Chapter 10: Scary Movie
The apartment held a different kind of silence on Sunday nights—a thick, expectant hush broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant, rhythmic swish of car tires on wet pavement. A persistent autumn rain had been falling since noon, painting the window in their bedroom in streaked, liquid shadows. It was the perfect kind of weather for burrowing in, for making a nest and shutting out the world.
Angel had done just that. The canopy bed was a fortress of softness, draped in its usual lace and chiffon, but the foot of it was now a landscape of pillows and blankets hauled from the living room. He sat in the center of it all, a vision of pastel vulnerability in the gloom. The only light came from the large screen mounted on the wall, casting shifting blue and grey tones across his face. He was wearing nothing but a simple black lace thong and Alexandra’s oldest, most battered grey hoodie. The fabric drowned him, the hem hitting mid-thigh, the sleeves so long his hands were completely hidden. His white curls were piled in a messy bun on top of his head, a few strands escaping to frame his face.
Alexandra was a solid, warm line beside him, propped against a mountain of pillows. She had one arm stretched along the back of the couch-pillow arrangement behind him, her fingers occasionally toying with the loose hairs at his nape. In her other hand, she held a bottle of some local craft beer, the label peeling at the corner.
On screen, a figure was creeping through a grotesquely illuminated basement, the camera angle low and queasy. The soundtrack was a dissonant thrum of cellos and sudden, sharp violin notes.
“This is stupid,” Alex muttered, but she was grinning. “The key’s right there on the hook. Just take the fucking key and get out of the murder basement.”
“Don’t look at the shadow, don’t look at the shadow,” Angel whispered, his voice barely audible. He had pulled the hoodie’s sleeves over his fists and was pressing them against his mouth. His knees were drawn up to his chest.
“He’s looking at the shadow,” Alex announced. She took a slow sip of her beer. “Idiot.”
The figure on screen bent to examine a strange, dark stain on the floor. The music dropped to an almost inaudible hum. Angel’s entire body went rigid. He squeezed his eyes shut, but a second later, they snapped open again, unable to look away.
The jump scare was telegraphed, but effective. A pale, mangled face shrieked from behind a water heater, the sound a cacophonous burst of static and screams.
Angel yelped—a high, startled sound—and scrambled sideways, not into Alex’s lap, but practically trying to climb inside her ribcage. He buried his face against the side of her neck, his cool nose pressing into her skin. His whole body was trembling.
Alex let out a low, rumbling chuckle. The bottle clinked as she set it on the floor. Her arm, which had been resting behind him, closed around his shoulders, pulling him firmly into the solid wall of her chest. “Oh, baby. It’s a puppet. It’s a fucking rubber puppet with bad makeup.”
“It was s-scary,” came the muffled reply against her collarbone. His breath was warm through the thin cotton of her t-shirt.
“It’s not real,” she said, her voice a mix of amusement and something softer, more proprietary. Her hand, large and rough, found its way under the hoodie, settling on the smooth, tense plane of his bare back. She began to rub slow, firm circles over his spine. “Nothing’s gonna get you. Not while I’m here.”
He relaxed incrementally, the tremors subsiding into occasional shivers. But he didn’t move away. He shifted to curl against her, his head finding its familiar spot in the hollow of her shoulder, one hand fisting lightly in the fabric of her shirt. On screen, the protagonist was now running through woods, the camera jerking violently.
“You’re such a liar,” Alex murmured into his hair, her lips brushing the crown of his head. “You break a bitch’s nose with one punch, but a guy in a rubber mask makes you whimper.”
“That was different,” he said, his voice small. “She was mean.”
“She was,” Alex agreed, her thumb tracing the notches of his vertebrae. “And you were fucking magnificent. My little viper.” She paused, watching the gore unfold on screen with clinical interest. A practical effect involving a lot of corn syrup and clever editing. “This, though? This is just silly. Look, that’s obviously a dummy. The arm’s bending the wrong way.”
Angel dared a glance. A body was being dragged across a floor. He made a soft, distressed sound and hid his face again. “I don’t like it.”
“Then why did you pick it?”
“You said you wanted to watch something scary.”
“I said I wanted to watch something scary. You could have picked a cartoon about talking hamsters.” She was teasing him, her chest vibrating with suppressed laughter. “You just wanted an excuse to cling to me.”
He didn’t deny it. He just nuzzled closer, his leg hooking over hers, a cold foot seeking warmth. “It’s working.”
Another jump scare, this one with a loud bang. Angel flinched hard, his fingers tightening on her shirt. A quiet, shaky gasp escaped him.
