#horror drabble

[solitaryearthperson]

God, I Love Her

Jennifer Check x Vampire!reader

Pulling away from the man’s neck, you saw that while he was barely hanging on to consciousness, his heart was still beating. Perfect. 

“Jen,” you called. “Got a snack for you.”

Smiling, the half-demoness walked over to you, her eyes held a look of hunger towards the man and you.

“You spoil me so good,” she said, pulling your body against hers.

You both quickly shared a bloody kiss, both of your fangs slightly grazing each other, before she pulled away and looked down at the man. Sighing, you watched, happily, as she bit into him. God, I love her.

[i-heart-slashers]

Hope this is okay for the birthday thing? Can I have Jennifer from Jennifer's body? cherry, silk, dare and it be suggestive?

ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ: Jennifer Check

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: suggestive

ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: cherry, silk, dare

It started with a cherry.

One slow pull of the stem between Jennifer’s plush lips, tongue curling around the fruit like it was something sacred — or sinful. You weren’t sure which. Her eyes met yours, half-lidded and wicked like she knew the effect she was having. She always knew.

“You keep staring like that,” she murmured, voice dipped in honey and blood, “I might think you want a taste.”

You swallowed hard. “Maybe I do.”

That earned you a smirk, sharp and sweet all at once. The cherry vanished into her mouth with a pop. When she leaned forward, the silk of her low-cut camisole shifted like liquid across her skin. You could swear the room got darker — or maybe hotter. The party outside faded, all noise and lights and people dissolving into nothing but the gravity between you and her.

Jennifer was sitting on the edge of her bed now, legs crossed, head tilted. Predatory and poised.

“I dare you,” she said, slow and sultry. “Come here and take what you want.”

You didn’t need another invitation.

Crossing the space between you felt like falling under a spell. Maybe you were. Your hands found the soft silk at her waist; hers tangled in your hair like it was made for her fingers. Her lips met yours in a kiss that wasn’t gentle — it was claiming. Hungry. She tasted like cherries and something darker. Copper, maybe, or perhaps just danger.

When she pulled back, there was a smear of your lipstick on her mouth and an echo of your moan still vibrating between you.

“You really shouldn’t play with monsters,” she whispered against your neck. “But it’s so cute when you try.”

You gasped when her teeth grazed your skin, not quite biting — not yet.

Maybe it was the thrill, the heat, or just her. But as she pushed you back onto the bed, laughter like a growl in her throat, you knew one thing for sure:

You’d never say no to another dare.

[prettykittycastle]

Another One

DIRTY DRABBLE

(Reader is gender-neutral and AFAB.)

“Let Will have a taste, dear,” Hannibal whispered in your ear, holding you down as Will continued to suck on your clit, hungrily. “How do they taste?”

“Mmm. Perfect.”

Lowering his head, he ran the tip of his tongue around your entrance before inserting it in, licking up your juices.

Moaning, you felt tears come to your eyes as Will began fucking you with his tongue, and before you could make your hopeless plea to stop, you suddenly felt the psychiatrist’s fingers rubbing against your clit, pushing you to cum on the other man’s tongue.

“Good…Now give us another one.”

[snootlestheangel]

This idea I've had all day but haven't had the chance to sit down and really write out

Retired Military!Ghost x Cannibal!Soap

Ghost's last assignment led to a pretty rough mental breakdown, and the higher-ups pulled the plug on "Ghost" and benched Simon Riley permanently

Nothing Price or Laswell could do would fix this

But he can't sit still. He ends up traveling a lot, and it's how he ends up in some old bar in a small town in the Scottish Highlands.

It's how he meets a very attractive stranger, all deep voiced and smooth talking.

Normally, Simon isn't one for hook-ups, but it's his retirement and he figures he should enjoy himself while the opportunity presents itself. Besides, this man, apparently called "John" is very attractive, and Simon finds himself enjoying the way the man's hands feel on his waist, the way his stubble scratches his neck as the man whispers downright filthy things into his ear.

"Ahm gonna eat yah right up" shouldn't be as... enticing as it is to Ghost, as something about the way the man growled it should have been a red flag.

Another red flag should have been how quick the man was to offer they head back to his place. But Simon figured it didn't matter, and it was certainly cheaper than finding a motel at this time of night for a reasonable price just to get laid.

Another red flag was the fact the man was practically a recluse, living deep in the mountains in a quaint little place. But, again, Simon didn't mind. He figured, that despite how well built the man was and despite not having the upper hand here, he'd still be able to easily defend himself should the worst arise. He is Ghost after all, retirement be damned.

And the man is good in bed. He's got Simon on his back, practically whimpering, as he bites and kisses all over Ghost's body. He's pinching the fat along his stomach, nipping at the stretch marks along his hips, thighs, and pecs, sucking hickeys into the fat of his arms. Simon feels like he's being eaten alive, but by god is it addicting.

Soap, meanwhile, isn't a human only diet type of cannibal. It's more of a guilty pleasure, going to the nearby bar and picking off an unsuspecting tourist that fits the physique he knows makes for a good meal, and can last the course of several meals.

He hadn't even planned on bringing anyone home that night. Certainly not to eat, and certainly not for sex.

But when he saw the absolute unit that is Simon Riley walk in and take a seat at the bar, he knew he just had to sink his teeth into that man's biceps.

But he finds himself struggling to commit to the idea of killing and eating this man. He craves it, so desperately, as he bites and kisses along the man's stomach. He feels perfect, and Soap so desperately wants to taste him in the most literal sense.

But he just can't

The obscene noises he's making under Soap's tongue, teeth, and hands are noises he's finding himself addicted to.

Besides, he knows he's not winning that fight as long as the man is conscious.

Anyways I don't know where this would go but yeah. That's the idea. It's been rotting my brain all day and I needed to get it out :)

[sp-growingpains]

Campfire Stories

Hey so real shit. I got an ask about my silly OC that turned into a quick short story! Ignore this if you want! I'm just getting the old writer brain working again.

