#slashers

[its-djotime]

me: often complains about horror franchises continuing far past their prime and ruining the initial appeal by being repetitive and uncreative

also me when they cancel saw fucking eleven:

[toxicanonymity]

Double Vision

m!ghostface x f!reader x f!ghostface, 1k words WARNINGS: 18+ adults only. Noncon FFM, wanna be smothered in ghostface pussy? this is ur fic. plus unsafe PIV, squirting, cum eating, manhandling, creampie. ty anon 🖤

You wake up in a cheap motel with a smooth bedspread under your back and the mattress moving rhythmically. The room is cold and the air conditioner is loud, but not loud enough to mask the sounds that had you tingling in your sleep. Deep grunts and moans litter the air. The smell of cum and stale cigarettes seeps through the cloth covering half your face.

“Rise and shine,” ghostface voice says, and you realize the heavy breathing doesn't stop while he speaks. Another victim, you wonder? “What did I say?” Ghostface snaps, but not at you. “Face in the pillow or Mask ON.”

The mattress shakes harder with each thrust until ghostface finishes with a groan. Then there's some breathing and rustling of fabric.

“I'll be feeling that for days,” a slightly different voice says.

“She’s awake,” the original one cuts in, then a big, leather gloved hand brushes your cheek as he says, “Your turn, Angel.” The blindfold is pulled down and you're almost afraid to look.

When you open your eyes, you're seeing double. Two ghostfaces are looking at you, with their heads tilted at opposite angles. Two ghostfaces were fucking each other, right next to you.

You’re naked as the day you were born, and they're fully robed-up, subtly adjusting the fabric as though they just put them on. After tilting his head at you, the original ghostface picks up a knife from the nightstand.

He straddles your knees and instructs his associate, “back to me,” gesturing with both hands toward your abdomen. “Lemme see that ass.” He's not talking about yours, since you're face up.

His masked double gets in front of him, straddling your stomach, and at this point it's clear the one in front is the smaller of the two. From behind, the original ghostface, with his knife still in one hand, begins to teasingly gather his friend’s robe, pulling it up one gloved handful at a time. He does it slow, like a strip tease. The ghostface in front leans back into him, enjoying it. The fabric on the robe is gradually lifted high enough to reveal black fishnets stretching to contain two thick, juicy thighs with a glistening mess between them.

The male ghostface behind her fully removes the girl’s robe, leaving her mask and hood in place. The black fabric under the mask skirts a black lace bra. A garter sits around her waist, holding up the thigh-high stockings. No panties. She leans forward, making her tits overflow the cups of her bra as she brings a gloved hand to your face and teasingly strokes a finger up your cheek to your forehead then down the other side. Her gloves are softer, like satin. The silky fingers come to your mouth and one nudges inside.

“Suck,” she says with her voice still changed. You obediently suck one finger and nearly get on the fabric. “She’ll be a good girl,” ghostface says behind her, then gives her a pop on the ass. She knee-walks forward, still straddling you, and ghostface pulls you slightly down the bed as she gets into position and the smell of their combined sex nearly knocks you out. The air between her legs is warm and humid and makes your loins throb, and your hips twitch. Ghostface, still straddling your knees, observes, “this one likes you already." He thumbs your mound, right above your clit, as his female counterpart lowers herself onto your face.

“Now ride her,” ghostface instructs from behind her.

As she smothers your face with her cunt, you're drenched by the cum dripping out of her. His cum. It's heady and tinged with her sweetness. You lap it up, like your mouth has a mind of its own. She moans, and ghostface lowers his thumb and begins to work your clit. She rolls her hips, grinding on your face. Your pelvis lifts into his hand, and you moan into her cunt.

“Good girl,” she praises as your face is buried in her needy pussy. You let her use your face. At the same time, you surrender to the killer between your legs. Your cunt squeezes around nothing, wondering if you might could take his cock. The thought makes you unravel under his touch.

He says, “fuck yeah,” as you cum and his robe grazes your knees as he gets in between them, spreading your legs wide. “Fuck, it's hot,” he says and takes the robe off, leaving him in a black, nearly-too-tight tee.

He pumps his hardening cock and dips the tip against your slick seam, making you arch your back and moan louder into the hot wet feast on your face. He grabs hold of both your thighs as he lines himself up. You bridge your hips to help, and he says, “good girl.” His arm muscles and veins bulge as he holds you tight and slides your snug cunt right onto his cock with a sigh. His girth forces your insides apart like a sleeve struggling to contain him. He stiffens harder, bigger. After a brief retreat, he plunges deeper with a punch of his hips and growls as he bottoms out. He manhandles your lower body as he buries himself in your pussy.