This time, Alex couldn’t hold back her laughter. It was a full, rich sound that filled the dim room. “God, you’re adorable. You’re actually scared. Your heart’s going like a rabbit’s.” She shifted her hand from his back to his chest, sliding it under the hoodie to feel the frantic flutter against his sternum. “Right there. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.”
“Alex,” he whined, squirming at the touch, though he pressed into it. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing,” she lied, grinning widely. She kept her palm flat over his heart, feeling its rhythm gradually slow under her touch as the scene on screen transitioned to a less tense, dialogue-heavy moment. “Okay, okay. I’ll be nice. Want me to tell you what’s gonna happen? Ruin the suspense?”
“Yes, please.”
“See the cop? He’s the one doing it. It’s always the cop or the priest. His brother was the first victim, blah blah trauma, now he’s recreating the crime to feel something. He’s gonna lure the final girl to the cemetery in about ten minutes. He’ll monologue. She’ll hit him with a shovel. Roll credits.”
Angel lifted his head slightly, looking at the screen with new, analytical eyes. The frightened tension began to seep from his muscles. “The cop? But he has a nice face.”
“The nice ones are always the worst, princess. Remember that.” She used the hand on his chest to gently push him back, just enough to see his face. The flickering light caught the sheen of unshed tears in his lashes, the flushed pink of his cheeks. He looked utterly wrecked and beautiful. Her smirk softened. “Look at you. All big eyes and messy hair. You’re a disaster.”
He gave her a wobbly smile. “Your disaster.”
“Damn right.” She leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep, tasting the faint sweetness of the candy he’d eaten earlier. When she pulled back, his eyes were closed, his lips parted. “You wanna turn this crap off? I’m bored of it.”
“But you said you wanted—”
“I changed my mind. I want something else now.”
The implication was clear. Angel’s blush deepened, spreading down his neck. He looked away, suddenly shy. The fearless boy from the bar was gone, folded back inside this gentle, nervous creature. “Oh.”
“Oh?” she echoed, mimicking his soft tone. She traced the line of his jaw with her knuckles. “That’s all I get? ‘Oh’?”
“What… what do you want?” he asked, his gaze fixed on a point over her shoulder.
Alexandra shifted, moving with a predator’s grace. In one smooth motion, she lifted him and laid him back into the nest of pillows, coming to hover over him. The movie played on, forgotten, painting their skin in washes of monochrome light. She braced herself on her forearms, caging him in. “I want you. Scared and sweet and all mine. I want to see if I can make you forget all about rubber monsters and basement shadows.”
He looked up at her, his dark blue eyes wide and trusting. He brought his sleeve-covered hands up to touch her face, the fabric brushing her cheeks. “You already did.”
Something hot and possessive clenched in her chest. She kissed him again, harder this time, all teasing gone, replaced by a raw, focused hunger. He melted beneath her, a soft sigh escaping into her mouth. His hands moved to her shoulders, then into her hair, tangling in the dark waves.
She broke the kiss to trail her mouth down his throat, nipping at the sensitive spot just above the hoodie’s collar. Her hands went to the hem of the garment, pushing it up slowly, revealing the smooth, toned plane of his stomach, the delicate lace of the thong hugging his hips. “Still wearing this?” she murmured against his skin, her voice gone gravelly. “You’ve been driving me crazy all night, you know that? Sitting there, looking like a snack in my clothes, jumping at every little noise.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” he breathed, arching into her touch as her palms slid up his sides.
“Doesn’t matter. Effect’s the same.” She sat back on her heels, pulling the hoodie all the way off over his head. He lay before her, pale and graceful in the intermittent light, the lace a dark contrast against his skin. She drank him in, the sight never getting old. “My pretty boy. My knockout artist.”
He squirmed at the nickname, a reminder of the violence he was capable of, so at odds with the way he was splayed out now, blushing and pliant. “Alex…”
“Shh. I’m in charge. You just feel.” She leaned down, taking one of his nipples into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the peak until he gasped, his back bowing off the blankets. Her hands were everywhere, mapping familiar territory with a renewed reverence—the hourglass curve of his waist, the swell of his hips, the powerful muscles of his thighs that could snap a man in two but now trembled at her lightest touch.
She worked her way down, her lips and teeth leaving faint, claiming marks in her wake. She hooked her fingers in the sides of his thong and pulled it down, tossing it aside. He was already hard, his small, slender penis standing flush against his stomach. She nuzzled the inside of his thigh, breathing him in—the clean scent of his soap, something uniquely him. “So perfect for me,” she mumbled, her breath hot against his skin.
He whimpered, one hand coming down to cover his face. “Don’t look too much.”
