Chapter Text
Jess’s comment leaves you miffed, half tempted to prove her wrong. You’re not the only one who gets noticed, you’re not the only one who knows I exist. It leaves you rather short with her, despite your efforts not to be. You do not feel prideful in the fact that you were currently being hunted, so you hold your tongue and scowl in place of boasting about your fucked up situation. She gives you a confused scrunch of her brows, but says nothing further before getting up and collecting all the yarn you left scattered across the floor. You can hear her whisper a quiet “What the fuck..?” under her breath as it leads her in circles around your living room, and your scowl softens in amusement.
Now with food in your belly, you’re much more equipped to rise from your couch without feeling so dizzy. Your eyelids were heavy, but it was nothing unmanageable. It’d make for better sleep tonight, you hoped, after planning your next course of action. A motel sounded nice, even if it left a dent in your bank account; But it was either die and not have been able to spend any of your saved up cash, or live for another day fifty dollars shorter. An even better idea would be not to come back at all. It was much too early to grieve the loss of your home, but you feel telltale signs of tears pricking your bottom lashes.
This was the first place you got on your own, away from your parents, away from the horrors of college. Your tiny piece of some dingy heaven, but it was safe. And security is all you could have ever asked for.
“Uh, heeeey, you’re spacing out like, super hardcore.” Jess waves a hand in your field of vision, the other grasping a wad of yarn. It does the trick to snap you out of your sudden unresponsiveness, and you turn away with a dismissive wave of your hand. You need to get it together until Jess leaves, pull on your big boy pants and act semi-normal at the very least. One more slip up and the likelihood of her staying in your shabby apartment to keep you in check was a guarantee. Or, she’d insist you go with her, but both options put her own safety on the line. You turn slightly to look at her, the yarn she carried now discarded and opting to pick up some of the nailed up paneling with only two fingers, as if they were laced with something foul.
A young pretty blonde. There’s no way Ghostface could resist that, and your anger spikes.
Between the both of you, you knew exactly who he’d rather be calling late at night to terrorize. If Ghostface had the power of choice, it would not have been you he’d want to come across him in that alleyway. A lovely girl like Jess would make for a better headline, and that’s exactly what the killer wanted. Attention, fame, fear.. And fear was the one thing you could be certain to give. There would be no headline for you.
“I’m fine, I was just thinking.” You say, voice flat as you help her gather up all the planks of wood. You try not to let your jealousy of Jess get the better of you, but some days were harder than most. “I really do appreciate you coming over to help me. This neighborhood isn’t great, so I think I was just getting too in my head about it. I was just wondering if I should move or…” A lie, but she couldn’t see your face and it made it all the easier. She hums in response, smacking her lips when the last of the planks were thrown away. You don’t say anything about the ones in your bedroom.
“If this place has you this fucked up, move.” She answers, brushing her hands off over your trashcan. “I can help you look for a place! There’s these super cute apartments down on 5th Street that you’d love. I was looking into them last week, we could be neighbors.” Your friend flashes you a grin, and you do your damndest to match the enthusiasm. You love Jess, you really do, but you’d shrivel up into a raisin if you had to spend every waking moment with someone so high energy.
“You’d get evicted again with how much you party,” you tease, grabbing her a coke from your fridge as thanks. She gasps in feign hurt, playfully snatching the bottle from your hand with a pout. “I don’t do that nearly as much as I used to!” Jess defends, plopping down on the chair to your small kitchen table. “Besides, that old bitch had it out for me. She was pissed that her husband kept staring at my tits. As if it’s my fault I’m hot and her husband’s a creep. Tooootally worked out for me though, my new downstairs neighbor is so gorg, everyone at the last place sucked balls.”
You nod, encouraging her to continue as you sit opposite of her. She tells you she’s been trying to get into her unsuspecting neighbor’s pants for weeks with no luck, and jokingly complains about the possibility of him already having a girlfriend. But you knew Jess, and you knew there was some truth to her faux irritation at not being noticed. You hold no sympathy at Jess’s lack of success, though you fake it anyways, and like a good friend, remind her that she had plenty of options. “You’re hot, remember? You could get anyone.”
And like clockwork, she’s back to grinning after a purse of her lips. Her eyes flitter to you when she takes a sip from her drink, and the look she gives makes you nervous. “What about here? Any guys you’re into? Is that the reason you’re having trouble leaving this place behind?” The assumption makes you gape, brows up to your hairline and you bark a laugh you didn’t mean to let out. It sets in just how little she knew, and you could only imagine her face if you were to tell her the actual truth. While she sits and talks about her latest crush, you were one mental breakdown away from pulling all sorts of measures just to disappear in order not to be gutted. Oh, how nice it would have been to be Jess.
“Come on, dude. I don’t even talk to anyone here, which guy am I staying for?”
“Well that’s what I’m talking about! You need to put yourself out there more, I’m not the only hot one out of our duo.” She urges, nudging your foot from under the table with her own. “We need to find you a boyfriend so you don’t spend all day cooped up here. What about a gay bar for our next adventure? You’d have to find someone there.”
She stuns you into silence, face hot. Anxious flutters beat at your chest, uncertain of the validity of her offer. Jess has never expressed an interest before, nor were you confident enough to ask. Going to bars or clubs with Jess had one end goal and one end goal only; to find her next arm candy. You can’t imagine her in the position of wingman, that was your job. “Nooo no no, I should focus on not being so freaked out first. Are we forgetting the state of my apartment when you came over?” Not that you would be alive long enough to see the day when you weren’t just a wallflower, yet the thought of it nearly leaves you breathless. “I don’t even know how to flirt. It’d be a trainwreck.”
Jess taps her nail against your table. “Have you thought about going back to therapy?”
You’re quiet again, mildly surprised by the question. “I.. Don’t know, really. Maybe I should.”
The blonde gets up, striding across your kitchen to throw out her now empty soda bottle. “I think it’d be good for you. Not just for the paranoia, but to get your confidence up.” She’s right, and you’re inclined to agree with her. Your last session was nearly a year ago, and while your mental health wasn’t anything compared to how it was after you dropped out from college, there was still room for improvement. You would like to get better, you dream of the day you’d get over this inhibiting complex of yours. You do not find the life of a passive observer enjoyable, but now the chance has been stripped of you like everything else.
What does seeking a professional matter when you are going to die?
But a thought sparks to life, causing you to jump from your seat with a loud smack of your palms on the table's surface. Your friend jerks at the sudden noise, staring at you wide eyed and puzzled. Before she could ask, you blurted, “I know someone!”
Someone who insisted on taking his card only yesterday, a professional in his field of work. And that’s what you needed, a professional’s help. “I know someone,” you say more quietly, and you wonder if Jess could hear how fast your heart was racing. “I met someone the other day by chance. We got to talking and he said if I ever needed to call…” Maybe the universe was finally smiling down at you, presenting you with a way out. Serving just what you needed on a silver platter, someone qualified enough to outsmart one of the world’s most clever serial killers. And his number sat right in yesterday’s jean pocket. “I’ll call him. I’ll call him right now, I promise. Everything’s going to get better, he knows what he’s doing.” You say it more to convince yourself.
However, Jess doesn’t look as persuaded. She chews on her bottom lip before speaking gently, “and you’re sure? I mean, you said you just happened to meet him by chance, right? What if he’s a total flake?”
You shake your head and move past her to get to your front door with her following close behind. She’s quick to understand that your time together has now reached its end, despite having much more to say on your impromptu conviction about some stranger. “I’ll tell you everything after,” was your poor attempt to appease her, “it’ll be okay. I think he’s.. Trustworthy enough.”
