#THE PART 2 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bisexual-horror-fan · 8 months

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"Goodbyes Are So Hard." Stu Macher X AFAB! FORMER Ghostface Reader.

Okay! So I know I dropped “So Good To You.” literally a fucking week ago, but here is the sequel. I had this part two planned before I even WROTE part one so! I just went for it. I hope you all fucking love it, this is some of my best. I outlined it one day and then the past two I wrote this. Let’s not waste time, lets GO!

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Rating. Explicit. Length. 12.1K. Stu Macher X AFAB! FORMER Ghostface Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: Flashbacks. Mentions Of Past Billy/Stu and Mickey/Reader. Context Heavy. Grief. Friendship. Emotions. Crying. Angst. Intense Feelings. Mentions Of Gore, Violence, Murder. Comfort. Sex. Vaginal Sex. Vaginal Fingering. Anal Fingering. Anal Sex. Creampie. Squirting. Ghostface Role Play Not In The Way You Think. Trying To Move On.

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Stu Macher himself is standing right in front of you while you are gripping the wooden door so hard your fingers hurt, nails biting slightly into the surface as your eyes take him in. Starting at the top of his head and then down to well-worn sneakers. You know what Stu looked like, had seen tons of pictures of him over the past few years, but still, seeing him in person was completely different. He looked different too. Older yes, the events of Woodsboro were a few years ago now, but more than that, he had some scars too, you know he must have gotten them when he got that TV to the face, Sidney’s attempt to kill him apparently unsuccessful.

You hadn’t responded to his question yet, he looks at you expectantly, he isn’t pushing because he knows this is a lot to take in. He gives you a look, the slight pitching forward of his head with a raise of his eyebrows, makes you answer. “I…I don’t know why you are here, and I don’t know if I shoul-”

He cuts you off and says, “I knew Mickey. And I know what you and he did.”

Your jaw drops. He knew Mickey? He knows what you did? That is more than enough for you to invite him in, desperate to hear whatever he was going to say. You open the door wider and step to the side as you say quietly, “Come in.” Adding on quickly in an attempt to be polite, “Please.”

He gives you a smile, an upturning of his lips with no teeth but eyes unmistakably warm. Hands in his pockets, he comes inside. You close the door once he is past the threshold and follow behind. He has paused in the middle of your living room, he is looking around at your space before you say, “Uhm, this way to the kitchen.”

You lead him, and he follows into the next room, you gesture to the table, and he takes a seat, his back to the window, hands on the table-top, and you look at him as you lean against the counter. Stu Macher is at your kitchen table. What the fuck has this day turned into?

“Would you like a drink?” You ask, and he says, “Yeah, that’d be great.”

You get him a glass bottle of soda you had in the fridge and set to making yourself the cup of tea you were already planning on before he came to the door. Hot water is poured into the mug and poured over the sachet of dried leaves and spices. You are dipping the tea bag into the mug over and over, as if extending the process of making the drink would put off whatever he was going to tell you.

“You got a bottle opener?” He asked and as you look over your shoulder he says before you could respond, “Oh wait, I got it.”

Next you see the sight of him lining up the bottle’s cap with the edge of the table and smacking it just so, cap off and then taking a drink. You’d seen Mickey do the same move at countless parties and evenings with him. You push the painful memory aside. Stu tips the bottle slightly in your direction after his sip and says, “Thanks for this, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it.” You mumble as you finish making your tea, bag out, honey stirred in, you come forward and take the seat across from him.

The silence stretches between you both for a while before it becomes too much, and you finally ask, “So, what the fuck?”

He finishes his current sip and says, “Yeah, so most people think I am dead but clearly as you can see-” Bottle set down with a gesture to himself, “-I’m not.”

The tone is funny, but you don’t laugh. He expounds further. “TV to the dome wasn’t enough to kill me, but it still left its mark, fucked me up good.”

One hand comes up as his turns his head from one side to the next, fingers stroke along the line of his jaw, thumb down a particularly jagged scar on his opposite cheek. You think they suit him, look good, they don’t look angry, have started to fade, you wonder what he uses, maybe some kind of cream to lessen the severity of how they look?

His hand drops, gripping the bottom of the bottle again, he tells you, “I was brought to the hospital and had to be there for a while, but when I was well enough? I made a break for it. Got away and been lying low and on the run ever since. It’s gotten easier as time has gone on.”

Alright, makes sense and with that out of the way, next you ask, “How the hell did you find me and what are you really doing here?”

He nods like he knew this is how it would go, that you’d have a ton of questions, he explains. “I met Mickey by chance online and we started talking. Online pen pals kinda, we talked for a while, before he even went to Windsor. He kept me updated on what was going on, he talked about you a lot.”

Your heart beats harder, and you ask, “He did?”

“Yeah it was funny, I got to like kinda watch him fall in love with you from afar-” Stu saying that, Mickey falling in love with you, it hurts. You both never got the chance to say it, you wish you did, your biggest regret in life other than failing to save him, hearing it stated so plainly by someone outside of it all is unexpectedly painful.

“-he went from bitching about how annoying you were and how pissed he was to share the work, to slowly warming up to you. He got to the point of admitting your skill until he was outright gushing about you to me. That night he saw you kill in person for the first time? He sent me fucking paragraphs about it.” Stu another drink.

Mentioning you is one thing but talking about you in this detail makes you ask, “He told you about me?”

“Tons. That is part of why I’m here. See, we would talk and communicate in a…Particular kinda way, kept it vague to the outside observer, just in case our chat logs were ever discovered, you know?”

You nodded, and he said, “As we got closer to the finale’ he told me one important thing. He gave me your name. He said if after a certain time I never got another message from him again, that means he was dead.”

Holy shit.

“He asked that if that was the case, he made me promise to check in on you and make sure you were okay. He was convinced that if either of you were to die, it would be him. He would go on and on about how he’d do anything to keep you safe.”

He pauses and then says quieter, “Something I could relate to.”

Eyes glance up at you from where his thumb had been peeling the label on the bottle, he says, “So I told him of course. If he never messaged me again, if it really seemed like he was dead, I would track you down and check in.”

A deep inhale, one hand comes up, he points and says, smile back on his face as if he was impressed, “You are very, very good at hiding, by the way. It’s why it took me around a year to track you down.”

He had commitment, you had to give him that, but some deeply cynical part of you isn’t convinced. You say, “How do you know it’s really me, and you aren’t spilling a ton of sensitive information to some stranger who will turn you into the cops? I’m sure they’d love to find you and tie up that loose end.”

His smile widened, you are just like Mickey talked about. You aren’t stupid, you are cautious, careful, smart and don’t trust easily at all, not without good reason.

