lanky body shouldn't possess.
I would lie there, bleeding out from my wounds, and the last thing I'd ever see
would be a blurred vision of him fighting like a one-man army, with all the
power and raw violence of the parking garage scene from Drag Me to Hell. It
would defy everything we thought we knew about this being a remake of the
original murders, but fuck, there's not a single thing wrong with being a right
hero. Maybe it'd be the surreal plot twist designed to distinguish the reboot
from the original, to make Charlie the new Sidney when all signs point to
anything but. I mean, we have immunity, now, from what we're doing. It's a very
real possibility.
I stand frozen, sides heaving, throat dry, chest thundering; Charlie's round
eyes, cornflower irides sharp and striking against the dusty, dull backdrop of
the dark barn around us, rake my bare skin up and down, first examining for
flaws with a scrutiny that makes needles prick into every inch of my body, and
then consuming me with every breath until there is nothing, nothing left, like
the last oxygen remaining in the coffin he's been buried alive in. There's a
brief pause that goes on too, too long, where things could have gone either
way, if Ghostface weren't trying to kill us all, and then, a smug smirk, the
distinctively cocky kind that only Charlie could muster up, creeps across the
edges of his pink lips.
"Damn," Charlie whispers, little more than a particularly heavy breath even
against the silent backdrop. He reaches for the next button on his shirt, but
instead of pressing it back out of the slot, he pinches the fabric nearby
between his fingertips and parts it until the shirt slumps, unsecured, to his
sides, barely clinging on over the curves of his slight shoulders. I can see
his abdomen now—he doesn't have any definition, excluding the bumps of his
collarbone and hipbones, which are fairly prominent, but he is perfect all the
same. I've seen him shirtless before, but never in this context, and it's
enough to make my heart flutter in my chest.
"I didn't think I looked good enough to warrant profanity," I say. I slide my
tongue over the rim of my upper lip, the signature move of a cringeworthy,
awkward virgin trying to be sexy. I don't. Charlie's probably just desperate to
protect himself with the rules. If Ghostface is watching, whoever's behind that
mask would have heard his comment on my body, no matter how brief, and
accounted that into their plan for the remake if they've any respect for horror
at all.
Charlie pauses. His smirk widens into a full smile.
"That's hardly profanity, you fucking faggot."
Though it's a joke at my expense, I can't help but feel a warmth seep through
my veins, drawing a smile across my face, and before I know it, we're both
laughing harder than we have in years, let alone since the murders started, and
for what would have been the first time in a long time had this happened in any
other situation, I feel complete, like I've achieved all there was left for me
to achieve. Maybe that absurd metaphor about this being God's movie, and all
the victims having died for this very moment, deserved much more credence than
what I've so far lent it.
Not only do I get to live, but I get to have Charlie, this boy, and all of his
humor and his wit and his horror expertise. I'm not sure what I did to get
here, but I guess my audition was pretty impressive if it got me a role so
comfortable to play.
In all of that admiration emerges the fervent compulsion to know how Charlie's
skin feels against my lips; I lean in toward his neck and press my mouth onto
his throat, hands coming to rest beneath his opened shirt on either side of his
ribs, and then, there I am, kneading indicipherable shapes against his
pulsating jugular with the tip of my tongue. He's just as soft and smooth as I
thought he would be, and he's untainted by any form of blemish, bump or scar or
anything palpable.
I doubt Charlie thought this would be how I'd react to what he said, erupting
into laughter and then kissing him, but I don't think he was surprised because
he doesn't so much as flinch, instead taking it in stride and tucking my head
against him with the rim of his jaw. He releases a gravelly, low moan that
seems to sprint away into the air around us as if it were pent up inside him,
longing to be freed, and finally got a chance at escape.
If he likes this, then I have something he'll like even better.
My fingertips sneak down the warm, flat expanses of his flanks, down to caress
his hips. This is where I find what I'm looking for; skimming along the solid
heat of his flat abdomen, along the stiff waistband of his jeans, I come to
another bump. The button. I don't stop nibbling at his jawline, and I stay
occupied there, massaging one pinch of skin after another. With my fingertips I
ease the button from the slot, and then give the zipper on his fly a pull, just
to make ripping his jeans off him a touch less awkward.