Jess hugs you, pulls you tight as she stands in your open doorframe. The gesture is returned, she your only source for physical contact that doesn’t make you shy away. You don’t have to worry if your chest was bound tight enough to not raise suspicion, or her feeling the outline of your binder across your back. She’s never asked. A silent and comfortable understanding.
“Pleeease be safe. Don’t meet up anywhere alone unless you really know this guy.” Is the last thing she says to you before her departure. Funny, she was just nagging you to meet new people only moments ago.
The warning does not stick to you. It’s almost as if you had forgotten the interaction entirely as you rush to your bathroom to snatch your jeans from the day previous. You try the first pocket, nothing. The second, and your fingers meet with a small, stiff piece of paper. Your jeans are left to drop, piling at your feet as you stand upright with both hands grasping onto what will be your saving grace. The card looks exactly as you remembered it, if only a little crumpled. His name in big letters, Roseville Gazette proudly displayed underneath. And finally, his phone number. One he encouraged you to call, lest you need him.
Jed Olsen.
Ghostface extraordinaire, Roseville Gazette’s shiny new star, and the man to save you. He knew everything there was about the rising serial killer, there wasn’t a news stand in all of Florida that didn’t have his articles plastered everywhere for people to see. This wasn’t what Jess meant when she said you needed help, but it was a start. You needed to survive, and this was the one man who’d tell you how to do it. If even Jed Olsen couldn’t give some sort of aid, there really was no hope for you.
You rush to your bedroom, phone still located on your bedside table. Despite the sudden burst of energy, and the visceral need to call the journalist now, now, now—! You hesitate, unsure if you should be bothering a total stranger with circumstances you foolishly landed yourself in. You don’t tell Jess because it’d jeopardize her safety, and she’s already done so much for you. You’d sacrifice yourself to Ghostface willingly before being more of a burden on your best friend, while with Jed.. He’d get one Hell of a story out of it. Maybe win an award, write a book of his valiant bravery and instinctual heroism that smacks him on the Bestsellers list for centuries to come. Jess would get absolutely nothing out of trying to protect you, but Jed Olsen could get it all, and you’d be a willing pawn as long as it keeps your neck above water.
Your fingers work faster than your brain, and you’re stuck with a sudden case of apprehensiveness when the number is dialed. You begin to fret over how to start, how do you even begin to explain the last couple of days without sounding like a maniac? This was a stranger you were about to pour your desperate and vulnerable state to.
The phone rang twice, and you heard multiple rapid-fire clicks before his voice reached your ear.
“Jed Olsen, Roseville Gazette.” He sounds dull, automated. The tone of someone whose mind is elsewhere. In the background, you can still hear swift tapping albeit faint. The keys to a computer, you can guess, and you bite your bottom lip. Was he busy? Should you have called a little later? What if this was a bad time…? You open your mouth, and a short, strangled high pitched croak replaces any semblance of the English language and you smack a hand over your mouth to stop it.
“Eeeai–”
Though, appalling enough, it was already too late. The clicking on the other end comes to an abrupt halt and you both are silent. Your ears burn, your nose scrunches as you mouth ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ in quick succession, silently screaming when you hear Jed Olsen huff through his nose. “Anything else you’d like to share?”
You don’t answer.
“Great! This has been lovely, bye bye.”
“N—No! Wait, Mr. Olsen!” You blurt in a panic, your one chance nearly torn away from you. “Sorry, sorry— I just, uh.. We met yesterday.” You give him your name in case his memory still needs some nudging, steeling yourself for the off chance he’s entirely forgotten about your little exchange the morning before. It was selfish to expect to be memorable in someone’s life when he already seemed so occupied. There’s a creak ( a chair? ) on his end, and his dry demeanor changes when he repeats your name good-naturedly, causing you to shutter. Relax, be calm, be normal.
“This is a surprise, I didn’t expect you to call so soon.” There it was, the unmasked certainty. A man so painfully full of himself. You wondered what it was like to even have a sliver of that kind of self-assurance. “What can I do ya’ for? Couldn’t get me out of your head?” He’s taking way too much pleasure in your contacting him, his tone indicating a full-toothed grin and you’re half tempted to groan in response. It doesn’t wear on your patience like it had on your first meeting, but you may have been too exhausted to care. That, or you actually didn’t mind it nearly as much as you should have. Jed Olsen was charming, he had an excuse to be so full of himself.
“Mr. Olsen,” you rushed before he could continue. He sure did like to talk. “You know a lot about Ghostface, don’t you?”
Your question is met with stillness; no smartmouthed comments, no typing at a computer or creaking of a chair. It’s so quiet, that you nearly assume your phone had stopped working. The silence hangs heavy, stifling the breath out of you as you’re left to wonder of your mistake. Something between the two of you has shifted, and it was difficult to pin just what has changed. “Mr. Olsen…?” Your voice is small, attempting to soothe him if you’ve already managed to piss him off somehow. Not a second longer, and he gives you a curious hum.
“I suppose. He is my muse.” His tone lightens after a second. However, you’re aware of the bristling on the back of his tongue when he continues, despite trying to mimic his earlier friendliness. “You called me just to talk about another guy? Pretty bold of you.”
Your heart stutters, stumped when the flirting allegation rears its head again.
Jed Olsen calling the man who wishes you dead his muse leaves a bad taste in your mouth, but you push past it. Ghostface was Olsen’s big break, he racked up the Roseville Gazette’s sales after the first murder and has kept them going through their hot streak ever since. Despite it coming at the expense of others, Ghostface rose from the ground a self-made celebrity, and Jed Olsen just so happened to snag the tail end of his coat on the way up. If that were you, could you truly hate Ghostface the way everyone else did? “N-No I.. I need your help, I think. I really need your help.”
There’s a sudden breath on the other end that was akin to a sigh. Light, airy, and it stutters by the end of it. The tip of your thumb is put between your teeth, shifting your weight from one leg to the other. “Hah— On what? Writing your own paper?” Something tells you he sounds oddly excited, much too aware to know that isn’t at all why you had called him. Reporters are scarily perceptive. “Sorry boss, ‘fraid I’m loyal to a fault. But I’ll gladly give you some pointers for your column. All the dirty details you’re going to have to find out for yourself.”
“Can we meet? In person?” You surprise even yourself after intentionally ignoring his teasing. The conversation was heading in an entirely opposite direction, and you needed Jed Olsen on your side before nightfall. “I’m… Um, I…” You hate the way you regularly hesitate, choking on your own tongue to get the words out. “Ghostface is going to kill me. I need you, Mr. Olsen. I saw h-him murder someone and I—” The lump forming in your throat squeezes the words right out of you, forcing you into another round of fearful silence. Jed Olsen clicks his tongue, bemused as he replies “usually, it’s the police you’d want protection from. Not a silly ol’ reporter, doll.”
“No.” You snap, forcing past the block, “I need you. Not the police. I can’t go to them.”
Another round of silence, and you’re washed with guilt and shame. Practically begging for the protection of a stranger, and who were you to ask him of such a thing?
“You need me?” He says after a moment with a quiet breath, “Let me get this straight. You saw him in the act, and now you think he’s coming for you? Sure you weren’t drunk?”
There’s mirth hidden within every word, and you chalk it up to the reporter discrediting you. You sound like a mad-man, succumbing to recent delusionals as your mind slowly cracks. You know how you sound, to go unheard as you rave isn’t new for you, but you push on in hope that Jed would be the one to finally listen. “I wasn’t drunk— I mean, I was but I saw it. He spoke to me, he—”
“Spoke to you? Now these are all things you should have mentioned before.” More rummaging on the other end, “you gotta work with what the public wants to hear, sweetheart. Murdering isn’t anything new. A conversation with a murderer, though, is just enough to catch someone’s attention.” A true reporter he was; Looking for his next big headline even if it meant someone’s life came to a bloody end. But that didn’t matter to you, though. As long as he was listening. As long as he believed you. “So are you gonna tell me about your little rendezvous with our resident celebrity or am I gonna have sweet talk it out of you over coffee?”