“He mailed me a picture. I have a PO box under an assumed name, not tied to where I live.” He pulled out his wallet, opened it and took out the picture, he passes it over with one hand as his other flips the wallet closed and there it was. You take the photo and look down at it.

A picture you and Mickey took one afternoon, it was a photo you both took leading up to your first joined kill, it was set on a timer. Both of you in your Ghostface robes, you were holding up your mask, and he was holding up his knife, both of you with an arm slung around the other’s shoulders, your eyes were closed, mouth open, big smile and mid-laugh from some stupid fucking joke he just told and his head more turned towards you, his own big smile, teeth showing, eyebrows raised and his eyes on you.

It was a great picture.

You’d looked for it among his belongings after you killed Nancy and fled the theatre and never found it. Now you knew why.

There is no way he would have gotten his hands on this picture unless everything he was saying was true. He knew Mickey. You believed him.

It makes sense to you. You can’t believe Mickey put in so much forethought and was so careful. He really did care about you. “So you really hunted me down for around a year, did God knows how much work, just to keep your promise and make sure I’m okay?”

He nodded, the smile on his face was soft and easy. “Yep. Honestly, this was the easy part, but I’ve only fulfilled my promise halfway, next is the hard part.”

“The hard part?” You asked as he leaned forward on the table, bottle of soda forgotten, his forearms and asked, his expression more serious, concerned, “So. How are you doing?”

You had been trying to do better, trying to be doing okay but now, seeing him, all the added and extra effort Mickey put in before he passed to make sure you’d be alright. You decide that no, you aren’t okay, and you haven’t been okay in the more than a year he’d been gone. You are looking down, tears building in your eyes to the point that you can’t see, everything is blurry. His hand reaches out and takes your mug. It makes your head jerk up, he says in explanation, “You were gripping it so hard I was worried you were going to break it.”

He sets it aside to join his soda and finally, the dam breaks, hot tears spill down your cheeks, and you inhale sharply, a sniff, and you admit very quietly in your wrecked voice, “I’m not doing good. I’m not okay.”

Your head drops, and you sob, you feel his hand brush yours again, and he says simply, “It’s okay to not be okay. Especially right now.”

That afternoon, you and Stu talk until you feel like you might lose your voice. Stu tells you that you aren’t alone in this, he told you about his relationship with Billy, that it went beyond friendship and partners in crime. You weren’t shocked, you knew too well that the relationship between two people who killed together was deeper than any traditional or more superficial bond, them being together in that way made sense to you, it endears him to you. He truly gets it. You listen.

They’d been friends for years and years, always there for each other, supported each other. Then the affair happened. You already knew about that from Nancy. That Marueen fucked her husband and broke apart their family, she ran, and then sought out revenge for Billy after his death, found you and Mickey and the rest, but now? You got to hear the other side of it. Nancy was angry, blamed Sidney and her family of course, but also, she blamed Stu. Nancy used to say, “That Macher boy dragged my Billy down a dark path.”

He laughs a little as he said next, “She used to like me! Was nice when I was a kid, she liked Billy and I being friends.”

You smile and say lightly, “Yeah, she isn’t like that any longer, she said you led her precious boy astray.”

He laughs louder at that, one word saying a lot, “Hardly.”

“What was the truth?”

He shrugs and admits, “We both had this thing of kinda feeding into each other when we were together, we’d get into these habits of hyping each other up and getting the other into trouble. Ideas made sense when we were together, we’d do things that we’d never do solo. Billy made the first joke about us killing Marueen and I didn’t discourage it. I went along with it, and it went from there.”

The rest is spilled rapidly, “We planned, we killed her, and we didn’t feel bad about it either. It was…Exhilarating, a massive rush. We ran all the way back to my place, and we kissed for the first time, and then we were together.”

God, this hurt to hear because of ground it made you think of what you had with Mickey, but also because you knew the story he was telling you with Billy wasn’t going to end well. You were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He tells you for the next year he and Billy were together in secret, worked on the plan, and got ready to finish the thing. Obviously, as you know, it didn’t go well. Billy died, Stu almost did and ran.

You ask, quietly, “Where’d you end up?”

He looks sad, he has been looking that way the past few minutes while recounting this to you, and he says with his far off look in his eye, “Oh it isn’t important.”

You drop it.

The silence has returned. You speak up first, “So it’s been…A few years since that.”

He nods and admits as if it was a sad and hushed confession, a terrible truth that he hated but one he could do nothing about to change, “Yeah. Few years since I lost him.”

His hand moves tentatively, takes yours carefully and tells you, “This is why I knew I had to come here, that I had to be present and able to give you support because…I’ve been in your exact same position. Alone and scared after losing the one person who understood me better than anyone. Billy knew me best, and losing him how I did was awful. Losing him at all would have been terrible, but this? It wrecked me, almost destroyed me. I was, still am, grieving in a lotta ways.”

He inhales deeply and continues, a squeeze of your hand that is so reassuring, “I know the sheer crushing pain and isolation, I had to do it all by myself for years and I don’t want you to have to do the same. I came here because I want to be here, I want to help you through this time.”

This is so impossibly sweet. Stu understands you totally, he might be the only one who can. After listening to him tell you about Billy, the look he would get on his face, you knew what they had was as real and as deep as what you and Mickey did. Your heart goes out to him, the thought of him having to do what you are all alone for years. You were already being crushed by your own grief, you can’t imagine what he feels. He had has to experience even more isolation because he has to hide from everyone, can’t get caught, or he will be thrown in jail, no friends, no companionship at all, he is taking a massive trusting risk by seeking you out to fulfill his promise to Mickey.

You say it without thinking, “I want to help you too. I don’t want this to be one way, I want to know about Billy and want to help you out.”

“You really want that?” His smile was back, you return it, you squeeze his hand this time and tell him sincerely, “Yes really. The least I can do, we should help each other out.”

His eyes search yours, as if checking to make sure that you were being truthful and this was on the up and up. “Okay, okay, if you are sure, then we are in this together.”

“So. If that is the case, I supposed I should tell you about Mickey.”

He already knew some things, but not everything. You spilled your guts about the betrayal of what Nancy did. “They were both on the stage, doing the big song and dance, talking to and taunting Sidney. I hadn’t come out yet, they hadn’t mentioned me yet. I was waiting for my cue, but Sid just riled her up and she then she-”

This next part was hard. You inhaled and looked away from Stu, “...Shot him.”

Stu gasped, and you press on, “He looked so shocked. The holes in his chest spilled so much blood, he clutched at the wounds, and I watched his body fall back off the stage into the band pit.”

Stu is pissed for you. “I cannot fucking believe her! She drags you both to that school and makes you work together, gets you all tied up in each other's lives just to do her fucking revenge and dirty work for her, and she just-”

Stu ends up having to get up. He paces as he tells you, “Who does she think she is?! And she has the balls to say that I fucked up her son? She is a disgusting, heartless bitch!”