You whimper into the girl’s pussy and your mouth is on autopilot, eating her and nearly sobbing as his crude cock pounds you. Your chest is thrust into the air and your nipples peak as you arch your back again and groan into her cunt. “Dont stop,” the girl commands. "oh, fuck. Fuck me, fuck.” You plunge your tongue into her poor tired hole. Thrusting your tongue into her, you find more of his cum as she grinds against your nose and he lacks you with his cock. She whimpers and begins to squirt, soaking your entire lower face. With both hands in a bruising grip on your body, Ghostface slams into you and begins to pulse. Then his hands relax.

She lifts off you and the air is cool on your wet face. You take a deep breath. For a moment, you're just lying there, used and content. “I like this one,” she says. “Oh, I do too,” he agrees, letting his cock slide out of you. “That's why I picked her.”

-

-

And ty to blakebloodbath for putting girl ghostface in my head a bit ago, too....

Thank you so much for reading. If you liked it, please consider commenting what you liked about it 🖤. You can find my masterlist in my bio.

[redmoonightt-blog]

Bir gerçektir mesela.

I like ‘em crazy

[ladythornofrivia]

UNKNOWN CALL -

Billy Loomis x Transfer Student!Reader

summary: billy stalking the transfer student who moved in Woodsboro at the wrong time.

Warning: stalking, vouyerism, smut, blood kink, violence, blood, p in v sex, oral fixation, spying, possessive, roughness, mild manhandling, mild degradation, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex, masturbation, cheating, dark content

a/n: IM BACK! i went AWOL for so long. I missed you guys! I know it’s been a while. I’ve been obsessed watching Scream and Billy Loomis is my new fictional crush. I hope you all enjoy!

Casey’s death spread in throughout the town, even in Woodsboro High School. Girls and boys alike went straight to their homes, while the reporters and cameramen scattered around the grounds.

People were getting scared. Reporters interviewed and intervened as the police men began to search and investigate, hoping to get more evidence. Due to the murder, all stores were shut down in a strict curfew.

When you got transferred into Woodsboro High, you introduced yourself into the class. Everyone gave the same boring expression, except for one guy, Billy Loomis, with a glum expression in his eyes gained a little sparked when he first saw you, the transfer student, who’s bright and ambitious.

His bored posture straightened, and his pout turned into a subtle smirk.

Little did you know you came here at the wrong time.

Casey’s death was still cold. By the end of the class, the group went and discussed by the fountain—all five. While Randy was making theories about the death, Tatum theorized regarding to the killer being a female. Stu carelessly throwing words here and there as Billy was mindlessly focusing elsewhere, almost bored.

“Stu was with me last night,” Tatum defended, and someone else was with us, too that night—oh there she is. Y/N!” Tatum stood up and waved.

You were walking around the ground, in a call with someone. When you look up, you waved back at Tatum in excitement, rushing towards the group.

“Y/N, really?” Stu looked at Tatum in disbelief.

“She’s been a great help when it comes to homework and knows what goes well with the hangout.”

As you approached, Billy held a soft gasp, taking a long examination of you clad in sleek outfit in turtleneck in pastel violet and frilly skirt with white kitten heels.

The first time Billy saw you beforehand, he thought you looked perfect in cherry red and black with ribbon on your neck. From head to toe, you were immaculate. From head to toe, you we’re innocent, in a way you’re oblivious to your surroundings.

You’re a transfer student, who came in at the wrong time—a day before Casey’s death.

“Speaking of hanging out, Stu was with us last night. Do you recall that?” Tatum asked you.

“He’s there with us last night,” I said to Randy, then facing them, which Tatum slapped Stu and Randy simultaneously as a victory. “I was watching a movie while you guys were too busy making out.”

“We’re too busy making out because it’s a Disney movie,” Stu protested, whining.

“A Disney movie!” you said incredulously. “Nothing wrong with the cartoon classics! And I want something light but you kept on insisting with horror thriller! And Tatum want an action movie.”

As you find yourself giggling, Billy’s eyes lingered onto your figure, hoping Sidney wouldn’t notice.

Hearing the sound of your laughter, it was…authentic. Other girls would approach him in a ditzy laughter, no fun, but, with yours it’s real, not a poser.

“Aren’t Disney movies, like for children? We’re adults now,” Stu was pumped up.

“Um, we’re still in our teens. Nothing wrong with that,” you said. “Besides, I’d rather watch something that’s light.”

The moment your eyes met Billy’s, it created a spark once more in his heart, his mind reeling on a more…bloodier aspect of you.

His eyes darkened, and thought you looked better in red.

Billy gave a small smile at you, hoping you’d notice and smile in return.

As you did, it was a glimpse.

Billy knew you’re way innocent.

“Anyway, I gotta go now. Do some homework and watch tv. I’ll see you all later,” you said, approaching Tatum for a hug, and waved goodbye as you leave.

Billy deeply glanced the way you sashayed with your hips with confidence, something his poor, another innocent girl, Sidney lacks.

