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qvrcll · 2 years

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hard hitter / slow kisser - Ellie Williams

-> synopsis: In which Ellie wishes things were different.

-> warnings: female ! reader, not fully nsfw but fondling is taken part in, b00bs are mentioned, FLUFF despite the synopsis, angst / comfort (minimal angst), mentions of explicit themes (ripping heart out, picking at skin), compulsions, slight obsession, religious imagery.

-> a/n: okay so i admit, this was kinda rushed but when i write for ellie, the words just flow with no stop. corny as hell but writing for her is just so delightful. i wanted to freeform a little and start writing differently but i love my adjectives and comparisons :P also wanted to go full nsfw but my heart is where fluff is <3

-> wc ~ 2.8K (kinda shorter, sorry)

Ellie doesn’t dream often.

She is a little bastardised in the way she takes in day dreams now, because they all remain fragments of blather she would very much like to abandon — she was certainly not the fifteen year old girl who stumbled amongst incoherent levels of moss and silver fish, mites all the same, to remain on the same altitude of the girl she once was, though she’d love to, to be frank. In her books, and her enemies and peers all the like, she was a monster. A liquidator. A crosshair between a butcher and diabolic salvation itself.

But that all comes down to how cheap she feels with her mercy on certain days; Jesse hands her a drink, free of charge, with just the remuneration of banter to commiserate the inky silences, and she has no qualms about it, really. She would drink, laugh, dance, kick, and asseverate that she was just a girl. But on days where her patience ran as thin as a line and framed herself along a thin wall with nothing but tailored tomahawks, pistols and penstocks to make up for all the time she has wasted not being a pharaonic machine, she would thrash, scream, hack and saw, swearing that it was just in her kindness to kill.

Blood.

Grime.

Sweat.

Puke.

It’s in her nature to be grim, to be the picker of cold meat, to be the irascible contour of death itself — even when she doesn’t like it. She wants to move about, she wants to plant the seeds of her amicable fortune to let grow for whatever time stood between her and delectation itself — and she knows she’s using big words, but it’s what she deserves, no? Something big, grand, something to blow her off her heels and toes, when the red on her hands feel too real.

Because that’s what it doubles back into.

She can feel the heat on her palm, can barely register that her eyes augment into psychedelic halos of never-ending zip wire: she is the cat but she is also the mouse. She is the forest and she is the tinder licking it to embers. She is the knife but, in direct proportion to just how debauched she just thinks she is, she is the carcass — she is what she kills.

She wishes it was different.

She wishes everything was less… cruel.

She wishes she can give you more than what she can offer, or more than what she can even begin to think to offer.

And you feel it hanging in the air in tightfisted stares she throws your way — it’s not irritation because she rubs her hands against the wiriness of her jeans, and she’s wide eyed. She’s shaking. And she is all but the pharaonic machine you’ve seen on harder days.

“Hey…”, she begins and you can’t tell if it’s you who is discredited by the rasp in her voice, or Ellie herself, but you’re soon reminded she’s the one shaking. She quickly corrects the shortcoming in her tone, and you start to, selfishly, miss it, “You busy?”.

You shake your head, because it’s all you can do. You, in all your respects and genuine annoying-ness, are an enforcer for greetings. In any form. An enabler. No one was a talker unless you were, back at camp, and when you did double the work with stable duty familiars, an affinity grew and soon, conviction did too. But now, with a cloth slotted awkwardly in your mouth and sweat sequinned along your chin in a way that made you seem effectual, for all your honour, it was hard to regard her in a way she learnt. From you. Around you.

Still, you’re stubborn. Crotchety. Petulant in a way that stung in the aftermath of it all, and if you couldn’t have a way you were familiar with, you would imbibe a way to etch your habits into your skin like blackwork.

“Heh Eys, nawt rhelly—“, you gabble against the soapy skin of the fabric, highly uncomfortable and effortless in a lowborn way, a plebeian. But Ellie wouldn’t begin to understand the adversity of your kindness against you if it just meant a polite wave towards her — she is made of crystal and mounted on kindling so chippy, a glance would score you a splinter. She’s Neptune, you’re blades of grass. She’s thunder, you’re shelter. She’s Ellie, and you’re everything she’s not. She wants that. To protect that. But she feels confused, dazed, and most of all, nice. To you. Now. She smiles, misguided in her attempt to slouch against the wall, which just ends in seeming like she’s trying too hard, but you don’t mind. You like her.