You agree. Seeing him so upset on your behalf is nice, being validated is more needed than you knew previously. You tell him, “Was.”

He turns back to you, that is right, was, you took care of her, and you told him all about it. “So, next I ran out there, knocked Sidney out with the butt of my gun and I just…I just yelled at her.”

You tell him about what you said, and she said, about how you shot out her knee, beat her face in and eventually stabbed her to death. He’d stopped pacing, was just listening to you describe the utter brutality you committed while staring down at your fists clenched so tight your nails bit into your palms. He comes back to the couch, he sits next to you, an arm wraps around your shoulders, and he says, “I am so sorry she took him from you.”

“Thanks Stu.” You say quietly, your hands open, and your eyes stay down, and then he says, “Also. Not trying to critique your work, but you coulda been wayyyy more brutal when you took her out.”

You laugh and lean your head against him. “Yeah, it was better than she deserved, I should have skinned her alive.”

He comforts you that afternoon, it’s sweet.

That is how it starts. Your strange friendship with the intent of being there for each other on getting past this. Stu and you would start with a weekly hangout. He would come by on one of your days off or for dinner, and you’d check in with each other and talk about how you were doing. Not every time was sad and dour. A lot of the time was light and nice. You’d share and swap good and positive times, fun stories back and forth.

Your friendship grew quickly due to the secrets shared, you bonded scarily fast, but you didn’t question it. You’d been alone for so long, you hadn’t tried to get close to anyone, didn’t make any new friends at your new college, you were most of the way through your degree and just had not bothered. You didn’t know how much you had missed contact and being around other people until you started to see Stu regularly.

Not all your hang-outs were centred around talking, over time you started to do other things in between the conversations, like tonight was movie night.

It's late. You and Stu are on your couch. Takeout boxes on the coffee table, the TV on but the VHS tape having hit its end, the pair of you illuminated by the blue light. The sun had gone down since you'd started watching, but neither of you had gotten up to go turn a light on. Both of you sit side-saddle on the couch, facing each other. You were talking quietly. "How about that first time you sleep in their bed with them?"

Stu saying it makes your first sleepover with Mickey launch into your brain. Warm sun on your face, tangled limbs and soft sheets. You prompt him, "God, yeah. Tell me about yours."

You listen as Stu shares, your hand finding his, thumb over the back of his hand as you soak it in, the casual physical affection especially during times of sharing just sort of happened, it wasn’t a conscious thing, it felt effortless.

“We’d had sleepovers lots over the years, sure, but the first one that felt like it meant something, the first time we really shared a bed as opposed to being on the floor in sleeping bags, happened shortly after that first conversation after his mom left.”

He told you more, “We hung out a lot after she left, he didn’t want to be alone, and one night, one really rough night, he didn’t want to go home. So he didn’t. He slept over in my bed.”

You ask, “How was it?”

His head cocks slightly to the side, half smile as he looks up and to the side, as if lost in the recollection of it, “Kinda awkward at first, honestly. We were separated, almost like we were afraid to touch each other, but eventually we fell asleep. When I woke up partway through the night, he was almost wrapped around me. It felt nice. I fell back asleep quickly. I woke up in the morning, and he was still passed out, arms still around me, and when he finally came to, he didn’t move away.”

He tells you that it happened more regularly after that.

“What about you?” He asked, and you smiled as you divulged.

“It was after our first kill together. We’d hooked up prior to that, but I never crashed at his place, always went back to mine or him to his, but that night, we just were practically glued together. We were on his couch, shared a shower, then on his bed. We’d passed out in the early hours of the morning when the high finally wore off. I woke up in his bed and curled up with him, we both slept in and missed our morning class and said fuck it, got breakfast out.”

Stu asked with a grin, “What’d you have?”

It was so unexpected you laughed, it took you a moment, but you said, “I had waffles with fresh fruit and whipped cream. He had a breakfast skillet. We gave each other bites of the other’s food, it was like sweet and savoury merging, it was really fucking good.”

“It sounds really fucking good.”

It truly was. Just like time with Stu was.

“Did you and Billy ever go out on dates?” You asked one afternoon. You had the day off and Stu was in the kitchen of your place while you are making lunch for you both, you are layering ham on top of cheese on well buttered bread, and he responds, “Not really, mostly we had dates in cuz we had to keep it quiet. Lots of movie nights over pizza and cheap beer.”

You hum in acknowledgement as you shake salt and pepper over the meat before putting on the top slice of bread. You press them down, tooth pics put through the layers of lettuce, meat and more, and then cutting the sandwiches diagonally. You set them on plates and then open a bag of chips, a handful on your plate and then his before you start to bring them over to the table. “Shame you couldn’t actually go out.”

“Well. We did once.” He said, as he pushed off the counter and came to his usual spot he took at your table, back to the window. You sit across from him and tug your plate closer, “Shit, really? Okay, so spill.”

He took your encouragement and told you that he and Billy went to the drive in together once. “Parked carefully and away from most people, picked a quiet night the place was more dead, couldn’t be as close as we wanted, but we held hands low below the dash while we watched The Shining.”

You know they probably would have preferred not having to sneak around, but something about it strikes you as painfully romantic, maybe because it reminded you of what you had with Mickey and your own adventures in hiding that side from everyone else.

“Sounds nice.” You admit, and he smiles, “It was.”

Next, he naturally asked, “What about you?”

“Yeah, Mickey and I mostly had to sneak around, but if we went far enough off campus we could have dates out.” A sigh before you crunch down on a chip. “Our first official, real date, after we got together, was so painfully us. It was his idea.”

“What was?” He asked with a smile as he scoops up half his sandwich, “He told me to get dressed up, like real dressed up, and we went to this nice ass restaurant in town. It was probably the nicest dinner out I ever had, he said money was nothing to worry about. I kept asking where he got the money to pay for this, did he scam some outta Mrs.Loomis, but he wouldn’t tell me!”

You remember it well. You wore the one nice dress you owned and brought with you, did your hair and make-up extra well and carefully, he picked you up and told you that you were a complete knock-out with that devastating smile of his. He looked similarly good, you didn’t know he owned a button-up shirt like that, let alone a tie or blazer. You went out, you ate, you laughed and made merry and then, the meal winds down, and he looks across the dirty dessert plates and the nice wine red table cloth. His eyes are alight, sparkling with mischief as he asked low, “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” You asked softly, and he took your hand as he asks in a playful tone, “Ready to run?”

“Run? Wait, Mickey, what do you mean ru-” He gets up, his hand gripping yours tightly he tugs you hard, yanks you onto your feet, the napkin in your lap hits the floor, and he is taking off, dragging you with him. A laugh breaks out as your other hand goes out to your side to try and keep yourself upright as you attempt to run in your heels after his lead without stumbling.