The way he flinched after Sidney gave him a goodbye kiss and left after Randy and Stu were making poor puns of a corpse while eating their food.

“Liver alone,” Stu said, cackling like a howled monkey.

Billy looked at the sight to where you’ve gone, your figure disappeared in the sight under daylight, and felt a heavy sigh heaving from his chest, and released a softer version from his lips.

He’d never want you to leave.

In fact, he’ll make your mind change.

+++

In the next few days, people were still talking of the murder, and Randy worked at the store, stacking new VHS tapes of the rom-com genre, when Randy rambled on and on about how everyone could be suspect, it caught everyone’s attention as well as Stu mocked Randy. And when Randy expressed his likes for Sidney, Stu told him he doesn’t stand a chance, despite Billy was busy talking to other girls, eyeing on him while he’s eating a gummy candy he bought from the candy store.

When Randy went ballistic, Billy and Stu cornered him, commenting about how Randy used the word “millennium” wisely before Billy heading back to his usual routine, watching anyone who might suspected him.

And in his hopes, hoping they were none.

Entering, you returned a Disney film and went into another section to grab another flick to watch—rather use as a background noise for homework and cleaning.

At the aisle, you looked for a film, Interview With A Vampire. You read the book seven times and your curiosity peaked when there’s a film version, starring Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt. You’re so occupied in your world, you didn’t realize Billy was standing behind you.

“Oh—hey watch where you—” realizing it was Billy, who flicked his brow up at you, you said, “sorry about that.”

Billy slicked his greasy hair back. “No worries. I was in the way…” His eyes darkened, monitoring your figure and saw a peek of your cleavage when you grab the last copy of the Interview with a Vampire. Billy examined your attire, it was all black—leather and short, with your cropped shirt studded with spikes, and a leather mini skirt with fishnets. You were wearing a choker with studded spikes and roses, with a ruby stone placed intact at the center.

You tucked a strand behind your ear. “What movie are you looking for?”

Billy couldn’t function for a moment. “I was busy looking for…”

Your brow quirked. “For?”

“A film, like that,” he said, pointing at the copy you’re holding.

“Oh this?” you lifted the flick. “Yeah, I want to switch it up for tonight. I thought about what Stu said. I must be so lame, watching Disney films,” you giggled, shying away.

“Are you into vampires?”

“Yes. And werewolves and witches,” your smile gleamed. “Gothic movies are my thing.”

“We could try watching a slasher film. In fact, I was about to get one,” Billy insisted.

“Sure, I have to watch this movie first,” you said, despite not liking slasher or supernatural movies.

Billy nodded hesitantly. “I see. Have fun with your film.” He chewed on a chewy candy.

You stared at the gummy candy he was holding as soon as he plucked the last piece.

Billy noticed.

“You want it?” he asked.

He liked the tasted of the gummy flavored candy due to the sweetness of corn syrup.

“No, it’s okay,” you said, your hand waving it off.

Billy placed it on your hand while clasping your wrist with the other. “You can have it. I got full and tired from trying to search a movie. I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah…See ya.”

You stood there, looking dazed as he walked away, not realizing Stu and Randy were watching both of you.

+++

After settling your homework, you gone out into the kitchen and made some light snacks—two packs of Lay’s potato chips, gummy candy you recently got, and a grabbed a drink—Sprite, and a leftover chocolate cake to speed up the process in homework and extra credit.

At home, it was slightly humid, but you turned on the AC, cranked it down to level 70, as you changed your girlish clothes to a tight-fitted clothing. A white cropped shirt with mini black sports shorts with two white stripes on the sides. You locked all the doors, and turned on the lights—inside and out.

Setting the VHS tape of Interview with a Vampire, the phone rang.

After placing the remote down from turning the volume on, you answered the phone call.

“Hello,” you greeted with a smile.

“Hello, (Y/N),” an unknown voice answered.

Your heart stopped. And turned around. Your parents weren’t there yet.

“May I ask who’s calling?” you said with confidence.

“Someone who’s interested in talking to you.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sorry I’m actually busy doing something right now. I have no time for idle chat.”

“Watching a movie, I assume?”

Your heart stopped again. “Yes...I was..”

“So what movie are you watching?”

“I’m watching a movie, one with Brad Pitt in it.”

“Ahh, so you’re into hot older men,” the unknown caller intrigued.

“Well, actually I was more into vampire-looking men,” you remarked. “I liked watching movies that particularly interesting to me.”

“Sounds…interesting.”

You cleared your throat. “I’m sorry, my movie’s about to start.”

“Are you with your boyfriend?”

“I don’t have one.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be watching…Interview with a Vampire?”

Your heart dropped again. You were about to scream.

You stepped into the living room, covering the TV. “Um, seriously, dude, this isn’t funny. I haven’t had a cup of coffee since this morning. I’m in a caffeine addiction. I need myself to keep up all night and I’m super-duper hungry. Don’t fucking test me when I’m not on caffeine mode.”