“What are you up to?”, her fingers splay against the soft of her jumper and you crawl against the arm of the couch to get a better look, of the tools, of the creation bending in your arms, of her.

You cling to the mellow part of the furniture, partly because Jacksonville froze you half to death here and there and partly because, from this angle, she looked heavenly. Though, you suppose, whatever angle she took, she still shines like foamy brine spat from the mouth of Aphrodite herself, “Shurprize”, you slur.

Ironically, she’s not surprised. Or doesn’t make herself to be. Ellie is a hard person to read, with intentions so murky and a hereafter even sootier, it’s harder. She’s hard to look through. If you’re a piece of see-through plastic, she’s a brick wall. But around you, she spares holes in the same wall for you to peer, because when you focus on the girl, she’s turning this way and that way the next, crossing across this hard, tuning in to you that way, so softly. And to make her break, you tear your plastic cover, nominally, to show skin.

“For yew”, and she’s surprised, because she bends forward to eat at your given curiosity — or to get a glance of the gift but you shoo her away, but not really, because you want her close. A tricky thing, you were. But she’s the fish and she is, funnily, the bait. And when you push, she pulls, drags, until there is only enough space to whisper — the couch gives way and she has netted a place on the bump of the it, and her upper half completely lays parallel to where you’re seated, criss-cross. Her lower half lays on the other side of the bump, almost lifelessly limp.

Fucking close, she thinks.

Holy shit, you harmonize.

“ELLIE!”, you throw the gift under overlays of rusty garments, old newspapers, day old cut-outs of magazines and Ellie cannot begin to make it out — but she never intended to. Instead, she’s too busy, too entailed in utopia to be taking your face in one at a time, because she’s right in front of it. And if she can’t be selfish, what can she be?

“Ellie”, a bit of you runs cold, when the space is so abysmally small that pulling away seems criminal. Looking away seems depraved. Leaving seems erring in an itchy distraction sort of way. And you are a good citizen, and you tend to abide by her laws, “What are we doing, Ellie?”.

“Something”, she’s closer, in some way.

“Something what?”

“Something we won’t… regret… hopefully…”, closer.

“Am I supposed to know what this ‘something’ is?”

“Oh, I think you know all about it”, upheaval. Silence. Hesitation. Inadequate idiots being ingested by douceur. Pieces in a puzzle laying torpid. Candy. Amber. Stock-still embarrassment means nothing if you don’t want it to, you think, but it turns to deaf ears when she’s impossibly closer and you are too and—

One second blurs into the next, flickers of time, and you can’t figure who swore against hesitation first, who decided she’s taking too long. Because you’re in a state of panic, as you are in a state of tranquility, intermingled as one, divided as two and still, you feel at your heart when her mouth tastes like bullion, zesty salt water on her lips, and you pray, Oh Aphrodite, don’t let me die now. Your heartless litanies are a pedestal for her to creep just more, closer to you, harden her mouth and bite more of what’s given; she licks your teeth, she teases your tongue, she ripples you with embarrassment. With inquisition. With thoughts of how on God’s good earth is she able to do this?

But there’s no room for these inquiries. There is no room for rogations. There is no room for embarrassment; she’s chewn me whole, you think. Pollute your mind with her. Try to think of her with your eyes closed when she mutilates your lips with demoralised desire, that she’s kept herself from, for so long — not that it’s any different for you, but there is nothing other than a screeching howl of her name in your brain.

“Ellie— Ellie, wait”, you choose to breathe, or croak? Or force shit out of your throat, because either way, you have her attention. Ellie looks at her creation, or rather, the editings of you in a play of more push, less pull. Bruised lips, cuttings of her greed on you. You know she’s drunk on you, your lips, barely processing the words out for hearing. You’re her crutch, when you balance her, lay her flat across the length of the couch and she’s painfully biddable, hushed into a silence — a minute ago, she was the artist and you, her clay, but right now, you’ve got the pestle.