A weaving through tables and past a waiter who is almost knocked over, and you are out the door and onto the street outside, cool air hits your face as he doesn’t slow. He leads you down a few nearby alleys until you are a few streets over. You stop and are trying to catch your breath. You let go of his hand and push on his chest, breathless and laughing still, “Dining and dashing Mickey, are you serious?!”

“C’mon! Don’t give me that, you had fun.” You sigh as his hands fall to your hips, and you agree, a nod as you exhale out, “Yeah, I did.”

He leaned in and kissed you, a hum as you return it. Mouths break apart, still mere inches from each other, he asks, “Memorable first date?”

“To say the least.” You confessed and then you kissed him again.

“Committing murders together isn’t enough? You gotta do petty crimes on your dates too?” Stu asked, and you giggled, “I asked him the same thing later, basically. It wasn’t all our dates, but I would be lying if I told you everything we did together other than the murder was above board.”

A different night, you are having another conversation, on your couch, melting sorbet in bowls in your laps. You and Stu were channel surfing aimlessly. “You loved Billy, right?”

Stu glanced over to you, and you kept your eyes on the TV. He said, “Yeah. So much.”

“How did you know that you did?” You asked, and he said, “I think part of me always did. There wasn’t some big, grand moment. It was just like…A fact, the same way any other fact is. The sky is above me, the ground is beneath my feet, a knife feels right in my hand. And I love Billy.”

You don’t say those words. You can’t, but you do say, “I think I knew…When he and I had this sleepover when we were getting close to our finale’.”

Eyes drift from a cheesy made for TV movie to Stu. He looked comfortable. One elbow propped on the arm of the couch and his hand resting on the side of his face, body partly turned to you, bowl cradled in his opposite hand, and you tell him, “We had done another kill earlier. Had this wild and frantic hook-up near the body that was-there are no words for how good it was, honestly, but after that, later that night, I crashed at his place.”

You are in Mickey’s bed. You are in one of his t-shirts and your underwear, one sock on and one off, curled up in wrinkled sheets when you slowly start to wake. You feel his hand in your hair, playing with it, gently and cautiously stroking, fingertips brush down the curve of your cheek. He is speaking so low you can barely hear. Nearly inaudible you strain and don’t stir, you make him think you are still asleep and you listen.

“Sometimes I can’t believe you’re real. It’s crazy how close we were to never meeting.”

He is humming a tune, some song you can’t place but wish that you could, you hope one day on the radio you’ll hear the song that melody is from and that small mystery would be solved. You could listen to that song and it could be yours and his. You and Mickey never did decide on a song to be “your song”. Mickey’s thumb brushes gently under your eye as he says, “I’m so happy you came into my life.”

You felt overjoyed. You don’t let on. You never told Mickey you heard him tell you that, pretended you remained asleep, and you laid there and listened until you really did fall asleep once more.

You are back on the couch. No longer in the warm safety of Mickey’s bed in the memory you’d been recounting. You are shivering without realizing, the absence of his heat next to you makes you feel too cold., sorbet is put aside, you aren’t hungry anymore A blanket is thrown over your lap and Stu had moved closer, adjusting, so you are both under the soft plaid and plush material. You lean into Stu and tell him softly, “I miss him.”

“I miss him too.” Stu sighs. You know he means Billy, but know that he means Mickey too. It helps, knowing that he knew Mickey, even through a screen and chat room talks and e-mails, he knew him and lost a friend when you lost your partner in crime and fellow Ghostface.

You and Stu have been growing closer all the time. All the fun times as well as the deep emotional sharing was bonding you more, the platonic hangouts and affection you share is becoming decidedly less and less so. The looks are not so innocent, the touches linger longer than before and happen more often, as if you are using any excuse possible to be able to have hands on each other. You had been seeing Stu in this context for months, and all of this has been steadily bubbling and building beneath the surface.

He is so fucking funny, he always brings a smile to your face during hard days, he remembers the little things, kind gestures often happen, and he is there for you. He makes you feel heard and most importantly, understood. How could you not get a little crush on him?

The crush doesn’t stay so little, but you don’t share it, you think it would be inappropriate. You are supposed to be friends, recovery buddies, confide in each other and help process your grief. You and he had talked about nearly everything, the good, the bad, you’ve laughed, you cried. You can’t lose him too by pushing this and fucking it all up so as much as you’ve thought about saying literally anything, instead, you say nothing that lets on to this.

You hadn’t seen Stu for a bit. The past week he’d been completely absent, it wasn’t unusual because sometimes you both got a bit busy, but you were finally free and wanted to see him, so you called up the number Stu gave you for his cell. It rang, and it rang but eventually, he picked up the greeting was more of a groan or a hum then a bright hello that you might typically hear from him.

“Hey Stu, was just calling to check in, see if you wanted to come over, hang out. I was going to do homemade Chinese like you like for dinner tonight.” It is very quiet. No response. Dead air for a while, you wonder if the call is dropped, and he eventually speaks and says, “No, thanks. I’m just…Gonna stay home today. I don’t want to go anywhere.”

He sounded really, really sad, more than sad, tired, utterly depressed. You speak tentatively, “Oh, okay. I could, come over if you want?”

More silence. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Bye.”

The phone cuts, he’s hung up. You stare at the phone in your hand and something doesn’t feel right. You get up and get yourself together.

You’d been to Stu’s place a few times. Most of your hangouts were at your place, but a few times you’d picked Stu up to go somewhere or dropped him back. You get there within the hour and knock on his door. There is no answer. You knock again and call out, “Stu?”

A groan comes from behind the door, after a moment the door opens and Stu is standing in front of you, looking rougher than you’ve ever seen. He is still in his pyjamas and has a comforter around his shoulders, his cheeks look raw, eyes red rimmed and glassy. “Woah, holy fucking shit, are you okay?”

A shake of his head and he steps away from the door, he doesn’t urge you to follow, but you do, closing the door once inside, you trail after him. Stu walks to his couch and flops down. There are empty boxes of takeout and snacks, bags of chips and whatever else, you think this is where Stu has been this week, glued to his couch. You stand in front of him and look over the scene.

There is that damn silence again, stretching between you, and before you can ask, he says, “Today’s the day.”

It takes a second to click. It’s the anniversary of their plan failing, the anniversary of his life becoming totally fucked, and of course, the anniversary of Billy’s death. He didn’t tell you the date, but he didn’t have to, the day was burned into your brain and has been since before you came to Windsor, before you ever met Mickey. You’d been caught up, you’d started your last year of college, between that and your job and life you hadn’t paid attention to the date. You should have noticed, been more sensitive, he shouldn’t have needed to ask for help because you should have stepped up. As soon as the calendar turned over to September, you should have realized.