TW: Blood, Horror, Body Horror, Mention of suicide. A horrible attempt at writing horror!

Tiny little chips of fire flicker off the roaring flame. That warmth translates into both temperature and color. Red and orange eating away at the smoking, dry firewood. How could one define a summer night quite like this?

A bunch of tipsy, high out-of-their-mind assholes sitting around a campfire. It was a good thing Stan lived so far away from town and that his dad was gone for the weekend at some farmers' market. The backyard of a farm was the perfect place to get away from it all. If you weren't Stan literally any other day of the year.

The lip of the cheaply bought gas station beer clicks against the twin black rings on her bottom lip. A familiar buzz runs down her spine, swirls to the front of her stomach, and settles there for the night. She tilts the bottle back until the liquid is all but a memory.

The flames light reflects off the bottle as it goes soaring through the air, shattering against the side of the trashcan. Jean quirks a brow at it, only a bit surprised she actually made it into the trashcan this time.

"That story was kinda lame, dude. How was that supposed to be scary? Jean-Bean! Tell them a real scary story!" Jean finally tunes back into the conversation going on around the fire. A slurred chores of murmurs followed by a light-hearted command to quiet down by Kenny.

"I was telling it fine!" Poor Clyde's face screams betrayal. He lets his hand fall down onto his leg in defeat.

"I know your 'and-then' headass isn't talking! Hush, chatty monkey!" Red is quick on the draw, shooting the brunette down before anyone else had a chance to. The rest of the group finds humor at his expense.

"What story am I telling?" She stretches out a hand, giving Clyde's shoulder a little squeeze as she sits up in the foldable chair. It creeks a bit under sudden shift, the four legs tip back to two, then back to four.

"That toy maker one!" Kenny grins that easy-going smile. His voice - just loud enough to create that tension that one could pluck out of the air.

Jean can feel her lips tug into a smile, mirroring her childhood friend. There's a glint of mischief in both their eyes, a silent conversation that comes from years of knowing one another.

"Ah... the toy maker. Yeah, I think I remember how that goes." There's a pause thrown in there so she can lean forward on her knees. Propping herself up on her elbows, she stares into the fire. The warmth helps her gather her thoughts, bringing her into the mindset.

"Every story starts with a rumor. Words on the wind - whispers in the ear of another. Over tea or coffee, little lunch dates with friends. This one is no different... well... aside from the fact there are no records of this tale. All of it is told by tongue." Jean clicks her tongue ring against the little metal rings on her lips. Her eyes dart from person to person in tempo with her tongue.

"In a little town, off the coast of the shores of South Carolina, lived a toy maker and his family. He didn't start off a toy maker. No, that came later in life. At first, he was an artist, a business man, and a doctor. Quite the established fellow, having achieved so much in life." She pauses again. This time so she can fish around in the bag of marshmallows resting near her black boots. The sugary puff sits between her fingers, already beginning to melt from how close she's sitting next to the fire. It creates a stringy sticky film around her digit.

"As such, his family was well off. His children and wife never wanted for anything. Neither did the town. They rejoiced in the parties the toy maker threw. Every night was something different. Food, drink, song! What more could a town ask for?" She pops the marshmallow in her mouth, chewing it without a care in the world. The only other sound is the laughter of the fire and Red shifting in her seat.

"So, of course, the toy maker grew restless. At the request of his darling little girl, he learned to craft toys! It started off with little toy trains and wooden dolls. Puppets on a string that would laugh simply because he willed it too!" Her body snaps up as if she had strings attached to her elbows and shoulders. Clyde jumps back a bit, his body finding comfort next to Kenny. The sudden shout coming from the raven haired woman pulls the attention of the others. "Now, not only was the toy maker supplying the town with his medical expertise and money, but now it was entertainment! The chileren of the town loved the toy maker!" She tilts her head, still moving as if someone were pulling her strings.

Red bites her lip, tucking the ruby red paint in between her teeth. She swallows back any urges to interrupt with a swig of her alcohol. The shallow gulp catches Jean's attention. She waits until the drink is down her throat before she starts tapping her tongue ring against her teeth.

Click. Click. Click

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Goes the passage of time. See, I may have lied to you. Not everyone loved the toy maker. The mayor of the town was a stern man, a spiteful man, a jealous man." Jean tuts softly. "Always looking for a way to buy back the love and admiration of his people. He simply couldn't stand that the toy maker was soaking up the spotlight. So when the time came for another party, he attended this one. With one goal in mind. He would simply...snip the strings of the toy maker. One.at.a.time." She emphasizes each word by dropping her limbs limp. The story cuts the invisible strings, keeping her arms up.

With her head hung low, her knuckles brushing against the cold earth, her long black braids dangling by her her, she murmurs. "First is starts with a little poison in his wife's drink. A glass of wine that hides the taste of the deadly concoction. The poor, poor toy maker spends his days trying to nurse his wife back to health. All the while, his children are being taken care of by the staff. Then goes the youngest son, who played a little too close to the shores of the Atlantic. The dark blue tides gobbled him up and spit him back out. When he came home, his skin was dark blue, and his skin was cold to the touch."

Her body begins to move and twitch again. Twisting her taller frame up so that way she could peer up at her friends. She catches the eyes of Tolkien, the fires light making the brown of her eyes shine like pools of honey.

"Oh, how kind the mayor had been to return the boys body to his father. Oh, how kind the mayor had been when he told the toy maker that it was his fault; after all, it was due to his negligence that his son died. Oh, how kind the mayor had been indeed."

Jean sits up fully now, slowly rising to her feet. She gestures for Jimmy to take her seat, practically walking on air that she's captured his attention. Having someone like Jimmy stop and listen to your story was like winning a medal of honor. She begins the slow walk around the fire, casting a tall shadow over the group.