Charlie snags me around the shoulders, and though the urge to fall into his
grasp and drown in his touch tugs at every inch of my faltering body, pooling
in my limbs, coursing through my heart, with a burning, encapsulating heat that
seems to smother me down until I am struggling with every bit of my existence
not to suffocate, I fight that urge away with the much stronger desire for
survival, and the even stronger desire to please him. I grab onto the waistband
of his jeans at the sides, ready to tug them down and get to business, but
Charlie pushes me back and undresses himself.
I pinch my lip between my teeth and bite down. There it is, the object of so
many fantasies, jutting out until it is evident between his legs, bound in the
tight silken fabric of his boxers. His cock. His fucking cock.
I knew it was a monster. As attractive as I find him, we both know he's not
exactly Channing Tatum, not from the waist up and especially not from the neck
up, but I didn't really expect him to be doing this much compensating. Of
course, being friends as long as we have, since grade school, I've seen him
naked before, but it's been a couple of years, and I assumed as time passed
that my mind was exaggerating and replacing reality with a wishful homoerotic
fantasy. But I was not wrong at all. It's difficult to put a number on it, with
it covered, but it's like someone's dropped me right into Pornhub's gay
section.
And, what's better than that, any of that, what is freeing, and both sobering
and stunning, is that I can do whatever I want to it short of savagely mauling
it off, like that one scene from The Last House on the Left, not that I'd mind
disfiguring him for life and being the source of immeasurable emotional trauma
as long as it meant I could put him in my mouth, even for just long enough to
gouge my teeth through his flesh. It's mine to claim. It's mine to put
everything I've got into, no limits, no restraint, until Charlie says I'm done.
All because of Ghostface.
Is it wrong to want to meet the person wearing the costume, the person or
people who hacked up Olivia Morris like a fucked-up, blood-spurting rotisserie
chicken, and thank them for this twist of fate? Probably. But that is not to be
dwelled on, not now, not when I carry so much responsibility on my feeble
shoulders. I need to make Charlie feel good. I need him to leave satisfied. I
need to condense every lingering thought of passion toward him into this. Only
then will we emerge survivors.
I want, more than anything, to fall to my knees and service Charlie right here,
until he can't stand it anymore and, quivering beneath the overpowering
pleasure of his own climax, he shoots his hot load right into the confines of
my begging, starving mouth and down my aching throat. But patience is more
important. This may be the only chance I get to go all the way with the love of
my life, especially if he's wrong and this will not save us. I'd be an
impulsive idiot not to take advantage of this.
"Jesus, are you okay?"
Charlie's voice pummels me in the temple, knocking me out of my daze in a
matter of less than a second. I glance back up. The shadow of a grin sprawls
out over his cheeks, like a big, attention-grabbing orange sign advertising his
lack of seriousness. I glance back up at him.
"I'm just..." I swallow, despite my mouth feeling so dry that it should be
impossible. It tastes like bile, and runs down just as acidic. "I'm fine."
"I should hope so." Charlie blinks. His gaze travels downward, to the point
where I was staring not long ago. He knows. He's probably very satisfied with
himself, ans rightfully so. If I were Charlie, I would be the biggest
narcissist on the planet; it seems that it would be hard not to be, if I were
perfect. "Thankfully, or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, I
haven't killed anyone with it yet."
"I'd say that's unfortunate. I'd let you stab me to death with that."
"Where would you want me to stab you?"
Holy fuck.
Anywhere. Anywhere he wants. I need any orifice he can fit himself into
spasming uncontrollably as it overflows with his warm seed. I need him to fill
the inside of me physically to match the way he consumes me mentally,
emotionally.
"Wherever you want."
There's a small pause, and every breath seems to be walking on the thin ice
covering the murky depths of the pond from Orphan, one more step towards
taunting fate to unleash everything at once, sending us both hurdling into the
black waters of a type of contact that we've never had before.
