Synopsis
Tonight is the night.
Vic, a devious hunter behind the infamous mask, has finally tracked down his final girl—the dark-haired beauty that haunts his dreams. The setting is perfect: an isolated lakeside cabin, no one around for miles. He stalks down the halls and through each room of the shrouded lodge, combing every corner with meticulous precision for any sign of Sophie. He is patient, he is vigilant, and time is on his side.
Sophie knew this day would come. The man behind the mask is inevitable, which is why she has lured him here. But Sophie has a secret: while she won’t make it easy for him, she wants to be caught. She craves the thrill of being subject to his touch. She knows he has a deal to offer in exchange for her life, and her skin prickles with excitement at the thought of paying the price.
Follow Vic and Sophie in A Scream Come True as they live out one killer role-play scenario…
Trigger Warnings
- Blood
- Physical violence/assault
- Knife/weapon threat
- Choking/breath restriction
- Restraint/bondage distress
- Gagging/breath restriction
Content Warnings
- Sexually explicit scenes
- CNC (Consensual Non-Consent) roleplay
- Safe word/consent mechanics depicted alongside genuine distress signals
- Power imbalance dynamics
- Anal play
- Profanity
- Violence within a sexual context
- Simulated murder/slasher horror framing
- Degrading/humiliating sexual language
Scene 1 – The Chase
Vic
Give me a thousand years, and I still don’t think I could’ve timed this better: my intimidating stance as I hold the knife high above my head; the front door yawning like a mouth, warm light spilling out into the rainy dark; my final girl frozen in front of me, slack-jawed, her wide eyes traveling up my robes, to my mask—the tip of my blade, poised to strike like a viper. All of it perfectly syncs with her sharp inhale and the flash of lightning behind me. What must I look like to her in this suspended moment, my shrouded form eclipsed by the sudden pop of light?
“Hello, Sophie…” I growl, my voice crawling and sinister as I grin behind the mask.
She’s unfrozen by the clap of thunder that follows and lets out an ear-piercing scream meant only for me; there’s no one around for miles at her isolated lakeside cabin.
“Come here!”
My hand lashes out like a whip to grab the neckline of her black tank top. But it’s like she’s been expecting—training for—this very moment. She falls back into the cabin at the same time I lunge forward and smacks my hand away. Her fingers quickly curl into a fist that pistons into my throat—fuck, I did not see that coming! She turns and runs, the fading echo of her whimpers and bare feet on hardwood leaving me choking and gasping in the threshold.
At least I held onto my knife. Can you imagine—my cinematic entrance upstaged by a throat-punch and a swift disarming?
The drizzle of rain at my back turns into a downpour. I step further into the warmth of the cabin and angrily kick the door closed with the thick sole of my boot. Then—ears open, fingers curling a readjusted grip on the hilt—I listen for vanishing footfalls. Through the white spots in my vision, I saw her disappear past the kitchen, but that doesn’t tell me much. She could’ve forked off into any number of areas.
Good. I’d hate for this to be over too soon.
I bring the butt of the knife’s handle down twice on the marble countertop. “Knock, knock, Sophie…” I call out, my thirst for the catch alive in every syllable. “Can’t you come out to play?”
Me and my black robes are swallowed up by the dim living room, lit only by the flashes of lightning that flicker across the large bay windows. The old wooden floorboards creak and groan with each one of my measured footsteps. My head oscillates, almost owl-like, as I scan the space for signs of life. I know she’s probably not in here, that this is way too open an area for someone to hide in. But I can’t leave any stone unturned.
I wait for another spark of light to see if there’s a pair of bare feet in the thin gap between the floor and the window curtains. It’s a ridiculous, practically clichéd notion, so it comes as no surprise when I don’t find any. Likewise, there’s no huddled form hiding behind either of the couches. And after opening and closing the two small closets, I can officially confirm that my final girl is elsewhere.
It’s almost enough to spook myself when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a framed photograph. The billowing robes, the infamous white mask with its voided eyes and mouth, permanently wide and screaming—or laughing. My freshly sharpened knife that completes the ensemble, ready and eager to tear and tease.
Prowling down the hallway, I kick open the first door I come to, reaching for a light switch and discovering it’s the downstairs bathroom. My rain-slicked boots squeak against the linoleum as I step inside. Giddy anticipation refills me, using the long blade of my knife to peel back the shower curtain. I brace for that same set of wide eyes, another screech, but alas—it’s empty.
Turning off bathroom light and falling back into the hallway, I discover only two more doors. One of which is a linen closet. The third and final door is to the main downstairs bedroom.
I flip the light on, listen for something—anything. Whimpers, muffled breathing, shifting of weight. The subtlest of clues could give my final girl away. She could be in here—I smell her perfume. The same intoxicating aroma I smelled on her the second she opened the cabin door. It wafted into my nostrils, made my cock hard instantaneously. And the scent only grows stronger as I step further into the bedroom.
