Chapter Text
Masky was obsessive with things that were his. That included you.
Not in a protective-boyfriend way, no. More like a lion defending its territory, he liked to think.
Or a dog pissing on a tree, Tim would mentally roll his eyes.
He often lingered in the club you worked at. You were just a bottle girl, not a stripper and not a bartender. All you did was carry fancy drinks with sparklers to VIP tables and take the occasional food order. So a glorified waitress and a redundant piece of ass. None of that stopped the men from tipping you. Or trying to flirt with you. Or outright groping you. The jealousy ate Masky alive.
He'd told you to quit a million times already. He'd threaten your managers and get you fired, but you'd just find another club. He'd threatened you directly. Know what you said?
You looked him dead in his face and said, "All you give me is dick, Masky. I can find dick on sale at the corner store. When you start personally paying my bills, we can talk about where I work."
So with Masky you were on thin ice. Even thinner ice really, since his lack of patience meant everyone was on thin ice. You were infuriating, intoxicating. He couldn't get enough.
Here he sat, brewing, arms crossed in the darkest corner of the club. There were daggers waiting in his eyes for every whore that even looked in his direction.
You know, if this one stresses you out so much, Tim started. Masky's head was already pounding from the strobe lights and obnoxious music, he really didn't need Tim's useless opinion right now. Why don't you just find another one? Maybe a girl who works at a pizza shop or something?
Because Masky was toxic, that's why. Because there'd be nothing to defend if there was nothing to be desired. He hated the way other men looked at you, but he loved having a reason to bash their heads in later. Besides, every relationship had its problems, and this one had an easy fix — just do as he says.
But that really wasn't it, was it? You were just as headstrong as he was, just as stubborn. He hated the competition almost as much as he hated the word 'no' coming out of your mouth. He had to tell himself something was wrong with you, because admitting he'd found his missing piece would make him think about... things that The Operator would never allow him to have.
So he went and created problems. Or rather, one perpetually stupid problem.
You knew he was there — he was always around. You'd spotted him before you heard the dancers complaining about the guy with the fucking attitude on the upper level. When you had a slow moment, you made your way over.
"Hey," you greeted. A small head nod was all you got in return, his glare softening the tiniest bit. "You know they have security here, right? You don't have to watch me all the—"
"Don't tell me what to do," he said, monotone. No real bite behind it.
You rolled your eyes. "Okay... Do you want something to drink?"
He just continued to scowl.
"Does Tim want something to drink?"
You searched behind his deep brown eyes for a glint of the other one. Yes, you knew Masky well, and you knew he would mistreat Tim every chance he got. Though they did, in fact, share a body, it seemed that Masky had less awareness of (or less fucks to give about) that body's needs. You cared for him, which meant you had to take care of both of them. Masky allowed it only because you were good at playing favorites.
"Bourbon... and a water. With a lemon slice if you got it."
A small grin showed on your lips. "Sure thing."
Masky watched your hips sway as you made your way back downstairs. He watched your every move actually, since you were the only thing that interested him in this place. He saw you put in the order, placing your own tip money in the register. He caught the women around you looking at you, then up toward him, then back to you, and giggling to their coworkers. Jealous bitches.
You made your rounds, clearing off a few tables, and then a rumplestiltskin-type with a bald spot got your attention. He motioned for you to come over, you exchanged pleasantries. If Masky listened hard enough he could hear that high-pitched customer service voice you put on.
And then the dumb fuck did the unthinkable. He took a bill — a twenty, maybe? Two twenties? — and pushed it right under your exposed bra strap.
Woah. Take it easy. But Masky was already seething, brimming with rage. Physically vibrating. By the time you returned with his drinks, he was literally foaming at the mouth.
"Here you go," you said cheerily, blissfully unaware of how close you were to having your neck snapped.
"What was that?" Masky muttered between gritted teeth.
You scrunched your brows, puzzled, then followed his gaze to the bills resting on your shoulder. "Oh, this? Yeah, Dale can get a little handsy. I'm not sure he knows I'm not a dancer but he tips good. If you're gonna show up and drink every night I work then I suppose I could use it."
The whiskey was already gone. He didn't even taste it, the new heat in his chest barely registered. Instead, Masky was trying to coax himself back to rational thought. He knew your friendliness toward this schmuck was manufactured; that didn't make him feel any better. What would make him feel better was disemboweling this Dale. Or cutting off the hand he touched you with using very dull scissors. Or yanking out his spine. Or putting his head on a literal stick. Or offering him up to The Operator Himself—
"Hello?" You were snapping your fingers in his face when his eyes refocused. "I said I'm taking a break in like ten minutes. Meet me out back?"
Masky blinked, a switch flipping in his brain. He rose from his seat, water untouched, a sudden air of calm resting on his features. It even unsettled you a bit, though you were used to his mood swings.