"For someone who broadcasts their entire life online, you're sure full of
surprises," Charlie purrs, leaning in closer, until we're pressed up together,
with his chest tight against mine. "I like that."
"I have more."
Where the fuck did that come from? I knew I opened up around him, in a way I
don't with anyone else, even my followers, but I didn't realize it would be so
easy for him to guide me along the way he just did, inserting words right into
my speechless mouth whenever I needed to say something. He's not supposed to
speak for me. I'm talkative to the point of tedium, and he's anything but, and
yet, somehow, here he is, with a lead chained around my neck.
Before I can debate the subject any longer, and make myself too nervous to
continue, something I would surely kill myself over, if Ghostface weren't here
to get me first, Charlie plants his open mouth onto my lips; when the stiffened
end of his erection presses into my thigh, I snatch it and palm it against the
pad at the base of my fingers, grip firm and snug. He tugs away to groan out a
shallow breath, and for a moment that stretches out too, too long, he freezes
in that spot, dazed. Moisture oozes across his soft, touch-reddened lips,
parted for air; his eyes are glossy, glazed, limpid, and I fear that if I were
to tap their surfaces with my fingertips, I would create ripples in them like
they're nothing but two pools of water.
I pause, too, unsure whether it would be more awkward to stop like this or to
continue and start rubbing him off, and deciding to take the much safer route.
"Robbie," he says matter-of-factly, as if to attract my attention, even though
he knows, or should know, if there's a lick of sense in him, that all of my
attention is on him, "I think I'm in love with you."
I'm not sure whether he means it literally, or as a figure of speech to
encourage me further, but I don't care; I press my forehead up against his, a
wordless reply of solidarity. He just told me he loves me while we're together,
here, with the ball of my foot leaning awkwardly against third base as I sprint
toward home, and if I'm supposed to actually have words, I don't really know
what it is that they would be. If by some great feat I managed even one, my
mouth feels comatose and limp, and I couldn't do a thing, even if my life
depended on it.
Really, though, my life depends on this. My life depends on the swelling
feeling of joy rising in my chest and the heat throbbing from inside my cheeks,
eating its way out through my skin to turn my face what I can only assume is
tomato red.
My life depends on Charlie.
"You think and I know. I've always known," I whisper. "Not to—"
"Yeah, I know what you meant. Shh..."
He's so timid around Kirby, but he's taking charge with me. I don't get it. His
fingers wrap around my wrist, and guide my hand back and forth over his cock...
I can't even imagine the concept of him doing that to Kirby. If she wanted to
do that, I mean, the way they talk to each other? Oh, she'd definitely be the
one to initiate it.
But, then again, I grabbed Charlie first.
I did.
I snatched him up in my palm and offered to let him fuck me so hard that he
leaves my hands sore and blistering. I dragged the subject open, and, with
that, I assume I took his insecurities away, too, with the knowledge that no
matter what he does, no matter if he doesn't live up to what I want him to be,
I'll still leave satisfied. 
Now he drags my hand back and forth, back and forth, base to tip, base to tip,
along the length of his swollen, engorged shaft. His cold fingers are tight
against my flesh, an echo of how he probably wants me to hold him; when I
finally give in and form a clenched fist, he lets out a sigh, followed tightly
by a moan, and when I glance back up from watching the way he fucks himself
with my fist, his eyes are clamped shut.
"I hate to break this off," he says, after a moment, "but I think we both know
what we're doing, right?"
There's that signature geeky lack of confidence. Right. Right? Right?
So fucking swoon-worthy. 
I release his cock, unwillingly. I want to stroke it to completion, or put it
in my mouth and fuck it down my throat until he fills me up. But there's better
waiting for me, much better, and all I must do is stay still and control my
impulsive urges.
"Yeah..." I say. "Yeah."
He grabs onto my shoulders, and starts to back away; at first, I'm confused.
Then he falls beneath me, letting go, and I see where he's stepped us to. The
haystack. 
"Okay, if we're doing this, we're doing this my way," Charlie says, folding his
arms, as if it's some sort of display of dominance over me. "Go get the mask."
"Charlie Walker, you sick fucker."