You crouch in front of him, hands on his knees, you look up at him and say, “I am so sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault.” He says, his voice sounds rough, and you say, “No, I’m sorry for not paying attention better. I should have been here this whole week.”

“No you shouldn’t have, this is why I was staying away because-” He inhales shakily, eyes close, and he forces out, “I’ve gotten so, so much better but this week and this fucking day, I just, I become a total mess.”

He pushes the comforter off his shoulders, lets it pool near his hips. Eyes open and hands raise, gesturing to the mess around the living room, but he can’t meet your gaze, “Like look at this shit?! It’s pathetic! I can’t take care of myself when I’m like this, I’m a fucking wreck and it’s embarrassing! I should be past this, but I still just- this fucking week! I can’t-”

His voice trails off, and it looks like he might cry if he keeps talking. You hate seeing him like this. You reach up, your hands take his as you remain crouched before him, you hold his hands in yours and say, “Stu. It’s okay. Grief it…It isn’t linear and it isn’t easy. It’s okay for this week to be hard no matter how long it’s been, it’s okay to be upset and messy sometimes and this is WHY I want to be here.”

A squeeze of his hands and you continue, “We are supposed to be supporting each other through this shit and I want to be here for the difficult stuff like this! Not just the fun conversations and the good stories, like the time you and Billy became obsessed with the subcategory of holiday themed horror movies and watched nothing but for a whole month.”

He laughs wetly at the memory, a weak smile on his lips, “You really remember that shit?”

“Dude. Yes. You told me the plots to all five movies in the Silent Night Deadly Night franchise, you don’t just forget that.” After that, you say, “So. I’m telling you. I want to be here. I want to help. Let me help Stu, please?”

Seeing him like this breaks your heart. He nods and says, “Okay, yes. Please, that would be…Amazing. I think I need the help.”

Admitting this is hard, and you know it, but you are thankful and impressed that he is able to accept your assistance.

You are there for him all day and you don’t leave his side. You make sure he eats some good food. You do some laundry for him, change his bedsheets, sweep, vacuum and you listen. He wants to talk and you let him. Eventually he passes out on the couch, and you cover him up and let him nap. You clean his kitchen and when he wakes up you’ve made lunch. You sit at the table with him and once he’s eaten you get him into a shower and into clean clothing. You support, and you comfort him, you attempt to pour all the energy he had into you the past few months for you, back into him.

It is near dinner time. You and he were on the couch, the place was back in order, he was clean and looking a little more like himself. You were contemplating what to do for dinner when his hand is on your thigh. Eyes flit to him, and he says, “Hey, I just wanted to say, thank you for today. You did so much for me and I appreciate it more than I can say.”

He gives you this half smile and says, “Mickey was so, so lucky to have you as his partner in crime.”

It happens quickly.

Today has proven to be too much for you. The closeness, caring for him, the vulnerability and yes all the months spent in this complicated emotionally intimate context makes you move forward. One hand cups his face, a thumb traces that same jagged scar he did the day he showed up at your door, the memory is as clear as crystal. Stu across from you at your kitchen table, warm afternoon sun shining in from the window at his back, the indentation feels softer and deeper than anticipated, just like Stu himself you supposed. Deeper and softer than the outside shows. You’d moved closer, you lean in and you kiss him.

You’d been thinking about this for a long while but had been so resistant. When he kisses you back immediately, you wonder why you ever doubted this.

It’s slow, a little nervous, you hadn’t kissed anyone since Mickey, you don’t know the last time he kissed anybody. Shit, you should have asked, this feels so good, but you have to stop. You move back, break the kiss and his hands are on your arms, a shake of his head, and he mutters, “Not yet.”

He drags you back to be against him and kisses you, deeper than before, and you melt into it. After another minute of his lips sliding against yours, he is pulling back with a sigh, “Okay.”

You nod, feeling a little fucking dumb from how good that kiss was. You echoed, “Okay.”

A pause, a tension heavy beat.

You speak again, anxiety overtaking you, rushed out, “I’m sorry.”

He laughs, a shake of his head as he says, “Don’t be. It was really nice.”

While that was lovely to hear you, it doesn’t fix your anxiety, you tell him, “I still should have talked to you first. I should have asked.” You push, and his hands fall away as he says, “It’s okay. I can’t tell you how long it’s been for me, and I didn’t realize how much I needed that.”

“Yeah?” You ask, and he nods, confessing, “Yeah, I’ve pushed that part of myself down for way too long.”

You could understand and agree with him there.

So what did this mean?

You have a deep conversation and the conclusion of it is neither of you want to be alone, you want to try and move on together, you think that both Mickey and Billy would want that for you.

“So. What do you want to do tonight?” You asked, and the sun was down now, the conversation ran long, neither of you had dinner, and he says, “I’m not sure.”

You asked, “How about pizza, some movies and cheap beer?”

He grins and says, “I’d love that.”

You go out, grab some tapes, a large pizza and some beer and come back to him. You and he eat too much pizza, crush some cans of beer and laugh over the comedy movies you’d picked out, horror felt like it’d hit a little too close to home.

At way past midnight, you share another kiss at his door, softer than the last one, and you go home.

The pair of you start to see each other in a romantic and sexual context after that night, as opposed to just a friend/grief helper context. The dates were low-key. The progression is slow, neither of you are in a rush. Kisses hello and goodbye aren’t enough, soon they happen more often, scattered throughout your hangouts, or dates now, you supposed, and they got longer until they could be classified as actually making out.

By the time you do go there and actually have sex, you’d been seeing each other in this way for over two months before it happens. You’d been getting progressively handsier, but nothing crazy, one night it just happens. The make out doesn’t stop where it normally would, clothes are thrown aside, and it feels shockingly natural, you fit together pretty well.

You’d missed this, being held, kissed, touched, allowing yourself to be seen in this way, to feel good, giving yourself permission to be intimate and to feel pleasure and to be desired, and my God did he make you feel those things. You felt much more satisfied than the battery operated help you’d invested in after being alone for so long. He was still concerned even during this, a hand between your thighs, fingers curling inside he asks, “Is this okay?”

And your back arches with a gasp of, “Yes, fuck, Stu don’t stop-”

Yeah, you got the hang of each other physically pretty quickly.

Dates with Stu are fun. You cook together, watch movies, late night walks, whatever feels right, one very fun afternoon you, and he learned how to make snicker doodles because they are Stu’s favourite cookie, but he never learned how to make them himself.

You feel happier than you have in a long time. You are making new memories with Stu and it’s good.

But it doesn’t feel quite right.

You are both holding back and you both know it.

