#SFBF
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Heaven’s Night
Hey guys! I’m back for another Blood Fest fic!!! I’m kind of shocked I’m even able to keep up but I’ve been getting some real good inspo off of these prompts, and of course thanks again @the-slasher-files for hosting this challenge <3 Hope you guys like this one, I got a little gory and tried to focus on descriptions more <3
Keywords: Cold. Rapture
Prompts: Gore. CNC.
Warnings: Gore, violence, rough sex, CNC, size difference, hair pulling, man handling
Word Count: ~1,300
The smell that hit your nostrils was downright revolting. The sight was simultaneously not as delightful either, and the fear mixed with nausea would have certainly caused you to lose your lunch had there been anything in your stomach to begin with. Instead, your eyes screwed shut, hand over your mouth as you struggled to swallow back your gag reflex. All you could do was inhale shakily as you tried your best to ignore the smell of rotting meat mixed with sharp copper.
Even though you had heard it what felt like hundreds of times before, the long drawn out sound of metal scraping metal made you jump. But you didn't open your eyes. Not yet. Shivering, you shook your head back and forth as you tried to ignore the icy terror that flooded your veins. You wanted to ignore the carnage for a little while longer before he forced you to see the truth.
Which didn't take long. A massive hand fisted your hair and caused you to yelp, your hands instinctively flying to the hand as your eyes flew open. Every time you saw him felt like the first time. Your breath caught in your throat and all thoughts ceased as you took in the behemoth before you. The others you had come across in this Hellish limbo had many names for him, all of them referencing the massive pyramid resting upon his shoulders instead of a head.
He didn't let up. Instead, his fingers wrapped around your hair, coiling like worms as he continued to lift you further. On tiptoes, you cried out as you tried your best to use his forearm for support, the solid muscle slick with black gore that made you want to retch anew. Ragged breathing echoed from behind the metal of his helmet, rusted from what you only imagined were the countless years he had spent in this cruel town subjected to whatever his punishment was supposed to be.
He didn't move you far. You had been cowering under a table in the abandoned club you had made your home in order to escape the horrors that wandered around when the sirens wailed out into the night. Nothing ever seemed to breach the sanctity of this spot, and tonight two of them just so happened to. With little care, he jerked his arm to the side and released you, sending you stumbling against the low stage nearby, knocking the wind out of you in the process.
As you winced and struggled to inhale, you realized that inches from your face was the source of the gore. You hadn't realized one of them could produce this much. In fact, you hadn't believed that many of the monsters in this town had proper organs. But this one had. It was the leg mannequin, the being that consisted of two sets of legs on the top and bottom of a torso, seemingly fused together in the middle. The top set of legs was splayed provocatively around the pole that had been erected in the middle of the stage, the metal rod between the thighs as they still seemed to twitch even after their "death." The bottom set of legs, however, was split apart from its sexless crotch by the gigantic butcher's blade that Pyramid Head dragged behind him everywhere he went. The blade had penetrated the wooden stage, the shadow looming over you in the dim lighting. Blackened guts were pooled where the creature lay pinned, none of which you could truly identify other than masses of flesh.
Your attention returned to Pyramid Head as his rough hands gripped your hips, yanking you towards him and scratching your back along the rotting floorboards. Panic rose in your stomach as you instinctively tried to fight him off. You knew you couldn't, but you knew you didn't want to. It excited the both of you too much. You didn't think about how he just ruined another pair of your pants as he tore them from your body. You stopped worrying about the blood caked on his palms. The only thing that caused your stomach to flutter in anxiety was that he wasn't taking you from behind, instead he was simply going to leave you on your back. You haven't faced him in the moment before. You weren't sure what he expected or wanted, but considering he made it a point to keep you around you hoped he was fine with whatever you were doing.
His heavy breathing turned into grunts as he yanked the apron away from his waist, his massive cock already at attention. Before you could even put up much of a fuss, he gripped behind your knees and pushed your legs against your chest in one swift movement. Your hands flew up to meet his, a move that was both a crave for intimacy and warning for him to remain gentle. He never did, and yet you continued the ritual anyways. At least this time you were properly aroused, his thick member shoving its way inside of you and stretching your walls to accommodate him.
The action itself left stars in your vision, eyes trained on the ceiling as they rolled back. Mouth hung open, not certain if a scream or a moan would release. But the animalistic grunts that filled the room were more than enough to make up for the fact you couldn't find your own voice. You were certain your hands were going to give out soon as you struggled to hold onto him. The floor rubbed uncomfortably against your back as he unceremoniously thrust into you so roughly you were certain the impact would have sent you further had he not been holding you back.
The sharp tip of his helmet bobbed dangerously above your collar, dancing along your neck with each thrust. And yet you bared your throat instinctively to him, your pleasure mounting steadily as he continued to fill you over and over. You had never been so close to him before, close enough to touch his helmet. It felt so uncharacteristically intimate for whatever relationship had developed between you two over the time you had been trapped in this Hell. But perhaps even in this Hell, there was room for moments of bliss to be shared.
You weren't certain how long it had been, but eventually his thrusts grew more erratic, his breathing heavy and panting. One of his hands shot up to your throat, pressing tightly as you trembled beneath his intense grip. You were certain this is how it would end. The beast's grip was brutal, and quickly your vision began to reduce to a pin prick. The lewd sounds of wet flesh slapping together mounted, sounding like it came from a tunnel.
Sudden release. Your chest heaved, fresh air filling your lungs like balloons as you couldn't help the sounds that you made. Whether they were screams or moans, you couldn't tell. Your limbs reacted on their own, twitching and trembling against your own will. Warmth spread throughout your body, the monster's seed spilling out around him as he emptied himself into you. His own body twitched in response, the veins in his arms seemingly pulsing harder as his muscles shifted beneath the skin. His fingers flexed, but loosened their hold on you, leaving blooming bruises along your hips and neck. You noticed the Adam's apple in his throat bob as he struggled to regain composure.
You had already begun to drift off as he finally slid free from you, the rest of his fluids leaking down your ass as he let your limbs drop back down to the stage. Whining pathetically, you couldn't manage more than a look through tired lids at him. Usually he left after he was finished, but he spent a moment looking over his work. It seemed that over time he began to appreciate the state he left you in. Almost like for the first time, he was admiring his work.
Finally, as sleep began to pull you down, the sound of metal filled your ears again, becoming more faint as your breath began to slow.
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SLASHER FLIES' BLOOD FEST: WEEK TWO
GIVE IN [Michael x fem!reader x Corey]
prompts: GORE. TOYS. FLUFF. CNC.
keywords: COLD. RAPTURE
"oh come on, it will be fun! Kind of like that movie It,"
"You mean with that weird shapeshifting clown monster?"
"Haha, yes, the weird shapeshifting clown monster"
You held hands with your boyfriend, playfully shoving each other and the natural banter always seemed to flow with you two. You were both glad just to have the day off to spend together, although this wasn't his idea of a fun date but the rumours and stories drew you in, especially so close to Halloween. Traversing down the dried-out river bank and through the broken trees you finally came to what you had been looking for; The open sewers of Haddonfield.
"Oh my god, yes!" You excitedly exclaimed, turning on your phone flashlight, already stepping foot into the tunnel before you felt a tug on your arm.
"You cannot be serious" He looked at you with the same look a stern father might give you but that was simply ignored and you pulled him into the dark.
"Yes. I brought you all the way here to just look at the sewers and not go in," You sarcastically snarked back "Now let's go, I just want to see if the rumours were true"
Lighting up the dreary sewers the walls were concrete with cracked bricks, pipes dripped above you and cobwebs shimmered in the low light along with the small stream of water beneath your feet. Slowly it began to open up with a maze of tunnels, some blocked off with metal grates and others leading into an endless pit of darkness.
"Those stories you've been texting me about when I'm trying to be sleeping?" He teased, brushing his shoulder against yours and instinctively he pulled you a little closer as you two walked.
"You know that's always when my brain thinks about weird things," The corner of your lips twitched in a sassy smirk "But yes. Apparently, a bunch of satanic shit happens down here and rituals and I don't know some story about a girl being murdered but I honestly couldn't find much on that one" You rambled on a little, passing a tunnel that turned off to the right
"Wait, wait, wait. What?" Your boyfriend asked with a furrowed brow and he paused, jerking your hand a little so you would look at him. "Babe, yo-"
Suddenly he was cut off by the sound of wet squelching and his eyes went wide in terror and pain. His lips opened to say something but only a trickle of blood began to flow and he gurgled, sputtering words at you that sounded like jibberish as his eyes faded. Reaching out to you, his body jerked back and in one movement a blade came out of the shadows, slitting your boyfriends throat almost to the bones. White cartilage peaked from the strings of muscle that had been forced apart, his head hung back allowing a river of crimson so deep it looked black cascading down his body and meeting another wound; The initial wound where something had been plunged through his stomach and you screamed. An echoing barrage through the sewers made something stir in the shadows but all you were focused on was your boyfriend bleeding out in front of you.
"OH MY GODDDDD!!" You wailed, dropping your phone into the growing puddle of blood and his body collapsed revealing the cold smile of the killer.
"Ssshhhh... You'll wake him" The man whispered and began to laugh quietly, stalking forward.
It was him. It was Corey Cunningham. You two had been talking for about a month now and things were only getting more and more heated between you two, especially recently at the Halloween party thrown by some friends. You stuck to your word however, you had a boyfriend and needed to end it with him first before jumping into something else, and that would be hard with his painted reputation. He was labeled as the boogeyman as the town needed someone to blame for everything that went wrong after the true boogeyman of Haddonfield had disappeared into a blood-drenched night. You never really believed the towns talk about him but the sight in front of you told the truth; Dark navy mechanics jumpsuit splattered in viscera, large butched knife in his right hand, curly waves hanging down on his bruised forehead and his eyes were black with a deep thrill.
Stepping back, your breath was heavy "C-Corey, Corey please. What the fuck are you doing?"
Your question only made him laugh louder, licking the corner of his lips where some blood drops landed "We can finally be together now. I promised you I would light that match for you... Watch the world burn," he paused, opening his arms in a way for trying to get you to see he was no threat as he stayed quiet until the word that followed was in a yell "REMEMBER?!"
It made you flinch, not just by the way his voice reverberated through the tunnels but there was something in him now like a poison, and you couldn't help but be drawn to it.
"Cor—" Unexpectedly your words had been cut short in your throat as something bigger, stronger and with a dark destructive energy hit your back when you were walking backwards.
"Don't be afraid," Corey whispered, coming face to face with you now he brushed some hairs out of your face with bloody fingers "Don't you feel this between us? Feel that we are the only ones for each other?"
His questions were in a desperate ask, searching your eyes for the need to have him. The look in his brown eyes made you sick but God, there was that sweetness like a soft puppy behind them and you leaned a little forward, his nose brushing against yours.
"...Give in"
Heavy breaths fell out of your open lips unsure of where this whole thing was going, not only were Corey's hands on you but now a set of larger hands were too. You didn't speak for no words could even come out. Lost in a haze and shock that held you frozen in place only feeling what the two men were doing; Groping, pulling, pushing adjusting their hips, sliding hands up and down your body like a new toy they got for Christmas. One was more gentle than the other and your eyes fluttered once the man behind you adjusted his leg to be between yours and you looked back seeing the burnt, chipped and greying mask. His eyes were black but burning into your skull like a predator reborn. Instantly the fear bubbled up inside you and your instincts kicked in, RUN. However, the shape behind you felt that instinct, sensed it and was one step ahead, roughly grabbing your throat in one hand and the other held your hip in place, even pulling you back further to be straight against him feeling all that you were doing to the beast.
Corey's cheek rubbed against yours softly, beginning to sweetly kiss along your hairline with a small chuckle, "Baby, I wouldn't do that... I promise he won't hurt you, especially when you're being such a good girl for us,"
That praise was honey coated but dripped in a lie, knowing he could never control the man behind you, "You're so fucking sexy like this,"
Slowly, Corey's warm and soft hands wet with blood slipped into your jeans. He was so gentle with you that it was almost disturbing against the roughness of Michael squeezing your throat and bruising your hip but you couldn't help yourself from rolling your hips back on the shape's leg.
"That's it, babygirl. That's it" Corey's fingers circled and rubbed softly your pussy "Aw, you're so wet already, huh? Aching for us? Being such a needy girl?"
Like those words were a cue, the hand that was on your hip disappeared and you heard the dragging of a metal zipper. What you were feeling came free, pressing along your back there was a small whimper in your throat signally Corey to unbutton your jeans and he tugged them down along with your soaked panties. Michael adjusted his legs, shifting your hips so his cock was rubbing your sex.
"Give in, pretty girl... Give in" Corey trailed kisses down your body before getting on his knees in front of you.
Brown eyes looked up at you, pulling your shirt up and licking small trails along your stomach whispering over and over "Give in"
Slowly you did just that, allowing your head to fall back and one of your hands drifted into Corey's curly locks as Michael shifted, pushing himself inside you. A choked gasp fell into a moan echoing through the hidden tunnels. He was so big, filling and stretching you like you had never experienced and mixing with Corey finally giving one lick made your legs weak.
"Ffffuck, you taste so good" He growled as Michael began to move faster, finding his own rhythm. "Such perfect little pussy getting stretched so good, huh?... Let me hear those moans, baby"
Sweet words met deep guttural groans behind you feeling your body get lost in the rapture, being served on a platter to two wolves that needed you in many different ways; One just for necessity and the other for deep need to have someone. An orchestra of moans, whimpers, growls, groans and praise could be heard through the night in blood and need. You were now in the monster's hell that was just lying beneath the ground.
#ok seriously i love this fic#also VERY excited to write for corey#my writing#horror#slasher#slashers#corey cunningham#Michael Myers#halloween ends#x you#slasher x reader#slasher x s/o#corey x michael x reader#slasher fandom#slasher fanfiction#SFBF
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B L O O D F E S T: week III
Mask, Chain, Sleep, Bone
Thomas Brown Hewitt in GLASS
word count 880 // warnings: praise kink, cream pie, slight size kink, somnophilia
YOU slept better than you ever had with Thomas Hewitt next to you. Your sweet Tommy. You would always curl up to him, like he was just a big teddy bear, ignoring the sweat and grime and blood that would cling to his skin. Summer was over, but no one had told the oppressive Texas heat, although Luda May insisted it would get cooler soon.
Tommy wrapped his arms around you, holding you to his chest. You lnew he was always careful with you, careful not to crush you, careful not to graze the scar on your back, careful not to scare you. Careful to lock the basement door when he left. Careful to chain you to the bed when he was working. It should have made you sick when he caressed you with fingers practically dripping with someone else’s gore but instead you welcomed it. It meant Tommy had someone else strung up on those chains, and it meant that he was choosing you. Each and every time, he was choosing you. Again and again, over and over.
Your sweet Tommy.
You’d gotten good at reading his expression under his mask. The slight changes in those deep brown eyes. He didn’t speak, they were all you had to go by but you felt you understood him. Since being in the Hewitt house, your world had become very small, the only danger had also become your salvation. You used to feel powerless, like Tommy saw you as a pet. Entertaining for the time being but hardly a permanent fixture in his life until one night when you were deep in dreams, Tommy woke you up.
You were moaning before you were even aware of what was happening, all you had was the feelings of being stretched as Thomas slowly entered you. Before your eyes had even fluttered open, you cooed; “Tommy,” He stopped moving when you met his gaze.
When you saw his face.
Neither of you moved, Tommy’s shaft halfway in and already, his size made you nervous and a shudder whipped down your spine. His hands were on either side of your hips, holding his above you and his mask was on the end table.
Those sweet cow’s eyes were in a face unlike any that you’d ever seen but any fear you felt was replaced by excitement as you, barely awaked, begged for more; “Tommy, please.”
Tommy pushed even further into you and you arched your back, crying out only for Tommy to shove two fingers into your open mouth to silence you. You had been dead asleep, it was the middle of the night and this far out in the country, the night didn’t make much noise. Still, you wound your tongue around his digits and tasted yourself on them. He had tried to prepare you for him while you were still asleep. You sucked on his fingers, your eyes holding his and Tommy grunted.
Being heard was clearly a concern because Tommy didn’t fuck you. Instead, he held onto the headboard above you and peered down into your face as he rocked his hips, slow and shallow thrusts that had you squirming to meet him and trying to whine around his fingers.
His face hovered inches above you, in all its grotesque glory. Tommy watched closely, your every reaction as he snapped your hips to meet yours, fully sheathed inside you. A cry escaped you and his pushed his fingers further down. You understood his discretion, you two weren’t alone in the house and he wanted to spare the both of you the embarrassment if Hoyt were to hear. But now was not the time for logic. You felt good, you wanted him to know he was making you feel good. Drool wet your lips, his hand and the pillow beneath you, Thomas started to thrust --always so careful-- before he took his hand out of your mouth to hold your hips down with both hands, his grip spanned across your stomach, his strength could be devastating if he wanted it to be and the idea thrilled you.