"What was a man to do? His youngest passed away, and his wife still wasn't getting better. What could he do? Well...he could...lock himself in his workshop and his office? Yes! He could...shut the doors to his estate, letting only the staff in and out of the house! Brilliant! Oh, and of course he could...put that medicals degree and toy making skills to work!" Her hands suddenly snap over towards Kenny's shoulder, grabbing the material the orange parka like a lifeline.

Kenny only chuckles and lets her use his arm for the dramatic effect. He lets his body go limp so she can lift up his arm.

"His dear sweet wife only needed a tune-up! Just a few new parts, and she'd be good as new! The toy maker was a brilliant man, but even he knew better than to attempt anything without a little practice first." Her voice drops to something more smooth. She lifts Kenny's arm up and inspects it for a moment, pretending as if she were the man in the story. "So it starts with a servant. The poor old nanny was on her last leg anyway~! He was doing her a favor."

Jean hums quietly, stuffing Kenny's arm back into his jacket. Which, thankfully, he obliged and slipped his arm into his coat. She drops his sleeve and moves towards the other arm. Gingerly, plucking the glass bottle out of his hand and setting it aside. "The toy maker lured the old woman down into their basement. There, he sedates the woman, rendering her helpless to his twisted experiment. Unfortunately for her and him, the old woman's body just didn't take to the doll nearly as well as he hoped. It moved and talked, but it lacked the soul. But do the first attempts ever really work?"

Jean goes on to tell the group about how the toy maker slowly picks off servants and how it isn't until he attacks the head chef that it finally works. All the while, she's hiding pieces of Kenny's body in his coat. Each limb is another victim. When she gets to the chef, she's holding the sides of Kenny's head.

"Finally, he had done it! The chefs soul took to the robotic husk! He moved and talked like the beloved family chef, ever loyal and kind! Just in time, too, the bodies in the basement were beginning to pile up too high. The townsfolk were beginning to complain about the pungent smell. A meeting was held, where they begged the mayor to do something."

She grins down at Kenny, who was only pouting because she was tossing his head back and forth. Her fingers gently dig into his cheeks as she guides his face around. "The mayor was so happy to have his people back. They needed him. They loved him. Him, not that silly toy maker. Of course, he'd answer their calls!"

Her hands stop their playful movements. She moves her fingers down towards Kenny's chin, tilting his head up so he's looking at the people surrounded by the campfire. More of the people they grew up with have stopped to listen to the silly tale. She wasn't sure if it was really scaring anyone, but it was nice to be so entertaining. Kenny didn't seem to mind the attention either. He was trying, so hard not to grin. The next part of the story required him to focus.

"So, the mayor rounds up some brave folk, and they march straight up to the manor. They bang on the doors of the once beloved home. Their voices ring out into the night, demanding the toy maker meet them! Tick. Tick. Tick. They can hear the sound of a clock ticking... but it's not a clock. It's the maid. She opens the door."

Another pause.

"Where there should be flesh is porcelain. Where there should be a steady heartbeat is a ticking of a clock. Glassy eyes greet them, then the broken voice of a woman long gone." Jean mimics a bow, gesturing for some invisible town folk to walk inside a manor that is not there. "Oh won't you come inside. The master is busy at the moment, but the least I can do is get you refreshments."

It would be comical the way her voice pitches up an octave. It doesn't fit right on her tongue, she made a mental note to work on that later.

"The townsfolk reel back in horror. What was the abomination that just opened the door?! How did it move so fluidly. Immediately, they knew they had reached the doors to hell. The smell of decay and rot assaulted their scenses. It churns their stomachs and sets off that part of their mind that tells them to run. Unfortunately, they don't get the chance to."

Jean smirks, her lips twist across her face showing off those sharp canines. "So it starts with the men in the back. The sound of a buzzing, fleshing being torn apart. Screams of agony and panic."

At that exact moment, the rev of a chainsaw comes out from the fields that surround the Marsh farm. The engine sputtering to life with a thick growl.

"Through the mist of blood, the townsfolk could see the failed experiments coming from the unkempt yard. Their twisted limbs and toy parts clawing and ripping through their loved ones! With no place to go but in the manor, they push their way in! The mayor scrambles inside, screaming, begging, pleading to whoever will hear his prayer until he's down to his last four men. Just him and these poor souls, trapped in the deep dark corners of this once great home."

The sounds grow louder, as if the chainsaw was getting closer. If it wasn't for the grin on her face, maybe someone in the group would suggest they leave. Clyde, who was trying to enjoy the night, looked as if he was about to pass out. He clung to the expensive material of Tolkien's shirt for dear life. Red had Bebe tightly secured in her arms, a relaxed look on her face through the whole thing. Butters was on the edge of his seat, watching with those soft baby blues.

"Hands of all shapes and sizes reach out from the darkness. They grab onto the men's legs, pulling them away. Their finger nails scrape and leave marks into the wooden floor boards. The buzzing sound hasn't stopped. It's just the mayor now. All alone in this hellscape, he helped create. Just as he thinks he's going to get pulled in, his mind racing with all the horrible things the toy maker would do to him, the lights flicker on. He's sitting in the corner of the ballroom. In a room with people dressed so neatly and perfectly. Music kicks on, and a heavy waltz begins. The stone cold faces of people - no...dolls begin to move past him."

Jean starts to hum the gentle tune of what the waltz might have been. It's a little difficult over the sound of the chainsaw, but somehow, they make due. Just as she reaches the crescendo, a blur of another human moves out from the shadows.

Flashes of red curly hair illuminating from the fire, a chainsaw raised above his head. Kyle revs it once more over the chorus of screams and laughter. It wasn't often Broflovski joined in on things like this, but the chance to scare a few of his classmates was one he couldn't pass up on. Especially if it meant getting to bust out the old chainsaw he used on Halloween that one year.