“My, my,” the unknown caller mocked, clicking his tongue. “Aren’t you the feisty one?”

“What do you expect? Me screaming? Or calling the police? I know you don’t want that shit. Nobody wants to get a permanent record.”

“Ah, smart girl. I was starting to think you’re like any other girls,” he bemused.

“What do you want? Do you want money? Jewels? Drugs? You want my dad’s expensive watch that costs $1000? Fine, I can offer you those. Although not drugs because drugs are bad and I don’t think it’s healthy to use drugs.”

The unknown caller howled in laughter. “I want none of that. I want to play a game with you.”

You paused, weirded out.

“Is this some kind of a—”

“Question one. What’s the name of the infamous killer in the film Halloween?”

“What? I never even watch horror movies!”

The unknown caller. “Uh-oh! Somebody’s in trouble~” he said in a sing-song voice.

“I’ll give you money,” you insisted, urgent.

“I told you, you stupid slut. I don’t want your money. Answer my question.”

“Um…” you tried to think, hand pounded at the back of my head. “Michael…Michael something…Michael Myers! I know he killed his sister, Judith Myers.”

“Good, very good,” he said. “For someone who doesn’t watch horror films, you knew about him.”

“I’ll give you everything you want, you can live in a rich life—you can travel to Aruba or Jamaica, just please let me go—”

“‘Next question,” he interrupted. “What’s the name of the main character in the Nightmare of Elm Street?”

Panicked, I said, “I thought anyone would’ve love money.”

“Answer the damn question,” he snarled.

“Um…it’s the one with Johnny Depp in it, right?”

You haven’t watched the original horror film. But maybe you did just a bit.

“Ahh, older men again,” he bemused. “As expected from you.”

“Come on, dude, let’s talk this out. I can give you my snacks and soda.”

He howled again. “You’re a funny girl, offering a stranger with food, hoping for my belly to be sated. But you’re not going to get away with it tonight, I’m afraid.”

Shit.

“Um, is it…Nancy Thompson?” you guessed.

“Correct. See? I knew you had it in you.”

“Can we just—”

“Final question. If you get this answer correct, I’ll be gone. If you get this answer wrong, you’ll suffer the same fate as poor Casey.”

Your heart thundered.

“Are you fucking serious?”

He chuckled. “I’m serious. I never let my victims go off so easily. Say a word to the police, I’ll fucking rip your guts out—”

Pain seared into your head. “I’ll give you my virginity.”

The phone call went silent.

“What?”

“You heard me. I’ll give you my body. And if you’re satisfied with my offer, then that’s great. Who knows, I might be naked, right now. And I don’t have a boyfriend. Besides, I don’t think anyone is interested in me.” your voice saddened at the thought of you being bored.

The unknown caller didn’t answer.

“But then again, you might be dissuaded with me and—”

“Take your clothes off.”

Huh?

“Take off your damn clothes,” he demanded.

“You can see me?”

He chuckled. “Take it off now, or this offer of yours might expire.”

You shook your head. “Okay.”

Stepping in the middle of living room, you took off your shirt, lifting it, you heard an intake of breath when he saw your underboobs, and when tossed over, he couldn’t believe what his eyes see.

Perfection.

“Good. Good girl,” he praised, he undo his pants, revealing his enlarged cock, jerking.

When you took off of your shorts and thongs, his hand went in fast motion, moaning through the phone.

“Keep going, sweetheart,” Billy encouraged.

Over by the sofa, you spread your legs, unveiling the vibrated toy—after you retrieved it nearby and inserted into your hymen as you circled your clit with the other hand. Head threw back, you moaned aloud, and Billy’s climax was getting near. He didn’t expect a good girl like you to be…bad.

“Keep going,” he said, hand already tired, but his dick was in the closure.

With a final insert, you came in your vibrated dildo.

So did he.

“Ah, that was beautiful,” he commented, his breath ragged. “I never had girls do this kind of performance.”

“Whoever you are, I hope you enjoyed it.”

You hope he wouldn’t spread your explicit show.

“I’ll let you off the hook. For now.”

And then he hang up, leaving you in a total mess.

What will you say when your parents about to go home in the next four hours?

+++

Taking off of his mask, hiding in your downstairs closet, Billy wished he could’ve stayed forever. With a girl like you, he wouldn’t mind keeping you around. But with his plan—his revenge to Sidney, he wanted to kill her so he could be with you, the transfer student.

He’s willing to make you as his for eternity.