"You're wearing it," Charlie grumbles in a tone with a force and a strength
which leaves little room left to argue. "You know better than to argue with the
president of Cinema Club."
Of course he'd bring that up. That must be why he's so uncharacteristically
direct.This is just another order from president to vice, to him. Kirby might
be qualified, but she's no vice president.
He glares, overdramatic; I scan him up and down one last time, meticulously,
piece by piece, scanning his features for some sort of fleeting sign that he
isn't serious, whether it be a tiny shimmer of amusement flickering over the
surface of his eye or a half-smile blossoming along the corner of his lips. I
don't see such a thing.
I like horror movies. I fucking love them. But Charlie?
Charlie loves them.
However, I suppose, or maintain, really, as it's something I would have stood
behind had I been able to comment upon it all earlier, that there's much worse
things to be into, and none of them could dissuade me from wanting to fuck him,
whether it be out of genuine unconditional love or a heated instinctual
determination to survive at any cost.
Despite all that, I still feel obligated to tease him. It's like a rite of
passage for our friendship, at this point. I've done it so many times, even on
the way in here; I can't conceive the strength it would take to pass up a
glowing opportunity to continue the tradition.
"Knife too?"
I'm hilarious. Ha, ha.
Fucking kill me.
"Fuck yeah, baby!"
"I was joking!"
"Come on, Robbie. It was your idea."
"And I'm starting to think getting ambushed by Ghostface is a better one."
"Mhm... that's not what you said when you were grabbing my dick."
"Ouch, that one stung... I'm sure there's a punchline here, but I'm having
trouble finding it."
There's the mask, with its smooth cowl draped like a small black towel on a
rack over the side of the cardboard. This is what Charlie wants me to do. So
simple, so easy, to make saving his life, or, our lives, now that we're one,
blow him away. 
And we are one. Maybe we've always been less you and I and more us, and I was
so preoccupied in my own terror at the thought of him rejecting me that I never
realized that was the case. I mean, we both run Cinema Club. That's already a
connection to draw us together in our own minds and especially in the minds of
others. We've been an us all along, it seems, and this mask is here to cement
that as a recognized fact.
I turn away and throw on the mask.
Then, I turn back.
"Holy shit, you look fucking perfect." 
This thing has terrible visibility. I toy with the positioning of the eyeholes
until it's somewhat suitable, and I can see enough to kill someone. 
And if I can see enough to kill someone, I can see enough to see Charlie,
waiting with his legs spread open. Something hot fills my throat; I swallow it
down and rebound. 
"That felt like a thinly-veiled insult."
"Oh, it was."
"Charlie!"
Fucking dork.
I take an unsure step forward, judging like the ground could collapse beneath
my weight. The last thing I need to do is break an ankle and kill any chance of
running away from—
Oh.
That's how the mask is supposed to fit. It doesn't change the fact that with my
nose pressed to plastic, I've been breathing my own warm carbon dioxide for the
past minute and a half, but hey, at least I can see well enough to
kill two people, now!
"Shh, shh. Get in me before I change my mind."
"You're sure, right? I know we're doing this to live, but I don't want to hurt
you. I'd never want to hurt you."
"Calm down, Billy..." Charlie says. "I mean, that's exactly what a killer would
say."
"You don't... actually think I'm the killer, do you?"
If his death would destroy me, losing his trust to forces I can't control
would eviscerate me.
"Of course not. Robbie, I... I love you. And if you were killing everyone, and
you told me? I'd still want you as much as I do right now. I'd let you kill
me."
"You're crazy," I say.
"Best people are."
That seems like a good enough line as any to fuck him after. I reach for my
cock, ready to push it inside. 
Except I can't see where I'm supposed to push it in.
"Oh, Jesus fuck, I can't see where I'm supposed to be putting anything," I
complain, making it fully clear, in my tone, in my phrasing, that I am not
satisfied with that.
"Fine, fine, I'll wear it," Charlie says.
"Why don't we just... keep Ghostface out of this?"
"Ghostface is offended."
"Well, that won't help us live."
"Exactly."