Once everything has calmed down, Jean continues the story. "They say that if you go to that small town, on nights that are calm and warm...you can hear the whole town gathering at the manor. Their immortal doll husks danced the night away. All except the toy maker, of course. Poor man never succeeded in keeping his family together. The wife, his children, the servants, even the mayor. They all live an eternity with each other... but he had to live with what he had done. Eventually, he couldn't take it anymore...and just -"

Jean turns Kenny's head with a quick push of her hands. The blonde goes limp and falls forward with a heavy thud. He lands next to Bebe, who lets out a blood curdling scream.

"Oh my god!"

"Jean what the fuck?!"

"Dude!"

Again, it isn't until both Kyle and Jean fall into a fit of laughter that the group stops. Under their laughter, they could hear Kenny's raspy laugh under it. He slowly sits up and pops his neck back into place, creating a moment of silence.

"Oh, the things we do to make ourselves look like assholes~." Kenny coos, sitting up with the help of Butters. The sweet man is quietly praising Kenny.

For the rest of the night, Jean has a smile on her face that's a mile wide. She could handle the name calling and people half-assed bullying her. It was all worth it for this, Clyde was crying and Bebe was scolding her.

She'd pay her dues later that night when Jimmy took his turn. Curled up in her seat, holding onto Bebe and Red both as if they were nothing more than a stuffed animal, letting Clyde hide his face into her back.

Summer nights never felt so warm.

[the-sand-guardian]

Whumptober Day 6: Healed Wrong

Two weeks ago, Mariana died. Charlie had held him in his hands and wept as he squeezed out his last words. Charlie held his cold hand at the funeral and comforted Flippa as she’d watched them lower him into the ground. He could still feel his tie seemingly tightening around his throat and the way he almost choked on his breaths saying goodbye. His eyes still burned at night when he remembered fondly how their arguments would lull him to sleep. 

That was until he came back. 

You see, two days ago, Mariana had limped his way home, still covered in dirt and pale. He’d raised a greyed fist and knocked on the door pathetically. Charlie had almost screamed when he saw him. His beloved bitch wife looked exactly as corpse-like as the day they’d buried her. But at least he was back. 

Mariana’s hands were still cold. So, so cold. Charlie would watch him carefully in the few moments they weren’t together, but he never caught so much as a cold chill. Mariana had seemingly also lost any desire for bickering that he’d had before undeath. Their halls were emptier and quiet without their constant arguing. Instead, Mariana had begun to actually be sweet to him. Normally, Charlie would have to fake being asleep to receive affection, but now he could hardly shower on his own. 

Even Flippa was a little put off by it. She gave Charlie odd looks behind her Apa’s back, but all he could do was shrug. Mariana would tangle all of her limbs amongst Charlie’s, effectively pinning him to whatever surface they were cuddling on, and just hold him there. Ordinarily, Charlie might not have minded this too much, but without their usual routines of bickering and making up, being married and then divorced, he just began to find it boring. He hated thinking of his wife that way, but he’d just changed. His bitch wife had devolved into just his wife. 

He’d stuck with this Mariana for a week before he’d noticed another oddity. In the middle of the night, always around one or two am, Mariana would silently detach herself from him and creep out into their kitchen. On one such night, he climbed out of bed and tried to follow him, hoping his own escape would be as silent as his husband’s had been. He thought he’d succeeded but he’d only barely stepped foot into the kitchen and caught a glimpse of Mariana staring into a bubbling pot on the stove when she’d turned his head so quickly towards him that he was almost convinced she’d broken her neck. 

He’d then turned his body to match his head. Even in the dark, Charlie could make out Mariana’s wide and nearly delirious eyes. She took a step towards him, and Charlie took one step back. The little hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and his blood ran cold. Mariana took two steps towards him now, still at that tediously slow pace. Charlie’s stomach flipped. Mariana took three steps this time, though on the third she tottered just slightly before her foot hit the ground silently. Charlie had subconsciously given up on making any sort of escape as Mariana finished her tediously long walk towards him. She carefully raised a frigid hand to his face and caressed it, soft as a Spring breeze. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Charlie’s trembling lips before standing back up. 

“Go on back to bed, Slime. It’s too late for you here,” 

And all Charlie could do was nod and listen to him.

<><><><><><><><><><>

Thank you for reading! I've also posted this to Ao3, where I'll be cataloguing all of my works for this month! I also have 3 other WIP fics, so if you enjoy my works please go show some love over there or feel free to shoot me an ask!

[residentfromnowhere]

| PERFECT SACRIFICE |

TW: Sacrificing Ritual, Kidnapping & Death

Yandere!KyojuroRengokuXReader

Choosing the perfect dress for ones wedding should be one of the most precious and happiest moment in any brides life. From the fit of the dress down to the intricate details in ones veil, the moment in itself marks a milestone that many will and have never reached. To know that soon, you will be starting a new journey with someone whom you and themselves have deemed as their person should be one of celebration and excitement. Two consenting adults agreeing to spending the rest of their lives being by each others side. Who wouldn’t want such a privilege, right?

Well, what if I told you that for you it was a reality? That you’re beloved boyfriend whom you’ve grown to adore and respect has given you such a privilege? That you have finally found the missing piece to yourself and you have been searching and yearning for? You would be happy, right? You would gladly take on the world and accept everything that comes with being with him, right? You would scream and shout for joy repeating “yes” over and over again until your voice cracked, correct? Of course you would. Who wouldn’t? Who would pass up the opportunity to become someone who they loves wife and show excitement?

Well, it’s hard to show excitement when the bride is in a state where she can not move a single finger let alone make a facial expression. And it’s especially hard to scream for joy let alone scream in general when ones tongue has been cut out. Though, he doesn’t think you mind. You did say yes and you most definitely agreed at the alter to be with him till death do us part so there’s no backing out of this now. Even though you didn’t have a clue, he will think that You knew what were getting yourself into and that you practically BEGGED to be his perfect bride, his perfect SACRIFICE. With each swift motion of the needle, he hums a wedding hymn and smiles down at you. He looks up at the clock and smacks his lips together in disapproval.