Taglist: @toodlesxcuddles @kittendoll05 @omgsuperstarg @xcharlottemikaelsonx @paninisstuff @danika1994 @angeljcca @marvelescvpe @kukulyarva @namelesslosers @heavenly1927 @snh96 @httpsmenace @velunis @nananeptune @domithebomi @moonseye @faesspace @xinthia19 @popsycles @lothiriel9 @liannafae @blackswxnn @buccini555 @watercolorskyy @taangie @qardasngan @jolixtreesunn @runekisses @thought--bubble @remuslupinwife1 @evergreen9083 @foggypeacestarlight @dixie-elocin @galactict3a @momowhoo @saturnssrings @dani5216 @crymeariversworld @blackgaladriel @theboleyngirlx @elaratyrell @lionneee @starzz-l0ver @multifangrell @chaotic-fangirl-blog @f1girlieee @aleemendoza2425-blog @bespinnn

[fantastymaidenscrolls]

Through the Walls - Brahms Heelshire x Fem!Reader

It’s been a hot minute since I saw the movie, but it randomly popped into my head the other day and I couldn’t help but write something

Synopsis: Both you and Brahms are desperately seeking the love neither of you have ever felt. When you’re hired to take care of his doll, he can’t help but watch you through the walls.

Brahms had only ever seen you through the walls. Between the brick, plaster and wooden foundations, he watched you from his confined prison, the most ethereal of all the angels. He could smell your perfume as you wondered through the house, a rich floral tone that attached itself to his senses and ingrained itself upon his brain.

You were perfect; so beautiful and intelligent, and so full of compassion. He’d spied the books you liked to read piled neatly on your bedside table, 19th century novels filled with exquisite tales of romance. He wished he could love you like Mr Darcy loved Elizabeth Bennet, but no one could ever love him. Not even his own parents did; it was why they’d confined him to the walls of their house, choosing to love a porcelain doll instead of the broken man their son had become.

The fire had ravaged him, both his body and soul, leaving nothing behind but the shell of a boy who just wanted to be loved.

He could tell you just wanted to be loved too. He could see the loneliness etched into your perfect features, the long lonely nights you lay awake in your bed staring at the ceiling, silent tears falling from your perfect eyes. You’d been so desperate for this job, desperate to escape a world that had been so cruel to you. You hadn’t even questioned the elderly couple when they’d requested you looked after a doll. For the first time in your life, you’d found solace, a place of peace. You cared for the doll the way you wished someone would care for you. You loved it, talked to it, told it your deepest secrets. You didn’t know that you were telling Brahms too, didn’t know that the man the doll was modelled on hid behind the walls of your bedroom, listening as you voiced your troubles to a silent room.

You were out shopping when he finally got the courage to enter your room. He touched your things, ran his fingers over the delicate silk fabric of your nightdress. He sprayed your perfume on to his own tattered clothes, inhaling the scent that ignited his deepest desires. He went through your drawers and wardrobe, caressing your clothes and lingerie with the tenderness he wished he could touch you with. When he came across a pair of red lace underwear, he couldn’t help himself, pocketing the delicate garment before slipping back into the walls.

He clasped your underwear in his hands that night as he watched you sleep, trailing the soft fabric over his scarred face. They smelled like you, and Brahms couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t quell the rising arousal that pressed against his trousers.

His hand enveloped his aching cock, his fist pumping his shaft until he came with a whimpering cry. He’d made such a mess of your red underwear, his thick, sticky seed coating the lace, but he couldn’t help it. He wondered if you’d heard him, your body stirring ever so slightly when he cried out in ecstasy.

He whispered your name as he stroked himself again, his first orgasm not enough to quench his thirst for you.

His parents had hired you to ease their guilt, to take care of the doll they’d had made in Brahms’ likeness. It had never occurred to them that their son would take such a liking to you, that you would provide the love they’d never been able to give. As he settled down in the crawlspace next to your bed, imagining he was lying on your soft mattress instead of hard concrete, his couldn’t help but smile. For the first time their lives, his parents had done something good for him.

They’d given him you.

[acreepsblog]

WHYD THEY TAKE HIS TUMMY AND BODYHAIR!?

I fixed it :3

[skwimp]

Westman once again.. I hate these losers

They’re both not mentally okay and that’s okay because atleast they love(hate) eachother

[hack-n-slasher]

[niksplaceofhorrors]

Idk exactly what you write but about Bo, I’d really love any headcanons, relationship headcanons, anything with him really:)

Bo Sinclair Headcanons

Bo with Victims:

Bo has two types in his women:

the fighters, the ones refusing to listen, spitting in his face, cussing him out to all hell, biting, scratching, screaming

he finds them fun to break down, he loves to watch the fire die out when they realize how screwed they really are, that no ones coming to save them

the other type? the innocent ones. terrified, begging, obeying. Bonus points if you pray. the way they look up at him with glossy eyes, tremble like a little fawn

he takes his time with them, giving them false hope, letting them think he might just give them mercy

then he rips it out from under them, quick, without a second thought

he likes to kill most of his basement victims pretty, simple.