“Uh… Um.” A less than intelligent response. “So is that.. Like, a yes?” You had so many other questions, but that seemed the safest. There’s a huff of laughter on the other end again; you never knew yourself to be such a comedian. “You’ve caught my interest for the time being at least. I can spare some extra hours to save your life, as long as I get something out of it in return.”
“There’s a motel on the corner of Lumber and Crayford. I’ll tell you everything, you can even use it in your articles. Anything you need.”
That was the correct answer, as Jed Olsen hurriedly agreed to your deal with great zest. His only complaint before you both ended the call was your interview not being over fresh lattes in a quaint little cafe. You had called him prissy, and in his same peppy, cordial tone did he tell you to watch your mouth.
It did nothing but get you strangely hot under the collar. You refused to linger on it, there were clothes and other necessities to pack before getting the hell out of the cage Ghostface cornered you in. You couldn’t help the small, cheeky grin as you imagined the killer stumped and confused on where you could have possibly gone. Oh how disappointing it’d be for him to put in all that effort to sneak back into your apartment only to find it deserted. There’s no doubt in your mind that he’d find you eventually, but thinking about the man behind the mask, frustrated that his perfect kill went awry, has grown to be funny to you. If you absolutely had to be his victim, who’s to say you can’t be his most annoying one yet? It was hard trying to decipher what you wanted to be– overtly irritating that it forced Ghostface to consider early retirement, or so playfully interesting that he could never be bored of you.
Packed with only a single dufflebag, you speed out of your apartment and make the long trek to the motel of your choosing. The further away from your apartment, the better. You’re shielded from the sun's harsh rays by thick, dark stormclouds hanging overhead. The humidity makes your hair a tad more disheveled, though you’re thankful you won’t have to be sporting any sunburns while on the run.. Or when you meet Jed Olsen. There was nothing to gain from lying to yourself, and despite his personality, Olsen was hot. And he knew that, and it was irritating that he knew that.
People need to give motels more credit, you ultimately decided. Key in hand, you personally don’t mind the faded brown wallpaper or the outdated carpet. The bed was nicely put together without a stain in sight, contrary to the popular stereotypes. With only a few cracks in the wall that reminded you of your sweet, dingy apartment, the room felt comfortable enough to make yourself home in. You set your bag off to the side and take a quick shower; NOT because you wanted to leave a good impression on the man that could very well save your life at the price of a good story. No, not at all. The warmth of the water helped clear your head, or you pretended it did. No amount of lathering yourself up with soap was going to change the predicament that left you dangling over a very hungry shark. One that wore a stupid mask.
By the time you walked back to the motel lobby, with a brief smile towards the clerk that checked you in, you’re nothing but a bag of anxiety. You sit at a table near the far corner, twiddling your fingers while your leg bounces uncontrollably. You realize just how weird you probably look, huddled up next to the wall with a severe case of the jitters. Only when you taste blood do you finally register that you had been biting your lip, but it was already too late. Just as you touch the self inflicted wound with the tips of your fingers, does that familiar journalist walk through the lobby doors. He’s dressed in nothing but black slacks, a white button up, and a brown leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder. The top three buttons were loose, giving you a nice view of his collarbone and the beginning of his chest. You didn’t get to appreciate it in full the first time you met but.. Olsen was jacked. Not like those muscle heads who live and breathe weights or the bodybuilders juiced up on testosterone and steroids. But his shirt strained very slightly against his chest, and even through his slacks you could make out the fine quads of an experienced runner. His sleeves had been rolled to his elbows, presenting his toned forearms and a single wristwatch strapped with real leather.
You lock eyes and he flashes a wide grin in your direction with the most perfect set of dimples you’ve ever seen.
“You look more and more like a stray dog every day, babe.”
You fucking hate this guy.
“Should I bite you to give you the full experience?” You promptly snap back, standing from your seated position. You make an absolute fool of yourself when you knock into the table, your nerves making it hard to have full cognitive control of your body. The fierceness you had previously thrown at him was entirely gone, now replaced with a sheepishness that makes it hard to look at him again. From the corner of your eye you can see the motel clerk eye you both curiously, and it makes you all the more uncomfortable. Fully sensing your plight, Olsen chuckles before setting his hand at the small of your back, causing you to tense. It was firm, vastly different from the gentle, cautious way Jess holds you. Finally, you snap your head up to look at him in surprise, but he’s eyeing the glass entrance of the motel lobby a little too intensely. You follow his gaze, and in the parking lot next to freshly waxed maroon chevy caprice was that same detective you spotted days prior. Younger than his colleagues, dark framed glasses and slicked back chestnut hair. His bangs were slightly disheveled today, and there was a looming cloud of exhaustion hanging over his shoulders.
“Ah shit.” Olsen ‘tsks’ before you even have the chance to say anything about spotting your Clark Kent detective. He pushes against the hold he has on you, leading you towards the front without a chance to protest. “Quiet now. Don’t want them having their way with you before I do.”
You’re certain that the burn in your face acted as a giant beacon for attention, but neither Olsen or Mr. Clark Kent seemed to notice. The journalist entirely focused on sneaking around the corner to get you both back to your room, and Kent having a quick discussion with one of the older gentlemen you had also seen that day you went back to the alleyway. Skin still lit aflame, you could feel your heart drop to your stomach. There was no other reason for them to be at the motel other than for you. A bead of sweat trickled down your forehead before you quickly wiped it away. They’d bring you in, question you, and then… What? What could they possibly do that’d land you in a pit of trouble? Blame you, you worry on your lip again, they’d blame you. Just like before–
There’s a sudden pressure at the top of your head, fingers threaded through your hair in a grip. It didn’t hurt, but the tightening around your locks and the short pull was definitely meant to get your attention. Your head was tilted back slightly, forced to look up and straight at Jed Olsen. He had led you both to a space behind some stairs without your notice, right below a single dead lightbulb. “What’s gotten you so deep in thought that you didn’t even hear me callin’ you?” He’s annoyed, but it’s palletable, not enough to make you sink into shame.
“The cops– or, detectives, I’m not sure.” You stutter out your explanation, “they know I was there. I don’t know what to do, I don’t–” His thumb is on your bottom lip, striking you silent and still. Olsen’s hand in your hair never falters, and the glide of his digit against the softness of your lip follows up with a sting. He lands at the corner of your mouth, right where you had bitten yourself open. A shockwave tingles down your spine and worms its way to your chest, accelerating your heart rate. His strangely placed affection takes the last of your remaining breath away and you’ve no choice but to stare wide eyed in wonder. When he pulls his thumb away, there’s a smudge of crimson stained to the pad of it. Your blood.
“Scared over some pigs in a coat?” He puts his thumb back to the cut on your lip and presses just enough to make you hiss in pain, but nothing more. “Two things, give me the number to your room. And those,” to emphasize, he nods his head in the direction of the parking lot where you had last seen the detectives, “are here for me. Not you. So stop with the worrying.”
Jed Olsen continues to be the worst enigma yet. Even with his thumb on your mouth, your expression must have looked puzzled enough for him to start laughing quietly to himself. “Don’t get any wrong ideas now. You think you’re the first to try and squeeze out all I know about Ghostface? The difference is,” he finally takes his hand away from your face, and you’re perplexed that you find yourself missing it, “I don’t talk to shitheads in uniform. Let’s get a move on, huh?” You quickly nod your head, ready to get out of the hallway and to your booked room. You shared the numbers at last, room 213, and he had taken his grip from your hair and exchanged it for your wrist, practically dragging you towards the room. Outside, a roar of thunder was heard overhead, but neither of you paid it any mind.