“Don’t move”, you warn her, leching over her to further input the extent of your words — to make her feel more than what she lets on because, in short, you know she has a borne shapeliness on her side and it makes you stagger but not any less mechanical, though slightly apprehensive, but delirious. Push but still, pull, because this is your Ellie.

You don’t want mistakes.

You don’t want do-overs.

You don’t want crosses across your sky.

You want her.

You want the ground beneath her.

You want her skin, her sweat, her spit.

You want Ellie.

Ellie is full of hate. Ellie is full of love. And somewhere in the middle, convoluted and awkward and loud and incessant, with bits poking out, with ridges unkempt, with door handles shaking, there’s… you. You’re almost a deep-seated instinct in her, a set of cartilage she cannot break, and even if she does, she knows you will feel it. Feel the pain, the suffering, the deluge, the blight. And Ellie, in her vigour, her hate, her love, her ‘you’, her everything, won’t allow that. And if she does, it’s insanity, because she lays a padded thumb on your cheek, shaping stag circles one by one, until you’re seated directly on top of her. From here, she can see your lips lightly varicose and she melts in her pants.

“What’s wrong angel?”, she pouts, because she cannot smile, and she certainly cannot commiserate it with a friendly shove — this is real, you’re real. This is not an allegory for schizophrenic delusions to want to know how you taste, how you feel, how you look pliant under her, or over. This is the fruit of her heart, the skin of lust. This is real.

“Something stupid”, you say, laying two flat palms on either sides of her chest, directly below her chest, so she’s distracted by the perpetual itch of your fingers just millimetres from her breats — and, of course, it’s not where she needs you most. Her cunt doesn’t even flurry as much as her heart dares to rip right out to lather you in a crude chroma of her, but she will take you anyway. Anyhow. In any shape or form. But Ellie, strong and well, Ellie, has half her mind to know that something is wrong. Something is out of place, like a wire out of a circuit, and she feels helpless in the way you cup her ruthlessly through the fabric of her clothing, which bunches up in a not-so-delicious curve and hitch, wrinkles kissing every bit of it — she’s deluded and she doesn’t care. She wants you, she wants to feel you, your worries. She wants to eat them, swallow them whole and spit them back out or digest and cage them, where they won’t torment you again. So you won’t look so dettered, unmannered. Like you’re second guessing. Like you are stepping in territory you can’t claim and she flings her head to the side, half in pain at the possibility and half in twisted pleasure as you manipulate her hurt nipples through the dedevilling.

You’re her Eve.

She ought to be Adam.

But she’s scared she’s the snake.

“Ellie, please move your hands”, you half moan, half reprimand, as Ellie curves her torso into the cruel plush of the couch, incoherent and dumb. A docile lamb: a lamb that moves — or rather, throws, her hands above her head, where you cannot see them. For the better, you huff, threading her impatiently. Like a masterpiece, out for only you to see. You’re redefining her, giving her new meaning, rechristening her as a part of you so she will remember as she goes, even if you lose, because really, you don’t want to lose. Slowly, you inch a hand up her top, surprised to feel cool stone for skin, apart from the callousness of her fingers that prod and poke at your flesh on normal days. You can barely see them now. You slither on.

“Oh—Oh, fuck”, she cries, unbecoming of the proclaimed machinery she swears her innards have been replaced for, hardwear blathering into rounds of mush, not only was she melting from the outside, but from the inside, as your hands paint her chest, almost pleasing the skin but taking your hands further or lower from where she needs you — she’d almost swear you know better but you tear completely, when parts of your eyes reluctantly speak to her own, and she’s distraught. She wants to consume you whole and spit you back out with nothing, no sadness, in your head.

She pauses her clamours, chest still racketing with harsh breath. “What’s wrong? You can tell me…”, her voice urges and she slips your warm hands into hers and letting go after unruly seconds because she knows this is harder than it reads, though she assumes it’s hard either way. Her shirt just barely skidding back to her hips and suddenly, when you expect the air to clear of its past ponderosity, but it grows.