“I took entirely too long to prepare you but how can I not? I mean look at you, you’re PERFECT” He says while sewing the last part of your lips together. “HE will be pleased and you will make such the perfect bride” he says while lacing another piece of thread through the needle. Even though you knew it was useless, you try to wiggle away from him but nothing moves. He just smiles and says “Now, we must hurry. We are late” He then slowly lower his hand towards your left eye. “HE hates waiting…”

[sykosomatic]

Tee hee hee can you write adam surviving the bathroom but hes really messed up and shit. Also I would not mind some hurt/comfort

(heavily heavily inspired by this post, so thank you op!!!)

‘adam survives the bathroom and is fucked up’ au for all my angst fans out there <3

i was gently flirting with the idea of a part 2, let me know if that’s something you’d want lol

⚠️ content warning!!!!! depression, anxiety, ptsd symptoms ⚠️

and if you were curious, this is the song i was listening to while i was writing lol:

blinds shuttered in a quick whoosh, plastic clacking against itself as adam’s heavy eyes fought to stay open just a few minutes longer. the sun had set; it was dark out, the sky turning a dark, heavy purple. he stared at the blinds for a second, blinking slow and heavy. his little flip phone buzzed on his bed, another phone call missed. they’d leave another voicemail.

adam checked, double checked, triple checked his locks; his closet, his bathtub, under his bed. he sank slowly onto his bed, arms folded so his hands white-knuckled his biceps. he shivered a bit, but it wasn’t cold in his apartment.

“i wanna live! i wanna live!”

and he had. somehow he had clung to life long enough to get out of that damn bathroom, and what had it helped? what, did he think everything was just gonna go back to normal, now? now that he’d been through that?

adam couldn’t sleep. he hadn’t slept much since he’d gotten.. well, if you wanted to call it rescued. in truth he was on the fence about whether he should’ve died in that bathroom. the people who’d found him called it a miracle and adam had to say he agreed. cosmic injustice; a gift straight from god himself, whoever that was.

he sighed softly as he stood, rubbed his hands on his arms to keep himself from shivering. the doctor told him he had circulation issues now. because amanda — he’d learned that was her name after her and her weirdo ‘boss’ tried to recruit him.. after he ‘won’ — had strangled him with a plastic bag. she’d been sent to do a mercy killing maybe. and he’d survived. twice he’d survived that bathroom. why wasn’t he done yet?

adam had a collection of other maladies courtesy of john kramer — jigsaw.

his grip strength in his right arm was a little.. wonky. it felt like what people described carpal tunnel to be, tight muscles and a weak grip, pain when trying to hold something tightly. he’d been scrubbing a plate the other day and found out that he probably shouldn’t do that.

he didn’t think it was a huge problem but — he’d gotten odd looks from his friends when he spoke.

they said he was… different. and well.. duh, he was different. you don’t go through prisoner of war type torture and come out the other side shiny and clean.

he didn’t like the way they said it though. he hadn’t talked to them in a long time because of it. well that and the fact that he spent most of his time sitting in his bed and staring at the wall. thinking. he’d never spent that much time thinking before.

he went to the bathroom— his bathroom— catching his reflection in the mirror and seeing streaks of tears down his cheeks. he hadn’t realized he’d been crying. he’d been having days like that — most days were like that. he used the heels of his hands and rubbed stars into his eyelids, trying not to see lawrence’s foot out of the corner of his eyes.

lawrence; he hadn’t thought about that name in at least a day. a new record. the only other person who knew exactly what he’d gone through, and he hadn’t bothered to reach out. yet. maybe he was going through the same things (or at least similar things) as adam was. adam himself hadn’t spoken a word out loud in a very long time. not since the last time a friend had come to check on him. was that last week? he didn’t know, couldn’t remember. he sighed, started stripping down out of his clothes. cold showers and nightmares were the only things that kept him awake.

he couldn’t help but think about lawrence in the shower, while he washed himself with one arm as the other sort of hung there idly by his side. he wondered what sorts of things lawrence had to do now, now that he’d cut off his own foot.

on the surface adam looked unchanged, save for the gaunt look in his eyes and sunken cheeks, his already slender frame astonishingly leaner with stress. he maybe looked like a drug addict, he thought, but drugs were one thing he hadn’t sunk to yet. he figured he’d have to leave the apartment for that and he really didn’t want to. not just yet.

adam finished his sad little shower, drying off and stepping back into his apartment. it was cooler now, he thought, surely it wasn’t just him being unreasonably cold all the time.

he suddenly remembered he’d left his window open when he’d shut the blinds, and he could feel his heart about to explode as he rushed over to shut it. he could feel his vision start to blur and his head spin, the edges of his sight turning dark as he fought the urge to panic. he slammed the window shut; it creaked as he clicked the locks shut.

his chest heaved as he sat down on his bed, half-naked, grabbing the knife he kept under his pillow. he brandished it out into the dark as he stood and re-checked everything three more times. he didn’t find anything. how could he have forgotten to shut the window?

adam dropped the knife on his bed suddenly as if it was burning him; for a second it looked like a bloody hacksaw by the streetlight coming through the slats in his blinds.

he collapsed in shuddering sobs quite suddenly, bringing his knees up to his chest. his face pressed against his knees, he let himself cry for a bit. when his body couldn’t take it anymore, he looked up, caught his phone buzzing again.

missed calls from friends, a few texts from them as well. checking in half-heartedly. he could tell they were getting tired of him being.. the way he was. well he figured he wasn’t changing back anytime soon. not unless they could erase his memory for him or fix what that bathroom had broken in him.

and then he saw it — an unknown number messaging him. he picked up the phone and looked at it, his eyes savoring the shape of the letters, taking them in and digesting them, holding them close to him, letting him just live in them for a moment.

‘adam? it’s lawrence. do you have a moment to talk?’

adam felt his lips curve up into the closest thing they’d gotten to a smile in a long long time. if anyone was able to help talk him off the edge it had to be someone who went through the same thing as him. right?