The longer you’re around Olsen, the more clear his actions become. If that clarity was a puddle of muggy swamp water. He was arrogant, that much was obvious. But so easily likeable that you felt a pang of envy every time he talked. Charismatic, charming, and a smile that could kill. Yet oddly…. Aggressive in his actions. If the way he had just handled your face moments before was anything to go by. It was as if he was directly contradicting himself, the sweet way he liked to talk didn’t match the forcefulness of how he touched you.
And it unsettled you the way you wanted more of it.
He’s grabbing your keycard from you without even asking, and with a single beep of the lockpad, you’re both standing in the room with the door locked shut behind you.
You, Jed Olsen, a small motel room, and a locked door. A gust of wind rattled a window on the wall next to you, and Jed Olsen shakes his head when you’re startled before brushing past you. “I wasn’t expecting a storm,” you say to cover up your awkwardness, but hiding it was never really your forte. At that exact moment, as if God himself had finally started to pay attention to you, a flash of lightning peeked out from beyond the closed curtain followed by a boom of thunder. The weather was disgustingly ironic, given the nature of why you called Jed Olsen to meet you. Like some Twilight Zone or whatever.
“Sit.” Olsen promptly ignores you and gestures to the bed while he takes the faux leather armchair across from it. It reminds you of your days in therapy. “Let’s get this party started, huh? You tell me about your meeting with our favorite serial killer, and I’ll give you pointers on how to avoid him. I’d like to think myself an expert by now.” From his shoulder bag he pulls out a cassette recorder, a note pad, and a pen. He flicks the device on and sets it on the small table next to where he sits before his entire demeanor changes into that of amiable professionalism. “Start from the beginning, where were you before the encounter?”
It takes a moment of silence to calm your nerves. Olsen waits, patiently, while you breathe in, out, clench your hands together and recount the night that changed everything. From the club, to the asshole who spilt his drink all over you, your drunk and pitiful walk home, and finally, him. The man cloaked in darkness save for the single white mask and the bloody victim at his feet. How you both stood there in that alley like some showdown in a cheesy old western before you stupidly thought yourself truly invisible. But you weren’t, you shakily tell Olsen; Despite what you had always believed, Ghostface pierced right through you and didn't need a blade to do it. You remember so vividly how it felt to be watched, seen, for the first time in your life. And all by a man who reveled at the thought of killing you. Olsen scribbles a few unseen words in his notebook, tapping the butt of his pen against his chin before something else strikes him again during your story. The journalist raises a brow when you explain that you never escaped Ghostface, he had simply let you go. It was a game of cat and mouse until the killer grew bored, you reminded not only yourself, but Olsen.
“And what was the purpose of going back?” He suddenly asks. You’re reminded of the very first time Olsen wormed his way under your skin. “I’m not really sure.. To see if it was all real, I guess.” You shrug your shoulders, “I was scared that the cops would have known I was there, so I just went to check for myself. It was pretty dumb now that I’m talking about it out loud.”
Olsen goes back to writing, but gives a single nod of agreement. You respect his honesty even when it’s not needed. “Speaking of– why haven’t you contacted the police yet?”
This wrought a swell of humiliation from deep in your abdomen. A shame in knowing it was the correct thing to do, but not once going through with it because… What? Fear? Anxiety? The deep understanding that nothing would come of it? You hang your head at your lack of an explanation, your hands clenched so tightly together that your knuckles turn pale. “If it’s any consolation, every last part of this is going to be anonymous. And if you really don’t want to give your reasoning, make something up. I’d prefer it if you didn’t, though.” With scrunched brows, you look at him quizzically. Can a reporter outright tell the person they’re interviewing to just.. Lie? He seems entirely passive at your plight, and you wouldn’t put it past him to make something up for you. To which, you trust Olsen to conjure up a fib that’d be totally character destroying for his own amusement. It was like being handed two hot coals and forced to choose which one hurt less. They both burned equally.
“I’ve uh.. Had a bad run in with the cops before.. Back in college.” Now this grabs his attention. He’s no longer lazily scribbling a few notes on his pad, slumped back in the motel armchair as if he was making his grocery list. His pencil stops and he’s looking at you with a wide grin, leaning forward to rest his forearms against his thighs. You catch the flex of his muscles as he does so. “Oho! This is an interesting development!” And he’s reaching below the armchair to pull himself forward excitedly, the annoying screech of the wooden legs against old flattened carpet noisier than the thunder booming in the distance. His knees are pressed against yours and his face close. The reporter is absolutely beaming. “So what’d you do, huh? Robbery? Assault? Arson? You seem like an arson kinda guy.”
You wanted to laugh in his face, bewildered by the eagerness and his list of theories. It was nice for someone to think you brave and tough enough to rob banks or get into fist fights. You lean back just a tad, waving your hands in front of you to dismiss the allegations before chuckling. “Whoa whoa–! Nothing like that! Don’t get your hopes up, it’s not as fun as it sounds.” You’re almost sad to disappoint him with the way he’s looking at you like a kid does with a shiny new toy. “But it was enough to teach me that cops don’t do shit, at least not for guys like me.”
“Guys like you?”
He’s staring, head tilt in question and his eager as ever smile. Not once does his eyes leave you, and it nearly distracts you from comprehending what you had just said. Out of everyone to nearly out yourself to, why was it Jed Olsen you felt comfortable enough to almost let it slip? You pale as you try to think of something fast. But his eyes, to which you’re certain are black, completely void of color and dragging you in their depths, make it hard to think. To talk, to breathe. You hear your heart in your ears, and while still holding your gaze, the cool butt end of his pencil taps against your lip before he sticks it into your mouth to press up against the back of your teeth. “Come ooooon, tell Mr. Olsen all your little secrets. You can trust me, scouts honor.” He crosses his heart for good measure.
The mocking way he talks, his fastened attention on you and solely you, his stupidly hot body and the cute dimples to tie up his dark disheveled hair and tired eyes in a pretty little bow was torture. Absolute fucking torture. This experience has taught you many things, one of them being that you were easy. Entirely swayed by a weirdly attractive man that wasn’t scorning you for once. If Jed Olsen was the interrogator and you a hostage captured by the enemy team.. Why, if he didn’t kill you after coaxing every government secret out of you, you’d definitely be tried for treason. All he had to do was flash a bicep and a smile to have you singing like a canary.
“I’m gay. And get your damn pencil outta my mouth.” You’re pushing his hand away before he gets a chance to do it himself, scowling at the taste of fresh eraser. Yuck.
Of course, there was more truth to it, but you don’t dare to admit anything else before you know how he reacts to this fact of yourself. Your sexuality acted as a buffer, diving only waste deep into shark infested waters. You aren’t sure what you’re expecting, but you search Olsen’s expression for any signs of danger. Horror, disdain, revulsion.. Nothing. None of what you’re usually faced with. The freelancer hums and nods his head sagely, closing his eyes to cut you off from their intensity. You feel your shoulders finally relax. “Ah, I see. That explains it.” He’s writing in his notepad again, oblivious to your scowl. “Explains what?” You ask, still nervous for a reaction. He sucks his teeth before the corner of his mouth twitches up into a smirk and then disappears completely as swiftly as it had been there. “Why you’re so mousey. You act like I’m going to eat you.”
His eyes flicker up to yours again, holding you there. You don’t think Jed Olsen fully understands the implication, or maybe he did. It has you beet red nonetheless, and there was nothing you could say that’d be good enough to defend your case. “Oh screw you, if you don’t wanna be around me th-”
“I don’t give a shit if you love sucking cock.”