hands around the throat, watching the life leave them. its pathetic really how little they struggle after any more than 10 seconds.

maybe if he was a better man he'd find a way to feel sorry for them. but hes not.

bo with an s/o:

it took a lot for him to even entertain the notion of having someone stay

he doesn't believe for a moment you truly love him

you have to be afraid of him, that's why you're here, you'd never love a monster like him.

his love is still twisted, he'll never be a prince charming

he owns you more than he loves you

you're his doll, his thing, his possession, his.

he's rough with you, hand too tight on the arm, arm around your waist in bed so hard you can barely breathe.

but his kisses are gentle, his words can be too

he will compare you to his mom, no matter your gender

his jealousy goes too far sometimes and he's willing to remind you of where you stand and who you belong to by giving you another week under the gas station.

somewhere he can do whatever he wants to you

he shows you his polaroids of what happened to his 'lovers' before you when you act up

if your AFAB he'd knock you up and hardly be responsible for your kids (sorry, but its true)

he'd always find a way to backseat parent

"Yer too easy on him, he's gon' grow up spoilt."

"raisin' my son to be a fuckin' pansy"

he's jealous that you weren't his mommy though

if your AMAB, he'd probably talk shit about how you can't give him kids if he's in a bad mood

"no good for nothin' but a hole to fuck" he'd grumble under your breath

INTERNALIZED HOMOPHOBIA FOR DAYS

he doesn't know how to handle wanting to fuck a man, loving a man

[witchymommy27]

I love being attracted to fictional characters that I would call the police on irl

[trixrabitcereal]

freddys while try to get back into the flow of drawing

[bloodyteethh]

i have NAUT posted in so long holy cow maybe this year i’ll find the motivation too… NAHHHHHH

[yufart]

Hello, I try to draw every day, so you can suggest any characters you would like to see in my style (⁠´⁠ ⁠.⁠ ⁠.̫⁠ ⁠.⁠ ⁠`⁠)

[slasherholic]

Note: This chapter is from Michael's perspective (because I needed to explain the reason that he didn't, y'know, murder the reader)

Stockholm Syndrome | Michael Myers x Reader | Chapter Three

(chapter one and two)

In the thick, swirling blackness, Michael sat motionless, waiting.

He waited for the urge; the insatiable, unwavering presence that had rooted like a weed in his brain and taken up permanent residence in his body, nearly sixteen years now to the date.

The urge would whisper softly at first- a lenient suggestion, perhaps, or a playful nudge at his shoulder- but inevitably, its whispering would grow louder, and become more demanding, until its facade had fallen away and it was screeching like a banshee in his ears and pulling viciously at his mind, and it could no longer be ignored. It refused to be ignored. Always, always, the urge won out.

Loomis, Michael’s psychiatrist since his admittance at Smith’s Grove, was not fond of sugar-coating, and thus, had never beat around the bush when describing the boy’s condition.

“You know what you are, don’t you, Michael?” The doctor had said to the rigid youth who sat opposite him. “Surely by now, you must recognize what lives inside of you?”

Michael offered no response. Loomis knew better than to expect one.

“Seven years it’s been now, Michael, and we have made no progress. At what point does it become acceptable to admit that what plagues you cannot be cured? That your ailment is irreversible?”

The boy looked beyond Loomis, at the grey hospital wall, where the wallpaper had begun to flake away.

“I treat mental illness, Michael. What lives inside of you is evil.”

The boy just stared, deathly silent. There was no glimmer of awareness in his dark eyes. Loomis shook his head decidedly. He stood from his chair, adjusted his coat, and turned to leave.

“I cannot treat evil.”

Despite his indifference towards the past, curiously, Michael’s mind strayed to that conversation often.

Where he regarded most people with the same blank detachment, the name “Samuel Loomis” lit a match under his skin and sent the urge barking madly like a rabid dog in his ears. It was something about the man’s voice, Michael thought- something about that stern, dour tone, that had droned away like a broken record and threatened to keep him from his urges indefinitely.

Samuel Loomis, however, was not the subject of his consideration in the present moment; that dangerous burden was shouldered by another.

Michael stared absently down through the darkness at his scuffed, muddy boots. He scoured his mind for an answer, an explanation, something that might warrant this sudden and utterly foreign hesitation of his.

He had gone through the familiar motions like clockwork, felt the urge gain momentum within him like a runaway train as he stalked the girl, had heard the restless blaring of its horn in his ears as she took her place beneath the murky black backdrop of night, and the stage was set.

Then, the time had come, and his fingers had been around her warm throat, and he had squeezed, waiting for the urge to swell to a crescendo- and she had struggled and thrashed, her frantic pulse quickening beneath his grasp, but not yet, he could not strike yet, still he had to wait- but then, the girl had quieted, her thrashing ceased, and she fell limp like a doll in his arms, and suddenly, the rush had passed him by without ever stopping, leaving Michael a dangerous, seething volcano, unable to erupt.