The bed was creaking and Thomas’ brow furrowed, slowing his pace even further. “No,” Your voice had a breathy and desperate tone. “Please don’t stop. Tommy please.” He stared down at you, his large eyes searching for an explanation. You took your hand off the bed, it was your turn to be careful, and cupped his scarred cheek. Tommy flinched but he didn’t pull away; “Don’t stop. Please make me feel good Tommy.” He melted into your hand and jutted into you, suddenly full of feverous fire, driving him.
You took your hand away and in a second, Tommy’s hand was on your wrist, pulling your hand back to cheek. “Oh, my beautiful Tommy,” You cooed as he rocked into you. You couldn’t hold back your gasps when hit that spot within you and kept at it.
Your praise, your gasps and sighs, the fact that you couldn’t keep quiet; it all spurred Tommy on as your sounds mixed with Tommy’s own moans. As you got close to your release you couldn’t hold back. “Yes Tommy, yes!” Until he covered your mouth again just as you came, clenching down on him and bringing his own release, his shaft still deep inside of you.
#sfbf#thomas hewitt#tommy hewitt#tommy hewitt x reader#tcm#tcm 2003#leatherface#leatherface x reader#bloodfest 2022#frenzy scribbles
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TEETH | Michael Myers
blood fest 〉 week one
You can't say it wasn't, in its own way, thoughtful.
Or: Michael brings you a gift
WARNINGS: mild gore, mild sexual themes, mild violence, Michael being Michael, gender neutral reader (but mild feminine adjacent language used extremely briefly), slight Dom!Michael
KEYWORDS: Wicked. Rain
NOTES: i left the version of Myers (OG, RZ, Peepaw) extremely vague so you can pick your own Michael poison.
this is also my first writing challenge. i hope you enjoy 🖤
He comes to you covered in blood that's rarely ever his own.
The veracity of that statement has become ingrained inside of you to where you have quickly learned to stop worrying, to stop fussing over him, whenever you round the corner, and catch sight of the man in your foyer drenched in ichor, and dripping gore on the carpet.
It's not quite a routine, but it's – something.
Not rare enough to be considered sporadic. Not frequent enough to be anything quotidian in your life. His visits linger somewhere in the unspoken fringes. A truism, yet hardly anything banal.
(A visit from the boogeyman could hardly ever be considered commonplace.)
While the biblical rain this weekend has washed most of the viscera away, he's still soaked in it, covering every inch except his latex mask. It's almost preternatural how it manages to stay free of blood, of carnage.
He shakes his head like a giant, wet dog, splattering pink droplets of diluted townsfolk over your living room. Your mouth knots when it lands on the new cream-coloured Sherpa throw you bought, but you have enough sense to say nothing about it.
It's not like he'll listen, anyway.
He has a remarkable ability to hear everything and yet absolutely nothing at the same time. Cherry-picking. You say, don't get blood on the linoleum, and he hears it as get blood all over the linoleum.
Or maybe he just purposefully ignores you, and does what he wants.
(That one is far more likely than the rest.)
You bite your tongue, saying nothing. He won't care, and it certainly won't stop him the next time he comes.
The pat-pat-pat of something hitting the floor draws your eye to his hands. His bloodied fist is clenched loosely by his side. The awkward, bulging shape of it makes you wonder if he hurt his palm.
"Are you–?"
His hand lifts, a meandering incline until it's pitched in front of you, unwavering. You gawk at the blood soaked knuckles in your face, uncomprehending, and then up to him. He gives nothing away. Bland impassivity colours the crescent outline of his eyes through the tenebrous holes of his mask. Blank. Unbothered.
"Michael, I don't know what you want."
His head tilts, chin dipping in a way that means you've displeased him. He's impatient now. Surely, his wordless, confusing actions are enough for you to interpret.
You huff, rolling your eyes back down to his outstretched hand. Something about his palm. He has something in it. He's trying to give you something –
Ah.
Oh.
You shiver. Michael doesn't often bring gifts with him. It's only ever happened once before. Something you try – very hard – to forget.
He lingered in the doorway one evening, watching you at your vanity. You didn't think he was paying much attention to you; before when Michael watched you, you just thought it was a scare tactic. That he wasn't observant.
A mindless killing machine.
How wrong you were.
His eyes tracked the way you picked up the delicate opal earrings you'd gotten from your parents that year, sliding off the brass back with care before dropping it on a cloth to keep it from running off. His gaze never waved when you tilted your chin, fingers tugging on your lobe to line the post up with the hole. Slipping it in with a small wince when it caught on your tender skin. Reaching for the back to keep it in place.
He watched as you marvelled at the pretty gem in your ear before doing the same to the other one.
It was easy to mistakenly believe he was just there, looming as always. Or maybe it reminded him of something his mum used to do. Whatever it was that ensnared his attention, it didn't matter much to you.
You forgot all about it until he came back with his first gift. A pair of earrings.
(With the ears still attached.)
You shudder. "Oh… um…"
How do you refuse the gift of a serial killer without becoming his next victim?
You don't. You can't.
Swallowing thickly, you try to peer into the eyeholes that fix themselves to your face, catching every glimmer, every expression, that passes. The abstruse abyss reveals nothing. Impatience radiates off of him. If presence alone was a physical thing, Michael Myers' might just suffocate you.
It's a struggle to hide your grimace, the horror at what you might uncover, but it's all for nought. He catches it, anyway. His chin tilts again, lowering so that he can see into your eyes.
You're not an expert at reading his body language, but you managed to pick up on a few of his idiosyncratic behaviours with each visit from the boogeyman. He's curious. You might even go so far as to proclaim him amused. Luridly so.
Each shiver, tremble, wince, and shudder you give is observed with this slight decline of his chin. You can't even begin to understand how he ticks – Michael Myers is an enigma to you – but you know he enjoys your fear. He likes catching you unawares, likes it when you jump at his sudden appearance.
It's a truism, now.
One that often ends with you underneath him, bracketed by his thick, firm biceps, hands perched as close to your temples as possible. Sometimes, if you've greatly entertained him, he'll wrap his hand around your throat, almost purring as he stares down at you, watching your soundless gasp, the way you claw, futility, at his wrist. He likes when you struggle. Likes when you give him the opportunity to chase you. To hunt you down.
It's effortless for him to haul you back where he wants you, slamming the end of the blade into the end table, right where you can see it. Always within your periphery. And then he takes you. Bites your neck, and collarbone. The inside of your wrist. Thighs. All marked with the impression of his teeth, stained in a ring of black, and leaking blood onto the sheets. He'll press your raw thighs to his hips, holding them there so you can feel him grazing the irritated flesh with each controlled, brutal thrust into your body. It makes you yowl, an amalgamation of pain and pleasure wracking through you with such visceral intensity that you often sob into his shoulder, clutching his wrist in a desperate attempt to get some respite. Some reprieve.
It never comes. You're his conquest—a prize for him to take, to claim.
He likes your pain too much to stop. Enjoys the bloodied mess he makes of you. Likes, even more, when he pries your aching thighs apart, head cocking to the side as he watches his release seep out of you, joining the blood that soaks the sheets below.
Michael takes. And takes.
It's very rare that he ever gives.
Another shudder rolls through you, eyes fluttering at the memory of his last gift, and how he sought gratitude from your body after.
(There's a hole in the drywall from where he slammed you, a touch too hard, into the wall with the brutal way he pounded you, bloodied earrings dangling from your ears.)
Michael huffs. The noise is amplified by the mask's acoustics, a ragged exhale. He's waited long enough, it tells you.
You can't stall any longer.
You don't bother trying to hide your grimace when you slide the cup of your palms under his fist, feeling the steady beats of the blood dripping onto your skin. Another steady huff. Amusement. He relishes your disgust.
His gaze never strays from you when his fist unfurls, fingers splaying wide. He watches, dark eyes boring into your own as you feel the first clump of whatever he's given you fall into your palm.
You hold his eyes for a moment longer, unwilling to look down and see what small objects he's brought you. It's better to look into this cerulean abyss, into the gaping maw of a monster, than it is to see what awaits below.
But Michael tires of your avoidance. He's eager for you to see.
It's only when his head leans forward, lids lowering only slightly, do you break the intense stare.
You can't quite make sense of the little clumps in your palm, or the ones that slowly loosen from the congealed blood on his hand, falling into yours. They're small, white.
Pomegranate seeds. He's giving you fruit.
Oh.
You begin to smile, wondering when he had the time to flesh the fruit, and why he kept it clenched in his hand for so long, but it fades quickly when the last one falls from his palm.
The blood has mostly dried, and the object sitting on the top of the pyramid has little covering it. There is no mistaking what his gift is.
Michael lowers his hand, letting it fall to his side. He doesn't clench his fists, he keeps them half furled. Relaxed.
But the look in his eye belies the bland nonchalance of his countenance.
His gaze is unyielding, rapacious. Hungry.
In your palm sits teeth.
Human teeth. Some of them are still attached to the roots, and from the indents on his first knuckles and fingertips, you can easily surmise that he wrenched them out of the jaw with that very hand. You swallow hard, bile rising up your oesophagus. Guilt, terror – both spume in your chest, a dizzying, almost noxious compound that nearly smothers you with its unparalleled rue.
But why? Why teeth?
It clicks, then, when the lightning outside the rain drenched window catches on the flash of gold on one of the incisors.
Michael sees everything. Notices more than you might expect.
He is always watching you. Always. He's there, lurking, hiding in the shadows. At first, you thought he was just terrible at stalking. You could see him, you knew he was there.
It was only when he disappeared from your periphery that you realised all those times when you saw him across the street, standing half hidden behind the door frame, garish mask catching in the black of your television as he lurked behind you, it was intentional. Michael wanted you to see him. To know he was there.
You relaxed when he was gone, thinking he must have gotten bored and wandered off. The tension in your posture dissipated. You greeted the locals, the guilt of having him waiting for you at home was gone. It was easier to breathe without his presence suffocating you.
One man, in particular, approached you after your shift finished. You smiled at him. He grinned back, gold tooth gleaming in the ochre sunset.
It started innocuously. An older man stopping you to speak wasn't uncommon. It was nothing that hadn't happened before. You listened, a brush impatient, as he introduced himself, and asked if you wanted to get a drink.
You're cute, he grinned again, leaning against the door of your car. I wanna get to know you.
You didn't think when you responded. It was all routine. A polite, impassive smile, slightly strained around the edges, eyes demuring to show your feigned contrition. Sorry, I have a boyfriend.
Sometimes it works. They raise their hands, a little disappointed, and nod in understanding, respectful of your choices, and comprehending of your unavailability.
Sometimes, however, it doesn't.
He doesn't need to know. A wink. A cloy smile. I don't see him anywhere around here, anyway.
You lost count of all the ways you said no without actually saying the word, too afraid of causing a scene, or of being noticed. You didn't want that kind of attention when your house was a steady crime scene, and a myth lurked in your foyer, eating all your cereal.
Your smile waned. Please, I'm not interested.
You get it now.
He scared you. With the wolfish grin, the firm hand he kept on your car door, the way he invaded your space, intentionally bringing himself closer and closer to you until your bodies were a scant hair away. It forced you from the handle. You kept taking a step back, away from the safety of your car. The gleam in his eye was wicked; his intentions vile, disgusting.
His hand closed around your jaw, squeezing until your mouth opened. When the flash of your teeth was revealed, he smirked. There ya go, smile more for me, hon. His thumb brushed across your bottom lip, making you tremble.
You only escaped when the security guard wandered around the corner, giving you a chance to flee.
Michael is infinitely complex and entirely inscrutable. You can't really understand him, or how he ticks, but you grew accustomed to his peculiarities – and his sense of humour.
He's giving you the man's teeth – the same ones he used to smile at you, to scare you. Something that only Michael is allowed to do.
(You're sure, then, that somewhere in your house you'll find the man's hands. The same ones he used to touch you.)
His chin dips again when you smile, taking in the wobbly edge to it, the tension in your shoulders. Your voice catches in your throat, tremulous, drenched in the coalescence of your fear, your uncertainty, and your gratitude.
However wicked the boogeyman might be, however vile and evil, you can't ignore the thrum in your chest when he's near. You, paradoxically, feel safer under his gaze. Under him.
He holds his palm out to you again, waiting.
When he'd given you the earrings, you'd been shaken. Terrified. Unsure what to do, you kissed his hand.
It's become a thing, an expectation. Whenever he does something for you, he expects a kiss on his palm.
But –
It's covered in blood. Saliva. Gore.
You reach out, fingers curling over the thickness of his wrist – so much larger than your own – and pull his hand close to you. He watches, bland, expectant. His eyes – vacant, stormy – narrow when instead of pressing your lips to his flesh, you pull his hand up to your neck, setting his heartline flush against your thundering pulse.
It's a break in what has, unfortunately, become the norm, but his hand is slimy on your neck, reeking already of rot. You won't put your mouth there, where you can feel the pocks in his flesh from the teeth he ripped out with his bare hand on your skin. You'll show him your appreciation in another way.
(Hopefully, this one doesn't end with another hole in the wall.)
Michael considers this, his head angling to the side as he takes in the contrast of his bloodied hand and your smooth, clean neck. He tips it the other way. A new angle. A new thought.
A huff, then. He finds what he's looking for.
His fingers stretch out, thumb pressing into your jugular as the others curl around the nape of your neck, index finger settling behind your ear. His hand is massive. His grip is tight. Choking. You gasp weakly when the tip of his thumb digs into the small knob on your throat. Phosphenes spume across your vision.
Your hand barely fits around his wrist when you grab his flesh. You'll never get him to stop – you're not strong enough to ever dislodge him from your body; his grip is ironclad. Your bones are fragile in his hold. Holding him like this is to ground yourself. To find a strange, almost anomalous comfort in the steady thud of his heart beating against his pulse point. Touching him like this reminds you Michael is human, despite how much you believe otherwise. Flesh, bone. You find kinship in the warmth of his skin.
"Michael," you croak, head spooling with the thick gossamer of hypoxia. Tears flood your eyes at the pressure, the lack of air. "Thank you."
Your head hits the wall when he shoves you back, the bulk of his body nearly suffocating as he looms over you. His flesh is burning, his hand nearly searing the skin of your thigh when he grabs it, fingers digging into the plush give of your body. His grasp is harsh enough to bruise the bone. Your leg aches already. Throat throbbing from the force of his hold.
You're sure, then, that you won't be able to walk tomorrow much less swallow.
Michael is often mistaken as cold. Indifferent. Despite his vacant gaze, you can feel the heaviness of his desire curling over you; a thick haze of palpable hunger that leaks out of the bruising press of his body flushed against yours.
His other hand falls, fingers curling over your thigh. He lets you breathe for a moment, let's the anticipation simmer in your hazy stare until he's had his fill of it. Then, he squeezes. His fingers burrow into your skin, rupturing the capillaries under blood blooms under your flesh in the perfect replica of his handprint.
Michael hikes your thigh up, locking it around his hip, and drives into you with enough force to rattle the wall, shaking the pictures loose. They fall to the ground, shattering into pieces. The sound is dulled under the harsh, angry pants aerated from the holes of his mask; the cacophony of his want, his wild, untameable desire.
He towers over you. His wide chest expands with each deep, ragged inhale, filling your vision until nothing remains but Michael, and his unfettered hunger.
Desire and anger are one in the same with Michael. His fury reeks of his impatience to be inside of you; his need to cudgel into your body with thrusts that are too similar to the way he hunts, maims, to ever be a mere coincidence. He takes his aggression out in the softness of your flesh, leaving behind the brand of his claim. His ownership.
You'll never escape him. Never run from him.
His want for you is apoplectic. Your fate was sealed the moment you caught the boogeyman's interest.
(they told you, didn't they? don't let the boogeyman see you.)
His thumb moves from your jugular, huffing when you gasp for air, eyes nearly rolling into the back of your head as oxygen fills your lungs in a deluge. He's not gentle when he slides it across your skin, nail catching on the curve of your jaw, but it's as soft as he'll allow, as he's capable of.
Rotting blood is smeared across your skin. His eyes trace the trail, narrowing when the tip of his thumb hits the slope of your pouting lip.
You know what he wants. What he always wants.
And you can never deny him. You should have known better from the start.
Your jaw drops, lips parting for him.
All you get in response is another deep inhale. A bland acknowledgement. But the fever in his gaze nearly consumes you in its fire.
He wanted a kiss. Wanted to see your lips stained red with the fruits of his effort. You didn't allow him that.
So, he takes.
His thumb slips over the bump of your lip, resting the first knuckle on the fleshy bed, and he waits. He knows, now, that you will obey.
Your mouth closes without preamble, puckering around the tip of his thumb, catching the crimson congealing on his flesh where it sits like a macabre lipgloss on your skin.
You can feel his excitement as it bludgeons into your core, jerking at the gentle kiss. The hard thickness of him makes you whimper in response, lashes fluttering shut as a molten want gnaws inside of you.
He tastes of iron when your tongue laps over his flesh, and you find you quite like the taste.
His gifts might be macabre remnants of his unhinged carnage, leftovers from his icy warpath, his insatiable need to tear into flesh until the stench of death permeates in the miasma around him. You might be dragged along to the pits of hell for letting this untameable quietus into your home, your bed, your body, your heart, but when he ruts into you like he's starved for the feel of your flesh, you can't help but to take an ungodly amount of pleasure from the horrible things he gives you.