“Jesus Christ. That’s–”
“Not my name.” A satisfied smack of his lips followed by your reporter leaning back into the chair again. His knees are still pressed against yours. “Alright. Enough about your crazy homosexual sexepedes. Get to the juicy bits with the police. What didn’t they help you with?”
You are not strong enough to lift the chair with Olsen in it to send him crashing through the window, but you do consider trying.
“I think I actually hate you.” He answers with a smile. You know the tips of your ears remained a bright tint of pink, but it’s easier to breathe with Olsen knowing an intimate part of yourself and not caring, for the lack of better words. You huff, also leaning back against your palms and you recount your first semester of college, and why you had never gone back after.
A new town. A new school. Not one of your classmates followed you to Roseville University, exactly why you had chosen it. No extended family within miles, no connections. No one who knows you by any other name other than the one you gave yourself. A completely fresh start. You’d manage to get yourself a dorm in the co-ed building, your new roommate being even quieter than you. You’d barely see the guy, minus those few mornings where you’d have to get up for class and he was just getting home from a night out. There’d be a brief curiosity on what it was like to live his life, before pushing the thought away. Because what good would it do you to linger?
Wake up, class, eat, job, study, dinner. This was your life the way you wanted it to be. While completely friendless, you’d manage to distract yourself with the small amount of free time you had with easy hobbies. Occasionally you’d look on, envious, of tight knit circles of friends; but as was human nature. You are used to yearning for some form of companionship, but it was a far off dream that was unattainable. Despite running from your old life, it managed to catch up to you regardless of your intentions. Conversations didn’t come easy for you, always so paranoid of rejection. Any sort of kindness was clinged to, otherwise, the life of a wallflower was proven persistent.
Wake up, class, eat, job, study, dinner. Repeat.
Wake up, class, eat, job, study, dinner. Repeat.
Wake up, class, eat, job, study, dinner. Repeat.
Wake up, class, eat, job, study, dinner. Repeat.
Wake up, class, eat, job–
“Do you wanna go to this party on Friday?”
You peek up from the book you were reading to your roommate standing a little awkwardly in the doorway to your shared room. His hands were shoved into his pockets and he didn’t meet your eyes. In fact, it looked like he was deliberately avoiding eye contact. He was uncomfortable, that much you could tell, and something about the sheepish invite and the awkwardness that tagged along with it ticked you off. “Why?”
It came out sharper than you really meant to, and you watch him roll his neck to continue his strange avoidance. He shuffles further into the room, shutting the door completely behind him before he answers. “Thought maybe you’d wanna go. I’ve never seen you actually.. Shit, I don’t know. Do anything.” It’s become painfully obvious your roommate didn’t have that much tact. At least he was honest and his offer was kind enough, which was the only thing saving him from being shot down completely. You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed over your chest with a huff, “I do stuff. You’re just never around to see it.”
His follow up response is a mumbled “come, don’t come. Whatever.” He walks straight to his bed, pulling out a stack of new CDs from his backpack. You lower your book even further, trying to decipher just how honest the invite has been. It couldn’t possibly be because they were lacking people to attend. And even then, you’d still be the last person considered to invite. Or so you thought. It meant nothing to your roommate, and even if it was out of some fleeting moment of trying to be polite, his offer gave you hope. A trickle of light seeping through the mundane cycle of your life. There was always the option to leave quietly if you found yourself not enjoying the college party life. A college party was vastly different from the last one you had gone to, your friend’s 13th birthday.
“Where’s it at?” You ask, and your roommate whips his head up to look at you. His brows raise and there’s a strange frown pulling at his lips, but you chalk it up to him being surprised by your interest. “The Sigma Chi house. You know where that’s at, right?” You nod, as if the full white two-story colonial-style building was hard to miss on your walk to class. “Party starts at ten, but show up around eleven. That’s when people actually start arriving. He turns back to his CDs, ignoring how your mouth opened to ask a few more questions. Were you supposed to bring anything? Alcohol? Balloons? Maybe a nice housewarming plant. You try to go back to your book, but the excitement has you far too distracted. Friday couldn’t come fast enough.
“Why’d you stop?” You had trailed off in silence for longer than you realized. Your gaze had been fixated on your hands, shame lingering over you like an ever present shadow. Its claws digging into the back of your neck as a painful reminder. You don’t have it in you to meet his eyes, but a solemn dullness has soothed the worry in your features. From your peripheral you see Olsen cock his head at you, and you turn to the curtains of the window. “Things got out of hand, and the police didn’t do what they needed to do. That’s it.” Your calm composure was a stark contrast to your usual nerve-filled chattering. It only serves to make Olsen all the more interested, knees pressing just a tad harder against yours before easing off. He knows there’s more to it, and his hand itches to crack your head open to dig out the details himself. However, Jed Olsen had self control. Instead, he sighs, slumping back into the seat in defeat. “You’ll tell me eventually, doll. They always do.”
Instead of your usual backtalk or snide comment, you also breathe a heavy stream of air before nodding. “I’m sure I will. If I’m not dead by then.” Finally, you give him an expectant look, doing as he had done and nudging your knee against his. Momentarily taken aback, he laughs, leaving his notepad discarded into his lap. “You didn’t even answer my entire question. You think you’re deserving of my tips?”
You gently slap his knee, desperate to move past the awkwardness of your avoidance. “That’s not fair, I’ve been answering all of ‘em. I’ll even answer more. You don’t even have one you wanna give me?”
Something outside, beyond the crack of the curtain catches his attention and he’s leaning further back into the armchair. His fingers dance along the edges, pulling them back slightly so he can get a better glimpse. “I have a tip I’m sure you’d love.” He absentmindedly replies. The words fall so effortlessly off his lips, and while you’re struggling to understand what he meant by it, the sudden curse beneath his breath pulls you back. He gives you no time to ask when he’s suddenly standing and staring down at you with a strange spark in his eyes.
It’s as if time had stood still. Jed Olsen now with his leg between your thighs, towering over you like a conspiring greek god. Despite the slowness, your brain has trouble processing everything that occurs next. One second, you’re divulging your current misfortune to Florida’s top reporter, and the next he’s moving closer to you, hand on your shoulder as he leans further down. “Don’t talk, just listen. Won’t you, doll?” And he gives you this pleading look so sickly sweet you can do nothing but dumbly nod. “You’re a bad liar, so I’m going to need to do something to you to make it believable. I won’t hurt you, not unless you ask for it.” All the hairs on your neck stand on end. Your nerves are screaming danger, but your body bends much too easily to his will. Your hands grip the bed sheets beneath you in fear, but your confusion and curiosity don’t pull you away even when he takes both of your inner thighs in his large hands to spread them apart, successfully slotting himself between them. “That’s my good boy.” His grin reaches from ear to ear, creasing the corner of his eyes as he leans further down, pressing his crotch flush against yours.
“Wh– What um.. Are you–” You don’t have it in you to finish, your body ignited from Olsen’s match. Your heart beats rapidly in your chest, so much that it hurts– but the ache in your chest isn’t as suffocating as the growing desire building in your lower abdomen. “Just play along. This won’t be anything you won’t like. Now unbutton my shirt.” Holy shit. Holy shit. Despite it all, you listen, your hands shakily reaching up to begin exactly as he asked. While difficult with the numbness of your fingers, he paid no mind while he sorted himself comfortably against you. One hand pressed against the bed to keep himself prompted up, he uses the other to guide your thigh once more to fit it against his waist. Olsen presses himself closer, forcing you to suck in a breath. You manage to only get halfway down his shirt before his hand stills yours.