You pause briefly, checking for skin near your nails which you don’t find. You curse yourself. “I just… I don’t want this to be, you know, a one time thing…”, a melodic interlude— “I want to make you feel good. But I want you to remember me”.

There’s another suspension of thick silence, and you focus your attention to your toes— no skin here, none there, nothing anywhere. You want to settle for anything, to make her understand. Want yourself to understand, in order to understand her — but it’s static and you can’t bear it, thinking of just burying your fingers in your mouth and skin yourself completely.

“You—“, Ellie desists, and scrambles closer to you, and then away in fear when the look on your face misreads for disgust, words painted in your eyes that scream, in her mechanised brain, go away. But you pull her closer and she understands. Her mind—that has known so much fury, so much blood, so many shades of faces she cannot remember melding into one singular countenance: regret. But when she holds your hand, distracts you from your skin, your nails, she feels a lock of balminess, a sign of life. It’s so different to the hands she’s known since forever — her own — but she welcomes the warmth, “I also don’t want you to just be a memory”.

It doesn’t come to stun you but you can’t help but still lift your head, awaiting a response and getting it in the fullest forms of breath you have left for her — reciprocation.

She holds your stare.

She recounts your breath.

She wishes to three for you to react and then—

She feels the stick of something in her palm — and by the time she opens her eyes, the glint of metal is mechanical in the way she wrenched the little gift, the locket, open: a picture of you and her, guarded by trees and smiles just as bright, though the colours have faded. Then,

“We’re fucking stupid, you know that?”, you gleam so bright, so hard.

I want to kiss her again, she dreams.

#ellie x reader #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams #tlou 2 #tlou x reader #tlou fic #the last of us two #ellie williams fic #ellie fic #bam writes #need a woman like her now #lesbian

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sdhqsecrets · 7 months

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halloween costume contest ‘27 → orion, halley, stella & elara macmillan-bones for best platonic couples/group costume

well aren't you pretty in pink? a family that costumes together stays winning it seems. you all committed to the theme, which is no surprise given your track record. but we've got to say that the production value of this year's costume was a vast improvement to last year's. congrats on your win, barbies and ken !!

2nd place - Augusta, Magnolia & Willow Picquery

3rd place - Frederick Hayes, Vera McKinnon, Freya MacDougal & Damien Launier

the rest of the runner ups are below !!

Alastair & Charlotte Watson

April & Isla Marchant

Axel Wolffe & Mason Jones

Cameron Coleman & Ciara Garcia

Iris Lestrange & Lyra Malfoy

James Ashcroft & Frank Longbottom II

Lucy Weasley & Nate Wood

Maeve Finch & Trinity Trelawney

Merle Rappaport & Piper Wilkinson

Octavia Coleman & Erin McCormack

Rory Goldstein & Evangeline Pickering

Tristan & Betty Connolly

#orion macmillan bones #stella macmillan bones #halley macmillan bones #elara macmillan bones #halloween #halloween 27

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nancydrewwouldnever · 1 year

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The discussion you're having about projects and choices that are available to him is really interesting. In my opinion, I think Chris has pretty poor taste to be honest. He's spoken in the past about wanting to fix broken projects but honestly, I don't think he has the taste or the skill to do so. Plus, I doubt he's on the top of many top tier directors lists. Like you say, there's Bernthal, Pascal, Pine, Gosling, Fassbender, Garfield, and Mescal is probably there too now. I also think his attitude to press puts people off. He's well known for hating it and that probably puts Studios off if they think he's going to have a suck attack when he's asked to do something.

And, to be frank, Chris for a long time was very playfully truthful about how bad his "picker" for scripts was. He also had the tendency to pick projects just because he wanted to work with a particular director, and that sometimes led to projects that maybe weren't the best fit for him.

I don't know though, in the stories he used to tell, his agent and manager would basically figure in as being incredulous about him taking bad scripts, but not seeming to do much to talk him out of the choice. You just felt like in the end all they cared about was getting their percentage cut from him working.