He takes. And takes. And when he gives –
He makes sure to let the world know it was him, and him alone, who gave it to you.
It's awful. Horrible, even. Vile. Any number of debauched things. But despite the morality of letting a murderer fuck you senseless into a blood soaked mattress until you're screaming hymns in his name, you're already looking forward to the next gift he brings for you.
(You just wish he would give you something that wasn't still attached to a person.)
–its my personal headcanon that Michael Myers absolutely gets off on terrifying people, but no one more so than whoever catches his attention. Mikey likes you? you better prepare yourself because this man is going to psychologically torture you as a form of foreplay and/or courtship. but ONLY Mikey is allowed to scare you. that horror movie you watched that made you jump? you find it destroyed in your living room. better not go to a haunted house or you'll have a massacre on your hands.
–he also gives terrible gifts. tell him you like someone's shirt, well. he gives you the shirt. cute. but it comes with their torso. coo at some birds? you find bloodied feathers all over your porch. he's a menace. and make no mistake – he knows this absolutely terrifies you. he likes that.
Thank you for reading~
#SFBF#slasher files#slasher files blood fest#bloodfest#michael myers x you#Michael Myers#slasher x reader#halloween fic#michael myers x reader#rz myers#og myers#peepaw myers
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BLOODFEST '22 | Week One : B I L L Y L E N Z
Prompts: rope && TEETH && size && BLOOD
Keywords: WICKED && RAIN
Word Count: 638
MINORS DNI
The man’s laughter peals through the air, the noise long and fractured like the spidering of a busted windshield. It’s reminiscent of the clap of thunder against the onslaught of rain that assaults the dust encrusted glass pane. And the way Billy’s yellowed teeth catch in a gleam against the flickering flame of melting pillar candles reminds you of the strike of lightning. He moves in close, settling kneeled between your thighs with his face hovering mere inches from yours as shadows dance over the slopes of his face. For a brief moment, time slows around you, and the daft barbarity that usually ravages the deep pools of brown is replaced with something almost soft, unlike the expected jagged edges of madness.
When your hands wind through the tangled brown mane, it’s gone in a blink. Billy laughs again, a sharp puff of sputtered air exhaled against your chapped lips. He looks at you like he wants to say something, mouth even parting slightly, but it dies on his tongue with a whine when you press your lips to his. While the initial contact is chaste, it hardly remains so. Instead, it quickly morphs into something ravenous as crooked teeth catch against your lower lip in a sharp nip that wretches a startled sough from deep within you. Your grip on his hair tightens in retaliation, but it only makes his hips lurch, and a thunderous moan roll through his body as the swell of his cock makes indirect contact with your groin.
“More.” You murmur, revelling in the way Billy’s body twists against the sting of his scalp and how he still whines and groans despite the ache. He kisses you again, teeth knocking against yours and drool smearing against the curve of your lower lip. You loosen your grip on his hair, letting your hand cradle the back of his skull for a moment before sliding down till fingers clung to the scratchy fibres of his green turtleneck.
You can taste the wicked intentions on his tongue, and fear licks at your insides in anticipation, but you’re helpless to stop it. Instead, you are entranced by the subtle hint of butterscotch candies on his breath and the bewitching enthusiasm emanating off him like a live wire. Teeth sink in, rending your lip’s delicate skin and making warmth spill, and a coppery taste perfuse. It happens so fast that it takes a moment for the affliction to reach your nerves and be processed. A mixture of spit and blood dribbles from your lip, a sharp thrumming of searing pain radiating from the wound as Billy, with surprising heed, draws back and stares down at you with wide eyes drowning in reverence.
“Preetty, so, fuck, fuck! So pretty for Billy,” The words tumble from his lips in a hasty trill, like they’re viscous, making each syllable catch on the curve of his tongue in a slow slide. He leans back on the balls of his heels, dirty fingers grasping your jean-clad thighs and forcing them further apart while simultaneously keeping you pinned in place. He stares down at you with heavy lidded eyes, mouth twisted into an unnerving grin as he lets out a shrill little laugh as he rolls his hips forward against you. He lets out a little sigh of contentment at the friction, doing it again like a mindless hound in rut. “Oh, they want it bad. Need it bad.” Warmth blooms within you like magma, setting your body and nerves aflame as you begin to roll your hips to meet his, tempting the molten liquid to crack past the surface and burn you alive. It makes Billy stutter and snarl, his lip drawing back and revealing blood stained teeth, and you only return it, lips stretching into a painful, bloody smile that mirrors his own.
#sfbf#bloodfest 2022#bloodfest#slasher files bloodfest#Billy Lenz x you#Billy Lenz x reader#Billy Lenz#Black Christmas#Black Christmas 1974#Slasher x you#Slasher x reader#my writing#as always this is gender neutral<3
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🩸 BLOODFEST 🩸
Week One
Prompts: Rope, teeth, size, blood
Keywords: Rain, wicked
Payment Plan
Male Vampire OC x GN Reader
Warnings: Blood, heavy gore, descriptions of violence, manipulation
This is a long one, folks. Get a snack and settle in.
~~
$3.78
The little black numbers on your phone screen could be innocuous enough. It’s a simple amount, small, maybe the price of a basic coffee or a quick snack at the gas station. It would be harmless, if it wasn’t the balance of your checking account.
With a noisy clatter, you toss your phone carelessly onto the counter, your head falling to your hands. At your feet, a quiet mewl.
Despondently, you look down at your cat, Sweet Pea. The cone around her neck, shaved hair and stitches on her front leg are the source of your current monetary dilemma. Somehow, she’d managed to slice herself open on an errant piece of balcony railing.
“Idiot,” you murmur, crouching low to give her a scratch. She purrs, oblivious to your name-calling. As your fingers glide through her soft, warm fur, the question festering in the back of your mind drifts to the forefront of your thoughts.
How are you going to make rent? It’s due today and you don’t get paid for another two weeks. You’ve never been late on a payment before. Maybe…. Maybe if you ask your landlord for an extension he’ll take pity on you?
You swallow the lump in your throat. Just the idea of speaking with him makes your palms sweaty. That innate fear, the knowledge that you’re not at the top of the food chain always pricks at the back of your neck in his presence. You try to avoid him at all costs.
You wonder if his other tenants feel the same.
With a deep sigh, you push to your feet and cross the room to retrieve your keys. First you must work. You definitely can’t miss a shift now.
Exiting your apartment, your keys rattle in the lock. After the click, you turn on your heel and crash straight into a solid chest.
“Oops!” a quiet voice exclaims, long fingers gripping your shoulders to keep you from tumbling backwards.
“Oh christ, I’m so sorry—
Your words catch in your throat when your gaze lands on the face of Mr. Talo, your landlord. The fight to keep your expression passive ends in defeat as all the blood drains from your face.
Too quickly to be nonchalant, you step away from him, back colliding with your locked front door. No escape—
No, shut up, you’re acting insane, don’t upset him, CHILL OUT….
“Everything alright?” Mr. Talo asks in his soft, lilting voice, his slight accent catching at the ends of his words. You meet his eyes, iris bright blue and whites bloodshot—a sign of a well-fed vampire.
You allow yourself to relax minutely before responding, “Y-Yeah, I’m really sorry Mr. Talo—
“Oh no, no, please call me Sami. ‘Mr. Talo’ sounds like I’m much too old or something.” The corners of his lips twitch up in a gentle smile. You can tell he’s trying to keep his teeth hidden, but you can still see the very tips of white fangs poking out from under his top lip.
You force a breathy chuckle, gaze dropping to your shoes, then back up in time to watch his spidery fingers ruffle the white-blonde hair atop his head. The fluorescents above catch the stray strands, his pale locks nearly glowing under the light.
“Right, you must be off to work? I’ll leave you to it.” Sami turns to leave, then pauses to add, “Rent due today, I’m sure you’re aware.” Your heart stutters in your chest. You’d wanted more time to prepare your sob story….
“Uh, Mr—I mean, Sami. About rent….” The vampire turns to face you fully, eyebrows raised curiously. You swallow, throat suddenly dry. You continue, “I’m—my cat h-had an accident, I mean, she got hurt. I had to, you know, take her to the vet—stitches, she needed them, which…which you know, costs…costs money and—
“You can’t make rent this month.” he finishes for you. Your mouth opens, closes, opens again. He doesn’t sound upset. In fact, there’s a glint of something in his gaze, beyond the bloody sclera; something eager.
“Y-Yes. I’m sorry, is there…?” You trail off, forgetting what you wanted to ask. Sami is turned completely toward you now, attention fully focused on you, your face, your shoulders, your neck…. His hands, once resting in his pockets, now hang at his sides, long fingers twitching randomly.
“S-Sami?” you breathe, jaw clenching. Your own fingers jump, ready to reach for your keys, but then Sami blinks, shoulders relaxing, hands quickly returning to pockets like he hadn’t even moved at all.
“There are payment plans. I’d be willing to extend that courtesy to you as you’ve never been late before.” He speaks casually, like everything that just transpired was completely normal. You have no choice but to follow along, the heavy feeling in your chest lifting slightly when you comprehend what he’s saying.
Sami pauses, lightly scrapes his fangs across his bottom lip—your hand involuntarily clenches on your keys—before he speaks again, softer than before, “Or…there is one more option. An alternative form of payment—no, not that,” he adds with an awkward chuckle when your eyes bug out of your head. “Though some would consider it equally as—erm—unwholesome.”
“W-What do you mean?” Your voice breaks a little with your question and you wonder how much more your poor nerves can handle. Sami takes a half step closer, hands leaving his pockets, fingers entwining.
“Blood,” he states simply. You stare. His expression doesn’t change. You blink several times in quick succession when you realize he’s serious. Sami nods, “For one month, I will forgive rent in exchange for one, uh…feeding.”
Words elude you. He’s serious! Has he done this before with other tenants? He must have, with how boldly he speaks. Is this legal? It can’t be, can it?
You realize you’ve said nothing for too long a stretch. Sami waits expectantly. Again, you must swallow before you speak.
“Um. Uh…can I think about it?” His eyes crinkle at the corners, more of those wicked fangs revealed with his grin.
“Certainly. I’ll touch base tomorrow?” You can only nod weakly in response. “Great! Talk soon.”
And with that, he strides away down the hall before disappearing into the stairwell. The loud bang of the heavy door shocks you out of your stunned silence and you spin around, hurrying in the opposite direction.
~~
Payment plan. You’re going to do the payment plan. That’s the least insane option.
But one month no rent…. That could be huge for you, especially with these vet bills you still have to pay.
No, absolutely not. It’s madness to even consider it! What if he gets carried away, or whatever? Rent isn’t worth your life.
But…the burden and stress this could relieve…. It’s just one time. He’s obviously done this before. He must know what he’s doing.
No, no, no. This is ridiculous. What is the matter with you?
You retrieve your phone, ready to text Mr. Talo—Sami—your answer. You hesitate, fingers hovering over your phone screen.
You’ve lost your god damn mind.
~~
Nervously, you check the clock on the stove. Almost 7PM. Soon.
Wringing your hands, you look over the assigned “to-do” list, mentally checking off completed tasks.
It’s Friday. You have the weekend off to…recover, as instructed. You’d eaten iron-rich foods all week, drank the requisite amount of water, taken all the B vitamins. You’d meal prepped for the weekend, ensuring all your meals are low effort and ready to eat.
Chewing on your lip, you frown, considering. Maybe you should—
A quiet knock at your door makes you jolt, your pen tumbling to the ground with a clatter. Heart hammering, you cross the room, smoothing your shirt and straightening the rug. Oh god, you’ve lost it, this is crazy, but it’s too late to back out….
The lock clicks and the door swings open with a little squeak. There stands Sami, wearing khakis, a pale blue button up that matches his eyes, and a kind smile. In his hand is a small, black satchel.
“Uh, hi. Hi, um, come in,” you stammer, scooting out of the way as Sami steps into your apartment. He gives your space a quick once over before turning to you.
“You completed the list I gave you?” You nod, glancing down at your feet, then back up. He smiles wider in approval and your gaze is drawn to white points. Christ, they’re huge….
“Excellent. Shall we get started? I won’t take up much more of your evening.” You tense, giving him one more stiff half nod.
Sami motions to the sofa before setting the little bag on your counter. The slide of its zipper fills the awkward silence—you should have put on music—and he rustles around inside. In a neat row, he positions gauze, a bottle of sterile water, medical tape, and a blue surgical rag. Your heart rate increases with each item he produces until it pounds furiously against your ribs.
Satisfied with the arrangement, Sami moves to sit next to you on the sofa. That same, understanding half smile decorates his wan features. Hands like ice find your face, cradling it, and you flinch at the chill. He gazes into your wide, panicked eyes, making sure you’re looking at him before speaking.
The whites of his eyes are almost completely visible, barely any red. He’s hungry—
“It is imperative you don’t struggle. Do you understand?” You blink and swallow hard, your throat like fucking sandpaper. “Repeat back what I said.”
“I-I shouldn’t s-struggle,” you whisper.
“You mustn’t.”
“I won’t.”
“Good. Now breathe. Big, deep breaths.” You do as he says, your body working on autopilot as your mind whirs with terror. “Just like that. You’re doing well! Your heart rate is slowing.”
You falter at that, “W-What? How…?”
Sami taps his ear with a slender finger, “I can hear it.” You can’t stop the flush from heating your cheeks. He knows you’ve been distressed this entire time. Embarrassing.
That eager glint returns to his eyes. With a light chuckle, Sami moves one of his hands to your shoulder, gripping just tight enough to hold you in place. Cool fingers grasp your jaw, tilting your head to the side and back, exposing your neck. He scoots closer, invading your space, pulling you close, intimately close.
You choke on a breath, then suck in air quickly, willing your tense body to relax. Don’t struggle, don’t struggle—
Sami inhales slowly, deeply, and your cheeks burn when you realize he’s smelling you. A quiet squeak leaves your mouth when his lips ghost across your throat. In your lap, your sweaty hands curl into fists.
The fingers on your jaw move to the back of your neck just as you feel the sharp points of his fangs setting themselves against your flesh. That prickling sensation returns, stomach lurching, body urging you to flee, fucking run idiot, but you reign in your panic, a mantra of ‘Don’t struggle, don’t struggle,’ playing on repeat in your brain.
Piercing, twin stings make you gasp, your hands flying up to grip the front of his shirt Warmth trickles down your throat—summer rain on your skin—before soaking into the neckline of your top. Sami quickly seals his lips around your leaking wounds.
You feel gentle suction—he’s drinking—and you can’t help the tiny whimper that escapes you when he groans, his chest vibrating against your palms with the sound. The hand on your shoulder squeezes hard, just shy of being painful. You focus on your labored breathing and force yourself to still, to be quiet.
Sami emits a muffled, gurgly moan and pulls you flush against him, wrapping an arm around your body. Your toes curl in your socks. At the same time, you notice your grip on his clothing growing slack. Your fingers are weakening, your head fuzzy, little spots forming in your vision, your breath coming in ragged pants….
With a strained growl, Sami rips his teeth out of you. His lips are millimeters from yours, so close you can feel hot, metallic breath washing over your face. Icy hands caress your face, stroke your neck, dip down to your collarbone, he’s so close, what is he—
Hastily, you are slammed back into the arm of the couch. Sami stands so quickly you don’t see him move. Dazed, you watch him stagger and clutch his head, bowed shoulders rising and falling rapidly with his gasping breaths.
You don’t have to strength to move much, nor even the wit to speak, so you just stare at his back. The rapid heaving of his shoulders gradually slows as he stands upright. His mouth he wipes on his shirtsleeve, brilliant scarlet staining the pale fabric.
Seeming to come back to himself, he retrieves the items he’d placed on the counter. Finally, he turns to face you, revealing the startling visage of a freshly fed vampire. You’d react if you weren’t so dazed, thoughts spinning with your vision.
The whites of his eyes are completely red, not a dot of ivory to be seen. His pupils are blown so wide you can’t make out any blue. Crimson stains his teeth, a paint brush smear across his cheek where he’d wiped it away.
Sami clears his throat and kneels on the sofa between your trembling knees. One hand returns to the back of your neck as the other presses gauze to your wounds. 
“You alright?” he asks, his usually soft voice now quite husky. You blink to right the world and nod once again. Fatigue pulls at your consciousness, tries to force your eyelids shut. “These will heal,” he continues, pushing against your bite marks for emphasis, “By tomorrow, most likely. Make sure you have several glasses of water. Tonight, before you sleep, I mean. Continue the vitamins.”
Dumbly, you gaze up at him. He doesn’t meet your stare, instead rips pieces of tape to secure the gauze to your skin. Next, he cleans away the remainder of your spilled blood with the surgical rag and sterile water.
Unceremoniously, he stands, retrieves a glass of water from your kitchen, sets it on your coffee table. “Get some rest,” he commands, leaving through your front door without a backward glance.
The lock clicking shut seems to trigger something within you and you slump, rolling onto your side. It’s over. You’re okay.
Well, okay enough. Maybe.
You don’t have the sense to ponder the strange details of what had just occurred. It only takes seconds for unconsciousness to claim you.