“Let’s have some fun with this, hm? Touch me.” He lifts his knees at the edge of the bed, and without thinking you pull your other thigh up to join the other at his waist. As if pulled by some invisible force, your palms gingerly place themselves at his chest, touching so lightly as if you were afraid of scaring him off. You feel the muscle that lay beneath his flesh, how it tenses and flexes with your touch. He hums, rough fingers tracing the waistband of your pants before popping the button open.
This was all happening so fast, but not enough to make you stop. The contact is giving you a rush no drug could replicate. Never had a man been so forward with you, touched you, like this before. Your fear had turned into sparks of pleasure and need. A want that remained locked behind a security tight door. And the moment you met Jed Olsen, he had been picking that lock with every word and action he’d grace you. “Are we.. going to..?”
“Fuck?” He says with a chuckle, taking your jaw in his grip. You blink up at him when he squeezes your cheeks together, forcing your lips to pucker. Beneath him, he can feel the heat radiating off of you. “Why, you want to?” He lets go of your jaw in favor of your throat, and now that your mouth is free from his torment, his lips meet yours harshly, feverishly. As if he wants you as badly as you want him. He has no trouble prying your lips apart, but he’s met with a tentative and reserved participant. You have no experience with a kiss as hungry as his, and your apprehension of him being severely turned off by your lack of.. everything, is quickly thrown out the door when his arm slides beneath your back to pull you closer. You’re sure of it, then, that Jed Olsen was trying to devour you. Your hands find their place at the wideness of his back to clutch at his shirt, and again, his muscles flex beneath your touch.
With him caging you between the bed and his body do you finally understand just how much larger he is compared to you. Jed Olsen has you entirely at his mercy, and not just with his knowledge on Ghostface. He was so effortlessly dominant at the core of his being. His intensity wasn’t just for show, it wasn’t some facade to mask crippling insecurity and self-loathing– Jed Olsen of the Roseville Gazette was a powerhouse of a human being. Authoritative, vain, and stopped at nothing to get what he wanted.
And you really, truly, desperately hoped that what he wanted was you, despite your better judgement. While he held you with overwhelming control, you clanged to him in fear he’d pull away. That he’d leave you with just a taste of something you could never dream of having. And he relished in it, shuddered when your lips tried to mimic his own yet so obviously lacked experience. He wanted to laugh, watch you duck your head in embarrassment before he forced the innocence right out of you. A pet who couldn’t survive without him. The memory of your phone call with him plays in the back of his mind. The echo of your voice causing him to grow hard in his pants. I need you. I need you. I need you.
Three knocks in quick succession sounded at the door. You both freeze, pulling away from your kiss to lock eyes. Yours wide and still very, very confused, and his glazed over with something you can’t recognize. He breathes heavy above you, and the rise and fall of your own chest are just in time with his.
Knock–! Knock–! Knock–!
“Mr. Olsen, can we have a word please?”
You had completely forgotten about the detectives in the parking lot. Jed worked as a great distraction, even if a momentary one. Against the window you can hear the hard prattle of rain, and any empathy you felt for the man beyond the door, no doubt getting soaked, had shriveled to dust by his interruption. Jed Olsen presses a finger against your kiss swollen lips, still hooked against your hips. “Shhh.. Don’t say a word, alright?” He whispers, “think of this as your big acting break. All this wasn’t for nothing.” Much to your dismay, he completely removes himself from you. As much as you wanted to protest, you follow his instruction and don’t say a word, earning yourself a gentle pat on the cheek by his calloused hand. “It’s cute how obedient you are.”
The journey from the bed to the front door wasn’t far, and by the second knock Jed yanks the door open just enough to show his, and your, disheveled states. The detective, who you’ve coined as Clark Kent, stands just beyond the doorway of your motel room, brows lifted above his glasses as he sputters. Jed Olsen’s shirt hangs loosely against his body, nearly yanked off while you still lay back against the bed, cheeks flushed and pants undone. Clark Kent’s gaze, a pretty shade of honey brown, moved quickly between the both of you, sizing up exactly what he accidentally stumbled upon.
“What?” Jed Olsen snaps, and he genuinely sounded angry by the detective's interruption. But you’re slowly putting the pieces together.
Clark Kent clears his throat, fishing his badge from his pocket before holding it up for the two of you to see. “Mr. Olsen, I’m Detective Moore. I was hoping–”
“I know who the fuck you are.” Your mouth drops, stunned by his clear distaste for the investigator. Clark Kent.. No, Detective Moore frowns heavy at the vulgarity and snaps his badge closed. All pleasant familiarity was gone. “Great,” Detective Moore sneers, “you remember. I don’t suppose you also remember why I’m bothering you tonight?” Moore’s gaze flitters back to you, lingering on your expression for far too long. You quickly avert your eyes, far too horrified to have law enforcement see you in such a state. However, Moore doesn’t look away, the feeling of being watched pricks at your skin.
A sudden shadow moves in front of you, and when you have the confidence to peek up again, Jed has taken up the gap between the cracked door and the doorframe, completely shielding you from view. Detective Moore was tall, but Jed had several more inches stacked against him. “Can’t you see I’m busy right now?” Jed argues, nodding his head back towards your hidden direction. “We were just getting to the good part, too. Unless you wanna watch, detective? Just to warn you though, my boy’s kinda shy.” Oh how good it would feel to kick Olsen in the back of the knees, sending him tumbling forward and out of your motel room. The investigator went quiet, possibly considering the same thing, and then clicked his tongue in annoyance. “You’re not here on business, then?”
“Nope. Just fun.”
“Your time here has nothing to do with the Ghostface killings?”
“I’m allowed to take time off, ya’ know.”
A pause.
“Is this a… paid encounter?”
You had no time to stop yourself. From behind Olsen you call out a heated “excuse me!?” Right in sync with Jed Olsen’s laughter. You had half the mind to physically assault the both of them, but instead you yank a pillow from behind you to throw at the back of Olsen’s head. It hits its target with a plush thud, which the journalist ignores entirely.
The lamp right above the room number flickers on, and from what you can see from your position, the sun has dipped low from the sky. Any remaining light illuminates the pitch black cloud still hanging overhead, and a sudden gust of wind nearly sends Detective Moore’s glasses flying right off. The rain comes down like bullets, and a swaying branch from a nearby palm tree comes crashing down atop someone’s car just a few feet away. “Shit,” Moore curses, turning to the dark figures rushing into their cars.
“Go home, detective.” Jed Olsen isn’t laughing anymore, and the darkened sky creates a shadow along the length of his back. “I’m a busy guy. Stop wasting my fucking time.”
Only Jed Olsen can talk completely without a filter and obtain no consequence from it. Moore clears his throat once again, flipping up the collar of his coat in a vain attempt to protect him from the harsh winds. “We’ll talk soon, Mr. Olsen.” It sounded like a threat, one that Jed scoffed at, “and stay indoors. A hurricane’s on the way.” You hear heavy steps against flooded asphalt as the detective retreats to the safety of his vehicle.
The door shuts. Locked. And Olsen’s dark eyes regard you from over his shoulder. “See? Nothing to do with you, doll.”
“You could have just told me to pretend instead of… all that.” Stop lying to yourself. You enjoyed it. Enjoyed it too much for it only to end up a ploy to get law enforcement off Jed Olsen’s back. You’re not sure if you wished he’d kiss you every time he needed to worm his way out of something, or if it was better to not have been kissed, or touched, at all.
Just as you thought. Now that you’ve gotten a taste, it’ll be a craving you’ll never be able to satisfy.
“Oh please, you’re a terrible liar. He would have seen right through you. You’re every detective's wet dream.”
“Shut up.”
He doesn’t move, and neither do you. What had transpired before Moore came looming back and the tension in the air is heavy, daring either of you to speak of it. Wind rattles the window again, yet this time, it's Olsen’s unreadable stare that spooks you. “There’s um.. A hurricane..” your mouth is dry when you start, and you’re grasping at anything to change the subject. You slowly move to sit on the side of the bed rather than the middle of it.