[americassuiteshart]

Corpses and dreams

“Hey sweetheart,” she called out to him, reaching for his hand. The cold of hers perfectly contrasting the warmth that emitted from his. “I know that, in this moment, it might seem a bit sudden and weird, but i really wanted to tell you this.” She muttered the last words, it barely reaching my ears. I turned to face her, God had she always looked this pale? ”What is it,” I inquired eagerly “what do you want to tell me?”, her eyes cloudy, was it because she was tearing up or— “well, I— “ she hesitated, before “I—-

BEEEP, BEEEP, BEEEP— he immediately jerks up, his heart racing. His hand absentmindedly reaches over for his alarm clock. He sighs, warm breath showing up in the cold room he was sleeping in.

“I wonder what [SO name] was gonna say to me.” He thinks to himself, cheeks warm thinking about his girl, when suddenly remembering that he could just shake her awake to inform her about this peculiar dream of his.

But when he turns— smile softly displayed on his face, and his hand reaching over to shake her shoulder—a sudden feeling of dizziness hits him, his blood runs cold, and his heartbeat slows down.

Ah, he thinks to himself, there’s a corpse in my bed

Heyy!! This is my first time posting my writing ( and posting in general! ) was inspired by a silly dream i had + early sunsets over monroeville by mcr. Hopefully you’ll enjoy this short fic ;). ( feedback is deffo welcome so if u see something dont hesitate to tell meee )

[anxious-acorn]

Anticipation

Here’s a completely random non-related horror story that I totally just came up with and am not currently experiencing:

A person comes home from dropping someone off somewhere, having a recently badly sprained ankle from sheer clumsiness, something electrical in their rv blows. Well, shit. They make sure all power sources are off and no fire has occurred, and thankfully they’ve got their handy dandy solar panel generator. That’s half charged. Hmm, not great but could be worse. They sit down with cramps, other various aches and pains that include that heavily bruised ankle. It’s them and one of their old cats resting in bed, when suddenly, they see it.

What it is exactly, the person knows not, if could just be a terrifying but harmless cockroach. But it could be the punchy bug- the one that hits you with stings again and again.

Now sure, this person has various bug sprays, but now the flying insect has disappeared. Waiting. In the shadows of a powerless room. And all they have is their phone, an old sleepy cat, a fucked up ankle and a fight response like nobody’s business. This can work as horror, comedy, or comedic horror. *takes a bow as the light grows ever dimmer*

Oh! And this is Sheila, a beautiful bold jumping spider that found a home somewhere in here. In completely unrelated news, hopefully she catches a nice dinner tonight! 💕

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - unreality, eldritch!yandere, prolonged captivity, implied nsfw, and voyeurism.

You might’ve been the only one left.

If there was another living person in town, they were either too assimilated or too well hidden to find. Everyone else – the unliving, the possessed, the altered – had that glassy sheen over their eyes, that thoughtless smile painted over their lips, that sense of connected omniscience that meant you could walk into a café you’d never visited before and the beaming barista would already know your name, your order, and your mother’s address. There were no strangers anymore, not really, no differentiation between your closest friend and your coldest acquaintance. Everyone knew everything, especially about you.

You still went to work, for some reason. There wasn’t really a point. What few responsibilities you had as a professional pencil pusher dried up months ago, leaving you in a state of white-collar limbo. Occasionally, you’d get an email, but the message was always disjointed and nonsensical, like filler text in a bad office simulator game. Sometimes, your phone would ring, but there’d only ever be heavy breathing and the muffled sound of wet flesh hitting stone on the other side. After a while, you stopped answering.

Your boss would stop by your cubicle, make small talk over lukewarm coffee. He was the attractive, older type – all grey-streaked hair and tailored suits. He used to hate you. You couldn’t remember when he change his mind.

“We’re grabbing a round of drinks on the company card tonight,” he explained. “To celebrate the end of another tough week.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“It’s the least I could do. You’re such a hard worker, (Y/n).”

You glanced up from the sticky note you were currently folding into a paper crane. This would be your forty-seventh attempt. “I am?”

He laughed as if you’d said the funniest thing in the world and rested a hand on your arm, leaning in a little too close for comfort. “So, you’re coming?”

“I’d rather gauge my own eyes out.”

“Sounds like a date.” He squeezed your shoulder before drawing back. “We’ll be waiting.”

You didn’t go. You would stop coming in a few days later, but the phone calls followed you home.

Not that ‘home’ had ever meant safety. The infection had seeped into the architecture, gotten control of the roots. There were swaths of days where you didn’t – couldn’t – leave, every door disappearing and every window sealing itself shut, trapping you in. Others, it almost seemed to force you out – every wall suddenly glass and every door hanging open despite your best attempts to keep them closed. You’d find a fully stocked fridge suddenly empty, or every word of your favorite paperback abruptly replaced with encouraging messages to stretch your legs, get fresh air, go outside. Once, you even tried to leave town altogether. Your car broke down after the first mile, so you walked in an endlessly straight line, never turning, never looking back, never stopping. Somehow, you found yourself on your own doorstep, door open wide as if welcoming you back.

You spent that night on your lawn, sobbing into the grass while your neighbors formed a uniform circle around you, watching. Guarding. Smiling.

Things devolved quickly. You tried your hand at burning down a local bookstore, but the clerk stood beside you all the while, snuffing out every match you managed to light. You poured yourself drinks at up-town bars and slept in velvet-lined booths, never so much as attempting to pay your tab. You skinny-dipped in a mall fountain during peak hours, bathing under cheap plastic skylights and harsh fluorescents. No one paid you a second glance. There were no kids in town anymore, and everyone seemed to glow with a sort of unnatural, off-putting beauty. Like they were grooming themselves to your preferences. Like the town was preening itself to better capture your attention.

You sat in the corner of an old-fashioned diner, staring silently at the table while a handful of other customers pretend to talk amongst themselves around you - the inflections familiar but the words gibberish. Thirty minutes passed before a waitress wandered over, notebook in hand and smile wide enough to strain. “What can I get for you, darlin’?”