Michael didn’t understand. The rush, that sudden, swift second of burning blood lust, it always came. It was his routine, his ritual, his law.

He had ghosted the edge of his knife over the girl’s warm throat. Tiny beads of red welled up on her skin, barely enough to form a trickle. Michael watched the red blossom with striking disinterest; still nothing. He felt nothing.

Slowly, he released his grip on her throat, watched as her unconscious body drew deep and needy breaths. His jaw tensed.

Maybe he had been too hasty in his actions. Perhaps he had moved through the steps too quickly. A multitude of possible explanations sprung to mind, but none proved to be satisfying, and in the end, Michael's attempt to rationalize the matter had failed miserably.

The conclusion he was forced to arrive at was backwards in every sense of the word, but it could not be denied; the urge to take the life of this girl was uncomfortably absent from him in both mind and body.

So here he sat, in the dark, growing restless, his world upturned and his would-be victim still very much alive. He was patient, though- he could wait- the urge would return soon, and when it did, the task would be so satisfying, so easy.

The girl had crippled herself in a doomed escape attempt. She had nowhere to run, no way to resist him. He saw himself descending upon her, knife in hand, could almost feel the familiar sensation of his blade piercing flesh, spilling hot, sticky blood from gushing arteries and striking over and over until at last she lay still- and the voice, the evil within, would be satisfied- his fragmented routine at last complete.

It would happen. He was sure of it. He just had to wait.

Morning came without incident. Michael’s patience was wearing thin. Light spilled through the windows, illuminating shadowy hallways and reflecting off the pristine, bloodless surface of his knife. He ran his finger absentmindedly down the dangerous edge of the blade- its cold steel was frustratingly absent of red.

Michael flexed and unflexed his fingers, his lidded agitation at last brewing and bubbling to the surface. He didn’t understand.

The urge had always been there, a constant guiding force, an invisible hand on his shoulder. It was just as Loomis had always insisted; His ailment could not be cured. Michael had never cared about the nature of his supposed ailment, or, at the very least, he could not recall a time when he did. When he swung his knife, he did so without remorse, without hesitation, without any emotion save for a momentary silent, seething rage, and then even the rage subsided, and once again, Michael was empty.

He didn’t mind the emptiness. The evil had wormed its way in too early, too deep, and now he and it were one in the same. From the moment that he had plunged a knife into his older sister, the boy called Michael Myers had died, and now only an empty shell of a human being remained. He could never, and would never change. It had been a simple, comfortable fact of his existence; but now, the cycle was broken, and Michael didn’t feel empty-

-he felt incomplete.

Michael’s fist clenched like a vice around the handle of his knife. He rose slowly from his chair, mechanical in his movements, and lifted his head to glare across the hall at the closed bedroom door.

The girl- she had upset the cycle. When he took her life, spilled her blood, the urge, his law, would return. It had to.

Michael approached the bedroom not as an unfeeling predator, but as a man about to murder in cold blood.

He wrenched the door open with force enough to tear it from its hinges.

The girl lay on the bed. She was sleeping, her knees tucked tightly into her chest, as if she had drifted off in anticipation of this very moment.

She remained blissfully unaware as Michael raised his arm above his head to strike.

Then, with his gleaming, eager knife hovering precariously over her throat, Michael hesitated.

His body stilled as if frozen in time.

It was something about her face.

Some taunting, unnamable thing, he realized, that had hovered like a phantom in a dark corner of his mind, just out of view; but now, as early morning rays filtered softly through the window and fell upon the girl's peaceful features in a warm, golden glow, it became painfully obvious, and the missing piece of his puzzle snapped jarringly into place.

Somehow- in some foggy, distant memory- Michael knew this girl. He was sure of it.

Images flashed like a slideshow in his mind. He remembered white, pristine hallways, locked doors and claustrophobic rooms, and suddenly, Michael was a boy again. He was with someone- not someone like Loomis, with his stern expression and scornful tone- no, this person had been much different. It was one of the hospital staff. A nurse.

She had a bright, warm smile, and when she spoke to him, her words were genuine.

“Do you like books, Michael?” She had asked, removing two from her bag. Michael was indifferent towards books. He did, however, remember reading with his mother on the front porch, before the urge, before Judith. He supposed they were alright back then.

“Loomis won’t be in today. Would you like to sit and read with me before bed?”

Michael stared out the window, at a flock of passing birds. He gave no hint at his awareness.

The Nurse had simply smiled, taken his hand in hers and led him across the room to his sagging bed. She sat him across her lap and flipped through the crisp pages of a vivid storybook, to the beginning. Her soft hands combed through his hair as she read to him. Though the words themselves had fallen flat against Michael's ears, the Nurse had a gentle, soothing voice, like silk- so, Michael listened instead to the rise and fall of her pitch with the flow of the story.