Charlie gives a half-hearted tug at his restraints, as if to state the obvious,
that he's not able to put the mask on without help. I feel something collapse
in my chest, in a rush of heat and acid. The only thing worse than not being
able to see him at all while he takes my virginity and I save his life is being
able to see everything but his face. I always thought I'd get to remember the
longing in his eyes when I first entered him, or picture in full the way he bit
his lip as he found his pace inside of my still-tight, newly deflowered hole.
But it seems that's not to be.
I'm willing to trade that memory, though, if it means he finds more pleasure in
this all. That's all that memory would mean to me, anyway. Sentimental
pleasure. Something to think back to when the killer is unmasked and this night
is just another blip in the world's distant past, stripped of its danger by
time and reflection. Something to whisper vivid recollections of in his ear
when he asks me to tell him the moment I knew that we'd end up together
forever.
Love is just an irrational pattern of finding more value in another person's
pleasure than in your own, and if I really love Charlie, I'll let everything I
wanted to attach to this moment collapse and die, into a limp shadow like what
I imagine Olivia looked like in her final moments.
My fingers tremble at the tips as I slide the cowl on over his head, but
despite that, I place it on perfectly, straight, not too loose or too tight.
There isn't a wrinkle in the cloth that isn't intended to be there; the lights
above us catch the white plastic of the mask in just the right spot, along the
rim of the black dip that forms the mouth.
Flawless. I did a good job. I know he can't see it, but I hope he thinks so,
too.
Though it's more than a bit awkward to be fucking someone dressed as Ghostface,
I can't help but feel a twinge in my stomach as I scan Charlie over one more
time. He's tied up and helpless, and all for me. That's always a statement of
complete trust, but with the stakes so high, it means that there must be no
doubt in his mind that I'm not the killer, and that this will guarantee our
survival. Everything I wanted.
The trust, the bond, knowing that he would never suspect me being behind the
murders no matter the parallels between Hall Pass and the killer needing to
make his own film to be hip, might just be the hottest part of this. It
wouldn't be the same otherwise. It wouldn't have the right impact.
"How's it feel?" I ask.
"Perfect," Charlie says; his rough voice is partially muffled, like he's
speaking into his sleeve, but it's still familiar, and it's almost surreal to
hear it coming out from behind the mask, especially a voice which is nothing
like Ghostface's. "If Ghostface comes, I can't move or see worth jack shit, but
at least I'll get to die with your cock up my ass."
"Speaking of which... I take it you're ready."
"Come on, Robbie," he groans, sounding almost defeated, weak, before striking
back with a desperate energy and a fervent strength I wasn't sure was still in
him. He's never tired. Never stops for what lies ahead. Impatient, but in a way
that exudes an admirable level of courage. "I wanna feel it. Fuck me!"
Charlie's wrists thrash against the ropes, rough enough to drive his point
further, but not quite rough enough to make his hips shift out of position.
It's a gesture of desperation, like he's showing me that he'd do anything to
break free and feel me pumping my cock inside him, deeper and deeper, until we
can feel nothing else but the growing, swelling pressure building between us
and within ourselves as we prepare to climax.
Charlie's begging. He's begging and putting his entire soul into it.
Charlie Walker is begging.
And, when he does that, I can't deny him, even if I want to. Him pleading for
literally anything from me morphs me into a mindless instrument for him to use
however he pleases. He becomes Charles Lee Ray, and I become a Good Guy doll.
He becomes Pazuzu, and I become Regan. He becomes Billy, and I become Stu.
There's nothing I can do to fight back against his demands, and the only choice
that I can rationalize is to proceed with the order given.
I grab the shaft of my cock between my fingers and thumb and slowly, gently,
press it against the slit in his rim until it allows my cockhead into his
oozing hole. It's a bit of a challenge. I should have fingered him first,
enough to get him loose and relaxed; I'm no monster, but he's definitely never
been used back here, at least not by anything bigger than an experimental
finger or two, and not recently. I don't know what a guy feels like after he's
been fucked a few times, but I don't need to. This has to be as tight as it
gets. Every bit of muscle clings onto my cock, squeezing around it as if to
attempt to suffocate the foreign invader until it submits and slips out of the
warm, wet opening. It's better than my own hand, and he can't even tell when
and where I want to be touched.