~~
The weekend passes in a blur of dizziness and fatigue. You hardly leave your bed. When Monday rolls around, you’re still so worn out you must phone in sick to work.
Sami checked on you the following day with a simple text: ‘How are you feeling?’ Other than that, you haven’t seen hide or hair of him all week. Probably for the best, you decide. Only awkwardness could occur after spending such an odd evening together.
Friday evening again, and rain pummels the windows, wind gusts rattling the balcony railing. You relax in bed, zoning in and out, not even really watching what plays on television, instead focused on the light and shadows thrown across your body from the changing images. Absently, your fingers scratch between Sweet Pea’s smooth ears…. Soft and warm….
Drip. Drip. Drip, drip, drip.
Your heavy eyes crack open. Darkness in your apartment. The television is off. When had you fallen asleep?
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The rain has stopped. Outside, the air is calm. In your sleepy state, you finally register the dripping. Oh no, a leak?
You push up onto your elbow. Sweet Pea is gone, off to perform her nightly rounds, no doubt.
You roll onto your other side and lay eyes on the horrific figure looming at your bedside.
A soaked, torn shirt reveals the mangled flesh underneath; gaping abdominal gash, bubbly fat, shredded muscle, and oozing guts all visible and leaking onto your floor. The dripping. Not a leak after all.
Higher up is a gaunt face, white blonde hair wet from the recent storm. It is a face you recognize.
Mr. Talo—Sami.
A rain-dampened hand slaps over your mouth to silence your blood-curdling shriek. Another gathers up your wrists, pinning them to the bed. Knees plant themselves on either side of your hips, body weight on your legs stopping your thrashing before it’s even begun.
He stares wildly down at you—how is moving—as warm blood spills from evisceration, soaking your clothes, your sheets. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, gentle voice strained and quivering.
You can do nothing against his strength. You can’t twist, can’t buck, can’t thrash, can’t call for help—helpless, you’re utterly helpless.
More gore pours out of him when he leans down, wet squelching accompanying the movement. Again, he murmurs, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” before lips find your neck.
A soft kiss is pressed to your skin—another apology—before wicked fangs sink into flesh. The force of your muffled scream burns your throat, but the palm suffocating you keeps it from carrying far. You recognize the sucking pressure, the noisy groan, the dizzying loss of blood coming much faster this time.
Your teeth dig into his palm, copper spilling into your own mouth, but Sami isn’t fazed, doesn’t let up. Distantly, you remember what he’d said about struggle, but the terror surging through you keeps any rational thought from sticking
Now you’re just an animal, prey squirming in the grip of a predator, desperate to save your own life. Above you, Sami growls as you writhe. It’s a feral sound resonating from deep within his chest that sends your heart into a frenzy.
There’s a crunch, more pressure in your neck, then a sick tearing sound near your ear. With a final, wet snap, Sami sits upright, flesh dangling from his terrible teeth.
You stare, shocked. You can’t believe what you’re seeing. Your fingers scurry up to your neck, recoiling when you feel the wet mess that was once your throat—the throat now clutched in Sami’s jaws.
A cough bubbles out of your mouth, blood splattering across your face, little rain drops, pitter-patter. More wets your hair, joins the puddle forming on your mattress.
Sami watches blankly, observes you drowning in your bed without so much as a twitch of his features. His eyes are crimson once more, his chest heaving. Lower, the torn shirt reveals smooth, unmarred skin, his flesh healed by your life essence.
Your bloodied hands fall away from your spurting neck, landing useless on soaked sheets. The room is darker now, growing darker still. That’s right, the television had been turned off. Good, you don’t want to waste electricity….
Have you ever been so tired?
Sami lifts his hand. He frowns at the teeth marks in his palm. Unhealed?
The last expression you see cross his face is one of terrified comprehension, the last thing you hear a breathless, “Oh no….”
Your eyes drift shut.
#SFBF#slasher files blood fest#thesightstoshowyou#writing event#horror writing#original character#original writing#my oc#sami talo#vampire x reader#vampire x you#reader insert#sami talo x reader#exophilia#monster boyfriend#monster x reader#monster x you
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"We Match!" The Ghost/"Mitch." X FEM! AFAB! Reader.
Ay yo week three of the fantastic @the-slasher-files Bloodfest! I hope you alllll enjoy this one! This is the first thing I have written for The Ghost or “Mitch” from The Haunt (2019) a movie I watched a few days ago! I ended up loving it and this guy sooo much and the inspo hit so here we are! I dunno if I will write him again but we will see, for now, enjoy this new piece!
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Rating. Explicit. Length. 2K. The Ghost/ "Mitch" X FEM! AFAB! Reader. No Pronouns Specified. Warnings: Blood. Gore. Fear. Cutting. Banter. Teasing. Vaginal Sex. Spanking. Talk Of Death And Murder. Unprotected Sex. Dirty Talk. Mask Kink. Glove Kink.
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You always loved Halloween, always dressed up and always, always, always went out and did something. This year was no different, you went out with friends, some drinks, some dancing and partying, consuming candy and general reverie but it wasn’t enough. When you all departed from the club there was excited talk of not wanting the night to end just yet, wanting to finish strong and on a high note. Many things were thrown back and forth until the idea of a haunted house was brought up and that was what was enthusiastically decided on.
It was pretty fucking cheesey honestly, total cornball. To start at least. Somewhere along the way it got really real and very intense. One your friends getting separated and apparently murdered before your eyes, another one getting seriously injured, the group splitting up further still, it had you scared and majorly on edge, until you came across another scare actor. He was dressed in a mask, bone white and black and some yellow, long off white, bordering on almost grey and dirty looking robes, clearly the costume he was going for was a ghost and it was pretty good. You could see some chains wrapped around it to really elevate it to sell the vibe. It fit the theme, everyone else you had seen went for more vintage style costume choices and masks.
You and your friends were freaked the fuck out but this guy, “Mitch” as he told you, reassured you, said he’d help get you out and that the murder you witnessed was an act that they did, that your friend was outside and most likely wondering where you all were.
It was a relief.
You all just got too caught up in the moment, it was late and you got swept into the situation and the spirit of the season, Halloween is all about getting scared and you fell victim to that, who could blame you? Eventually, your friends went a different route in search of the first aid kit Mitch directed them to and by doing that left you alone with him.
There was a section you had passed through earlier, the back of one of the scare exhibits you had all participated in. It was a medical-like room with x rays on the wall and holes that encouraged you to reach through, the one you had reached into had a tray filled with peeled grapes to mimic eyeballs. What your friend experienced however was not so innocent and she ended up getting stuck shoulder deep in hers and cut with razor blades. One the back side of it there was the table with the trays, you were currently leaning against it, waiting on your friends and just killing some time with Mitch.
“So you been doing this for long?” You asked, glancing over at him and he let out a hum, a tilt of his head, “A few years now. Going on three years doing this.”
“With the same group?” You inquired and he gave a nod, “Yeah they are a good group, we click really well. Part of why this-” He said with a wide gesture of his robe to the still bloody razor blades scattered upon the table top, a mere foot of space away from where you leaned, “-is so jarring to me. I have no idea who could have done this.”
“Yeah, must be pretty scary thinking you know someone only for them to pull a stunt like this.” You admitted and he took a step closer, speaking in a more hushed tone, as if worried someone would overhear while you were clearly alone.
“There is this new guy who joined up this year, I’d hate to think it but maybe…”
You shuddered at the thought, “Ugh, I hope not!”
“Me too.” He sighed and you knew this must be hard for him. You felt bad and you wanted a way to maybe lighten the mood, break the tension, so you said. “I love your costume by the way.”
He seemed a bit taken aback by that, but it worked and changed the subject as he looked down, holding his arms out but the mask was looking back up at you, “Thanks! I’ve always been a fan of the classics.”
“Yeah, same here, but you know, a modern twist.” You gestured down to your own costume. You too went as a ghost. But one where the material was long enough on the sides to cover your arms with some extra past that but the rest of the hemline was cut criminally short to show off the thigh high fishnets and garter belt you wore along with the tall black heeled boots as accompaniment.
“I dunno about modern, doing a sexy version of a staple is a classic in itself I’d say.” He asserted and you had to agree. “You make a fine point there Mitch.”
“Thank you.” He said easily and you continued, “And points for calling it sexy and not slutty. Cuz it totally is but still smart move.”
“Oh you flatter me far too much.” He laughed and you liked the sound. “I think you are far too trusting too.”
“And why do you think that?” You asked and he took another step closer, “I mean when you lay it out, you, stuck in a haunted house, separated from your friends, and alone with a total stranger who’s face you’ve never even seen? Could spell trouble.”
“Well one. You haven’t seen my face either.” You said with a point before saying next, “And two, are you inferring that you’re planning on killing me?”
“I think I’m more implying it and I’m not. I’m simply making an observation.” He said with a shrug and you got an idea.
One of the things about Halloween that you have loved to indulge in since becoming of age and really partying is? Hooking up with a stranger and this holiday so far, you have not crossed that off your list and you weren’t the type to break your streak on such a long standing and fun tradition on your favourite night of the year. There was something about this guy, a quality that you just liked. You felt you clicked with him, he was funny, plus the idea of fucking this guy when you have never seen his face and never will? Leaving afterwards hopefully satisfied and unsteady on your heels with some fun new memories and a good story? A truly perfect capper to this night before getting back together with your friends and toddling back home to collapse into your bed to sleep.
Time was of the essence though. You didn’t need this to be long, you needed it to be dirty and quick, so you had to gauge his reaction.
“Awe damn shame.” You pouted, not like he could see your face but you hoped it came across in your tone. “Enlighten me?”
He prompted and you filled in the blank, “If you were planning on killing me then maybe I could sweet talk you into giving me a last request.”
“Intriguing. Perhaps if you share that last request I might just indulge you, even without the killing.”
“What a gentleman.” You praised before standing upright and turning, you bent at the middle, laying your stomach on the solid wood table and in the process that super short hemline rose up and showed off the spectacular view of your ass. The underwear you chose was lacy and cute and now totally on display, the thin straps of the garterbelt helping to really sell it and frame your assets. “Too bad I’m not looking for a gentleman.”
“No, what you are looking for is quite obvious.” You hear him come up behind you, feel his hand on your ass, the smooth gloves? Very nice, loved that you couldn’t even feel the most basic part of him, you liked the extra layer of separation.
“So are you gonna indulge me?” You asked with a look over your shoulder and in response you received a spank with a good amount of force behind it, a short moan spilled out, surprised by the initiative he took along with the small jolt of pain accompanying it. There was a firm squeeze, enjoying the feeling of you in his grip as he said, “I mean you are about to die. It would be cruel to deny you this small kindness.”
You bit back a laugh, of course a dude who is years deep into being a scare actor would get into the roleplay you laid out.
So when your frankly skimpy underwear is ripped midway down your thighs and you feel him press against your already slowly leaking hole you welcome him along with the slight burn of the stretch of him slipping inside with a low groan, “Yesssss-”
You didn’t need much warm up at all, within two minutes any of the mild ache subsided, replaced with low simmering and steadily building pleasure. Your nails are digging into the wood of the table, moving back as much as you could to meet him in the middle as he drove forward, his hands on your hips as he fucked into you. When pain gave way to pleasure and you weren’t wincing, instead moaning, not super loud, still mindful that you might get caught, he took that as the cue to slam his hips harder into yours.
During that you noticed, through the haze, a different sort of feeling, something unusual and when you questioned it, he paused his pace. Hips flush against your ass, a hard grind, hands gripping tighter he said, “I might have something extra-” And he pulled out, slowly, much slower and you feel it, the rim of your hole catching on what had to be some pretty impressive piercings.
You tried to place what you think it could have been but he picked up his pace, another spank, much harder as he quickened his thrusts and all thoughts left your head in short order.
It felt fucking great, you were panting, pleasure slowly building, moaning out, “Oh fuck-Goddd! Mitch don’t stop-”
He let out a breathy laugh, falling forward, you could feel his chest to your back, his mask next to your ear, harder thrusts as he said, “You know Mitch isn’t-”
You cut him off, rushing out with a half-laugh-half-moan yourself, “I fucking know your fucking name isn’t Mitch and I doooon’t carrrrre.”
The hardest hit of the night, landing on the same spot, a choked moan as you clenched around him, walls of your slick cunt hugging his shaft tightly. He groaned, head tipping forward, “Fuck. You know, you’re right.”
You let out a small questioning hum, much more concerned with your building climax than what he was saying and he responded, a hand coming around and gripping your throat through the thin sheet of your costume. “I shoulda called you slutty from the start.”
Yeah he should have.
This was so hot, you felt so powerless to him, all alone, his body covering yours, he was so much stronger and you were so vulnerable. A man who you didn’t know, whose face you haven’t seen and never will, a guy who’s name you didn’t know who was currently balls deep, raw, in your clenching and slick hole, how much dirtier could you get?
This guy hasn’t seen your face either, doesn’t know your name, he hadn’t even kissed you before he stuck himself inside of you and you got off much, much too hard at the very idea, let alone the fact you were actually doing this.
As you started to get close, lost to sensation and the fervour of your illicit hookup you could only muster one thought and that thought? God you loved Halloween.
#WELL#HERE WE ARE#SFBF#BHF writing#slasher x reader#Mitch x reader#The Ghost x reader#HOPE YOU ENJOY
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🩸 bloodfest || week two 💉
prompt: gore, toys, fluff, CNC || keywords: cold rapture
well, second time’s a charm...and this time i actually delivered the writing with the pretty packaging 😅
NSFW | Word Count: 587 | Herbert West x GN Reader x Daniel Cain
contains polyamory/threesome, (light) CNC/brat taming, gore, toy use, overstimulation, softness sprinkled in between
“So, how long are you going to be stuck in here tonight?”
It had been a hypothetical question; one you didn’t expect to get an answer to as you stood halfway up the stairs, grinning at the familiar back of the man’s head. Even though you loved to give Herbert a hard time whenever the mood struck, it also brought an unbelievable attitude from him in return. Two wrongs making a debatable right. Tonight was no different, as he left you waiting for maybe four seconds max before replying with a snide tone, “As long as the work calls for my attention, [Y/N].”
“Yeah, is work the only one that catches your eye nowadays?” You hummed, already turning to leave but still giving an easy tone despite your complaints, “You know, Dan and I would like to see you some time this week, maybe get half the interest you have for this damn basement. It’s just an id-.”
The abrupt clatter of him dropping the scalpel against his work table made you choke on your words, and he muttered, “Oh, I can show you what it means to be a man of interest over anything else. Is that what you’d like?”
Herbert turned on his heels, now not being shy to bestow the sheer sight of him. Your smile fell as you saw the sharp red contrast that had been hidden from you with his back turned; the entire front of his shirt spattered with someone else’s demise because he simply hadn’t had time to stop the bleeding while in the midst of God knows what.
He held up an amalgamation of innards at you, the noise something raw and enough to warrant a slight cringe from you, but once again warned in an even voice, “When I am through with this, I’ll show you what I mean.”
The context was nearly deafening, but the idle hum of the silicone in his hand kept you tuned into the reality before you. The work changed for the bedroom and the addition of Dan in just the span of a few hours.
You took one look at the wand, then back at him. “Oh, can’t you just kill me instead?” You pleaded, half sarcastically. The other half of your mind was swimming in sharp anxiety that stirred your gut and made goosebumps rush down your arms, and you became restless in the taller man’s hold. Dan felt the way you were tensing where he had you held by the wrists and the waist, the hand on your side soothing over the chilled skin.
Herbert gave him a look and mused, “Normally, I’d tell you to mind yourself, Dan. I think in this case,” He carefully brought the toy down, pushing it against your crotch and trying not to immediately jest at the way your body went into a long tremor, eyes rolling slightly and jaw loosening but not quite falling open. “The more contact from either of you, the better.”
In your ear, Dan hummed slightly, trying to keep enough of a handle on you while feeling the vibration against his inner thigh. Like you were a cold pathway that connected Herbert to him, you strained to keep eye contact while letting the pleasure rush over in another shiver, this time a quiet tremble in your voice shine through, “Oh-h-hhh fuck.”
“Evil.” Dan huffed, and you merely echoed between convulsing, “Evil, evil ma-an…”
He merely smirked at the sound of the two of you. “That’s it, hold [him/her/them] still.”
#SFBF#poly!danbert x reader#herbert west x reader x daniel cain#herbert west x reader#daniel cain x reader#slasher x reader#slasher fanfiction#notsfw#✏️#💉#thank you guys for not clowning on me for posting this without anything oh my god#hope it was worth the tease ;;
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Blood Fest Week 1: our strange duet
Blood Fest prompts: Rope. Teeth. Size. Blood. keywords: Wicked. Rain.
summary: Maxi has a hard time focusing at work after your date the night before, and resorts to some... unusual tactics to find relief.
warnings: smut, 18+ only, minors dni. descriptions of embalming and body restoration, of grievous mortal injury, grief, mourning. discussion of body dysphoria, chest anxiety. brief talking about being queer and hiding it in the deep south. brief discussion of male body image issues. mutual oral sex (m and afab receiving), brief facefucking, first time as a couple sex, period sex. discussions of the demon living in maxi’s body, for funsies. stalking, breaking and entering, sort of spying on someone in the shower, use of sex toys, size kink, voyeurism, masturbation, slight breeding kink if you squint, minor humiliation kink, maxi is the definition of a service switch, definitely creepy behavior from the serial killer, dead dove do not eat, don’t open the bag if you’re not a slasherfucker ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
general: Reader is non-binary/genderqueer, uses they/she pronouns; Reader is plus size, Reader is queer, Maxi is bi and talks about it. Everything else has been left up to the reader, please let me know if I need to tweak any language.
y’all wanna get a little weird with me this spooky season?
