Work Text:
If you’re hurting, please show it
Don’t be ‘fraid to cry
And just for my enjoyment, you will suffer, suffer, suffer
Until you die
The Torture Tango from Spies are Forever
The night that Peter Spankoffski dies is like a lot of other nights. Or, at least, it would be like a lot of other nights if he lived much longer. These nights with his girlfriend would have become more and more normal until he fell into a comfortable routine. Unfortunately for everyone except for Max Jagerman, that isn't the way things happen.
This particular night, Pete was at the public library “studying” with Steph, in that sort of way that leads to flirting that leads to kissing that leads to- well. The librarian catching them at third base and kicking them out. They were in their special, secluded little corner where they’d never gotten caught before, even though they’d made out and touched a little above the belt. This was the first time they’d gone lower, though. Maybe that’s why they got caught.
When her hand cupped his dick and she started stroking, the way his fingers slid right along her wet folds, imaging what it might feel like to get deeper inside- God, it was heaven. Until the old lady started screaming at them and demanded they get out. Steph, the person with the world’s chillest demeanor, was barely phased when the elderly woman ordered them outside. She just called her dad’s assistant for a ride and asked if he wanted to join.
Pete shook his head, assuring her that he could walk- if he got caught in the mayor’s car making out with the mayor’s daughter then he might end up buried in the mayor’s backyard- so he decided to walk home instead. That's what he's doing now, walking home and trying hard not to think about how he's rock hard and even the sensation of the seam of his underwear against it a terrible torture. The minute he gets home he runs for his room, jolts into bed and shoves his hand down his pants.
Pete closes his eyes, trying to recreate the scene in he and Steph's secluded corner of the library, one of her hands on his back and one of her hands on his dick. Then he imagines something that really ruins the mood- the sound of Max Jagerman’s cackling laughter. He closes his eyes tighter, trying to call back the scene in the library, the feeling of the shitty chair, the smell of Steph’s perfume, the feeling of her nails on the tip of his-
“Fuckin’ gross,” his inner Max Jagerman taunts, “can you even cum with a penis that small?” Pete lets out a frustrated sound as he removes his hand from his cock, every ounce of arousal deserting him. He decides that if his stupid subconscious won’t let him have a Max Jagerman-less wank session, he should just bite the bullet and take a cold shower instead.
Pete decides to sit up and opens his eyes. This, of course, was a mistake. Max Jagerman’s sparkling, half-translucent body floats above him. In response, Pete lets out an undignified screech.
His undead bully points a finger at him and laughs. “Fuckin’ classic! Jerkoffski always fails, even at jerking off!”
“No,” Pete says, shaking his head, “this isn’t real.” He fell asleep or something- collapsed into bed after he got home from the library, had a good wank, and fell asleep to be tormented by this phantasm in his nightmares.
“Nope,” Max says, reaching forward and grabbing his glasses, ripping them roughly off of Pete’s face. He takes them and throws them across the room, the glass shattering as it hits the wall.
“No,” Pete says, watching the even hazier form of his dead bully float above his head, “this doesn’t make sense.” There has to be some sort of explanation- sleep paralysis, guilt hallucinations-
“Of course it makes sense,” Max says, “I’m Jesus, back from the dead!”
“You’re not Jesus," Pete retorts. He isn’t religious, hasn’t been since elementary school, but he went to enough Presbyterian services to know that Jesus doesn’t act like this.
“Eh,” Max says, “maybe not Jesus, that guy was too soft.” He reaches forward and grabs Pete by the hair, pulling his head roughly to the side, “But I am your God.”
Pete grabs at his arm, trying to dig his nails into the reverse-oobleck of his tormentor’s arm. The moment he doesn’t try to work against Max’s form, it feels solid, but the moment that he tries again it seems to turn to gas against his hands. No matter what, though, when Max tries to touch him, his almost-flesh stays solid. Fucking horror movie physics. There has to be a way to understand it, to fight him-
“Say it,” Max demands, tightening his grip on Pete’s hair, “say I’m your God.” Pete bites his lip, trying to keep himself from crying out. He’s not going to give Max the satisfaction of hearing his screams. He certainly won’t degrade himself the way the guy wants.
Max pulls his hair harder, throws him off the bed and onto the floor. His knees land on an inconvenient pile of legos and he lets out a cry of pain. Max shoves his face down into it, pushing his jaw bone directly against the hard plastic of the blocks.
“Go on,” Max coos, “say it.” Pete refuses to make a noise.
Max shoves him down harder. “SAY IT!” He leaves Pete there for a second in his pathetic pile of pain. It’s not much different than the parking lot of Pasqualli’s, really. Max is demanding something, and Pete is refusing to give it to him.