Neither of you acknowledge it for a while. It’s like you are both too afraid to let yourselves love again or move on, that it might be disrespectful to Billy or Mickey, that it might make this harder.

Eventually, you do force yourselves to talk.

When you do you come to a big realization, that you both never got to say goodbye, and you think that is what is making you cling to the past a bit too much. You need to move on. Move forward. It’s been multiple years now for both of you.

So how to do this?

A plan is drafted. You and Stu are going to help each other have the goodbyes you always should have. You talk nearly endlessly about what you want to have happen during these goodbyes, endless talk of, “He would say this-” or “He always used to-”

You both listen to each other and plan to make this as good as humanly possible for the other.

Stu gets to have his first because well, fuck, you want to do it for him, and he has been waiting for so, fucking, long.

You take your time getting ready. You put on jeans and a belt, you bind your chest, you lace up the boots you’d gotten special and had been wearing out and about when not around Stu, giving them some wear and tear, scuffing them up on purpose to make them look lived in. On went the robe, and then you are holding the mask in your hands. It’s Stu’s mask. His and Billy’s are slightly different from yours and Mickey’s. You take one last look at yourself in the mirror and sigh, you slip it on and the hood comes up, gloves are put on, and you look at yourself.

You didn’t think you’d ever wear this costume again in your life and yet, here you were, doing it for him. You didn’t look like you, the boot made you taller, with your chest taped down like this, you look a lot more, ambiguous, which is honestly kind of the point when being Ghostface, it could be anyone right?

Stu comes back about twenty minutes after you are ready. He calls hello, comes in with the bag of takeout in his grip, he comes into the kitchen to find you and the sight makes his heart stop.

You’d talked a lot about what day it should be, he knew it was today, knew he’d come home to find you like this in his apartment, but still, it didn’t prepare him. The food is forgotten, he’s dropped the bag on the nearby counter as he takes in the sight of you in the full costume.

You are at the kitchen table, in a pose you’d seen Billy have in a few pictures Stu has shown you of him way back when. You emulated the look perfectly, you are sort of leaning back in the chair, one boot is propped up on the table's edge, voice changer is in one hand, big hunting knife in the other. You’d set yourself up to be facing the door when he came in, his eyes are wide and locked on you.

His expression is heart-wrenching. You can’t fail him, you are emboldened, you want to do this for him even more. Heal what is hurt in him. You bring up the small device and click it on, speaking into it, “Hey Stu.”

Cool modulated voice fills the air and you see how his breath catches. Fists clench, and he swallows thickly, he looks glued to the spot as he responds, “Hey man, what…What’s up?”

You ask, or you suppose to Stu, Billy asks, “You ready for tonight?”

Stu looks almost like he might be sick, sweat is visible on his forehead, he nods, “Yeah, yeah man.”

You don’t let up, you ask, “Gonna get geared up?”

Stu says quietly, fingers playing with the bottom hem of his sweater, “Yeah, soon I will.”

He comes forward finally, closer and closer, he reaches out slowly, carefully, like he can’t believe it, a hand finally rests on your shoulder. He’d never seen you in your costume live and in person, and you think that is better, makes this fantasy work the way it should for him. You’d thought a lot about what to say based off what Stu told you about him, so you take a small risk, “You alright? You look like you’ve seen a Ghost.”

The tone sounds gleeful even through the modulation and he laughs, or sobs? Something caught in the no man's land between. “Yeah man sorry, just, missed you.”

“Missed me? It’s been all of a few hours.”

He breaks. His grip tightens, head drops forward, and he says, “No it’s not. It’s been over four fucking years.”

You’d agreed to pretend like this was before the party, but he can’t keep the act. He wants to talk to Billy in the context of the time he has been gone, and you cannot deny him that.

You respond as softly as you can through the voice changer, “I know it has been. It must have been hard. It must have been lonely. I’m sorry I can’t be here for you anymore. Sorry, it shook out the way it did.”

He sniffs and says, “S’ not your fault, I don’t blame you.”

Stu sinks to his knees, your boot comes off the table's edge and onto the ground and his arms wrap around your middle, he hugs you tightly, face burying in the neck of your robe near the hood. He inhales and almost chokes, you did something extra to surprise him, you remembered a small detail, the scent Billy would like to wear, you bought a bottle. It clearly has the desired effect. He curls closer. Your knife is placed on the table, the hand that isn’t working the voice changer comes around, rubs over his back as you lean into him, “I can still be sorry, even if you think it isn’t my fault.”

“Not more sorry than I am. So fucking sorry I didn’t hold on to the gun, so fucking sorry I didn’t protect you.” He is rambling out apologies, and you let him as you stroke his back and mumble out reassurances that you don’t blame him, that it’s all okay.

He tires himself out. He holds you, and it’s quiet for a while after that. Just him holding you, and he says finally, “Can I tell you about what it’s been like?”

You nod.

He talks, tells you in even more detail than he previously confessed about the hardships he faced while Billy was dead and gone. He cries, you listen. He talks about the fear when he was on the run, the guilt, how long he was in bed, the days when depression was crushing the life out of him and the pressure he feels to live extra hard for the both of you now.

You comfort him further, one hand holding his as you tell him, “If I could make the pain go away, if I could go back, if I could say fuck the plan, if I could make grab your hand and say let’s say fuck this town and run. I would in a heartbeat.”

It gets physical after that. Very physical. He can’t hold back any longer, he kisses you through the mask, and it feels frantic and needy. He tugs at the robes, and you return the effort through the thin barrier of the rubber, trying to provide affection back in a way he can feel.

You and he end up in his bed. You are face down in the sheets, your robe is pulled up, jeans yanked down just past the curve of your ass, he is behind you, cold lube slick fingers preparing you. There isn’t any talking during this point, he has two fingers deep, curling, scissoring, opening you up, and you remember the one time you and Mickey did this.

This is more rushed but that is fine, the time you and Mickey did was slow, methodical, one of the more leisurely and passionate times you had with him. You were spooning, he kissed your throat and shoulder, let you back up onto him and you both rocked together. One of your hands holding your leg up, under your knee, his hand between your bodies, playing with your clit as he had you. Mickey was very into it, mumbling praise into your neck the whole time, he’d gotten off on the idea absurdly hard, you weren’t a virgin, but you’d never done anal before him and he was all but giddy to be the first.

You hadn’t really done anything else like that since him, except until you were leading up to this night, you’d done some serious prep work.

During your planning phase you and Stu talked endlessly about this, the idea of having one last fuck to say goodbye to your respective partners, and so you wanted to give him the best time you possibly could.

Once you are ready, slick and open, Stu’s fingers leave, you hear the click of the top of the bottle of lube, an ample amount poured into his hand. The sound of wet skin on skin is behind you, he jacks himself, coats his dick, and then you feel it, hard and hot, his head pressed to your throbbing hole. The breathless question is asked, “Ready?”