I register three distinct hiding places: the ensuite bathroom, the closet, and under the bed. The scent of perfume reaches its peak when I cross into the bathroom, but again, there’s nothing beyond the shower curtain. Is my tricky little minx more deceitful than I’ve given her credit for? Had she sprayed her perfume in here as a trap to buy herself some time? Rather than anger or frustration, it’s a slanted sense of pride that blooms in my chest like a midnight flower. The corners of my lips curl, the grin of a Cheshire cat, persisting even when the closet and under the bed both prove empty.
I take a moment to gather my thoughts, plan out the remainder of my insidious trek. She is my final girl, after all—would she really be stupid enough to run upstairs? Or had she stealthily made her way through the sliding glass door and into the downpour? Which is the lesser of two evils when desperately avoiding my inevitable grasp?
“Oh, Sophie…” My sing-song voice reverberates off the paneled walls. “Come on out, Sophie. I promise I’ll be gentle.”
Lies. When Sophie is finally in my grasp, I will be anything but gentle with her.
I pause, holding my breath for a solid five-second beat. I fight back my first real wave of disappointment when I’m met with no clues as to her whereabouts. Although, it makes perfect sense. Only the final girls have the wit to outsmart their hunters.
But then my heart skips a beat, because there—directly above my head. My eyes travel slowly upward, where I hear the quietest, most indiscernible of creaks in the ceiling. They’re quickly followed by a rush of hurried breathing. I imagine a hand clasped tightly over a mouth, a desperate will to stop breathing altogether, if only for a moment.
It’s too late for her, though. She’s given herself away. I may not know exactly where she is, but it’s upstairs—a rookie move. I expected better from my Sophie.
I turn off all the lights in the bedroom and lumber back down the hall, turning the corner to head up the stairs. I could tread lightly so that she doesn’t hear me coming. But honestly, where’s the fun in that? Sophie should hear every last one of my slow and heavy footfalls, be absolutely certain of how inevitable I am.
When I reach the second-floor landing, shoulders rising and falling with methodical breaths, I use my mental map of the bottom floor to intuit where the creak had originated. It brings me down the hall and into another bedroom—she’s close, the bedside lamp flicked on. Again, there are three places to check, and I stand by the bedside to determine which to uncover first.
Deciding on the bathroom, I take an anxious step toward it—at the same time an arm shoots out from under the bed, a set of bone white fingers curling around my ankle. She has perfect timing—I’m almost proud. I lurch forward, falling onto my stomach, the wind knocked free of my lungs. Sophie has landed her second blow of the evening, and this time my butcher knife goes flying from my grasp.
I’m immediately enraged that my guard has been penetrated, but I use that anger to force myself up off the floor—too fast, and the room spins a full rotation. There’s distressed whimpering and the hurried padding of familiar bare feet on hardwood, and I pivot just in time to see Sophie lunging for the bedroom door. Her mistake is a chance look in my direction. Our eyes lock for only a second, and despite the weak, wanting glow of the lamplight, I can make out every ounce of her desperation to flee. To survive. It’s etched deep in her soft, porcelain features.
She thinks she’s made it when I manage to wrap my fingers around the door and slam it shut in her face. It’s more than a bit of serendipity that it closed hard enough to jam the ancient locking mechanism. I’m given just enough time to lunge for my knife before refocusing my attention back on Sophie.
“Come on, come on!” she cries uselessly at the knob that refuses to open. It shines with the sweat from her greasy palms. I grow hard under my robes as she continues to fumble impotently, her stark blue eyes finding the ones hidden behind my mask. “Stay the fuck away from me! You hear me, goddammit?”
“Oh, I hear you all right, Sophie,” I reply, my snarky chuckle pitched and insidious. “I hear you just fine.”
I take my time closing the distance between us, my knife clutched firmly at my side. At this point, I have to wonder if she’s this bad at opening doorknobs, if the lock is actually stuck, or if she’s simply milking this moment for all it’s worth. Either way, when I finally come within striking distance, Sophie attempts another thrash in my direction.
Unfortunately for her, I’m ready this time.
In one swift movement, I block her punch and then backhand her with my knife hand. It lands much harder than I meant for it to. My knees weaken as I watch Sophie’s head ricochet off the wall. She then collapses to the floor, moaning and crying, crab walking backward as I close in on her. The lamplight catches her face, and I see blood trickling down from her nose, pooling above her newly swollen upper lip.
She backs up until she can go no further, until she yelps from her back hitting the tall dresser. I tower over her, soak in the fear that’s burning in those gorgeous eyes of hers. She’s out of breath, panting, panic-stricken. Our gazes remain locked as she dabs at the warm splotch of crimson under her left nostril, wincing with a hiss when she discovers the swelling.
Everything’s fine, Vic… I reassure myself. This is why we have a safe word—remember? She’d give it to you if it was game over.