“I’ll look as much as I fucking want,” she said, but there was no cruelty in it, only a fierce sort of worship. She took him into her mouth, not deep, but with a sure, steady pressure that made his hips jerk and a broken cry tear from his throat. She worked him slowly, expertly, her hands pinning his thighs apart, until he was a writhing, gasping mess beneath her, his sounds a sweet, desperate music.
When she sensed he was close, she pulled away, ignoring his sob of protest. “Not yet, kitten. We’re not even started.”
She moved off the bed, and he watched her, chest heaving, as she went to the dresser. The top drawer was hers, a jumble of boxers and socks. From beneath the clutter, she retrieved the harness, a simple, sturdy design of black nylon and leather. Then, from the same drawer, she took the silicone strap-on, a modest, realistic size she knew he preferred. She caught him watching, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded.
“You want it?” she asked, holding it up. The question was a formality.
He nodded, biting his lip. “Please.”
She dressed quickly, the ritual familiar and charged. The harness settled snug on her hips. She adjusted the straps, the weight of the silicone a comforting, powerful presence. When she turned back to the bed, she saw him watching her with a look of utter absorption, a mix of shyness and blatant desire.
She crawled back over him, the new appendage brushing his leg. He reached for her, pulling her down into a kiss that was all tongue and need. She could feel his heart hammering against hers again, but this was a different kind of fear, a different kind of anticipation.
“How do you want it?” she asked against his lips. “Tell me.”
He was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then, in that soft, light voice, he said, “Like this. I want to see you.”
It was a rare request. He often preferred to be on his stomach, face buried in pillows, the intimacy too overwhelming to maintain eye contact. But tonight, after the shared vulnerability of his fear, he wanted connection.
Alex felt something profound and tender crack open inside her. She nodded, swallowing hard. “Okay. Look at me, then.”
She reached for the lube on the bedside table, the bottle cool in her hand. She coated herself generously, the slick sound obscene in the quiet room. Then she positioned herself between his legs, pushing them up and back, holding him open. He was breathing in short, sharp pants, his gaze locked on hers, wide and unblinking.
She pressed the tip against him, applying steady, inexorable pressure. He tensed for a second, a faint line of discomfort between his brows, and then he exhaled, a long, shuddering release, and let her in.
They both moaned. For her, it was the feeling of fullness, of control, of being inside the most precious part of him. For him, it was the stretch, the burn that melted into a deep, radiating pleasure, and the sight of her above him, her black eyes burning with an intensity that felt like being known, completely and without judgment.
She moved, starting with slow, deep rolls of her hips. His head fell back, a chord of his neck standing out, but his eyes fought to stay on hers. His hands scrabbled for purchase on the blankets, then found her arms, gripping the hard muscle there.
“Alex,” he choked out. “Oh… oh…”
“That’s it,” she grunted, picking up the pace. The bed began to creak in a familiar rhythm. The movie’s score swelled in the background, a dissonant symphony now underscoring their own raw, human sounds. “Look at you. Taking me so good. My sweet, strong boy.”
He was crying, silent tears tracking from the corners of his eyes into his hairline. It wasn’t sadness. It was an overflow of sensation, of emotion, of the sheer relief of being here, safe and wanted, after the tension of the evening, after the lingering adrenaline from the week before. Here, he didn’t have to be fierce or formidable. He could just be Angel, scared of scary movies and undone by his girlfriend’s touch.
“You’re mine,” she growled, driving into him harder, each thrust punctuating the words. “Every part. The soft parts and the hard parts. The parts that cry at movies and the parts that break noses. All. Mine.”
“Yours,” he sobbed, his body tightening around her. “Always yours, Alex.”
His orgasm took him silently, a wave of tension that seized his whole frame before releasing in a series of violent tremors. His back arched, his mouth open in a soundless cry, his eyes finally squeezing shut. She watched him fall apart, the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, and followed him over the edge a moment later, her own release a hot, claiming rush that left her shuddering and spent.
She collapsed on top of him, careful not to crush him, burying her face in the sweaty curve of his neck. They lay like that for a long time, hearts slamming against each other, slowly coming down. The movie had reached its climax—the final girl was indeed hitting the cop with a shovel. Alex fumbled for the remote and turned the screen to black.
The room was plunged into near-darkness, lit only by the faint, rainy glow from the window. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the gentle tap-tap of water on the glass.
Eventually, Alex shifted, pulling out of him and disposing of the harness with efficient movements before collapsing back beside him. She pulled the rumpled duvet over them both and gathered him into her arms. He came instantly, boneless and pliant, fitting himself against her as if he’d been designed for it. He was still crying, soft, hic