(I’ve been writing this one for funsies for a while, but I’m super grateful to the lovely Bree at @the-slasher-files for this delightful opportunity to share this for an event. Sorry mine’s so late, and they definitely won’t all be this long!! :’D Week 2 will hopefully be up later tonight or tomorrow, and I’ll hopefully not be too late with the rest of them lol
okay! here goes!!
Maxi was pretty sure he shouldn’t be thinking of you on top of him last night while he was preparing to embalm the forty-something woman on his table. No, in fact he was certain he shouldn’t. Despite the multiple layers of PPE he was wearing - his usual scrubs, gloves, and mask, and then a plastic splashguard over that - he still caught himself feeling oddly vulnerable in front of the decedent. He was used to empty, staring eyes, he’d been used to them for more than half his life. But something about Mrs. Berthelot-Yang’s glazed gaze today made him feel like he was the one with just a sheet for modesty’s sake, rather than the other way around. He kept dropping things, leaving them in his office or on the wrong counters, forgetting what he was doing in the middle of filling out paperwork - he couldn’t help but feel like he was fumbling in an entirely different sense, whereas last night couldn’t have felt easier.
But damn, if you didn’t seem to have him utterly bewitched, and you’d only been going out for a month.
Well, okay, three weeks, six days, thirteen hours, give or take fifteen minutes. …But who was counting, anyway. Certainly not him, nope.
There was something about you he was having a hard time putting his finger on, but since that kismet day in the cemetery, he’d found his mind wandering back to you at the most inexplicable moments. He couldn’t hear the afternoon rain pelting his windows without remembering your smile in the passenger seat of the hearse, giggling even when you were soaked. He couldn’t just lay on his couch in the grip of insomnia and watch a shitty horror movie without remembering your soft, clean scent when you were sitting next to him at the movie theater, and how he’d wondered if the cherry slush would’ve been any sweeter if he’d tasted it on your tongue.
And now, despite the purposeful chill of the prep room, he swore he could still felt the heat of your mostly-bare form pressed against his while it had taken everything in him not to devour you on the spot.
He’d been careful with you. He’d been so goddamn achingly careful with you, wanting to take this slow. He wanted to make sure he took his time with you, didn’t scare you off, didn’t lose your interest before he got the chance to...
He blinked out of his trance when he realized he was still standing over Mrs. Berthelot-Yang with the trocar still in his hands, staring at her still violently bruised and scraped bare abdomen. Motorcycle crash on the highway. Even with a helmet, she hadn’t been any match for the concrete barrier she’d swerved into in her attempt to move around a semi that had thrown on its brakes. The devastated wife was delivering her clothes tomorrow for her viewing this weekend.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” he sighed, shaking his head in exasperation and feeling himself blush. “I don’t know where my head’s at today, I swear.” That was a lie. He knew exactly where his head was at.
He heard a ghostly chuckle from the very edge of the salt that bordered the edges of the room — not the sharp, cruel ones of some of the House’s permanent residents, but something soft. Almost knowing. He glanced up to see the faintest flicker of movement near the door, as though a figure had just poked their head in the room and pulled it quickly back out again.
There was sudden wafting of a warm, light scent of jasmine and vanilla… a perfume. Her favorite, her wife had told him through tears in the client parlor upstairs - and Maxi couldn’t help but smile a little to himself as he relaxed. It was always a relief to have an understanding guest of honor.
Or, well, as much as they could be, under the circumstances.
“Thank you for bein’ patient with me,” he said, carefully lining up the sharp tip of the instrument with a spot just beside her navel. “Now, this is gonna look nasty, but I promise it’ll be better in just a sec—“
The tip slid through the soft flesh like butter, and he let the trocar do its work before carefully angling it again to perforate the other end of the cavity. With a couple more easy jabs, he set it aside, watching the new wounds attentively before he set to preparing to close what needed closing.
But even as his hands went through the same motions as they had for a little less than two decades, his mind wandered immediately back to you, and the curiously strong effect you’d had on him already. He couldn’t explain it to himself, but he felt like if he slept with you and you ghosted, it would drive him insane for ages afterwards. He’d had friends with benefits before, sure, but they were usually more of an obstacle to work around with his… other nocturnal activities, than something he ended up entertaining for long.
And he wanted more with you, he already knew that. He wanted so much more, so soon, and he was trying his damnedest to be cool about it, but god if you didn’t make it difficult in the best way. How you liked his morbid jokes, and he genuinely laughed at yours, how you didn’t mind his odd hours or his tendency to ramble about various histories of death and decay at the drop of the hat. How curious you seemed about his work, and your compassion for the families he dealt with. How he loved the way you talked about your own day, even if it was something as simple as your side gig, and the care you took with it even when it was frustrating you. He just liked you. All of you.
And he’d been so close to finally getting all of you last night, when the two of you had stumbled into your bedroom after you’d invited him over —
He maybe should’ve guessed something new was afoot when you’d wanted to change plans from actually going out to just staying in for a quiet evening at your place, but he’d been happy just to get to spend time with you, so he hadn’t thought about it too much. It had genuinely started as the two of you goofing around with some multiplayer horror title over pizza, but when you’d teasingly tried to distract him by kissing his neck like you usually did, you lingered there just a touch longer than normal. There was a bit of teeth to it, heat that the two of you had skirted but hadn’t quite explored yet.
Needless to say, he’d immediately dropped his controller to pull you into his lap. You hadn’t protested - to the contrary, you’d straddled his thighs with yours, your hand pulling his shirt collar like a leash to close any distance left.
— Even through the rubber gloves he was wearing now, he swore he could still feel the silk of your skin like fire against his palms. He shook his head again, the trocar wounds closed and now trying to thread the needle so he could sew the dear lady’s mouth closed through the frenulum and up through the septum. But he felt his face burn under his mask as he remembered just how you’d sighed when he’d run his hands up your sides under your top.
Like you were relieved. Like you’d been waiting for him to touch you, almost as much as he’d wanted to.
If you had any idea how hard it had been for him to let you go, especially once he heard that sound, you would’ve called the cops—
“Son of a bitch,” he growled, putting the musculature needle down just a little too hard on the steel table top when he couldn’t get his hands to stop shaking.
He was instinctively reaching to pinch the bridge of his nose under his glasses when his hand ran smack into the plastic face shield instead. Frustrated, his swore under his breath, about to fling the offending garment across the room when he heard another gentle laugh from the doorway. He hesitated, then carefully exhaled his frustration in a practiced sigh through his nose, before turning to look over his shoulder. “Well,” he mumbled, the tension leaving his shoulders. “I’m glad one of us is havin’ fun with this.”
He could see a gentle swirl of white floating in the doorway, like steam out of a shower. For a moment, the swirl changed direction, as though something like a waving hand had interrupted its floating through space.
With this small encouragement, he turned back to the waiting guest, taking another cleansing deep breath. “Get it together, Morvant, christ,” he muttered, tilting his head to both sides to crack his neck before trying again. You had him acting like an amateur in his own house.
This time, he hooked the needle through the needed places as easily as writing his own name.
He still frowned even as he neatly stitched the lips closed, hearing the faintest echo of his father in his head. Not the torso half-corpse chained to the wall downstairs, thank Everything Below. But the version that still loomed large in the crevices of his brain, that still snidely muttered about his every move if he performed his duties less than perfectly.
Mooning over a mortal. Jesus, his father would’ve taken the belt to him for that. Again.
Once he was satisfied with how her mouth lay, he picked up the wax he’d be using to fill some of the rougher contusions on Mrs. Berthelot-Yang’s face. With a careful angling of a flat blade to get it out of the jar, he rolled it across the side of his latex-gloved hand, letting it warm itself into something malleable.
You would’ve been worth his father’s wrath, he caught himself thinking. He didn’t know quite how he was so confident yet — the unbearable soon-ness of it haunted him again as he sized up the empty hole the glass shards had left in her cheek — but as he did so, he felt you again, flush against him like you were there in the room.
He’d gotten greedy last night, he knew that, but you’d been right there and so soft, he couldn’t resist. He clenched his free hand through his glove as he remembered the scent of your neck, the lightest hint of some delicious fragrance as he’d taken small, covetous bites of your flesh just to feel you writhe in his grip.
He’d paused his tasting at the neckline of your shirt, sitting back to watch you open your eyes he stopped. “…Can I take this off you?” His hands were still up at your back, holding you close, but he indicated what he meant in the way he passed them over the fabric. The two of you had a tendency to be all over each other in stolen private moments during the brief time you’d been going out: at the House, in the hearse, on his favorite bench in the cemetery. But these had been careful explorations despite your shared enthusiasm, mostly over clothes due to him never being quite sure who - or what - might be lurking nearby. Now, there was no threat of a paranormal pest, or his spectral sister’s looming eyes from the shadows.
It was just you and him, alone at last.
He was too close to you not to see the tiniest hesitation on your part - your teeth briefly grazing your lower lip - before you nodded, your coy smile back in place. “…I’d like to keep what’s under it on, though,” you admitted, your voice soft in how close you were to him. “Is that… Okay?”
“Anythin’s fine by me,” he murmured somewhat hazily, nodding as his hands slid down your sides to your thin top. “Whatever makes you feel comfortable, gorgeous.” He savored the feeling of his fingers sliding under the fabric and finding the warmth of your bare skin, curling around its hem, before he glanced up at you one more time to double check.
You nodded again, your eyes bright with anticipation, and that was all it took for him to yank the flimsy fabric over your head.
Maxi sat back slightly, taking in your mostly-bare torso — your soft stomach was adorably sweet, just as he’d imagined. He admired your clavicle, the way it was set into your shoulders, the way your skin looked with all the small marks collected over a life. You were a miracle, a work of art, just like he’d dreamed. He took you in almost ravenously, wanting to memorize every freckle, mole, spot. The small galaxy that was you.
You shifted in his lap, your arms drawing in slightly over the dark garment covering your breasts. He couldn’t help but move his attention there as well, pausing in his awe-struck inspection. That… wasn’t a bra. At least, not one he was familiar with. He was flustered internally for a moment; he knew he hadn’t dated around in a while, but did they really start making them a whole different way when he wasn’t paying attention? He swore he’d just put a regular one on a nice little octogenarian at work the other day; was that considered outmoded now? An antique?
“…It’s a half-binder,” you said softly, snapping his attention abruptly back to your face. His heart jumped into his throat when he saw you looking shyly down at your thighs, anticipation replaced with more hesitancy. “It’s. Um— It’s for when—“
“Oh, no, that’s not—“ Maxi stumbled and nearly bit his own tongue, cursing himself for interrupting you. But he was desperate for you to understand how much he was only looking at you with wonder, not with second thoughts. He wanted to curl into himself in agony at the mere thought of you having such a notion.
But the way you looked immediately back to him made him think you were almost more nervous than he was, rather than annoyed, and he felt a flash of protective fondness at the expression on your face.
“I— It’s okay,” he soothed, nodding. He reached up to your face, his thumb stroking your cheek as he kissed your jaw line. “It’s fine,” he reassured you again, smiling at you. “That’s all okay, baby. I only looked concerned because… well,” he paused, feeling his own face warm slightly. “I thought they’d gone and changed how they made bras on me, s’all.”
Your uncertainty was punctured by your surprised laugh, and he immediately felt relieved at the return of your smile, even as he rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t want to do anything that would make you think he was less than… capable, of taking care of you. But he was only being honest.
“No,” you said, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re sweet. No, this is a different thing.” You shook your head. “It’s… um.” The shyness crept back into your face, and as much as he wanted to reassure you again, he made himself wait for what you wanted to say. “…Okay, so,” you said slowly, letting out a breath that shook a little around the edges. “Sometimes, um. I have some presentation issues around my…” You paused like there was something stuck in your throat, instead gesturing to your chest under your binder. “And I don’t… really want to have them there. Or out. Or, like…” Your hand clawed for a moment in frustration as you tried to explain. “I just don’t want them to be a focus?” you managed at last, a sigh on the heel of your words. “I don’t know, sometimes I’m fine with them! I mean— Obviously,” you gestured shyly to Maxi, who immediately recalled every time he’d pulled down your neckline to nip at the top of your breasts greedily, on his couch during a bad movie, or against the wall of a crypt during a cemetery walk.
“I’m… very familiar, yes,” he agreed, smiling even as he felt the heat in his cheeks.
Your smile in return reassured him, and he watched the tension in you ease. You reached up, running your fingers through his hair, and he had to fight not to shiver pleasurably at the contact. “I just… today was a bad chest day, is all.” You bit your lip again, clearly still somewhat nervous about this. “And I was just, um. I thought we might… and if I- I flinched, or something, I didn’t want you to think… it was you, or anything. Because it’s not. It never would be.“ You looked down at your thighs again as you trailed off, your hands sliding to his shoulders. “It’s just - this thing my brain does sometimes, and I don’t always know when.”
Maxi was trying too hard not to get stuck on the fact that you had implied you’d never flinch from him, from his touch, his heart fluttering like a trapped bird in his chest with muffled excitement. He had been trying to slow down just how hard he’d been falling for you lately, but you weren’t making it easy. You didn’t know, you didn’t know, he reminded himself sternly. He couldn’t take it entirely at face value if he knew what he was hiding from you, and you didn’t.
And ideally, he thought to himself, you never… would. Not completely, anyway.
Because there’s no way you’d stay if you knew what he was, was there?
Realizing he’d been still too long, been too quiet, his hands went to your hips and squeezed affectionately. “Hey.” He waited until you met his eyes to roll his shoulders in a slow, lazy shrug, smiling up at you. “I’m just happy to be here with you like this, darlin’,” he said, his tone hushed again as he ran his hands up your bare sides. “Really. That’s all. Whatever you don’t wanna do, or— don’t want me to touch,” His hands stopped a respectful couple of finger widths away from your binder. “We don’t have to, at all. Okay?” He shifted a little, going to loosen his tie out of habit before realizing he’d already taken it off and left it in the hearse before he walked in. He flattened his lips instinctively into a line for a moment, his eyes wandering off to the side as he realized what he wanted to tell you right now.
It wasn’t The Thing, but it something he didn’t discuss often, that was for damn sure.
“You’re sure?”
He looked immediately back to you, and realized you’d been watching his face. Your eyes were careful, searching - veiled, he noticed with a hint of panic. You must’ve thought his hesitation was about you, when nothing could be further from the truth.
“Yes,” he said immediately, nodding vigorously. “Yes, angel, absolutely.” He tapped his fingers where they rested on your skin. “Your boundaries are yours. I’m not about to want anythin’ you tell me you don’t, I swear.” He smiled at you again, feeling a little nervous now. “I was just… you got me thinkin’, is all.”
You blinked, your eyes lightening a little bit as you tilted your head. “Oh yeah?”
Maxi nodded, wetting his lips out of nervous habit. “I…” He hummed quietly, trying to figure out how to word this, exactly. He cleared his throat a little, before looking back to you. “…You, um.” He swallowed. “…On our first date,” he finally said, forcing himself to meet your eyes. “I saw your, um. Your pride pins. On your bag, and all. And then, of course, you told me ‘they’ worked for you, obviously,” he added quickly, realizing he was just talking in circles. “So I just… god,” he sighed in frustration, his head falling backwards against the couch to stare at your ceiling. “Why is this hard.”
“…I could state the obvious,” you deadpanned, still straddling his lap.
There was a pause, and Maxi half-shrugged. “You’d have a point.”
He met your eyes again, and the both of you dissolved into muffled laughter, the tension at last broken.
“What are you trying to say, Maxi?” you asked when you’d both got it out of your system, tilting your head the other way to catch his eyes again.
Maxi sighed, looking up at where you were perched on his lap. “What I’m tryin’ to say,” he said quietly, forcing it out now. “Is that… me too?”
You blinked, your brow crinkling. “…You ‘too’?”
Maxi groaned, running one hand under his glasses over his face. “You’re gonna have to forgive me, Darlin’, old habits die hard.” He gave you an apologetic smile. “I mean… I have to be a little more careful about, y’know… who knows, and all,” he said, gesturing vaguely around the room to indicate Greymoon as a whole. He swallowed again, not sure why his heart was racing, why his palms felt like they were going to sweat. You of all people were someone he knew he could tell this to and be safe. So why did this still scare him? “I, um.” He felt himself flushing furiously, looking at you and mentally begging you to understand. “…If I could wear ‘em, y’know, and not get shit for it with my… my job, and all,” he said quietly. “I know we’d have at least one of ‘em in common.” He let out a quick, slightly unsteady breath. “I don’t say this to make things about me,” he said quickly again, his words tripping over themselves. “…But because I really want you to know, there’s nothin’ you could do, or change about yourself, or how you present, or anythin’, that would make me… not attracted to you,” he explained quietly. “Does that make sense?”