I pause there, unable to do anything but take a weakened breath. Judging by the
ropes and the way he was begging me to fuck him, Charlie would probably love it
if I hurt him, even to the point where he needed medical attention beyond what
could be supplied by me here. Maybe he wants to feel like a victim, like
someone has complete control over him, his life, his safety; that has to be
what the mask was for. He wanted to be rendered totally helpless, climaxing
waves of terror instead of pleasure.
If he wants to feel helpless, then I'll make him feel helpless. I owe that to
him more than either of us could ever begin to comprehend.
I snatch onto his thighs, one hand on either leg, and lean forward. His opening
parts around my shaft, loosening rapidly as the width of my cock battles its
way inward.
Charlie whimpers beneath me, pained.
"Shh, shh, it's okay," I tell him. That was some incredibly fast dynamism,
going from screaming for more pain to buckling beneath it like I told him to
carry a piano on his back alone. "I'm going to go slow."
Charlie takes a quick, heavy breath that makes his scrawny chest rise and fall
in one solid motion. If he weren't wearing the mask, his jaw would probably be
bracing; he always breathes like that when he's about to cringe or grimace.
"When I scream, go faster, or I swear, when I get out of these," he grumbles
through gritted teeth, throwing a bound wrist up as high as it will go for
emphasis, "I will gladly stab the shit out of you right here and blame it on
Ghostface."
The last thing I want to do is hurt him, especially when Ghostface is around
and, until now, he could have easily done it for me. But I also don't want to
make him upset with me, not when I've fought so hard for the right to his
affection. Instead of responding with words—despite the fact that I'm the one
inflicting pain on him, and that if I had sadistic tendencies, this dynamic
would be very different, he is the dominant one, and words are merely a means
of expressing a belief that my thoughts, the thoughts of the beta, the
submissive, are worth listening to—I do what he told me to and buck my hips
inward for all I'm worth, which, admittedly, isn't much.
I continue to press onward, until I have no length left to give him and my skin
is pressed against his so tightly that not even air can come between us.
Clearing Charlie open feels amazing, and his shrill squeals of agonized
pleasure, irrational satisfaction brought on by his own suffering, don't do
anything to lessen the tension at having my cock pressed up inside him, hugged
by his virgin walls like he was specially and meticulously carved and molded to
match every curve of my flesh. I have to take a moment for us to adjust, more
for my sake than for his, because, somehow, whether it be from the adrenaline
of losing my virginity to my best friend or because he's just so good, he feels
better than my own hand, snugger, warmer, more inclined to reach every spot I
need stimulated.
My second-long hesitation is time enough; excitement picks me up by the ankles
and drags me forward like it's come straight out of that one scene from Dead
Silence, and it only partially happens as a result of my own will. And back I
go, the first disjointed movement in the pathetic dance of a first-timer
desperately struggling to achieve some form of rhythm.
I thrust into Charlie. Along my shaft, I can feel the spasms that quiver
through his muscles, rapidly tensing and untensing as pleasure shakes him.
Fucking him means everything to me regardless, given that horror movies kind of
lose their horror when there's a verifiable afterlife for the victims, but if
he didn't care about surviving, I'd have been just as happy to watch him walk
off with Kirby, because, in the end, when all else is irrelevant, I want to do
whatever will make him happy, so there's a rush in knowing that I'm the one
responsible for making his heart thump and his body lock up like he's been
possessed.
He feels good. I feel good. We feel good together. There's no catch. Is
surviving the reboot supposed to be this easy?
I can feel him slipping against the surface of the hay, so I tighten my grip on
his thighs and half-lift, half-drag him closer, without pulling out; my cock
fills space it could not fill before without intense effort, and Charlie lets
out a gasp that makes my throat feel hollow.
"Ooh, Robbie, yeah..."