Maybe if he just gives in, just a little, then Max will stop. Maybe he'll let him go if he just gives him what he wants. Hesitantly, he looks up at the former King of Hatchetfield High in all his mutilated glory, clothes ripped and resewn along the lines where he and the others hacked his limbs off.
“Just say it,” Max adds, sing-song and soft like a teacher about to pry a false confession from your lips. No, Pete remembers, the Jagerman always lies. His last words were swearing revenge- no compliance is going to stop him from taking it. Giving in will just take his last shred of dignity and throw that on the pyre too. Pete shakes his head.
“Shaking your head, nerd? C’mon, what’s with the fight?!?! You should be on your knees, begging me to spare your pathetic!" He accentuates it with a kick." Little!" Kick. "Life!” Another kick, just for good measure. Peter is terrified and in pain, but he keeps shaking his head, the movement turning almost violent.
“What?” Max shouts, looming back over him like a predator with its prey.
Pete looks to the side, trying to see if he has a clear line from his spot on the floor to the exit. Max shoves him onto his back, holding his throat to the ground with his massive hands.
“You gonna beg me or what?” Max demands, the megalomaniac demanding compliance. Pete reaches his hands up to his neck, trying to claw at Max’s arms, but he only ends up scratching his own flesh as he passes through the bully’s. Max squeezes harder, cutting off his breath. However many agonizing, breathless seconds pass… Pete couldn’t tell you, but the bully lets his grip lessen for a moment.
“Answer me,” Max orders.
“No,” Pete squeaks.
“No?” Max demands. He moves his hands up higher this time, grabbing Pete by his jaw and digging his knife-sharp nails into the flesh. “FUCKING LOOK AT ME, NERD!” Pete closes his eyes and repeats no over and over and over again. He keeps his eyes closed as the words become a litany, the closest thing he’s said to a prayer since he was ten years old.
Despite how hard he tries to keep his eyes closed, they open anyway. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Max tried to pry them open, but it feels like his own muscles have betrayed him. Now that his eyes are open, he can’t close them either. Max shoves him down to the ground, letting every part of his body collide with the ground. Then Pete’s pulled into the air and slammed back against the carpet.
He's frozen on the ground once again, after being lifted without Max lifting a finger. Max slams his boot back onto Pete's chest, looking down at him with a shit-eating grin.
“How?"
“Psychic powers, dipshit,” Max tells him, “bestowed by God. The one that hates you and loves me.” Pete finds himself letting out a manic laugh. There are atheists in foxholes after all, because he still doesn’t believe it. Whatever this is- it’s not from the holy texts his dad tried to force down his throat at Sunday school. This is something completely different.
Max takes his foot off of Pete’s chest and for a moment, he feels free. He tries to push himself up to escape but finds himself weighed down onto the floor.
“Come the fuck on!” Pete shouts, pressing against the unseen weight holding him down. He feels like that guy from the Salem Witch Trials that they pressed to death under stones, what was his name?
Max grins at him. “Hm, what's the best way to end you- the nerdy prude that lured Steph away from all things cool and just.” Then he turns his attention off of Pete, starting to rifle through his drawers instead. The guy caught him masturbating! He knows that’s not true!
“I’m not a prude,” Pete says indignantly, like that’s the part that matters, “you just caught me jacking off!” He doesn’t want to relive the embarrassment in his mind, but his tormentor can at least acknowledge that. Prudes are supposed to abstain from that shit, aren’t they? Max grabs a pair of Pete's underwear and flicks it at Pete's head like a rubber band.
“Yeah, I saw you jacking off,” he says, clicking his tongue like a disappointed mother, “it was pathetic.” He goes right back to his search through Pete’s drawers, switching to the next one down.
“But that’s not prudish,” Pete says, trying to bring some meaning back here- settle an argument on semantics when it’s the only thing that he can do.
“What part of I decide isn’t clicking for you?” Max demands, “is your brain as small as your dick?” Pete tries to respond, but Max closes his hand like Darth Vader and it closes Pete’s mouth with it. He can scream, of course, but it’s muffled- pathetically muffled. The kind that barely registers as a sound at all.
In the next drawer, Max finds his accessories, and well… The rest is history. Peter Spankoffski is hanged to death on a noose made of carefully and intricately woven bow ties.
The New and Improved Maxwell Jagerman lets his victim's corpse spin around for a bit before he turns off the ceiling fan and lets the body dangle. Then he wonders if there's anything else dangling. Well, he never found out for sure about the rumors. He pulls down Micro-Peter's pants, underwear and all.
“Huh,” Max says, examining the corpse's rigor mortis boner, “guess I was wrong. It wasn’t actually micro. Congrats, Average-Peter.” He cackles as he gives the nerd one last flick-it ticket. It’s a little sad, doing this for the last time. Ah well! But there's no time to cry over dead nerds. The Jagermeister's still got plenty left to terrorize.