“There is.” Olsen answers simply.
“I know there’s only one bed but uh.. I mean, I don’t mind you staying here.”
How pitiful do you look right now, you wonder. “You shouldn’t be driving in this kinda weather, you know? A-and what if those detectives are still out there? I don’t want them to know we’re.. Faking.”
You can’t take all the staring, not from the detective, and certainly not from Jed. You haven’t a clue what he’s thinking, not when he perceives you so quietly. “I still haven’t given you my advice yet, either.” He finally says, “you’ve done such a good job, I think a reward’s in order.”
You quickly nod your head, feeling dumb for having completely forgotten why you had met up with the journalist in the first place. Never mind him calling your chance for survival a reward, you’ll take any sort of normalcy you can get to move past the suspense of what now? He turns to you, your heart beat rivaling the choir of wind, rain, and thunder outside. “Your brilliant idea the first time was to pretend you were invisible, right? That’s real funny, by the way.”
“I am invisible,” you bite back, “or usually I am. Ghostface has all.. seeing.. goggles or.. something.” You’re trailing off doesn’t disturb his thought process, it seems like. He’s already far too used to how flustered he makes you, and your sudden distraction goes right over his head. At least, you’re pretty sure it does by his blabbering. He’s giving you his sage advice, his proud sage advice of many years as a journalist. Chasing after every big catch, and avoiding cops, criminals, even obsessive fans.
And what has you so fixated? So completely fascinated that you’re missing the whole point of your being there with the most irritating man in existence? The tent he’s currently pitching in his pants. You look up at him, still talking about whatever the fuck, back down to the swell straining against the zipper of his pants, and back up to him with your mouth agape in disbelief. Jed Olsen is hard. You got him hard? Jesus Christ what is he packing?
“That doesn’t hurt?”
“Ah– Sorry, what was that?”
You blank, unaware you had spoken the question out loud. You hastily look up at him again, trying your damndest to play innocent, but he’d already caught you in the act. Olsen followed your gaze right down to the front of his pants, forming a brief “Oh” at the sight of himself. The universe was either entirely against you, or was offering up the conclusion to a long-term wish on a silver platter. “Now that you mention it, it does.” You almost couldn’t believe he actually answered you, but this was Olsen. His honesty was his worst fault. To your dismay (holy shit), both of his hands come to the button of his jeans, popping them open (oh, fuck) and the force of his dick pressed flushed against his pants pulls his zipper down halfway, revealing black boxer briefs. “You can’t keep your eyes off me, sweetheart. What are you more concerned about, your life? Or getting some cock?”
It’s revolting how you can’t answer him. Your life is the obvious answer, the answer you should have slapped him with before kicking him out. But your body starts to tingle again. That familiar, awful ache makes your cunt throb and you're both humiliated and disgusted with yourself. And seeing your inward dilemma play across your face, Jed Olsen offers a kind solution. A merciful, gracious, and eager undoing of you. “Won’t you help me out, pretty boy? For all I’ve done for you? Will do for you?” His strokes the top of your head, leading down to caress the softness of your cheek. “It’s ok to want it.”
You tentatively peer up at him, your mouth pulled into a cute frown as your hands shakily clasp his zipper. He’s nothing but encouraging, smiling down at you so adoringly it gives you butterflies. When you pull downwards, there’s no resistance, and the heat of his cock brushes against your knuckles. His palm stays at your cheek while his other hand acts as your guide. He wastes no time hooking his thumb under the waistband of his boxers and pulling them down just far enough for his cock to slip free. You aren’t well versed on dick, but it doesn’t take Einstein to know when something’s big. You are now fully informed on where Olsen gets his confidence and sheer audacity from, it’s all stored in the absolute monster hanging between his legs. In a way it pisses you off. Because of course he has a big dick. He’s God’s favorite.
It’s pale like the rest of him, a few veins a pretty shade of blue follow along the length of it. He’s not fully erect, and it curves slightly to the left when half-hard. You softly tap the underside with your knuckle, sucking in a breath when it twitches. Olsen’s hand is in your hair again, petting your temple with his thumb while the rest of his fingers fist your locks in warning. Get to it.
Though you’re not sure what exactly it is he wanted you to do. You can’t look at him, you don’t want him to see how pathetic being in the vicinity of his dick really made you. Your own set of boxers has grown incredibly damp, wetness sticking to your thighs uncomfortably. The throbbing in your cunt has grown significantly worse, and you not so subtly try to press yourself harder down against the bed to little avail. It did nothing to solve your predicament.
You grasp him with both hands just at the base in a futile attempt to distract yourself. His pubes scratched lightly at your skin, and when your hands began to descend the length of him, his breath shudders. You can feel Olsen growing harder in your grasp, his curved cock finally beginning to stand straight. He gives you a delighted hum, pleased by the inexperienced way you handle him. Your thumbs trace along a vein on the underside of his dick, and the harder he becomes, the more confident you are to hold him more tightly. Olsen’s hot in your hands, and a sudden, small thrust of his hips startles you, and he pulls your face closer to his dick by the unrelenting grip he has on your hair. He’s just a hair's distance from your lips, and with uncharacteristic boldness, you meet his piercing gaze with your own before leaning forward to press a chaste kiss just below the head of his cock.
“I think I have it all wrong,” he growls, thrusting forward again and sliding his dick against your cheek, dragging a small bead of precum along with it. “A sweet thing like you can’t live. Your best bet is getting on your knees,” he hooks his thumb into your mouth, pushing past your teeth and presses his thumb down against the pad of your tongue. You let him, too. You open yourself willingly, lips falling apart as you listen with full attention. Your thighs are pressed together now, and you imagine what it’d be like if Olsen pumped himself between them. Your hands glide back down his shaft, memorizing the feel of his girth. “And beg, just like you are now. You’ll let him into this pretty mouth of yours, won’t you? Come on, yes or no?” He yanks your head from left to right to try and shake an answer out of you. With a whine, you nod, compliantly opening your mouth wider when he guides the head of his dick past your lips.
The weight of his dick is much heavier than his thumb. He slips in effortlessly, your mouth filled just by the head of his cock alone. You’re not at all optimistic that the entirety of Jed Olsen can possibly fit in your mouth, but you want him to try anyway. You pant at the idea of it, Olsen using you beyond what you’re capable of. Petting and praising you the way only he does. You roll your tongue against his glans, causing him to suck in a breath through his teeth. You do it again, impatient to hear what other noises you can get out of the journalist. Little by little does he push further into your throat. He coaxes and coos, biting his bottom lip while he watches himself carving himself deeper into the warmth of your mouth. “I’ll teach you,” he sighs when he’s finally halfway in, grasping the back of your head so your chances of escape are dim, “you’ll be just good enough to be spared again.”
Never would you have assumed the Roseville Gazette’s top journalist to be utterly insane. His dirty talk leaves you horrified, but not enough to pull away. In fact, you’re only spurred on more, but not without digging your fingers into the meat of his thigh. The man groans above you, rocking his hips at the mixture of pleasure and that small bite of pain. “That’s it, doll. He’ll love ya’.” You whimper in response, clenching your eyes shut when he’s fully sheathed in your throat. Surprisingly you don’t gag, and you chalk it up to how semi-gentle Olsen’s been with you. Even if his vulgarity was nothing you could have anticipated. Your eyes begin to burn with tears when your lips meet his pelvis, nose buried in soft curls.