#ask

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ur-mag · 7 months

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American Pickers star Frank Fritz’s struggling Illinois antique store completes construction as renovations are revealed | In Trend Today

American Pickers star Frank Fritz’s struggling Illinois antique store completes construction as renovations are revealed Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

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#American Pickers star Frank Fritz’s struggling Illinois antique store completes construction as renovations are revealed #Celebrities #Money #Motors #Politics #ShowBiz #Sport #Tech #UK #US #World

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thewtcho · 2 years

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American Pickers star Mike Wolfe’s brother Robbie seen partying at Elvis bash after ex costar Frank Fritz’s stroke

AMERICAN Pickers star Mike Wolfe’s brother Robbie has been seen partying at an Elvis bash. The History Channel star was pictured living it up just two weeks after 56-year-old Frank Fritz’s stroke. 5 American Pickers star Robbie Wolfe partied with Elvis impersonators at a street race in IowaCredit: Instagram 5 It comes just two weeks after Frank Fritz suffered a strokeCredit:…

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#American #bash #Brother #costar #Elvis #Frank #Fritzs #Mike #partying #Pickers #Robbie #Star #stroke #Wolfes

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girl-in-the-chairs-void · 1 year

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Username tag game

Thank you sm to @startrekfangirl2233 for this mention/tag <333

Rules; pick a song for each letter of your username/url.

This is gonna be a long one

God’s menu by stray kids (obviously)

I want war by Kali Uchis

Redbone by Childish Gambino

Limbo by Keshi

Ivy by Frank Ocean

No scans by Frank Ocean

Teddy Picker by Arctic Monkeys

Heaven by Roy Kim and EZ Kim (OST of Goblin)

Eyes off you by PRETTYMUCH

Cupid by FIFTY FIFTY

Hummingbird by Metro Boomin and James Blake

America has a problem by Beyoncé and Kendrick Lamar

Infurnami by Steve Lacy

Revolving door invites you to dance by Roy Young Sim (OST of Extraordinary Attorney Woo)

Silk and cologne by EI8HT and Offset

Valentina by Daniel Caesar

Open arms by SZA and Travis Scott

Is it a crime? By No Guidance

Double take by Dhruv

No pressure tags!!;

@tongue-like-a-razor @bussyslayer333 @bradshawsweetheart @romansbloodbrick @birdy-bat-writes and anyone else who wants to join!!

#tag games #star💕#this was definitely a mixed batch from my Spotify #I question all the time

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mlobsters · 10 months

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supernatural s7e11 adventures in babysitting (w. adam glass)

when this started i was like. is this... going to be a twilight new moon reference...

which is my favorite scene in the series, it's my favorite adaptation of how the book did it (a blank page with just the month name for 3 pages in a row), and it's one of my most favorite and memorable usages of music in a movie.

youtube

while the circumstances are less permanent, new moon really hit for me with grief. and in fact i made a little parallel thing with this scene in spn s2e3 bloodlust (sera wrote that one) when sam and dean are in the thick of john just dying.

i wrote a little bit (under the cut) about my own parents deaths in the last episode and as ever this show pokes at my dead parents feelings and i'm not sure this episode is gonna go down with me. john dying was rough on me in that stirring up personal grief way, i'm hoping to not have a repeat of that experience.

(minor music rant, i think why it gets to me so much is because i am such a pushover and so easily emotionally manipulated by tv/movie music. *usually* if a show wants me to fell sad, they're gonna hit that button with music if nothing else. and i dislike it when i feel like i'm being manipulated. so to have a show not be able to hit that low bar, when i am already extremely emotionally connected to the show, THAT is notable. and not good. because like i said, i'm a cheap date. like just for a second there i felt that real sadness with this generic sad piano score happening as we go from sam and dean arguing and deciding to work different jobs to sam knocking on the kid's door. it was right there! but it petered out as soon as it came. -- edited to add: not surprisingly, it's a jay gruska ep)

wolverine, is that you?

teen wolf s3e8 visionary - madison mclaughlin as paige krasikeva

i thought the kid looked familiar, paige in teen wolf?? baby derek had to mercy kill her

surely dude would have a scarred up arm by now, with the number of times he's slicing himself. on the same wavelength again, i also suggested this little test back in episode 6 :p