“I want to leave.”

“Afraid that’s not on the menu.”

“Then tell what you want. Why you’re keeping me here.”

“Coming right up, sugar.”

A silver platter too nice to be in a place like this was brought to your table. A golden wedding band stood solitary one side and, on the other, bridal lingerie, nearly folded and white as a dove.

Your stomach dropped. You considered getting up, going home, but that wouldn’t have made a difference. You were surrounded, cornered, imprisoned.

And eventually, you would have to reckon with the needs of your warden.

[i-heart-slashers]

For the birthday prompts can you do for Stu in scream? Suggestive if possible. Lipstick, Velvet and Smirk? Thanks!

ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ: stu macher

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: suggestive

ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: lipstick, velvet, smirk

You shouldn't be here.

The party's over, the house is half-dark, and the music has long stopped pulsing through the walls. The house is now a horror show, and you survived.

But you're still here. Alone. With him.

Stu leans in the doorway; his face, hands, and clothes are bloody. You had thought he was dead, but here he was. His eyes rake over you, pausing at your lips.

"Red lipstick," he drawls with a grin like he knew he had gotten away with murder, literally. "Hot. Looks like blood."

You lick your lips out of habit. His gaze doesn't move.

"You know," he says, pushing off the doorframe, "most girls leave when the screaming starts."

You try to laugh nervously as he closes the distance between you and the counter. The velvet choker around your neck feels too tight suddenly. You wonder if he noticed it earlier and if that's why he keeps looking at your throat like it's something delicious.

"I liked your little screams," he whispers, fingers ghosting over your jaw. "Pretty."

"Is this… a bit?" you ask, half-serious. "You still playing psycho for the thrill?"

He chuckles—too low, too smooth. "Sweetheart, I don't play."

Your back hits the counter. Stu cages you in without touching, tall and loose-limbed and radiating chaos. His fingers finally drag down your arm, slow, like he's tasting the idea of you with his skin.

You should leave, you should run. Instead, you ask, "So what happens now?"

His smirk is slow and sharp. "Now," he murmurs, "you find out how scary I can really be."

His mouth crashes into yours, hot and rough, lipstick smearing between your lips and his teeth. He groans like he's been waiting to ruin you all night. His hands slide under your skirt with no patience, gripping your thighs like a promise.

The knife is still in his pocket. You feel the press of the handle as he lifts you onto the counter as if you weigh nothing.

"Good girls don't stay," he whispers, lips brushing your ear. "But I like that you did. You're my good girl for staying."

The cold countertop hits your back as he spreads your legs. His mouth trails heat along your throat, tongue teasing your pulse point. The choker snaps under his fingers.

"Oops," he grins, fake innocence dripping from every word.

You let him tear it off. You want to be scared, but all you feel is heat.

[prettykittycastle]

Dirty F!ck

DIRTY DRABBLE

(gender-neutral reader)

With each deep thrust inside you, you felt his cock in your stomach, your walls tightening around him, and your juices drenching him. The dirty ground wasn’t the ideal place for fucking, but running around punishing people made the monstrous being horny, and he couldn’t wait any longer to bury himself in your tight warmth.

“Oh my God,” you moaned, your eyes beginning to cross as you felt another wave of pleasure overcome your body for the third time. “I’m cumming!”

He didn’t care. Growling under his helmet, he fucked you harder, imagining how you’d look stuffed with his cum.

[snootlestheangel]

This does not mean I'm adding the Retired!Ghost x Cannibal!Soap fic idea to my list of WIPs

BUT

I do need a title for it so I can organize it into my folder for fic WIPs, I can't keep it as "the fic where Soap wants to literally eat Ghost"

Reasons why I chose/would like each title:

Consume: One of the themes I'm picturing is about how each is "consumed" with a different type of madness even before meeting, then their thoughts are "consumed" by the other once they part ways. Consumed with each other once they reunite and [redacted]

Taste Test: Feel like this title feeds on the spicy aspect of the fic idea. I just really like this one cause it's not as basic as "Consume", but at the same time doesn't convey the same premise (to me at least)

Devour Madness: Plays on the same concept: both are "mad", not a lot to go on this one, but it sounds cool.

Tagging: @stuffireadandenjoy @azilver @canyoubethestalkertomytango cause y'all seemed really interested in this idea

[yandere-writer-momo]

I decided to treat you all to a terrifying piece. Now this man will be accurate to his time period and terrifying!

Also, for @coolgirl32 since I haven’t fulfilled their request yet! So I combined those aspects with this lovely man. It’s not too detailed since I’m still trying to get out of my slump.

Yandere Head Canons: Lock and Key

Yandere 1950’s Husband x Fem Reader

TW: Yandere themes, obsession, MISOGYNY (microdose), BEING HELD AGAINST YOUR WILL (it isn’t obvious), isolation, HORROR, murder (mention), extreme jealousy, possessiveness, DO NOT ROMANTICIZE THESE BEHAVIORS OR THEMES, and OBSESSION

Robert Jones

Robert was your husband, the only man you’ve ever dated. He was a lawyer at his own law firm. Cold and calculated to others, but he had a soft spot for you. The ideal husband who was only loving towards you… almost too loving.

“Darling, I’m home!” He would always greet you with a hug and a kiss before he’d enjoy the dinner you’d make him.

Robert always sung your praises at how well you kept your home. The instant you washed the dishes, he’d hug you from behind to sniff your hair like a dog. He never seemed to get enough of you… he’s been this way since the two of you were in school.

His hands often grabbed at your hips and thighs. You swore you felt him shake as if he was holding himself back from devouring you like a rabid animal.

Robert was clingy behind closed doors and heavens he was such a possessive man… he had a long list of rules of her interactions with others. Especially other men.

“You’re my wife, dear. I can’t have another man seeing how beautiful you are.” Robert would whisper from the crook of your neck. “I’d have to kill them.”