Instinctively you gulp, jugular wrapping tight around the protrusion and Olsen jolts at the sheer bliss that crawls through him. Drool had started to gather at the edges of your mouth, smearing across your bottom lip and down to your chin. Your spit makes it all the more easier for him to pull back an inch, before he’s thrusting back in with little resistance. You nearly cough, nerves back on high alert and convincing you that suffocation was in your immediate future. You yank on his slacks to try and pull him away, catching his attention when the fabric tightens around his thighs. Not once does he budge, your panic quickly turning into frustration at his refusal to give you breathing room. You pull, jerk, tug at his slacks with a groan of irritation, and all Jed Olsen does above you is laugh. It starts with a huff, then a snicker, before cackling when you dramatically begin to wave the fabric of his slacks back and forth. Through his laughter, he calls you by name, the sound of it causing you to pause abruptly. “Calm down, breathe, I told ya’ I’d teach ya’.” His hand comes from around your head, gliding down to cup your chin. “Breathe through your nose and relax your jaw. I’ll do the rest.”
You’re tempted to do the exact opposite just to spite him, though finally, does Olsen give you room for air to finally meet your lungs.
Inhale.
“Slowly..”
Exhale.
“Good boy.”
He’s driving into your mouth again with care, the placement of his hand on your jaw reminding you to stay lax. You were helplessly unacquainted with a push and pull from your throat, and the deeper Olsen made his home inside of your mouth, the more sounds it elicited. Your whimpers and small moans sent vibrations up his cock, and your hands slowly lost their white-knuckled grip on his slacks the easier it became to take him. Experimentally, you roll your tongue against him again, tasting his flesh and musk. Jess had told you what dick tasted like before without you having asked, and you compared her knowledge to the taste of Jed Olsen. Salty and bitter, with the faint hint of soap. Well.. At least you know he’s hygienic. You continue to stroke the underside of his dick with your tongue, and it wasn’t long before you completely weakened his resolve. The courtesy of taking it slow for you cracks the moment he’s holding either side of your head with his hands, fucking your mouth with a steady, but harsher, rhythm.
The noises from the back of his throat, proof of his ecstasy, mixed with the slopping wet sounds of your mouth all tangled together in an obscene melody. Your core absolutely burned, turning your mind blank and docile for however Jed Olsen decided to ravage you. You pace your breaths with the timing of his assault on your esophagus, and when he growls for you to hollow your cheeks and suck, you do. He’s past the point of talking, an amazing feat all on its own. Any long stream of Jed Olsen Blabbering is replaced by grunts, a shaky exhale, and moans. The tang of salt becomes stronger on your taste buds, and more than just drool collects on the corners of your mouth and down your chin. You’re not completely ignorant to sex, you know exactly how close Jed is to cumming down your throat when his movements become choppy and out of sync. He’s taken to rutting against your plush lips like an animal in heat, and you keen around him in delight. You’re making him cum, it’s your mouth wrapped around Jed Olsen that draws out his praise, and parting from him when hot, thick liquid pours down your throat wasn’t an option to be considered.
Your saliva mixed with his semen drips down to your chest, staining the old band tee you had hurriedly put on before making your way to the motel. His cock is softer in your mouth, and you give one last teasing flick of your tongue against his shaft that makes his hips jerk back. “Don’t be cute,” he says gruffly through a heavy chest. Carefully, he slips himself out of your throat, his cock overly sensitive and still dripping with your spit. To your surprise, he’s only half-hard again, and you’re caught between being impressed with his stamina, or not having done well enough for him to completely finish. Olsen doesn’t bother tucking himself away, either, and there’s a small spark of hope that it could only mean he wasn’t done with you yet.
He huffs, running a hand through his dark curls and plopping down on that faux leather chair he’s claimed for the duration of your time together. He sinks into it, legs spread only slightly apart as he gazes up at the ceiling. There, old cracks and water stains stare back at him while the rush of climax dances on every part of his physique. He doesn’t expect you to say anything, doesn’t need to look at you, either, to know you’re staring at him doe-eyed and waiting for approval. You’re putty in his hands, hanging off every word and action he says and does. Like your personal messiah, sent by God’s sweet grace to save his most meek creation. The thought of it has Olsen’s lips curling back in a wolfish grin. His head lolls to the side, letting his sights fall to you. The room is dim now that night has fallen, with only a single lamp far off in the corner to save you both from total darkness. Lightning makes the curtains glow a vibrant orange, and it’s the only splash of color that has washed over Olsen since you met him.
You swallow when his fingers wrap around the base of his cock, the lingering taste of it still on your tongue. “Gonna take your clothes off, doll?” He starts to stroke himself lazily, the curve of his shaft disappearing once more the harder he becomes. You’re frozen to your spot on the edge of the bed, mouth gaped as you try and find your words. The horror of it dawns on you, and the flushness of your cheeks quickly pale as you hoarsely reply, “I can’t.”
A black brow is delicately arched at your refusal, his grin turning into an infuriatingly smug smirk. “Why, scared? I won’t bite.” Something tells you that he does, in fact, bite.
“I’m not.” You were, “I.. Just think it’s going to be, uh, something you’re not expecting.” Your hands are placed right over the center of your jeans. You’ve long since come to acknowledge the hard truth of never experiencing sex, therefore, never thought the day would come where you’d have to weasel your way out of explaining a very intimate part of yourself. You were completely lost on a new playing field of excuses, and trying to pinpoint something satisfactory was proving hard by the minute when you didn’t want to find an excuse to deny him. That was the perfect cherry on top. “You’re only making me more curious.” He pumps his fist mid-way up his dick, before sliding back down with a loud exhale through his nose. “You think I can’t handle what you’re packing?”
In a way he’s correct, but you’ll be damned if you tell him he’s hit the nail right on the head. You glare at him from your seated position, opting for silence instead of falling for his bait. Your anxiety is at an all time high, and the ringing in your ears drowns out the storm that’s caged you both in. He says something else to you, but you don’t comprehend it as multiple scenarios drag through your imagination. Jed Olsen already had no qualms of being sucked off by another guy, or going even further, if his current intentions are anything to go by. This fact you’ve learned about him is what keeps you from running off to brave the hurricane; The worst he could do was beat you to a pulp, or be absolutely disgusted with you. Either option would do numbers on your already fragile self esteem, but with what you know about Olsen, was this a fair judgement?
Crude and egotistical, yes, though he’s never not accepted you and all your strangeness. He didn’t have to believe you when you called him about Ghostface, or even shield you when Detective Moore came knocking. Hell, he didn’t even really need to kiss you, but he did. Jed Olsen was a weird guy himself, an oddity that he managed to cover with an award winning smile and over-skilled ass kissing. The actual worst he could do, you begin to rationalize, is his fair rejection.
Which would hurt. God, would it hurt. Yet you’re prepared for it. Been prepared for it.
You shakily stand up, hands on the waistband of your pants and Jed sits up a little straighter in excitement. What a dog, you want to call him, but you hold your tongue. Though the small space between his thighs looks inviting, you don’t close the gap between yourselves as a precaution. Your pants drop to about the middle of your thighs, leaving you covered only by your shirt and underwear; Though unexpectedly, the front of your boxer briefs are completely soaked through, creating a dark wet spot along your covered folds. You feel the makings of a blush at your cheeks again, and Jed says nothing when you slowly gather the top of the fabric to fold it down to reveal yourself.
Arousal creates a string from your wet folds to your underwear, slick coating your thighs with a shimmer. It’s like a thick pool of water had been dumped straight into your pants, your desire for the man plastered all across your flushed cunt. Jed Olsen’s gaze drinks in all you have to show for. His hand hasn’t stopped moving since you’ve exposed yourself, palming his cock tighter at the sight of you– vulnerable and needy. He licks his lips, an action that didn’t go unnoticed by you.
“Hah– You think I’m scared of pussy?”