FRANK Do I look like I know? You think it's easy to see this deep into what's real and also be bipolar with delusional ideation? There is no pill for my situation, sweetiepop, so, yeah, best guess – the bigmouths are onto me. Next question.

cue reading the delusional disorder wiki page, i didn't realize delusions could come without other symptoms of psychosis

so i think i've seen stuff he's been in but nothing jumping out worth grabbing a picture of. but he keeps pinging a) tom sizemore b) that he's somehow related to mark sheppard/crowley c) patton oswalt.

FRANK Got the equipment arranged. Come and get your costume on. We can scoot. DEAN "Costume"? What?

okay, that was cute.

not cute for me, the bumbling around on the cherry picker -_-

SAM (on phone) Dean, hey. So I think this guy was hunting a Vetala. Um, Dad took one down back in the day. Silver knife to the heart, twist, they're done. He says they're maladjusted loner types – like to knock a guy out, drag him home, feed slow. So, if Krissy's dad got grabbed, there's a chance he might still be alive. Be nice to get this girl's dad back home to her, you know? All right, I could use your help. Call me.

hitting us over the head with the point again. GOOD TO GET A DAD BACK TO THEIR KID HUH

you just said you could use dean's help.. but you went alone anyway and got jumped (very easily i might add) and bitten? great decision making, sam

DEAN How long was I out? FRANK 'Bout 36 hours.

excuse me WHAT. what a cheap way to add a bunch of tension and conflict that's also completely not believable. i don't care how sleep deprived he was, unless there was some medical condition happening there IS NO WAY.

FRANK Did I mention you look awful? DEAN Yes. Maybe because somebody I cared about just got shot in the head. And this is like shoving a rock up a hill. And – screw you. FRANK Here's my advice you didn't ask for – quit. DEAN What? FRANK You want to keep going? DEAN I want Dick Roman on a spit. FRANK But you're gonna drive yourself into the ground first. Good plan. DEAN I'm not gonna quit. It's not even an option. I'm not gonna walk out on my brother.

not totally sure how quitting equates to walking out on sam, but okay. oh wait, was he saying quit hunting altogether? (that totally went over my head, i just am realizing now after finishing the episode and rereading before posting lol)

KRISSY My dad left, and he didn't come back. Sam left, and he didn't come back. I give you the info, you leave, you don't come back.

she makes a good case and we get awkward roadtrip with kid for dean

DEAN Because I hunted one that turned out to be two a couple years back. KRISSY And you never told Sam? Wow, thanks. How 'bout sharing that with the rest of the class so we don't all get killed? DEAN Sam was away at Stanford, smartass.

okay but what? if sam was at school then john was alive and somehow dean never got that information to john so he'd update his journal? i don't think there's a gap that this could have worked in when john was dead but sam wasn't with dean for long enough to do a hunt/not talk about it. weird.

anyway probably just a segue to bring up college with the kid.

KRISSY So... Guess I'm retiring – one and done. DEAN Really? How you feel about that? KRISSY Who knows? Maybe I'll go to Stanford like Sam. KRISSY We're so lame. DEAN Yeah, we are. Take care of yourself.

that was sweet.

SAM You know what? Good for them. DEAN Yeah. It's nice to walk away from someone and feel like they could be okay. How about you? How you doing? You all right? SAM No. I'm definitely not. But, you know, I mean, um, I think, maybe... I just want to work. SAM Should I even ask? DEAN I'm fine. SAM "Fine," meaning...? DEAN You're right. We should just... work, right? And figure out a way to kick Dick Roman's ass. Well, hey, we are the professionals.

obstinate as dean can be about some things, he sure will take other people's advice to heart and start implementing it. though faking the smiles for that long while driving was creepy and sad

is it too much to ask for sera gamble to unironically like twilight???