He stepped closer, looming over you, and wrapped a possessive arm around your waist. He dug his fingers right into that spot in your hip that made you melt. With a smirk, he crashed his lips into yours, all sloppy, and you were total putty in his grasp. The world dissolved around you, sounds of music and crowd chatter muddying in your ears.
Masky knew how to push your buttons by now, and your body knew he would take what he wanted. So while you should've grabbed his jacket to pull him in or run your fingers through his hair, instead your arms went slack. Your entire being relaxed, submitted, in an instant. If he held on any longer your knees would buckle.
But he broke away, allowing you a moment to steady yourself against his chest. He looked down at you, petting your hair, a glint of pride in his eye. Like you were the finest piece of China he owned. "Can't, gotta go. Thanks for the drink."
"O-okay," you stammered. He shuffled past you to leave.
You didn't see him for days. Days became weeks.
You thought yourself an independent woman, and dammit if it wasn't true, but Masky had his tendrils knotted deep in your neurons. You couldn't stop replaying that kiss in your head. Your body had been on fire for hours after in anticipation, but he didn't show. He never left you high and dry like that. You'd been wondering what he was thinking to make his emotions flip, wondering why he was so hung up about your stupid job. Of course if he told you to quit again when he returned, you'd tell him what you always did — to kick fucking rocks — but it was really getting old. If he wanted you to stop working he would pay your bills, simple. Apparently nothing you said would get that through his thick skull.
You pampered yourself to take your mind off it. You were still swooning over your fresh mani-pedi set as you wound down for the evening, hair prepped for tomorrow's style and stashed away in your bonnet. You sat at your vanity, slathering body butter on your exposed skin, struggling to ignore how sensitive your nipples and inner thighs were as you worked the moisturizer in. You wrapped yourself in your favorite robe, and settled in bed with your laptop to catch up on your show.
Your days had been filled to the brim lately. It was your own doing. First the obsessive cleaning of your space, dusting every corner and restaging your furniture. Then you'd organized your bookshelf, gone through every article of clothing you owned, down to your jewelry and socks. You'd decided to take up a serious baking hobby and sunk hours and a fortune into making the most elaborate, time consuming recipes you could find. Spoiler — it went about as well as you thought it would; everything you made was practically inedible. But it didn't matter, that wasn't the point.
It was to keep yourself from thinking the unthinkable.
What if he wasn't coming back?
Your mind lingered on that singular question, the dread finally seeping into your bones. It had been long enough for you to stop expecting him. You stopped searching for him in the crowds at work, and stopped staying up late on your nights off waiting for him. All you had was the persistent ache of missing him, the sting of loneliness, and the lingering throb in your core as you drifted to sleep, alone and unheld.
The glow of your laptop screen went fuzzy as tears bubbled from your eyes, and you realized you'd missed the last twenty minutes of the episode and now the plot was lost on you.
You cried out of resentment. The two of you weren't explicitly stated — you'd never worked out what exactly you meant to him. Maybe you'd assumed too much, and it was your fault for getting attached.
You hated how much of your mental space he sucked up, how dependant your body had become on him. Hated how much he knew about you and how little you knew about him.
Yet, only now you realized how completely you'd fallen for him. He was mysterious and foreboding and intimidating and magnetizing. He was low-key and vague, gruff and burly. He only showed up when he wanted to and not when you needed him. But he wanted to, and you clung to that.
And he clung to you, or so you thought. The way he hovered, always around. The way he gripped you, kissed you, mapped your skin. The way he looked at you couldn't be nothing. The way he lost control when he was enveloped in you, tenderly nipping his teeth against the bruises to set them in...
If he moved on... How could he? So easily? Without so much as a goodbye?
How were you still waiting for him? Why? After weeks of this drought, you knew any man would be rutting into his own hand by now. Either he was busier than ever or he was making it clear he didn't need you.
Well, fine. Message received. You didn’t need him, either.
You moved before you could stop yourself. In the midst of your heightened emotion, you grabbed your phone and scrolled through your messages for the name. You didn't have to scroll far — he messaged you every so often, and you always ignored him. It was clear early on what he was after, and you entertained that kind of talk way too much at work to do it on your off time.
But tonight he might be of use to you. The best distraction yet.
It was pretty late, so you knew what it looked like, but you didn't care. Hey! Is your offer to go out for drinks still on the table? I'd love to🥺👉👈 The emojis were overkill.
of course, gorgeous😉 I was actually planning on staying in tonight, wanna come over? I make a mean margarita Bullshit. You bet he bought the shitty premixed stuff.
ok but I'm already tipsy lol Lie. It wouldn't be in about ten minutes though. pick me up in 30?
see u then, pretty❤️
So you downed a few shots, threw on some makeup and the shortest shorts you owned. He was early, but you were ready. You met him at his car door with a lopsided smile.