My adrenaline-soaked brain works to process the scene. When I agreed to play this game with Sophie—indulge her in her fantasy of being chased, caught, and ravaged by a masked killer—she left so much on the table. She wanted to be scared, have a genuine horror movie experience, only offering me a safe word. But I hadn’t expected actual blood to be spilled—her blood. And now that we’ve come this far, it’s forcing me to reconcile with dichotomies I only vaguely interpreted before tonight. The things I’d feel comfortable doing. The lengths I’d go to for my queen. The—
“Are you just going to stand there!” Sophie snarls through gritted teeth. “Or are you going to stop being a pussy and just kill me already?”
A cold chill runs down my spine at her words, and I’ve never been more grateful for this mask that hides every single one of my emotions that are most definitely plastered across my face. But I take a breath, steel my nerves, and plot my next move.
I raise my knife slowly, twisting it from side to side as I continue peering down at her. I force out a chuckle that’s enough to make my shoulders bounce. “You think you’re so clever, Sophie,” I begin, taking a small step in her direction. Sophie’s black hair is a curtain over her face, her back pressed firmly against the dresser. “Certainly more clever than all your friends, I admit. But oh, how I did love hearing their screams as I gutted each of them like fucking fish!” The blade whistles as I slice my knife through the air, miming a pattern of lethal stabs that ended the lives of her fictional friends.
Sophie scrunches up her face and shakes her head. And goddamn, she must’ve practiced her heart out too, because she manages actual fucking tears! My chest shudders at the dual streams that cascade down her puffy cheeks.
“You’re a heartless, murdering bastard!” The words have claws, her throat raw and hoarse. She kicks her legs at me as I continue closing the distance.
“You’re my final girl, Sophie,” I continue like I hadn’t heard her latest rage-fueled quip. “You could’ve been my one that got away. But you forgot one important rule…” I trail off, pausing for dramatic effect. Then, I reach down and grip Sophie by her jet-black hair, yanking her to her feet. We’re inches away when my free hand rips my mask off, tossing it aside, smirking as I finally reveal my identity. “You never, ever go upstairs.”
Her head shakes, her face stricken and pale as she whispers, “Vic. I… I should’ve known.” Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, laps at the blood. She huffs a defeated sigh. “All this time.”
I let out a grunt that sounds like it’s been revving up in my chest for minutes. When it reaches its crescendo, I bring my knife down in a high, arcing motion. Sophie wails in such a frightful way that it could pass for genuine terror. But the tip of the blade embeds itself into the top of the dresser, a few of Sophie’s stray hairs billowing from the breeze I’ve created.
Before she has a chance to react, to realize that I’ve spared her life, I grasp Sophie tightly by the shoulders. With as much force as I can muster, I toss her onto the bed, hard enough that she rolls several times across the mattress and almost falls off the other side. There’s another one of those suspended, split-second moments: A wide-eyed Sophie catches herself safely on the bed, and my gaze finds hers—and both of us almost lose it. Her lips twitch up in a grin, as do mine.
But we both break the spell at the same time, each of us falling back into our respective roles.
“I should’ve fuckin’ known it was you, Vic!” Sophie spits in dramatic fashion. She gets up on her knees, beautiful and defiant. I’m thankful for these black robes that hide my erection. “You had all the reason in the world to kill my friends—I just didn’t want to believe you were capable!”
I tilt my head, then take a few measured steps toward her on the bed. She maintains her posture, but backs up a few inches, steeling that determination onto her face as our eyes remain locked. “Oh, Sophie,” I chuckle. “You have no idea the things I’m capable of. The creative ways I ended your friends’ lives. The careful, strategic planning it took to ensure you’d be the last on my list. With every death you witnessed, you doubled your efforts to avoid me. But it was all for nothing, because I only did the same.”
Distant thunder booms outside, rain pelting hard against the bedroom window, but I barely notice it; Sophie’s head rears back, and a second later, a wad of spit hits my face. There’s something undeniable about it, how I wasn’t expecting it, that it gets my blood pumping, my heart racing. My hand shoots out, quick as lightning, grabbing Sophie’s face. I grit my teeth as my fingers dig into the soft meat of her cheeks, forcing the smugness off her face.
“Well… that was pretty fucking rude for someone in your position,” I murmur with equal parts malice and hunger. “A frightened animal, backed into a corner with nowhere to go.” I loosen my grip just enough to let her speak clearly.
“What does it matter now, anyways?” she says angrily, eyebrows dipping. “I’m already dead, right? What, you’re gonna kill me twice?”
I consider her for a beat, feeling the muscles in her face loosen their tension. She truly has accepted her fate.
“You know, Sophie…” I begin, licking my lips, eyes greedy as they take in her breasts that push against a tank top one size too small, her skin-tight leggings accentuating her full hips. “It doesn’t have to end this way.” My hand slides down from her cheeks to her jaw, then to her neck. There, I place just the smallest bit of pressure. Not enough to cut off her airway, but enough to show her I mean business.
Sophie’s throat bobs as she swallows hard. “What… what do you mean?” Beads of sweat have formed at her temple, the sides of her tank top damp. Makes me wonder what else is soaked. “It means, Sophie…” My fingers apply a tiny bit more pressure. “I can let you go, let you live—for a price.”
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