Hell, he didn’t want you to even speak to the milkman nor the mailman. The reason being that you were too pretty and he wasn’t there to protect you. Even the other housewives weren’t allowed over.

But his consistent isolation made it so lonely… so you began to ask if you could have a job just like a few of the other women had.

Every time you asked if you could get a job, he’d always scoff. He was indeed a typical man of this time period.

“Women can’t work. They’re meant to stay at home and take care of the house.” Robert would always tell you with a click of his tongue. “Do I not give you a cushy enough life?”

You’d always reassure him and he’d smile at your submission.

“We should try for a baby soon… I hate leaving you alone in this house all the time.” He sighed. “Work has been so busy… but you’ll look so pretty all swollen. Don’t you think so, darling?”

Now you were never lacking in the bathroom. Robert was all you knew after all… and he was well endowed. Yet a small part of you wondered if other women’s husbands were constantly on them all the time. That their husbands would obsessively whisper how much they belonged to them…

Yet Robert never allowed you the time to think of it too often before he’d pull you into another round. He couldn’t stand it when your mind wandered from him. He should be all you think about because he was your husband after all.

If only you knew the lengths he had went to in order to be your husband. It was hard to hide all those bodies back in your school days. He was just lucky the police never traced the missing kids back to him.

Gods, Robert wouldn’t know what to do if you hadn’t chosen him. If you hadn’t chosen him to be your perfect provider and future father of your children. He was sure he would have been in a psych ward. Yet you chose him, like the kind person you were… so perfect and obedient to him. He loved you so much!

“I love you, darling.” Robert smiled as he held you close. His fingers traced shapes down your back as he sighed happily.

He would always keep you close under lock and key.

[casuallyanidiot]

Yandere Eldritch being who has taken over your entire town.

TW. Dead Dove Do Not Eat Horror, confinement, isolation, death, Stockholm syndrome, yandere

You didn’t know when it had happened, but there was something very obviously wrong with your town.

It was the little things like the warped street signs, the inconsistent cracks in the sidewalk, and the way that the uncanny faces of people seemed to stare at you. It didn’t use to be like this, but you found yourself cautious about your new reality on the daily. You did try to leave and call for help, but there was some mysterious force cutting off your network. And when you did try to pack all your bags and high tail it out of there, you would end up just looping straight back on your street no matter what direction you drove in.

So now you made do with the fact that nothing was normal.

You sometimes wonder why whatever has infected all the people decided to leave you alone. Because there was no way it wasn’t a conscious decision. Your favorite flowers would start sprouting out of concrete walls and glass despite the fact it would be the middle of winter one day and a scorching summer the next. Not to mention, those flowers didn’t even grow here to begin with. It was a gesture. If it was meant to tempt or be kind, you weren’t sure. 

The town functioned like nothing was out of the ordinary, though. Well, at least it tried to puppet the barely real bodies of your community to do things they would daily. The grocery store always had food and figures milling about, and even though none of the products ever tasted quite right or had words in a real language, you could tell “it” was trying to keep things running for you.

You’d once tried to hide away in your house, thinking that it was somehow protecting you from whatever was out there. But all you did was make it angry. Constant thunderstorms that shook the ground, and hail that pounded on your roof and walls. When you continued to stay inside, that’s when it made things clear: it was letting you stay as you were. The house shifted dramatically, doors disappearing and walls bending in front of your eyes. 

Come outside. Stop trying to resist.

Privacy was just another one of those far-out concepts now.

The thing, as you so liked to call it, had been more affectionate lately. You didn’t know exactly how to describe it, but it had started morphing all the “people” into more attractive versions of themselves. Or at least, what it thought of as attractive to humans. Their faces were more tangible now and less blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, but they were uncanny in a new way. Skin too smooth, too perfect in so many different ways. Symmetrical, full lips, pleasant expressions, soothing voices: all things that on paper would lure someone in, but it had alarm bells ringing in your head nearly all the time now.

“I don’t like this, you know,” You said one day as you sat in the diner. The room was stretched out wider than what it looked like on the outside, and the waitress had an unnaturally wide smile. Before you was a plate of… something. Your guess was pancakes.

“What do you mean?” Several voices asked at once. It came from all around, and the waitress’s mouth barely moved to match the words. 

“ I like you better when you aren’t trying so hard to be something you weren’t.”

There was a pause, and the building slowly unraveled into a jumbled mess of things that you could barely comprehend, the other patrons' faces and bodies melting away into linoleum floors. 

“You’re not human. You don’t have to be. I think I’d prefer that honestly,” You shrugged and poked at your food. From the corner of your eyes, a figure seemed to emerge from the mess of what used to be your favorite restaurant. It was a writhing mass of dark tendrils, reaching for anything nearby. You’re breath caught in your throat.

“Do you really mean that?”

The voice spoke, but there wasn’t any face to accompany it. It reverberated in the base of your spine, racing through your nerves like lightning. Your breath hitched, and you finally gathered enough courage to look at it. It was a mess of things you couldn’t quite make out, but it was almost comforting. 

“This is the first time I’ve actually seen you,” you admitted, a small laugh of disbelief caught in your throat. You couldn’t help but smile. It was the first time it had actually listened to you. 

The being twitched, pulsing as it slid over towards where you were sitting at the booth. It was the only thing that had stayed intact. For something so expressionless, you’d dare to say it seemed shy. 

From the inky mass, one tendril reached out for you, the air around it crackling. You stayed in place as it slid over your hand, and you felt the wonder and relief.

“Will you stay with me? I don’t want to force you, but I’m so alone… you’re the only one who doesn’t disappear when I’m near.”

You blinked as the mass filled the cracks between your hands, folding into the lines of your palms as if trying to memorize you. If it had a hand, you’d be holding it. If it had lips, yours would be slotting against them. If it had a heart, you were certain they’d be painted a similar shade of loneliness. 

You stood up and slowly approached it, holding out your arms as you leaned in, wrapped your arms around its slowly forming figure, and nodded in silence.