Your eyes visibly brightened when you beamed at him, clearly relieved - and, if he dared let himself believe it, even elated. “Yes,” you said, nodding excitedly. “Yes, it totally makes sense.” You leaned in, cupping his face in your hands. “I fucking knew it,” you added in a triumphant whisper, your smile delighted, before you closed the distance and kissed him intensely.
In that moment, Maxi was suddenly intensely aware of the feeling of something… else, looking out through his eyes at you.
Something that wanted you - to drink the light from your eyes until there was nothing left - with such a desperate ferocity, he could swear the scream was audible inside his own skull.
Startled by this unbidden urge, he broke this shared kiss abruptly, pressing a messy kiss to your pulse in your throat. External sensation tended to help shut the Reaper up or drown it out, and you gave him plenty of that: the softness of your skin, the scent you wore in your hair, the surprised noise from low in your chest that turned into a barely-muffled mewl. He lingered there, drawing it out, feeling you squirm on his lap as your hands found his hair again and tried to tug him upward. He winced only slightly, seemingly determined to leave his unmistakable mark on the precious column of your neck, but internally he was running a panicked inventory. After decades of being aware of the Reaper, the demon that had made him its home, he thought he’d gotten a good handle on just what could set it off. Sure, it had made noises about liking you, especially the more you hung around. It had done that with everyone he’d dated, as inescapable as it was. It was a jealous, territorial sumbitch, but so was he, deep down, so he couldn’t really blame it.
But that fascination, that need… what the fuck was that? Demanding as his darker self was, it had never been that… specific. Blood, flesh, souls, the usual maudlin bullshit, sure, he was used to it railing and howling and carrying on as it called for what it believed was its Due. Sometimes for sleepless nights on end, when he was younger and trying to fight his true nature.
But wanting you? Specifically, to watch the life drain from your face? To feel your flesh grow cold under his palms?
He had the unavoidable mental image of something else wearing his face, running a tongue over too-sharp teeth in his mouth, and he couldn’t fight a shudder.
Before he could really figure out what had triggered the spike of aggression, however, you’d turned the tables, yanking slightly on his hair so you could capture his lips when he reluctantly let go of your throat. Your hands moved to unbutton the dress shirt he’d worn having come straight from closing up, and he felt you pause when you got so far down, then the twist of your smile against his mouth as your hand found his shirt stays still on once you unbuttoned his slacks.
“Aw, Maxi - for me?” As much as you were trying to tease, he could hear how you sounded slightly breathless, your fingers shy as they skimmed over the elastic.
His face positively burned, and he wondered if you could feel its warmth, as close as you were. “Well,” he mumbled, suddenly unable to quite meet your gaze. “You mentioned that you, um. Didn’t mind, last time—“
“No,’ you corrected softly, and he looked up immediately. You were fighting a grin as you toyed with the one on his left thigh, before your eyes flicked back to his. “I said I thought they were hot, remember?” You gave him a coy smirk. “That’s different.”
He had to remember to swallow just then, the Reaper well and truly quiet as his brain was too overloaded to process much else besides your expression and your fingers tracing along the inside of his thighs. With some maneuvering, you had his shirt open a moment later, your hands roving over the coarse hair on his torso.
Something else he couldn’t help but adore about you, besides the enchantingly warm squish of your figure against him, was the way you seemed just as taken with him as he did with you in that aspect. Lord knew why — he knew he was that slightly confusing mix of lean with a soft stomach, and he still didn’t know how to feel about that even now — but it was also the way you didn’t seem to flinch at any of his scars. Namely and especially the thick line of tissue over his heart, where his father had beat him to the punch and drawn first blood all those years ago, and where he’d painstakingly re-opened it not long after, trying a particularly dark bit of magic in attempt to dull his own pain.
As he’d held you last night in his arms, feeling your warm palm ghost over it with all the sweetness in the world, he was so bitterly glad that it had backfired - and not as badly as it had for his late sister.
“I want you.” You’d said it so softly, your lips brushing his, that it nearly broke him. “Please?”
“I’m yours.” He’d answered as automatically as breathing, and for a moment he’d felt at least a fraction of the blood rush back to his face, realizing just how… eager, he must have sounded. But you’d only laughed in that way that left him weak every time, and when he’d shifted underneath you to kiss you harder, it had hitched into the sweetest breathy moan when his cock pressed against the core of you through the cotton shorts you’d worn.
“Goddamn, Maxi,” you’d whispered, pulling away to glance down between the two of you, and it was everything he could do not to let himself smirk. You’d turned it right back on him though when your eyes met his again with what was unmistakably hunger. “You gonna wreck me with that, babe, or just make me suck on it?”
He’d heard the soft hissing inhale through his teeth before he even realized it was him, his hand gently settling over your throat. Even as he held it like it was made of glass, he still felt himself freeze, realizing he hadn’t asked you first. He watched your eyes, nervously retracting his hand just slightly to hover above your skin — only to relax when he saw the entertained glint there, and the way you tilted your chin back to grant him access.
He replaced his hand delicately, his thumb lovingly tracing the vein he knew lay just underneath your skin from years of filling others with formaldehyde. “You’ve got a hell of a mouth on you, sugar,” he’d murmured darkly, unable to help himself. “If you’re not careful, you’re gonna give me ideas.”
This was apparently the right thing to say, because you’d shoved your neck further into his palm as you’d kissed him furiously, grinding your cunt against his length as you did so.
He’d had to will himself to keep at least a modicum of self-control, both hands falling to your hips and pulling you harder against him to hear you gasp. As he felt the faintest trace of heat and slick through the thin garment of your underwear, his grip turned to steel, fighting the urge to yank away the meaningless little fabric between the pair of you and push into you to give you what you wanted — what he wanted, if he was being honest, just to feel you clench around him in any capacity. When he heard your gasp change to a soft, tremulous moan as you moved again, it took everything in him to force himself to let go of your waist.
“Your room.” He’d blurted it before he realized quite what he was doing, and you’d blinked at him, your eyes already sweetly hazy. “…Please,” he added, swallowing slightly. “I want to-- I need to do this right.” He pressed a soft kiss to your jawline, hoping he hadn’t just made a fool of himself. “I wanna do this like you deserve.” If this was going to go how he thought, he wanted to make sure it mattered. That even if it was all he ever got, he could say he’d gotten to really savor all of you while he’d had it ever so briefly in his grasp.
Your laugh was shaky but real, and you tilted your head to kiss him again (and, unbeknownst to you, muffle his sigh of relief). “You fucking angel, you’re so sweet,” you’d murmured, kissing his mouth and his cheek and the tip of his nose in quick succession. “C’mon.” You’d stepped backwards onto your floor, grabbing his hands to pull him up with you, and the two of you had only run into a chair and one wall when you couldn’t be bothered to look up from refusing to let go of the other person.
Maxi had been over to your house enough times that it wasn’t too odd how well he could pick his way through your living room, and then your hallway. Luckily, by the time he was walking you backwards to your bed, you were too busy nipping his lower lip and gripping the back of his neck to notice just how well he could navigate across your somewhat messy floor, sidestepping you carefully around things he logically shouldn’t have already known were there.
But he’d gotten very well acquainted with your floor in the last couple of weeks. And the space under your bed, which if he was being honest, was more comfortable than most, if only for the rug underneath and the lack of perilous storage boxes he’d have to contort himself to fit around. It would’ve been downright homey, comparatively, if he wasn’t constantly in danger of knocking his head on your bed frame if he sat up too quickly.
In that moment, he’d been beyond thrilled to be with you on top of your mattress as the two of you fell towards it. He was more than happy to be pinned beneath your full hips, his hands caressing your sides, and feeling you push yourself against his cock already leaking into his clothes as you sought any sort of friction between the two of you. This was more than agreeable. If you wanted to ride him until he couldn’t remember his own name, that would be divine. There would be plenty of time after to fuck you into your mattress until you ruined your sheets, he had all night.
Your fingers had finally hooked into the open waistband of his slacks when suddenly you hissed a curse under your breath, withdrawing so abruptly he was left bewilderedly blinking at your ceiling for a moment.
“Gorgeous?” He sat up to see where you’d pulled back, your expression at once stricken and frustrated. “What’s wrong- you okay?” He felt himself snap out of his own blissful trance, looking you over for any immediate obvious cause of distress. “…Is it somethin’ I did?” He swore he’d just been laying here savoring the taste of your tongue - did he miss something obvious? Had he been careless, distracted? The latter had made him panic even more, wondering if the dark presence inside him had somehow made itself known when he had his guard down.
“No,” you shook your head quickly, pressing your lips together in a slightly aggravated line. “No, baby, it’s not you.” You sighed heavily, sitting back and crossing your legs as you looked… embarrassed? You bit your own lower lip hard for a moment, clearly annoyed with something, before you glanced at him from under your lashes. “…My uterus has the worst fucking timing, is all.” You have him a rueful grimace, wincing slightly as you did so.
Maxi felt himself exhale a laugh in relief, his fear immediately abating. “Oh, babydoll - is that all? Hell, I don’t care.” He shrugged, his shoulders suddenly immeasurably light compared to a second ago. “Or — wait, shit, hold on.” He caught himself a second too late, blushing slightly at his own phrasing and quickly running his palm over his face under his glasses. Smooth, dumbass. “I mean,” he said, showing you his palms apologetically. “That I don’t mind. But obviously,” he gestured to you. “I don’t wanna do anything that would make you… uncomfortable.” He gave you a smile meant to be genuinely soothing, but only relaxed when he saw you let out a breath you’d seemed to be holding.
“Ugh, I’m so sorry.” You rolled your eyes, falling on your back next to him with an exaggerated sigh. He immediately stretched out next to you, determined to be as close to you as possible while he had the chance. You were always a vision, to him, but stripped down like this, you were something he wanted to treasure. “I tend to be really… sore, later, after my first day. Like, ‘hurts to sit down’ sore, sometimes.” You rolled onto your side, and your fingertip traced a soft line down his chest and stomach that stopped just above the exposed fabric of his boxers. He suppressed a visible shiver as best he could, but it was a struggle. “And based on what you’re packing, babe,” you said, your eyes flicking downward before meeting his and causing him to forget to breathe for a moment. “I don’t think I’m going to be quite able to handle it all tonight. Which sucks,” you added, with an embarrassed giggle. “Because if I’m being totally honest with you, I was really looking forward to it.” You have him a small, shy smile that still felt somehow conspiratorial.
Jesus, you were going to kill him. He was going to die right there in your bed from the sheer thought that you’d wanted him as much as he’d pined after you.
He took a breath as subtly as he could, trying not to give away that you’d about knocked it all out of him. “Don’t worry about it.” He reached over, lightly moving some of your hair away from your eyes. “Again, I don’t want to do anythin’ you don’t want to do. Right now, later, whenever.” He smiled, admiring your bare stomach and thighs in the soft light of your bedroom window, how the beginnings of the blue hour reflected just a certain way off your skin. You were already lovely from his place in the dark, but out here with you? Where you’d wanted him to see you? “You’ve got me as long as you want me.” His eyes had met yours again, taking in how those shone as well, how he wished he could see them in this light more often.
“But I really do want you, though,” you said with just a hint of a whine, and when you leaned in to kiss him again, it was everything he could do not to roll and pin you down so he could kiss you everywhere, slowly and deliberately. You moved closer to him on your mattress, your hand skimming lower over clothes that now felt far too tight. “Can I… help with this, at all?” —
Maxi swore softly to himself as he mis-aligned the apple of the decedent’s cheek again, impatiently picking up the clay and re-rolling it into what it would’ve looked like if half of it hadn’t been ground off onto the hot concrete of the highway once the visor of the helmet had been smashed out.
“I swear I can do this,” he said over his shoulder, still smelling the hint of perfume. “I’m just… havin’ a day, is all. You know how it is.”
He paused, looking back down at the face he was working on restoring and feeling slightly mortified with himself. “I mean, of course you do. Of course. I’m so sorry, that was thoughtless of me. I’m - I’m just gonna shut up now,” he muttered, furiously re-rolling the clay in his hands to try to change the texture.
When he felt the tiniest ‘thump’ against his shoulder blade, like a heavy palm lightly clapping him on the back, he about jumped out of his skin.
— As cool as you were trying to be about it, he could hear just the slightest hesitancy in your voice still, and he could’ve died at the idea you thought he would still say no to you. “I…” His face felt almost drunkenly warm as he tried desperately to get his brain to work with him here, overwhelmed with just how long he’d ached for you to touch him at all, the warmth of your flesh threatening to scorch his normally cool skin. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to? I—“ He forgot what words were for a second as he felt your hand move again, your fingertips skimming the skin above the waistband between the pair of you. “I’d wanna be able to reciprocate, somehow,” he managed, forcing himself to meet your eyes again. “However, um—“ Oh, you’d been positively teasing him then, sliding his trousers down as slowly as possible while you watched his face. Your expression was sweet, your lips parted just slightly as if in innocent curiosity, but he could still see that light in your eyes that told him you knew exactly what you were doing. “However you feel comfortable,” he said, buying himself time by gently taking your hand in his. “I don’t want this to just be about me.” He couldn’t have imagined anything more agonizing than you touching him and him not being able to touch you. It just wasn’t how he was built. He kissed the back of your hand, and the wickedness in your eyes liquified into something soft. “Please?”
You bit your lip thoughtfully, considering. He knew what it was to be vulnerable with someone new - to be even more vulnerable than you’d maybe expected, in your case. He gazed at you earnestly, hoping you would see that he was already devoted, there was nothing about your body that could scare him, because it was yours, and at this rate, he was as good as.
“…Okay,” you said at last, and he couldn’t help but beam when you smiled a little at his enthusiasm. “But only whatever you’re cool with. Don’t feel like you have to reciprocate in exactly the same way, if you don’t want to.”
“Try me.” Maxi said, quirking a brow in a playful challenge.
“Oh, I intend to,” you murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth before dipping lower to trace the scar over his heart with the white-hot tip of your tongue.
Maxi fought to keep his surprised inhale from being too obvious as you did so, feeling his already present blush turn into a full flush down his neck and shoulders. He’d been with other people, sure, but he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had seemed to… savor that part of him, quite like you were.
But of course you’d caught that. You looked up quickly, meeting his eyes with a furrow of concern. “Sorry,” you said softly, your eyes flicking between his and his scar. “I- should I not—?”
“It’s fine,” he reassured you, kissing your cheek hastily. “You’re fine, sugar, I’m just… not used to that, s’all.” His fingertips ghosted down the line of your jaw, watching your brows ease apart. “…People tend to avoid it,” he explained quietly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile and a shrug of his shoulder.
You blinked. “Oh.” You glanced sheepishly down again. “I should’ve asked first, I know, I just—“ You lifted a hand, your fingers ghosting over the ridge of tissue you’d just claimed with your tongue, and Maxi found himself not only enjoying the feeling, but leaning into it as much as he dared. “…I just figured, it’s you,” you murmured, your eyes finding his again. “And I-“ You broke off, teeth grazing your lip self-consciously like you were fighting a laugh at yourself. “I want that too.”
Maxi sat up with an abruptness that drew a small squeak from you, lifting you so you were straddling his lap now. One hand tangled in your hair as he kissed you hard, the other hand squeezing your hip with a need he was sure gave away just how desperate he was for you—
He slammed down the clay knife a little harder than he meant to on the steel table surface, cussing up a storm under his breath as he failed for a third time to get it shaped exactly how he needed it over the partially exposed gums. “Come on,” he growled, not sure if he was more annoyed with his lack of focus or embarrassed at just how completely you’d invaded his every sense, leaving him stumbling like an apprentice on their first day.
Probably even moreso, given just how long he’d been helping shape flesh back into faces before it was entirely legal for him to do so.
“I’m so sorry,” he said again, straightening up and folding his gloved hands behind his head. He turned away, unable to quite face the woman he was making a fool of himself in front of on his on table. “I swear, this has never happened before, really. I’m absolutely gonna have you lookin’ right as rain for your viewin’, I promise, I’m just… feelin’ a bit off, today.” He gave a long, slow exhale, one that shook just a little bit around the edges. He had to focus. He had to try. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done this hundreds of times.
But you — you were something new. He’d never had to work with someone like you in his head, before.
And it seemed to be having the worst time trying to hold his infatuation and his professionalism in the same amount of space.
— His brain immediately returned to how you’d kissed him back with just as much eagerness, your teeth nipping his lower lip, and when his tongue had filled your mouth, you sucked on it in a way that went straight to the base of his spine.
“PleasecanItaketheseoffyou?” he’d asked in a single breath as he broke away, his fingers hooking impatiently into the cotton lounge shorts you were still wearing.
You looked shy again. “Um. I’m not—“ You sat there for a second, choosing your words. “I’m not wearing a lot underneath,” you mumbled. “I thought I still had a day or so, and I wouldn’t want to—“ You gestured loosely at the white dress shirt he still had hanging loosely about his shoulders, more off than on at this point.