You answer him, “Always.”

Hips push forward, you give way, he slides inside with a long moan. “Fucks sake Billy.”

He holds himself inside, you wonder if it is to help you adjust or to prevent himself from cumming immediately. He slowly begins to move, hips pull back before pushing forward again, making you take more on each thrust until he is bottoming out. His pace doesn’t stay slow for long. “I missed this so much, missed you so fucking much.”

You are moaning back, finger basically locked onto the button of the voice changer, not wanting to break the spell or shatter his illusion. It’s messy. It’s rough. It feels incredible. His hands start off on your hips. He fucks into you, harder and harder, the ache and burn is satisfying, but it is slowly bleeding, shifting into pleasure with every passing moment.

“So tight, s’ like you’re strangling me-” He groaned as he pitches forward, his chest to your back, he rocks into you. One hand around your middle, the other gripping the headboard he was currently railing into you. “I love you so fucking much, Billy.”

You moan incoherently in response, you wish you could say it back, but you just can’t, he doesn’t press. In a few short minutes of him having you, of dirty talk and praise, apologies and promises you feel it build, you are going to cum untouched. The way your legs are together, how your underwear is bunched up, his rough pace and the friction on your clit is just enough to make it work. You cum with a shudder, clenching rhythmically around him with a gasping cry. The high is short but so sweet, the peak of it is sharp, the sex isn’t long, but the emotion poured into it more than makes up for that. You feel wet, sweat and slick down your thighs, tears on your face under the mask as the feeling of tonight has gotten to you too, and he tells you he’s close.

You’ve barely come down yourself.

“Shit, cah-can’t hold it, gonna, gonna cum, fuck, fuck-” And with a few more frantic and sloppy thrusts he does. His hips stuttering and then holds to the root and cums deep, you moan into the changer, his name and Stu shivers from the sheer force of his climax.

You stay like that long after he’s totally spilled inside of you, hunched together and panting. Slowly, eventually, he pulls out, he kisses the back of your neck and brings you down with him, spoons you, and eventually he starts to get sleepy. He is whispering sweet nothing's, telling you over and over he loves you, or rather, he loves Billy, is gonna miss him, and that he is never ever gonna forget him.

“I still make those sandwiches you like sometimes when we were kids, you know? Peanut butter and banana and honey. Tastes like home and they help on hard days. I make two sometimes as if you’re still here.”

Your heart aches for him.

You give him some more comfort,”Stu I appreciate you so much, but you can’t hang onto me forever. You have to move on with your life eventually.”

Stu sighs and cuddles into you closer as he says softly, “I know, man.”

Before he gets too tired, he says, “You don’t gotta worry about me, M’ not alone anymore.”

He means you. He is talking about you.

“She takes great care of me. You’d love her.”

He is half asleep by this point, totally worn out. “I’m glad you’re not alone anymore.”

“Me too.” You’ve rolled over partway through your conversation, and you are looking at his tired face, eyes closed. You pull your mask up enough to kiss him, you lean in, press your lips to his, he lazily returns it. You reluctantly pull back after a moment, and he says tiredly, “Bye, Billy.”

“Bye Stu.”

He passes out. When he wakes up, you are yourself again. You’d carefully untangled yourself from him and gotten cleaned up, out of the costume and tucked it away before coming back to cuddling him before you, equally exhausted, passed out. He wakes in the early morning light to you with him.

He is in a fantastic mood after that. He is so happy, he is already a very up and happy guy usually but even more so, he feels free, not weighed down, uninhibited. You and he do even better. There are more dates, more good memories, just great times together that make you feel even better about what you did and what you were able to give to him.

The question comes up, it isn’t a question of if you still want to. It's when.

While sitting there at the table, you said, “Next week.”

And he nods and echos, “Next week it is.”

You do it at your place.

It is a similar set-up. You come home from class to find him in the outfit. In a position that you’d seen Mickey in once. Him cleaning a knife in the kitchen sink, you don't know what he is washing off of it, but it looks convincing enough to be blood. You lean against the doorway and watch him. Your heart hurts. Was this how it felt for Stu when you did this for him?

Would you be able to fall into the fantasy? Would you be able to really believe it is Mickey and not Stu?

Your knuckles knock against the wood of the door frame and that makes his head jerk up, the mask turns, he sees you, the knife is set aside, hands dried on a dish towel and modulator picked up he talks, he says your name and all thoughts of Stu fall away. It is like you are rocketed back well over a year ago, back with Mickey standing five strides away from you.

Happiness and relief, floods you as well as anxiety, pain, so much all at once. You focus on joy, unending joy.

You fall back into it too easily, asking in a joking tone, “What are you still doing in that outfit?”

“What? Am I not allowed to revel?” He bantered it back so easily, and you feel warm. “You can revel out of the robe.”

You start crossing to him. You reach out, hands lock on his arms, and you feel him through the robe, You sigh, eyes fall closed, and the contact makes it hard to keep the mood light. You feel so heavy.

You speak honestly, the first thing that came to mind, just like Stu, you can’t pretend like it’s before it all happened. “I missed you.”

“I know. I missed you too.”

Your arms wrapped around him. You hug yourself to him, his hands settle on your waist the same way Mickey’s hands always did. He smells like he always did. You want to cry. You hold yourself back. “I can’t believe that bitch killed you. Took you from me.”

He hums sympathetically, and you go on, “I used to want to thank her, for introducing us, it never would have happened without her but now I just, I hate her so much. I killed her. For you. I beat her face in and blew her kneecap out, stabbed her more times than I think I could count, but it wasn’t enough.”

You sigh, your forehead rests on his chest. “No torture would have been a good enough revenge and retaliation.”

He comforts you, and it’s strange, he is using the voice changer, but it is like you are hearing Mickey’s voice, not Ghostface’s you wonder if the same thing applied to Stu earlier? Did he hear Billy when you spoke?

“Hey, hey, don’t say that, I am sure it was fucking brutal.” You laugh wetly, a nod as you say, “Yeah, it was, it really was. The sound her knee made when I ground my boot into it was fucking nasty.”

“Damn right it was, that’s my girl.” It was quiet for a while. You speak up first yet again, “It was hard being away from you.”

“Talk to me about it.”

You do. You talk about how hard it was, that you couldn’t finish at Windsor, that you had to transfer to a totally different school. You talk about how isolated you were, that you remained alone, and that you were so fucking sad.

You were set to graduate this year, and you told him doing that at Windsor wasn’t right, “Doing it without you feels wrong.”

He tells you, “You have to. You can’t put your life on hold for me forever.”

He is right, and you know he is right, and what is more is that you realize you don’t want to. You are ready to move on. Doing this was the right call.

“I found the note by the way.” You say quietly.