The ride over was typical. You made sure to laugh at his corny jokes and squeeze his bicep when he helped you out of the car.
A bachelor pad. A trashy one. Either his maid was out sick or he expected his mother to personally show up and clean up after him. You tried to ignore the growing pit in your stomach.
You watched — very carefully — as he prepared your margarita, as promised. You sipped it slow as you took a seat on the edge of the bed, crossing your legs and inviting him with your eyes. At least the sheets were clean. He had something playing on the living room television, as he clearly intended to ease you into it and start on the couch, but fuck easing. You just wanted to get down to business.
You just wanted to get this over with.
So he joined you on the bed, sat entirely too close with a 'score! this slut was so easy' type of smug expression on his face. He tried to hide it, but you'd seen such things a million times. His hand pawed at your exposed thigh, with clammy fingers that you tried not to flinch away from. He honestly smelled like a Macy's — like an artificial, cheap cologne that you hated.
You didn't exchange many words before he moved in, trailing his hand up your hips and down your forearm to retrieve your drink. He set it on the bedside table, and in that split second you attempted to gather yourself. You neutralized your face, made sure none of the apprehension or disgust showed on your features before he turned back to you. Only now did the shots you took back home really settle in — you may have overdone it a little.
His hands slithered under your shirt, gripping you by the waist. He yanked you in to crash his mouth into yours, tongue running over your teeth. The aggression caught you off guard, he swallowed your surprised squeak. Your palms shot up to his chest, pushing against him, trying to create space, trying to get a breath in, but he obviously wasn't getting the message.
As your back met the mattress and he crawled on top of you, boxed you in, suffocated you more, you realized what you'd done. Trapped under the weight of the decision you'd made, you resigned yourself to play the part. You should've known, what were you thinking? That some rando was gonna make you feel better? Make you forget all about him in one night? Erase the marks he'd left?
Please. This guy was struggling just to unclasp your bra.
This was a mistake, and it was starting to feel like a big one. With each passing second, each layer of clothing removed, it felt more and more like betrayal. Masky would be back with an explanation, you were sure. He would never hurt you, never abandon you. That's not who he was... right? You wanted so desperately to believe that.
And even if it wasn't true and he had left, he wouldn't want you to subject yourself to this. You at least wanted to give him more time. Just a little longer, then you'd decide. But not tonight. Not now.
You'd dissociated, numbed yourself to the man breathing heavy in your ear and slobbering all over your throat. You hated that. Masky would've read it all in your body language.
"Stop. Get off of me," you said, resolute, and pushed against his chest once more.
He barely pulled away, just enough to mumble into the crook of your neck. "Why? We're just getting started—"
"I said get off me," you repeated, albeit a little slurred, and tried shoving him harder. Maybe it was the alcohol taking all your strength, or the simple fact he was a man, but he wasn't budging.
Except to linger above you, face to face, his brows knit in confusion but his jaw set tight with fury. "So why're you here, then? To be a fuckin' tease?"
"I changed my mind." Shouldn't have said that. Should've threatened to puke on him if he didn't let you up. You just might, as a last resort. "I'm sorry."
He just stared, half in disbelief, half ready to explode. But before a decision could be made, a third voice interrupted the two of you.
The muffled smacking of teeth. His scent crashed into you before his words did — cigarettes and leather and pine. "Shame. She's just not that into you."
His tone was dry, sarcastic — a dangerous edge lurking below.
His appearance was sudden and unexplainable — just there, crouched on the dresser, porcelain mask obscuring his face, head cocked inquisitively to the side. More creature than human.
Masky's arrival had your rendezvous jumping away from you and out of his skin. "Who the fuck are you?"
Masky didn't respond, just locked eyes with you. You couldn't read anything in his. No anger or disappointment or resentment or even sorrow. The regret and guilt began to seat itself in yours. You hoped he could see it. At the same time you prayed he couldn't.
He dropped from his perch, turning his attention to the other man in the room, who was currently cowaring in the furthest corner. Still trying to act tough, puffing his chest, desperate not to look stupid in front of the girl sitting half naked on his bed. As if it was about that. The fact that he stood so far away from you, put in zero effort to protect you from an unknown threat infuriated Masky more. He might've spared a little pain if this egotistical fuckboy even pretended to care about you, just a little. Oh well, he failed that test.
Masky could all but taste the fear seeping from his pores, more and more as he stalked up to him. A smile spread on his unseen face. He would enjoy tearing him limb from limb. Slowly. And he'd make sure to break the joints before twisting them apart. And he might just take the time to strum his nerves like guitar strings—
Look at her. Tim echoed in his head, breaking into his most vile thoughts. She's scared. Can't you imagine what she must be feeling right now? She doesn't need to see us like this.