Maxi pressed another messy kiss to the side of your neck, emboldened and secretly thrilled by the idea that you’d been planning ahead for this. That you’d wanted to, been hoping for it maybe as much as he had. “I don’t mind,” he said against your skin, and he felt your head fall back slightly as he kissed down to the crook of your shoulder. “I swear to god I don’t mind, there’s no part of this I don’t mind, I promise you—“
“Okay,” you half-breathed, half-giggled in his ear, and you got your knees under you to hover over his waist just as he pulled down, finding the black mesh waiting for him underneath.
“Baby,” he nearly whined at the sight, his hands moving covetously over the curve of your ass as he admired you. “Fuck, you’re pretty. You always are, of course,” he added quickly, looking up at you where you were still perched up over him on your knees. “Of course I knew that, but— fuck,” he repeated, his hands moving up your plush hips and your soft sides adoringly. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You giggled in a way that went right to his chest. “Calm down, Monsieur, you’ve already got me naked,” you teased, still looking a bit shy.
He hooked his arms around your waist, pulling your stomach flush to his chest where he was somewhat pinned under you. “I mean it,” he whispered, and he watched your face change - the self-conscious half-smile falling away at what must be the sheer dark intensity of his gaze. “You have no idea how much I want you. Just like this.”
He was sure his eyes would have changed, the way he was looking at you. He couldn’t always feel it when they did, but the yowling ache of Want inside him as he looked at you like this, for him — you had to have to seen it. There’s no way you could have seen him and missed it, the way he wanted you all to himself, folded into his arms against the dark that threatened to swallow him up when he thought of being parted from you.
He knew it was scary, especially so soon. It scared him too, in a way. He wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d unwound yourself from his grasp right then and thrown him out.
…But, miracle of miracles, you hadn’t.
You’d watched his eyes with a tilt of your head, transfixed by what, he wasn’t totally sure, but your stare was curious - and, eventually, oddly familiar. He saw it then, that flicker of pure Want, not quite as sharp or dark as his own. But it had been there as you looked down at him, your hands lightly carding through his hair… before one set of fingers tangled in it, scraping ever so lightly at his scalp.
That dark presence in him - something that had no business being so close to you, especially not this quickly - crowed in triumph in a way it hadn’t in a long, long time.
You leaned down, catching his lips in yours, and he met you with a kiss that bordered on ravenous. He couldn’t help the sound that escaped him when you gave another careful, experimental tug at his hair — which blossomed into a full moan when you’d pulled harder, eliminating what space there’d been still between you.
“Tell me what you want,” he demanded as you broke away, the pair of you panting slightly as though you were starved for air. “What can I do for you?”
“…Those all the way off,” you said softly, nodding down at his open slacks as your tongue traced your lips - which, he’d noticed, had begun to look just the tiniest bit swollen with his attentions.
He let go of you only long enough to fumble with them and the accompanying underwear, unable to help the slightest of smirks when your own hands had dropped to help him when you decided he wasn’t quite moving fast enough for you. He’d been appreciative of every display of your enthusiasm so far, but the need he’d felt crackling between the pair of you at that moment had been undeniable.
Maxi slid them off with your help, immediately pulling you back against him as soon as they rustled to your bedroom floor. He was trying to keep his breathing level as he felt you finally skim your palm lightly over his cock, and he couldn’t help but glance down to see you sizing it up.
“Damn, Maxi,” you murmured, glancing back to watch his face as you took it fully in hand. He bit down hard on his lip as you spread the drops that were already waiting there over the head, trying not to be so obvious in how much he’d been wanting you to touch him. “Were you planning on making sure I couldn’t walk tomorrow?”
He opened his mouth to answer, only to have the words tangle into something somewhat incoherent when he watched you move down his abdomen to lick a long, hot stripe towards his hips.
The pressure at the base of his spine was taking over the rest of his brain, and all he wanted was the heat of you around him, wishing he could do exactly as you said.
“Depends on what you wanted, pretty,” he managed through his teeth, feeling his fingers dig into his own palms.
“Oh yeah?” You glanced up at him, moving so your torso was perched gently on his thighs. You ran a fingertip lightly up the inside of one, smirking a little as he obviously squirmed.
Maxi forced himself to nod. “I swear I could— be careful,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking as he watched you lick your own palm lasciviously. “I wouldn’t hurt you, I promise—“
“Unless I wanted you to?”
He knew you felt him flex in your palm in response. It was too obvious. He said nothing, looking from where his cock was aching, leaking in your hand to your eyes, where you were watching his face with such a dark glitter to them that he had to fight to keep his hips still in response.
“…Okay,” you said slowly, your smile enigmatic. “Good to know.”
Oh, shit. He was a goner now.
You didn’t say much else, your hand twisting up his shaft and gripping just enough to make him inhale raggedly. You gave him a couple of experimental strokes, watching still before your mouth was around him, and he had to fight to keep his shit together.
“Fuck.” His hands tangled hard into your bedspread, trying to keep himself grounded through this onslaught. He’d kissed you a million times by now - he couldn’t help himself when you were around - and just like then, you were slow, deliberate. Taking your time with him because you seemed to like keeping him right on the line of agony and bliss. He felt the softest puff of air, like a suppressed laugh, and when he looked down he felt everything inside him seize at the way you were watching him, your eyes mischievous as he saw a thread of saliva trace its way from your lower lip down his shaft.
He fell back against your pillow with a moan, forcing himself to look away for a moment so he could keep from totally embarrassing himself with you. You had no right to look that perfect with your mouth on him like that. His fist knitted tighter into your comforter, until he felt the soft touch of your hand on his - looking down, he let you gently pull his hand away from your bed and set it in your hair, holding it there for a second as if to reassure him before your hand returned to pinning his hips to your mattress.
Tentatively, he curled his hand in your hair, not wanting to pull hard enough to hurt. He relished the feeling of its familiar texture, something he’d come to love in the time the two of you had spent on the couch with your head on his shoulder. He was just willing himself to be gentle when he heard the quietest noise, and it was only when he felt a shift in your mouth that he realized you’d taken him deeper.
He pulled hard on your hair reflexively, gasping at the change, at the soft sound of you fighting to take him into your throat. “Fuck, angel, you don’t have to...” He looked down at you, and the slight glaze of tears at the corner of your eyes made him forget himself so entirely, he felt his hips thrust forward before he could stop himself.
If you hadn’t been ready for him, he would’ve hated himself for being so careless with you. But you met his worried eyes with something of a challenge, your tongue tracing the underside of his shaft invitingly, and something dark in him delighted at the mirror it seemed to find in you.
Experimentally, Maxi thrust up again, and when he could feel you fighting to control your breath, he wound his fingers tighter in your hair and pulled.
Your moan couldn’t have been more exquisite, and Maxi at last let himself give in.
He wasn’t a monster - his thrusts were tempered, short, but he lost himself in the feeling of you around him: the warmth of your mouth, the soft ragged puffs of your breath, the spit that dripped from your lips. With the lovely wreck you made, and the way he felt you carefully take the rest of him in your hand to make sure no part was neglected, he found himself falling apart fairly soon.
“Darlin’,” he whined, glancing down at you through the now lightly fogged lenses of his glasses. “I can’t take this, I’m— I’m close, I have to—“
It was the way your eyes locked on his and the subtle shake of your head that finally sent him over. The sharp, clear gaze you gave him, the way you made it clear he was doing this your way. That this was something of his that you wanted for yourself.
He came with a shaky groan of your name, feeling the tiniest bit guilty he did so alone, but unwilling to deny how much he loved watching you as he did.
When you finally sat back, gasping, he sat up and immediately crushed his lips to yours like a man possessed, his hands gently cupping your face. He could taste just a trace of himself still on your tongue, and everything that just happened crashed over him at once, turning his kiss nearly feral.
Even through catching your breath, you giggled again at his eagerness, and he knew immediately he would fight a pissed-off alligator for you if it ever came to that. Two alligators. Possessed ones. There was nothing in the world he wouldn’t face for that sound.
“So you enjoyed yourself then,” you teased, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “I’d hoped so.”
“You were divine,” he mumbled, leaning down to kiss your bare neck like a man called to worship. “I mean - I already thought so,” he added. “But that was…” He felt his brain go pleasantly blank again, distracted by whatever scent you were wearing on your skin.
You smiled under his praise, but there was the tiniest hint of relief in your eyes. “I’ve been wanting to do that for ages, to be honest.” You leaned forward, kissing the end of his nose as he blinked at you in surprise. “I knew you’d be hot when you weren’t totally together. Not that you’re not hot when you’re put together,” you continued, seeing his eyebrows begin to knit together. “I mean, I’ve been wanting you to rail me in those suits of yours for ages, obviously.” You waved a hand as if this were, in fact, obvious, despite Maxi having a very distinct hiccup of brain activity at the mere thought. “But you’re always so… poised, Maxi,” you said, your hands lovingly coming to rest on his now-bare chest. “I know you have to be, with everything that can go wrong with what you do,” you went on, and he had to keep his face neutral at just how close to the truth that came. “But I’ve been… curious,” you leaned forward, your lips an inch from his as you searched his eyes. “About what I’d see when you finally let go for me.”
Maxi watched you apprehensively as you reached up and ruffled the hair that sweat had undone. You fixated on it slowly sliding over one of his lenses, where it was naturally inclined to lay when he didn’t attack it with hair gel and a comb every day, and after a moment, you sat back with a smirk. “I have to say, baby, I really like it.”
You weren’t totally prepared for when he moved forward suddenly, capturing you in a kiss while flipping you beneath him. He delighted at the soft moan around his tongue in your mouth, only pulling back to hover over you when you were both absolutely out of breath. “If I wanted to make you come so hard you can’t think straight,” he whispered, dark eyes boring into yours. “What’s the best way I could do that right now?”
He watched the coquettish set of your face dissolve into a mixture of surprise from his phrasing and - what he was far more excited by - open, undeniable need. Your teeth grazed your lower lip hard, but he got the feeling that you weren’t having to think about it. No, this seemed more like you were hesitating.
“Try me,” he repeated, more insistant now. He kissed the corner of your mouth, then kissed you properly, coaxing you into something more heated. He lingered until he felt you relax a bit, opening up to him, before he pulled back just enough to speak. “I mean it, anythin’.”
Your guard was down, because he saw your eyes move briefly towards where his hips were resting against yours, your back arching very slightly to rock gently against his hipbone in search of any sort of contact. But they snapped back to his immediately, widening when you must’ve realized you’d given yourself away.
“You a hundred percent do not have to reciprocate,” you blurted, your words tripping off your tongue in your hurry. “Especially not, like, today,” you added with an apologetic wince. “Obviously. I’m not about to ask you to— well.“ You looked askance, embarrassed. “Not our, um. Our first… time, and all.”
Maxi snorted, smiling wryly. “Babydoll. C’mon, now.” He propped himself up on an elbow, cocking his head to look at you. “What, did you think I was gonna try to dodge that every month? Twiddle my thumbs ’til it was over?”
You met his eyes again, yours wide - and Maxi realized he’d tilted his hand, hinting at anything remotely close to a future together this soon. He opened his mouth to backtrack, kicking himself for being so presumptuous - when you looked off to the side again, giving a tiny shrug. “I didn’t want to assume or anything,” you said, smiling shyly. “Some people just aren’t into it.”
He managed to disguise a sigh of relief as a chuckle, realizing you weren’t automatically discouraging the idea of a… repeat engagement. Hell, that you didn’t even seem to be that put off by the thought of him sticking around. “Well. I appreciate your lookin’ out,” he said, tilting his head further to meet your eyes. “But trust me when I say there’s nothin’ about you I’m not into.”
You laughed, disbelieving, but there was a curiosity in your eyes that, when he saw it, he couldn’t look away from. “Define ‘into’ here, babe.”
Maxi sat up a little more, skimming your torso with a rakish glance. “Put it this way,” he drawled, leaning down to kiss just underneath the elastic of your top. “When you do what I do, there isn’t much about the human body you don’t learn to appreciate, in its own way.” He ran the broad swathe of his tongue down the curve of your stomach as he moved lower, causing you to inhale through your teeth and squirm slightly. He trapped your plush hips in his hands, fingers nimbly spreading and adjusting to hold you down against your mattress. His thumbs worked their way under the waist of the pretty sheer underwear you’d worn - for him, he thought with an eager twist of his insides - down over the skin, as though he were unveiling you. “There’s nothin’ I don’t find more beautiful than somethin’ alive just bein’ allowed to be itself.” He kissed your lower abdomen with parted lips, his teeth grazing lightly below your navel just to hear your gentle sound of surprise, to feel you try to move against his palms… and find you couldn’t break his grip. He couldn’t help but sneak a peek at your face, or help the grin that was just a touch too sharp when your eyes were already hazy and huge. “…And it’d be a sin,” he added quietly. “For you to feel like you had anythin’ to be shy about.” He held your gaze as he shifted his hands to your thighs, letting you watch as he pulled them a little wider, his fingers sinking into the plush flesh.
He waited for a response from you - the barest nod, given with only a short dazed lag - before he settled his torso between them, his thumbs tracing the velvet of your skin. He planted an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of each, just adjacent to your cunt, with all the slow measured movements of a ritual. He took the opportunity to adjust his grip again, his right hand shifting slightly upward to mitigate the jolt of your hips, his left staying anchored to your thigh as he continued to rub circles there.
He didn’t know what his eyes were doing when he looked at you a last time, but he could feel the Reaper poised just behind their sockets, unable to resist the proximity of something so vulnerable and precious. He didn’t bother to try to knock it back - it liked this too, too much to ruin it for both of them.
He’d let it watch, it didn’t matter.
Pleasing you would be something that would strictly fall to him. He’d make sure of that.
His eyes flicked downwards, seeing you were already visibly wet - something that sent another searing jolt through him - and there, as though a sign, the beginning bloom of red.
When he swiped his tongue brazenly up your slit, pushing into your folds, the moan you let go from your chest hit him at the same time as the unmistakable taste of blood.
He fell on you like a man starved, pulling your thighs even wider to spread you for him. He felt suddenly insatiable, taken in by your heat, the way you shivered on his tongue, and couldn’t help but cant your hips just slightly upwards to allow himself better access.
You made a sound of surprise that turned into a mewl, your thighs pushing slightly against the side of his face and his palm as though to keep him there, and he felt himself grin wickedly as he continued giving you exactly what he’d wanted to since that first encounter in the cemetery.
In the midst of the familiar human essence, the iron across his palate, there was something that left the vague impression of… sweetness. He chased it, lingering on your clit to lave the flat of his tongue there like a wave. He heard your moan twist into a whine, and he couldn’t resist the urge to echo it, his cheekbone scraping the inside of your thigh as he unashamedly lapped at your core. Your slick spreading across his mouth and further left him wanting, and as his hands clenched at your body with need, yours fell to his hair.
He couldn’t help the moan at the feeling of your nails against his scalp, the way he was sure you didn’t realize just how hard you were pulling. He had to fight to keep his eyes from rolling back as you tugged hard, your hips pushing against his mouth for more. He didn’t know which got him to start rutting lightly against your mattress, the little licks of pain or the way he was tempted to just let you grind against his jaw until you were done with him.
“F-fuck,” you groaned, your first actual word in a while, and it came from somewhere low in your chest. This was beyond the breathy noises of a first time, what people thought the other person wanted to hear or expected. There was a rawness as your groan became something strangled, your voice breaking, and when your heel very lightly came to rest on his back, his nails sank into your skin before he could stop himself.
“Fuck, Maxi, I’m—!” You punctuated that sentence with a keening cry as you came apart, and he held his tongue steady against your clit when your hips spasmed against his face. Your heel dug further into his back, and your hands knotted in his hair as evidence of your orgasm coated his tastebuds. He drove his own hips hard against your bed as you shuddered, already inescapably aware that he wouldn’t know peace again until he could have you making a mess on his cock too.
But this was more than enough, for now. He would’ve been happy to do this until the day he died - and then to be resurrected, at your whim, for this express eternal purpose. His name sounded so much more pleasant from your mouth, especially when you sounded on the verge of tears with sensation, your throbbing cunt indecisive as to whether it wanted more or if it couldn’t take anything else.
He only let up when he felt your fingers go slack in his hair, your foot hitting the mattress with a soft little thud. When he pushed himself up to catch his breath, you were gazing sightlessly at the ceiling, your eyes like a starless night as your own chest heaved.
The blood he could feel congealing around his mouth only exacerbated the sudden overwhelming urge he felt to cage you in his arms and never let you go again, to meet everything else that sought your attention with a murderous glare and hands that itched for cold steel.
“Mine,” the Reaper hissed in the back of his skull, and for once, he had found himself in total agreement.
- Fuck. This wasn’t working. If even open wounds weren’t enough to dull the heat he felt spreading through his veins, he didn’t know what would. “Christ, M’sorry,” he muttered sheepishly to the woman on his table, hastily throwing down the clay knife as it felt like his skin was going to combust inside his protective gear. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, I’ll fix everythin’, I swear I’ll make it up to you, I’m—“ He couldn’t even finish the sentence as he pulled the sheet over Mrs. Berthelot-Yang for her dignity’s sake, then bolted out the door of the prep room towards the door to the hearse’s loading bay.