#supernatural #spnwatch #spn 7x11 #sideburns #twilight new moon #spnhiky #hiky #madison mclaughlin #teen wolf #paige krasikeva #Youtube #adam glass #lykke li #chopsurveillance #spn musical score #jay gruska

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ashley-slashley · 2 years

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horror would you rather 2

have nightmares in the same vein as david kessler, or have nightmares controlled by freddy krueger

die by falling down a flight of cement stairs (e.g. damien karras), or die by getting impaled by a metal pole (e.g. father brennan)

deal with david kessler while visiting england, or deal with brahms hillshire while visiting england

do jury duty in a trial where steve freeling is suing his job for building a neighborhood on a cemetery, or be in the audience of the dr. oz show where herbert west is presenting the re-agent

introduce damien karras to doom, or binge watch tales from the internet videos with ash williams

be in an episode of the monkees with patrick bateman, or watch head (1968) with the cenobites

take a painting class with carrie white, or play paintball with ellen ripley

play the sims with chop top sawyer, or play dress up games with baby firefly

babysit damien thorn, or babysit carol anne freeling

be roommates with seth brundle, or have a variety show (e.g. eric andre) with captain spaulding

go to disney world with crawford tillinghast, or go to universal studios with louis tully

reenact the music video of kate bush's wuthering heights with hannibal lecter, or go to a kate bush concert with david kessler and jack goodman

be neighbors with laurie strode, or be neighbors with damien karras

take regan macneil to build-a-bear, or go to legoland with patrick bateman

watch margaret white fight chris macneil, or watch robert thorn fight brock williams (ash williams' dad)

be adopted by the addams family, or be a distant relative of the munsters

cosplay as walter white and jesse eisenberg with stu macher, or do a group cosplay as walter white with ash williams and chet kaminski

hide in the airducts with xenomorph, or live in a treehouse with yautja

watch classic ytps with ash williams, or browse 4chan with chucky

go to an alice cooper concert with jason voorhees, or go to a led zeppelin concert with ash williams

fight dr. loomis, or fight mrs. baylock (nanny from the omen)

be friends with christopher lee dracula, or be friends with jack goodman

be stuck in a room with norman bates, or be stuck in a room with kurt kunkle (dude from spree)

wake up in racoon city (resident evil for a self note), or wake up in silent hill

have hannibal lecter be your psychiatrist, or have damien karras be your psychiatrist

be haunted by jack goodman, or be stuck on an island with herbert west

throw dog biscuits at david kessler, or watch freddy krueger fight vince mcmahon

turn seth brundle into a marketable plushie, or turn dr. pretorius (from beyond (1986)) into a funko pop

be stuck at the bus stop in rock bottom with ash williams, or send billy lenz to brazil

go to the zoo on the same day as damien thorn and his mother, or break into a whale tank with beetlejuice

fuck around at a power plant with nosferatu, or violate osha regulations with harry warden

go to the slaughtered lamb (aawil), or go to the double r diner (twin peaks)

watch a tales from the internet video about stu macher, or watch an absolute mad lads video about david kessler

go on a date with jack goodman, or set up egon spengler with janine melnitz

be on whose line is it anyway with david powers and the lost boys, or watch captain spaulding's museum be featured in an episode of american pickers

watch the chris chan documentary with crawford tillinghast, watch any of wendigoon's iceberg videos with herbert west

take ballroom dancing classes with ash williams, or have chop top sawyer be your freestyle dance teacher

fight andrew tate with jennifer check, or fight dr. oz with herbert west

watch frank cotton be a guest on the dick cavett show, or watch margaret white be a guest on the view

celebrate the holidays with david kessler and jack goodman, or celebrate the holidays with billy loomis and stu macher

attend a seminar where fake doctors (e.g. dr. phil, dr. oz) are speaking with dr. loomis, or protest the seminar with herbert west and frederick frankenstein (young frankenstein)

go on a date with david kessler, or sleep with jack goodman

go to spencer's with dr. frank-n-furter, or go to hot topic with shorty the klown

take all the halloween candy from "TAKE ONE" bowls on candy on halloween with michael myers, or leave just one piece of candy from a bowl on someone's porch with freddy krueger

diy your halloween costumes with carrie white, or buy a shit quality costume from spirit halloween with stu macher

#horror

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