Masky did look over at you, taking his headmate's advice for once. You were frozen there, chest still fully exposed, eyes blown wide. You'd seen Masky angry, sure, but not enraged. Not like this. With how protective he'd proven to be at the club, you didn't even want to think about what he would do to a man who'd actually touched you. Borderline violated you, probably would've continued if Masky hadn't been there.
"Masky, please don't do this," you pleaded, voice small and scratched. "It was my idea, okay? I texted him, I invited myself over. It's my fault—"
"He should've stopped when you told him to." He almost shrugged, like it was so obvious. It could've been about all the other stuff, that would've been easy. How you were such a needy little slut you just couldn't wait for him, like shaking your ass and tits in every stranger's face at work just didn't do it for you, letting them eyefuck you wasn't enough to hold you over. Oh no, there was room for him to be pissed at you too, and you wouldn't get out of this scot-free. But this one had crossed the line, and now Masky was going to scatter what was left of him in an unmarked grave.
Masky could make himself okay with you getting what you wanted. He'd grumble about it, but those choices were yours, and he wanted you to have them. Besides, he was well aware of the things he couldn't give you that you might want. A ring perhaps, or children. If you sought such things out he'd understand and honor your wishes. But anyone who received the privilege of getting under you better bend to your every will, like a goddamn loyal dog. Or there would be hell to pay, and Masky would come to collect.
Maybe Tim was wrong. Maybe seeing this was exactly what you needed. The consequences of your actions. Because Masky would never lay a finger on you, he'd never cause you pain you didn't outright beg for, so who was left to take the fall? Besides this fuckwad? You should've chose better.
The third wheel in the situation said nothing, eyes flicking between you and the intruder, weighing odds not in his favor. You knew each other and that was weird. What kind of name was 'Masky'? He couldn't just stand around and accept his fate.
He surged forward, fist snapping toward the other man's jaw.
Masky was effortlessly faster. He halted the punch with his palm, pushing the wrist past a ninety degree angle. The crunch ricocheted off the walls, deafening. He crumbled to the ground with a pained yelp.
Your hand shot to your mouth to cover your horrified scream. Your breathing became labored, there was no use in trying to still your trembling fingers. You were frozen, cemented where you sat. You could only watch, repeating lies like mantras in an attempt to stop your world from caving in. This changed nothing, Masky was who you always thought him to be, everything would be alright. Yet you were hyperaware of how heavy this practical stranger's death would weigh on your shoulders.
Masky was going to kill him. Not teach him a lesson. Not rough him up. Kill him. With his bare hands.
Masky saw you out of the corner of his eye shaking like a leaf, on the verge of a panic attack. As sadistic as he was, and as impatient as he was to see this bastard's insides, he didn't want to traumatize you further. He wasn't sure if it had fully set in how close to so much worse you'd been. Maybe you felt shame for coming here, or embarrassed to be saved by the exact person you were getting back at. You were probably pretty confused and pissed at him, and he deserved that.
So get her out of here, Tim urged, taking Masky's moment of vulnerability as an opportunity to influence.
Masky took a tentative step toward you — you didn't scoot away, he took it as a good sign. He dug a set of keys from his pocket and dropped them in your lap.
"You don't have to watch," he stated flatly. "Go get in his car. Either wait for me or drive yourself home."
But you weren't hearing him, blank stare zeroed in on the keys before you. Masky struggled to ground himself out of his rampage. Once the murderous side of him was out for blood it was hard to switch that off, but he'd do it for you. He'd rip the moon out of the sky if it meant your satisfaction.
So he inhaled slowly through his nose and moved his mask to the side. He reached out, hesitant, unsure if touching you was the best thing in this state, after such an assault. But he knew what you needed, and he couldn't help himself — he'd missed you.
He gingerly cupped your face, fingers threading into the hair behind your ear, thumb ghosting over the bone of your jaw.
"Look at me." A gentle command. You obeyed.
Seeing his face cracked the dam. You whimpered, tears soaking your cheeks and spilling over his hand. Your breath was shaky, but it came and went.
"I'm sorry—"
"None of that. Listen," he urged. He had about sixty seconds of resolve left. "Get dressed, get in the car. I'll be down soon. Okay?"
You searched his eyes, expression unreadable as always, and gave a shallow nod. You leaned into his touch — subtle, shaking, aching — and yearned when he pulled away. You moved to do as he said, the burden of it all slowing your limbs.
As reluctant as you were to let him out of your sight, you didn't want to stick around to witness the carnage. Really, if you were honest with yourself, you didn't want to see Masky be a monster. You didn't want the confirmation that part of him enjoyed it.
But you got it anyway. As you threw your shirt over your head and fumbled with the lock on the door, you heard Masky chuckling a room away, dark and sinister. Devious. "Now what are we gonna use to keep you quiet?"
The door slammed behind you, heavy like the lid of a coffin.