When I hear his voice say my name, my heart explodes in my chest, and I drown
in the stuttering buzzes of the blood rushing in my ears, louder than him,
louder than me, louder than the call of survival. Blood. So much blood. If I
were pricked with a pin, it'd squirt out at a pressure matched only by the
jugular slash in Ichi the Killer to cloak the walls, splatter over Charlie,
squirt up to the ceiling, and flood the world in a boiling ocean of crimson,
until I bled out into a limp, deflated husk. He said my name. He's living in
the moment, breathing it, feeling it, knowing nothing but it. This is about me,
and not anyone else. He isn't fantasizing. He has me and he knows it.
Fuck what they'll say about me when this gets out. Fuck what they'll think
about us when we're the second biggest topic of discussion at Woodsboro High,
dwarfed only by a fucking murder spree. We're going to come out of this and
come out of this better than ever, and I want the entire world to know how we
feel, how much I love Charlie and how much he loves me. I want the entire world
to see him buckle under me and hear him scream as I bring him to climax. I want
them to hear the wet squelches as I pump my swollen dick deeper and deeper
inside him, testing him and stretching him closer to his limit with every
thrust. I want everyone and everything in the world to witness this moment.
And if that everyone and everything includes whoever's behind the new
Ghostface... our problem? It's solved. Guaranteed.
And I got to make love to my Charlie out of it.
I reach up and press the button on the side of my camera. When Charlie doesn't
react, when all I see is the jerking of my hips, I breathe a small breath and
await the consequences of my actions. For a time immeasurable that fades into a
static nothingness where everything that isn't Charlie and I is absent, we are
a machine that, no matter how unpredictable things become, no matter how many
unexpected screams of pleasure Charlie lets slide past his moistened lips,
never deviates from a predictable pattern of my hips bucking and the muscles in
his abdomen shuddering as he adjusts to having me inside again, only to have me
ripped back out. 
I can't pinpoint when the passionate kisses, left like dapples of lust along
his sweet, smooth skin, turn into rough bites that keep Charlie shooting out
shrill squeaks of agony, one after another, but they do, and I'm left nibbling
at the skin along his nipple, pinching it between the tips of my teeth and
denting into the flesh. I hear a moan of my name intertwined with multiple
squeals, and a command to go deeper, harder, and despite the fact that I don't
feel ready, I go anyway—if he wasn't leaned on a haystack, I'm sure that
Charlie would be thrown back a bit with every powerful thrust.
"Robbie, I'm gonna..." Charlie's words peter out, his rough voice wavering for
a moment as he loses coherent thought to impending climax, "Harder, faster,
yeah... oh, Robbie!"
Even with him crying my name and thanking me for every vibration unfurling
inside him, what should have been a dead giveaway, I feel him peak before I
realize that I've managed to get him there. There's a sudden sea of
intoxicating heat around my cock, and a rush of tugging, quivering motions
along his walls as his muscles break into wild spasms, drawing tight, greedy,
around my engorged shaft. If he ever had control, he has lost it, and that?
That's my fault, mine alone, and that knowledge is all I need for the spark
residing in the tightness building in my groin to erupt into a blazing inferno.
Harder. Harder. I'll fuck him harder, until I can't hold back anymore, just as
he said to. And with the way I'm feeling, the pressure drawn around my hips
like a too-tight, too-hot leather belt, the lightness in my limbs, the budding
realization that I couldn't fight the thrusts that are now controlled by
instinct even if Charlie begged me for mercy with all the strength left in his
body, the point of no return is not far away.
Inside and out, Charlie's writhing gradually stills; his overwhelmed whimpers
draw silent and his quivering shoulders go limp, normal, while, inside, his
pulsating rings of muscle have all fallen to peace. But though he is finished,
and definitely so, given that his hand, gleaming white over his fingertips, no
longer strokes at his softened cock, I am anything but.
I am just getting started.
My hips buck rapidly, back and forth, back and forth, with no regard for
Charlie's safety or pleasure. I focus only on finishing, finishing what we've
started. Release is so close, bobbing on the horizon, and the pressure's
building, growing, expanding into something bigger, unbearable, and
everything's here, now, him, my Charlie, my fucking Charlie, splayed out under
me, taking my cock, thinking only thoughts of me, crying, moaning, my Charlie,
so perfect, his angelic features and shiny eyes the only things I've ever
needed, oh, Charlie—
Charlie.