For half an hour they sat together, until a shrill bell rang out from the speaker in Michael’s room, calling for lights-out.

The nurse had tucked Michael under his covers, wished him a goodnight, and promised to read to him again the following day.

She kept her promise. Every night, the Nurse came to visit Michael. She brought gifts with her, the kind that had been approved by the Sanitarium, which turned out to be mostly sweets. Michael ate them on his own after the Nurse had left, away from prying eyes. As with most things, Michael was apathetic towards the woman at first; but, she was relentless in her care for him, and gradually, he found himself slipping from his self-imposed daze as the hour of her visit grew near.

He would shift his empty gaze from the wall or window as she walked in and meet her warm eyes. When they sat together, as Michael grew tired, he would allow his head to fall against her shoulder. With time, even the urge came to tolerate the woman’s presence, its constant nagging growing placid, almost dormant under her gentle touch. Almost.

For months the visits carried on. Every night, for half an hour, Michael Myers was treated very nearly like a normal little boy.

Then, one evening, the nurse had been late. Michael was content with waiting for her. He was, after all, a very patient child; however, as the night dragged on, and the bell had sounded like an angry kettle in his ears, a woman did enter his room eventually, but it wasn’t the Nurse. This woman was unsmiling- distanced in her greeting of him, as if she found him about as interesting as a brick wall- and the had woman performed her duties and left without a word, leaving Michael to sit in the darkness, still waiting.

The Nurse never came back after that. Eventually, Michael’s memory of her faded.

The girl who lay before Michael now was not the Nurse. That much was glaringly obvious. Such a thing would not be possible, as that woman had been at least twenty years his senior. Even so, it could not be denied that her resemblance to the Nurse from his memories was strikingly uncanny.

Michael understood, now- he did not like it, and he certainly did not approve of it, but he understood nonetheless- and as he observed her fragile, shivering body, he knew with frustrating certainty that killing this girl would not appease his urge, would not bring about that momentary, fleeting satisfaction, would not stave away the discomfort of sudden emotion or restore the serendipity of his unfeeling void.

The girl, who had snapped awake as if struck by lightning, now gazed up at him with wide, terrified eyes. She was unmoving, pinned under the weight of his blank stare and the grisly promise that his hovering knife held. Her chest rose and fell quickly.

The last of Michael’s impulsive blood lust fled his body like a sickly dream. He let his arm fall limply to his side. Then he turned, without a second glance at the dazed, paling girl. The chipping floorboards moaned under his weight as he crossed the room and shut the creaking bedroom door with an air of finality.

Michael stood in the hallway. Behind him, stifled whimpers erupted into heavy sobs, shattering the thick silence as if it were glass. Michael’s shoulders tensed. He stared down in stiff consideration at the old, splintering floorboards beneath his boots. With one matter solved, another had sprouted like a stubborn weed to take its place, and the question still stood:

What, now, was he to do with this girl?

He couldn’t simply let her leave, for obvious reasons. She would be back again the next day with the authorities. At the very best, he would be returned to his claustrophobic room at Smith’s Grove, unable to act on his urges, all the while the voice howling like a feral animal in his mind with its deafening, insatiable cries.

Michael set his jaw. No, he wouldn’t allow that. Never again. The second option- the only realistic option- would be for him to keep her here.

It wouldn’t be a difficult task- after all, with her injured foot, she had no realistic means of escape- but if she proved fool enough to try it he would threaten her, wrap his fingers around her soft throat and watch the defiance ebb from her eyes along with the consciousness from her body until at last she grew complacent.

It wasn’t a foolproof plan by any means; but for now, at least, it would have to do.

After a brief glance about the hallway and its adjoining rooms, Michael had located the heaviest object- an old china cabinet. It shrieked in protest as he began to push, upsetting the fine layer of dust which had collected on its shelves.

He planted the cabinet firmly in front of the bedroom door and stepped back to examine his work. Its dark wood had creaked under the considerable pressure of his strong hands, but still it stood, a proud, unwavering sentinel. It would do.

With matters settled, as if on queue, the familiar nagging at the back of his mind had returned, calling out to him with a rekindled vitality. Michael was being summoned to the hunt. Some budding, crude emotion, not quite relief, blossomed in his gut. His fingers twitched in anticipation. Eager to start a new cycle, a complete, uninterrupted, unfragmented cycle, Michael gave himself completely to the urge, allowed its ravenous hunger to swallow up his body like a dark wave.

As he stepped from the front door, the morning sun kissed the surface of his bloodless, gleaming knife- a wrong that he would right soon enough.

[danixmo]

Jason and Nemi

I miss watching those resident evil lore videos…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jason is such a cutie pie #hedidnowrong #hesanangel