After you left the theatre you went to his room, intent on getting your things you’d left, taking them back and grabbing some of his things for keepsakes. You wear your gloves and you are careful. Among his things you find a note, he made a change of plan, he was going to double-cross Nancy before she did it to him first. He was going to say fuck the plan, the motive, he was going to let her take the fall and you, and he were going to be able to be together.

You sob on the floor of Mickey’s apartment. You mourn the loss of your future and what could have been. You also find something else in his stuff, he’d started a scrapbook for your shared killings, you of course take it along with anything else incriminating that might tie you to him and the crime. You’ve kept the scrapbook and showed Stu it before.

Stu, no, Mickey, you are in his arms, he apologizes that he can’t be there.

“I’ve been so fucking lonely, but it’s been better lately. Thanks to you, I met this…This amazing guy, he kept his promise to you, he’s been here with me making sure I am okay, and I think I’m gonna be, after not thinking I could be after so fucking long I think I’m gonna be alright.”

He tells you he is so glad that is the case, that you aren’t alone. The emotion becomes too much for you. Your hands on his body, and you lean up, you press your lips to the mouth of the mask and kiss him. You honestly don’t know if it is your mask or Mickey’s. You and he would share and swap so often you had no way of telling who’s were who’s, they became considered more “ours” than anything else.

You fuck on the couch, just like you planned weeks earlier, just like the first time you and Mickey ever hooked up. It is needy and rough, you push the mask up enough to be able to kiss him, and it feels so fucking good. You are straddling him, grinding against him, breathing is rushed as you are telling him, “Need you-”

“Have me then, I’m yours.”

You suppose he always was, and he always will be now.

His hands are on your hips, the robe was up, pants open and him exposed, you were wearing considerably less, clothing tossed aside on the floor, you’d shoved him inside, enveloped him and were riding him roughly, completely lost in it. You were rushing, but you didn’t fucking care, you’d just needed to take.

He huffs out in your ear that name that makes your hair stand on end, makes you want to shiver, a curse followed by, “-feels so good, princess.”

It ruins you. It was a term of endearment Mickey used to call you, at first it was to annoy you but over the time you were together it became a shared favourite, from mocking to something actually sweet and well-loved

Your legs thighs burn, fingers dig into his shoulders, head tips back as you moan, the pleasure is mounting, building, starting to become way too much to bear.

You cum, you sob, you squirt and confess that you love him, say it to him because you wanted to but never got the chance to. He returns the sentiment. The words are on the tip of your tongue, you are so fucking close, nearly there and just as it starts to crest, as it begins to peak, you say it, you confess, “I love you.”

The words are accompanied by an ample gush, you paint him, rivulets down his shaft, onto his pants, the robe, the couch cushion below too, you assume, but you couldn’t be bothered, much more concerned with cumming your brains out and babbling out over and over again, “I love you, I love you Mickey, m’fuck, m’ sorry I-I never got to say it.”

He is rocking back up into you because your body had seized up, too blissed out and strung out on sensation to continue riding him, he confesses back, “I’m sorry I stopped you from saying it back then.”

You accept the apology and as the words, “It’s okay-” slip off your tongue, he fills you.

He cums raw in you and that is something that hadn’t happened yet, not since you’d been with the real Mickey, not Stu playing him, and fuck did you miss it.

You shudder from the throbbing and warmth that spreads within your soaked and clenching hole. Everything slows down, like seconds stretch out longer and longer than they should be able to.

When you are done, when you both have stopped moving, him still inside, mess leaking out around his slowly softening shaft, you tell him, “I’m gonna miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you too.”

You kiss him and mumble, “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“I wish I didn’t have to either.” He admits, and you say, “I think I’m going to be okay, though.”

A hum as he asks, “Yeah?” And you nod, “Yeah. I’m in pretty good hands.”

You kiss him again, deeply, for the last time and when you slide him out with a groan, you press another peck to his lips and say, “Bye Mickey.”

He returns the goodbye, and you get up on shaky legs, mess dripping down your thighs, you go to have a shower alone.

You stay in there for a while. You wash yourself thoroughly and have a good cry. When you come out, your skin is steaming and hair is damp.

When you do come back out, Mickey is gone and Stu is there, hand outstretched and a smile on his face.

You go to bed that night quietly, no more talking, but nothing needs to be said. You’ve said it all.

In bed the next morning, you stir and slowly sit up, you stretch your arms up and look down to see Stu, still asleep, looking peaceful and comfortable. You reach down, your fingers trace the scars, and you say softly, “They suit you so well.”

Turns out he is awake, “You like a guy with scars?”

He asks it sleepily, and you laugh, he smiles, eyes peek open and emotion overtakes yet again as it so often does around him. You say it sincerely, “I love you.”

That gets him to sit up, propped up on one elbow, and you say, “I mean it. I do, I love you. I’m sorry I couldn’t say it sooner, but I never got to say it to him…Now that I feel like I have I can be honest, I can tell you. I…”

You trail off, eyes drop, and you shrug, “I never thought I was capable of love before Mickey, he showed me I was and after he left. I never thought I was going to have it again but fuck, you showed up and proved me wrong.”

His fingers tuck under your chin, and he tilts it up, catches your gaze, and you say, “Thank you.”

He leans up, he kisses you, and you melt into he climbs on top, and it happens naturally, legs spread, bodies line up, and you get your fill of him again. When you are laying there panting, trying to catch your breath, he tells you, “I love you too.”

You laugh, crack up and roll over, a punch to his shoulder, “Yeah no shit Macher.”

That morning, you go out for breakfast. He got eggs Benedict and you got crêpe’s that you both share.

You and Stu have moved on. You honour Mickey and Billy a few days a year, toasts on birthdays, anniversaries, death days, stories are still swapped, but that is about it. Their ghosts no longer haunt your lives or rule your days. Your relationship is no longer based on the past, it’s about the current, the now, and the future too.

You graduate, Stu is in attendance in disguise and so fucking proud of you. He cheers louder than anybody and claps in such a way you are worried about the attention it will draw to him, but you still smile.

By the end of the day, you have a new picture that is framed in your place. One that is similar to one he has with Billy and you have with Mickey. You took it away from the crowd on your campus, camera on a timer again. You're in a robe of a different kind, graduation robe on, hat in one hand, arm around Stu’s shoulders, holding a popped bottle of champagne and Stu with his arms around your middle lifting you up, big smiles on both your faces. You are so stupid fucking happy, you think it should be illegal to be this full of joy and hope.

Goodbyes are so fucking hard, but the future as of right now with you and Stu looks pretty damn bright.

#Stu Macher x reader #Ghostface x reader #SO #HERE IT IS #THE PART 2 #ENJOY #I am so sorry in advance dude

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