I want that fucking name engraved into my flesh. 
And before I realize I am on the edge, I step off the cliff, and, there I am,
plunging rapidly toward the ground below. The explosion of the impact forces my
mouth open and my eyes shut; the intensity of it all, the waves, the shock, the
sudden, sudden release, is too, too much, and I can't keep myself from crying
out the name that, right now, and perhaps for too, too long, occupies far too
much of me.
"Charlie!" I yelp, labored and tired and overwhelmed. How can I not be? When my
heartbeat is pulsing beneath every inch of my skin and grenades are going off
in the pit of my belly and the world is stuttering around my ears, sounds
little more than a low buzz, it's a fight not to be overcome by the want, the
need, the unequaled desire for him that is so present here, in this moment, the
desire that bogs down my senses and binds my failing mind into a sticky,
incomprehensible mess. 
I don't try to fight it; the feeling comes on naturally, and it is more of
being eased, guided, into stuttering blackness, than dragged there with a
vengeance.
I am struck into a dazed state by the pulsing, the thundering sensations, the
distorted mumble of blood in my ears, and I am sure that if Ghostface came, I'd
be frozen, unable to react; when it ends, it ends, though, and I am left to
fall into the empty buzzing. Charlie finished before me, so I pull out and
collapse beside him on the hay.
"Mmf..." I moan. "That was great." 
He probably wants to be released and unmasked; kink usually loses its allure
right after climax. But before I do that, I flick the button on my webcam
again, as to not allow him to see the red light that indicates I just recorded
the better part of what just transpired.
"I'm still shaking," he says. I suppose that means he feels good. There's a
relief in knowing he enjoyed it, despite all of the protests I've imagined him
making when this scene last played out in my head.
"Hey, Charlie?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm just happy you're going to live. That we're both gonna live. Together."
I roll onto my side and reach for his binds. When the first knot in the rope
gives, he bucks a hand free, and I move on to the second knot, which isn't as
easy, but isn't extraordinarily difficult, either. Off comes the mask, too, so
that I can see his reddened cheeks and his pink lips, still half-parted from
the faint breaths of climax, and the way his typically smooth long hair is now
frizzy and disheveled from being crammed into a cowl, and everything that makes
up the striking beauty of it all that lets my throat melt.
Charlie's breaths are hard, quick, to the point where I can hear each one and
notice the tiny aftermath, before I unmask him; as soon as the mask comes off,
however, he calms his rhythm.
I toss the rope and mask across the room, where they skid to a halt a few
inches away from the base of the Casey Becker prop that Charlie had brought
with him, and once I am sure that there will be no teetering, no falling, no
interruptions, I roll back over and grab for Charlie's hand.
"No, that wasn't quite it," I say, glancing back toward him. His eyes are shut,
blissfully so, and when that is coupled with his already sweet features, he is
every bit angelic. "I'm happy you're safe, and you and I aren't going to get
stabbed, but... really? I'm happier that if there's anyone in the world you'd
have sex with to escape Ghostface, it's me."
Deadpan, without opening his eyes, Charlie replies in one short sentence.
"What are friends for?" 
We both laugh.
"Speaking of what friends are for, I went pretty hard on you. Do you... need
anything?"
"It was impromptu and I know better than anyone that bruises fade..." he
hesitates, frozen, unmoving, his eyes filled with alarm. He swallows and
continues. "I'd like to hold you. Before we have to get our clothes on. And do
stuff."
Oh, fuck yes!
"I can supply that," I say, turning toward him and hugging him tight around the
waist. He gives a small, satisfied squeak, flips onto his side, and presses an
arm over my shoulders. I let my head find its way against his chest.
We lie there for an amount of time that is much too short, cut into an anxious
sliver by what is expected of us, and before we know it, we are redressing like
nothing happened.
Not that I'm complaining. I can enjoy it, the lights, the music, the attention,
now that I'm confident Charlie is safe. We're gonna live.
We're gonna live.
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