A full-throated peal of laughter rang out as he left, echoing off the stainless steel on the walls.
He slammed through the exit door, barely noticing the pouring afternoon rain as he scrabbled free of his gloves first, ripping the black latex in the process, before yanking off the splash guard and tossing it over his shoulder and back inside. He was already panting as he ditched the mask underneath, then clawed off the protective coat over his dark scrubs and throwing it behind him as well. Only then did he let himself lean over to put his hands on his knees, letting the somehow still warm rain run through his hair and over his face as he tried to figure out how to deal with the throbbing ache that drove him to literal distraction. If work wouldn’t do it - especially a hard restoration like this one - he wasn’t left with a lot of options.
One tempted him in particular. One he’d been trying to avoid, to be honest. It wasn’t something he liked to do, and it was definitely something he wanted to get in the habit of doing whenever a… similar situation occurred.
But as evening loomed on the edges of the afternoon, he couldn’t see himself with a lot of other options.
If he wasn’t in such a state, he would’ve admitted to himself that it was probably troublesome how he could’ve made the drive to your house blindfolded by now. How it was probably even more troubling that there was starting to be a spot in the bushes in the empty lot just down the street from you where he hid the old Mustang. Or how he’d already had a change of clothes in the back seat for just such an occasion, and he stripped out of his wet scrubs with as little eye contact as possible with the smugly smirking figure of his uncle in the rearview mirror.
He followed the little not-path that was starting to form between the lot and the trees that encircled your house, carefully ducking as needed to avoid any sight lines to the neighbor’s place across the street, avoiding the thorn bushes he’d learned were there the hard way, and carefully stepping around what rodent warrens he’d come across -
And at last, ending up exactly outside your bedroom window.
Your light was on, but your curtains were closed. He checked his phone, scrolling to his last text message from you - before lunch, if he remembered correctly. Amidst a flurry of bad jokes and some random dancing skeleton .gifs, you’d told him you had been feeling kind of gross today, and were planning on taking it easy.
So you were definitely home, then.
He peered through the small crack he could find in your blackout curtains, scanning your room and finding it still charmingly messy, but blessedly empty. Your bedcovers were rumpled, but there was no sign of you.
He hadn’t seen any light from your front windows when he’d driven by, though - so you weren’t watching TV on your couch. But where were you, then, if not here?
Slowly, he cracked the window, listening to what sounds he could catch to see if he could tell: sure enough, he heard strains of music, loud, but distant - further in the house. So no headache then, he thought with a touch of cheer. Good, you always seemed so miserable when you had one of those. You were endlessly restless on your mattress when you were, like you could never get comfortable.
He took the faraway music as his cue to crack the window wide enough to slide in, bending over to fit through in as little space as possible. It was a careful step over the window seat (something he was rather envious of, if he was honest) to your carpeted bedroom floor, and he immediately removed his shoes, not wanting to track dirt around your room.
From there, he dropped into a crouch to hide behind the silhouette of your bed in the middle of the room, carefully lowering the window as he himself sank to the floor. Once he was sure it was secure, he fell over on his side and rolled in one motion under your bed -
And came to a stop right before he ran face-first into your box of clean bedsheets. Perfect, he noted, you hadn’t moved anything in the few days since he’d been by. He’d carefully arranged everything under your bed so he was concealed from view from the doorway, but gave him enough room to stretch comfortably and avoid a dreaded leg cramp. He even had enough room to stash his shoes down by his feet, safely out of sight and nowhere where they could leave a mess.
He curled into his familiar space, resting his head on the hoodie you’d left down here once the weather had turned warm. He wasn’t even sure if you’d noticed it gradually sliding off your bed - genuinely, without any manipulations on his part - but after multiple nights of being tossed about in your fitful slumber, it had finally hit the floor when you’d rolled over, and he’d snatched it up immediately to repurpose it for himself. It was an old lesson he’d learned early: never waste a good opportunity. Not only did it make lying here easier, it had the lovely bonus of smelling like your soap, too.
…But that scent was a little stronger than usual, if he wasn’t mistaken. He sniffed your hoodie again, confused - it wasn’t like you’d found it to wash it, recently. When that wasn’t it, he kept still, trying to figure out what was happening to create this change. Your room wasn’t a place that changed drastically, and definitely not under your bed, so anything that caught his notice was definitely worth assessing as a potential new hazard.
However, it took him all of a minute to realize the music he’d heard was coming from your bathroom - accompanied by the sound of water rushing through the pipes in your walls. You were just having a shower. Was it cramps, then? Heat might relieve those, or it could just be general exhaustion. Bodies were tricky things when they were alive - he’d just have to wait and see what was ailing you.
He took a moment in the stillness to pull his phone out of his pocket and turn off vibrations along with sound, putting it completely on mute. He couldn’t risk him responding to one of your texts giving him away - wouldn’t that just be awkward.
As he did so, he caught another layer of sound amidst the water and the music, and he froze in place instinctively, trying to identify it. It was a voice, but not unfamiliar - yours, he decided after a moment.
After another moment still, he realized you were singing.
His heart was fit to burst; he’d never heard you sing before. It wasn’t professional, by any means, but it was just so… adorable. Genuine. You were no songbird, but neither was he. And he would’ve listened to this for hours, just to hear you sound so happy and at peace.
The song itself was familiar too, although the instruments weren’t quite right - a cover, maybe? He scooted as close to the far side of your bed as he dared, trying to make out the lyrics through the wall and the water. You’d stopped singing, your part apparently ended, and the voice had changed:
“—Sing once again with me,
Our strange duet.”
Maxi sat bolt upright in his excitement - or tried to, before he smacked his forehead hard into your bed frame. He immediately lay back down, cursing himself quietly and touching the tender spot that he was sure was going to bruise. Pulling his fingertips away, he was grateful not to see any blood, at least. But he was definitely going to have to not slick his hair back for a little bit, lest he attract unwanted attention.
But you’d rather liked it when he did that, he remembered you saying so. He squirmed a little where he lay at the idea of your fingers running through his hair, playing with it, the ache in him only slightly assuaged by being so close to you (after being tempered somewhat by having to walk through the rain in the growing dark, on top of that).
But the song was definitely a Phantom cover - he was surprised it had taken him so long to place it, but he was willing to chalk it up to the water and the less-than-spectacular acoustics of being stuffed under your bed. But it had just gotten to Christine’s part again, and he could hear you trying to keep up as she swept into her grand finale. You were admittedly nowhere near the singer’s range, but it was obvious you were having fun. When her final note sounded, he could hear you laughing at your own attempt to match it that came out more of a squeak at the end, and he thought his heart would melt out his mouth and dribble all over your floor. He couldn’t believe he’d never thought to ask you if you liked the show, when he knew the two of you had discussed the book before. He was already reaching for his phone to google when the next tour would be in town when he heard the water shut off.
He froze even though you were still in the next room, listening hard. You’d turned the music down as well, the playlist having shuffled to something else - another singer he liked, he noticed with glee, making a note to ask you about it later - and he could still hear you faintly through the walls, singing at a much more subdued level to match the quieter melody.
He heard the clattering of your various skincare products as you moved around, before the music moved as well, leaking into the hall as you opened the door and stepped lightly back into your room. Only wearing a huge t-shirt and (he could barely glimpse them) a pair of underwear, you seemed to move on a cloud of steam and something sweet, the whole room filled with the scent of your favorite products now, and he relished just laying there and drinking it in.
He watched your bare feet as you walked around your room, your nails freshly painted your favorite color, and surmised you must have been trying to treat yourself to a spa day. You had said you’d been feeling less than your best, so this might have been your way of trying to take care of yourself. He had to resist the urge to check the date, make a note for next time - he knew he was weird, sure, but there were lines even he was willing to respect. He’d have to trust you to tell him if you wanted his assistance with… something like this. He could respect your discretion if not, your relationship with your body was your own.
But still. He’d at least make sure to have some extra of your favorite snacks in his kitchen. It wouldn’t stand out too much, he supposed.
At last, you fell over onto your bed, and he heard you sigh contentedly as you relaxed onto your mattress. He resisted the urge to echo it aloud, instead just stretching out as much as he could manage to pretend he was resting alongside you. This wasn’t perfect, but it was definitely better than trying to white-knuckle through things at the Mortuary alone. At least you were here. At least the overwhelming feeling of… everything, had subsided somewhat now that he was with you.
He heard something move from your nightstand, and a moment later, he saw an empty wine glass come into view as you set it on the floor. You stayed leaning off your mattress, opening the door to your nightstand, and he moved backwards as much as he dared, trying to make sure you wouldn’t happen to notice him if you happened to glance underneath your bed. But you seemed fixated on whatever was in the cabinet. He couldn’t help but be a little curious - he hadn’t gotten to see what you’d kept in there, before, and it wasn’t like he had the opportunity to ask when he was here last night.
With an impatient sigh, he heard you moving to the right side of your mattress, then settle your feet back onto the floor. A moment later, his heart - previously melted - resolidified and jumped into his throat as he saw your knees follow suit, and you kneel in front of the cabinet you were still digging through.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. There was no excuse for being under here, especially this early on, and double especially since you didn’t Know. He held his breath without realizing, pulling as slowly into himself as he could manage. It wasn’t like you had a direct line of sight under here, but it also wasn’t like you wouldn’t see him as soon as you bothered to look.
He had no one to pray to for this - the good ones wouldn’t dare grant his request, and the bad ones weren’t worth talking to. So he just held his breath and hoped, watching you rifle through a collection of —
Oh.
He watched you set what was very definitely a vibrator on your lap, then a second toy: long, made of dark silicone, it looked like. You picked up and held a couple similar ones of different sizes after that, clearly trying to decide something between them.
He knew he would’ve been scarlet if anyone could see him, the ache from earlier returning tenfold in an instant. So that’s what you kept in there. How… educational.
You were holding the dildo in your hands, and he felt one of his own slide up to cover his mouth, while the other slid… elsewhere. Your fingers were perfect, and once again, he found himself wishing you would touch him, as you had last night.
…In very different circumstances than right now, obviously. But still.
You were tracing the shaft with your thumb, humming thoughtfully to yourself. “Close enough,” you mumbled. “Or close as I’m going to get, anyway.” He heard you laugh to yourself, sounding a little embarrassed. “Yes, wonderful date conversation. ’Hi, Maxi, maybe-strange request, but can I just measure your dick for a sec? …Why? Oh, y’know, just wanted to commission something custom off the internet so I could fuck myself while thinking about you, even though we’ve only been going out for a month, no big deal.’ …God, I’m such a fucking weirdo,“ you muttered, sounding amused yet exasperated with yourself.
Maxi felt his fingers digging into his cheeks as his palm clamped hard over his mouth, barely cognizant of that possibly leaving yet another bruise. His brain felt like it was on fire, his sweats suddenly uncomfortably, impossibly tight. You… what? You what? You were doing what? Regularly enough that you wanted a what?
If he could’ve moved either of his hands, he would’ve pinched himself to make sure this was real, and not some pleasant fever dream from accidentally inhaling embalming chemicals. But one was firmly latched onto his face, determined not to give himself away and ruin this, while the other was already subconsciously desperately rubbing over his cock pressing against the front of his pants.
You pulled out a bottle of lube before you closed the cabinet, stepping back up onto your bed. He listened as you moved like a fox would track a rabbit, aware of every little slip of your skin against fabric, every slight motion of your legs -
Then the familiar sound of your gasp, soft and fluttering. Unexaggerated, wholly yours.
You writhed slightly on the mattress over him, and he could tell you were just warming yourself up. His face felt searing to the touch as he heard the growing sound of your wetness, you moaning quietly as you touched yourself, trying to relax.
Slowly, his left hand slipped under the waistband of his sweats, finding a slickness of his own already leaking from his sensitive tip. He bit down slightly on his right hand, determined not to make a sound as he spread it with a painful slowness over his shaft. As much as he dared, he tried to match the pattern of your movements, wishing it was him with you for real - as much as he was deathly curious about the version of him with you in your head.
He heard a quiet, choked sound from you not long at all after - a muffled moan, you biting your lip as you brought yourself to your first orgasm. You let out an unsteady exhale, and he heard you adjust, reaching for something you’d set down on the other side of your bed.
He had to hold his left hand still as he heard the pop of the plastic cap on the lube, the further hushed sounds of you spreading it along the proxy shaft, before finally you fell back again with a soft ‘thud’.
“Okay,” you murmured quietly to yourself. “Let’s see if I can manage not to totally embarrass myself with another person.”
Maxi was all too aware of his physical body being anchored to the floor as he resisted the urge to climb onto your mattress and kiss those fears away. He could never find you wanting, not in a million years, he could prove it to you right now if you just knew he was there, if it wouldn’t scare you—
But behind his eye sockets, he was aware of something looming, a dark near-arrogance that he couldn’t totally separate from himself. You thought you couldn’t take him. That you might struggle, be shy and flustered if you couldn’t manage it one one go.
The Reaper wanted to see you try, to see the embarrassed tears that might result if you couldn’t, to feel you try to push him back out again because you just couldn’t keep him there.
The part of his brain that was still wholly his wanted to soothe any such tears, reassure you with coos and murmurs about just how good you were, how well you were doing. But there was the tiniest part of him that wanted to lick those tears away, not kiss them, and savor them instead.
His train of thought was entirely interrupted by your sudden gasp, and your quiet groan. “Fuck,” you whimpered, and he could hear you writhing slightly, your feet sliding as you struggled to get comfortable. “Fuck, okay. Okay, it’s fine, I just need…” He heard your head hit the pillow with a sigh, and he felt like his body was one exposed wire.
He couldn’t help but squeeze just a little as he heard you panting softly, making a small, muffled noise as he heard you try to take the toy deeper, accompanied by the occasional slick sound of something moving in you. He felt his cock twitch in his hand at the noise, wishing desperately he could be letting you adjust around him instead.
A breathy whisper of his name sang across his nerves like a bow over strings, followed by a quiet resulting mewl. “I’m trying,” you whispered to the imaginary version of him with you, your voice sounding a little frayed and overwhelmed. “You’re just… a lot.”
Christ, you really were going to kill him. Carefully, painstakingly, he timed the movements of his hand over his cock to what he could make out of yours - his hand hoping to even fractionally capture the way you would squeeze around him, the achingly slow pace of pushing into you and pulling out again, trying to offer you some relief while still trying to satisfy the gnaw of need he could feel building at the base of his spine.
“I can,” you murmured to him and not-him, your voice shaking a little. “I can, I promise, just… I need a minute.” He heard a groan muffled by you biting your lip, trying to push the toy further. “There’s just so much of you, Maxi.”
He bit his own lip so hard it could bleed, trying his damnedest not to react to that out loud. You thought he was a lot. You’d seen him - you’d had him in your mouth, for christ’s sake - so it’s not like you were exaggerating, but still. You were already anticipating not only fucking him, but wanting to take him fully, and in that moment he thought his own anticipation might burn through his skin from the inside out. He wanted to be in you, for real, now.
Then he heard a soft cry, followed by another thud of your head against your pillow, the scrabbling of your feet as your back arched. “There,” you moaned, and his eyes threatened to roll back in his skull yet again. “See? I- oh, fuck, I told you I could.”
And then, slowly, he heard you starting to fuck yourself on it.
He bit fully down onto his own palm, matching your pace now, hoping your own slick sounds and now-desperate whines would cover the sounds of him trying to jerk himself off as quietly as possible. He wanted to be on you, his chest pressed against yours, feeling your sweat and your heart racing under your bones and your warm panting on his neck as he fucked you properly, gave you everything you were begging for just a foot away. He wanted to pin you down and fuck you until you forgot your own name, until he only knew his own from the way it fell off your lips and onto his. He felt your pace pick up in his own grip as you got closer, and the way his whole body tightened, he desperately wanted to fill you with his own release, to feel it slide down your thighs as he stubbornly fucked it back into you, not for anything to take but just to know that you wanted him inside you.
“Please, please, Maxi, don’t stop,” you whined above him, and he tasted his own blood as his teeth finally split the skin of his hand. He wished it was your neck, your shoulder, those wicked little lips of yours - he’d kiss it better in a second, he’d apologize immediately for marking your precious skin, but he was so hungry to feel you with him, for real, that he longed for even the warmth of your wounds on his lips.
Just when he thought he couldn’t take anymore of this, the closest thing to heaven and hell at the same time, he heard you come with a last cracked moan of his name. He shattered immediately, spilling his own load from a day of obsessing over and repressing the memories of you inside his clothes, and utterly ruining them in the process. He flushed even more furiously, the heat spreading down to his chest from both the ecstasy of relief at last, and embarrassment for coming in his pants like a freshman. He fucked into his hand as he heard you coming down until he went fully soft, bordering on the ache of overstimulation but trying to satisfy the gaping hole that came from not actually being able to pull you against him, to descend together in each other’s tangled, sweaty limbs.
For a moment, the two of you just lay there in silence - you still panting softly, him still biting into the flesh of his hand, not trusting himself not to moan the minute he pulled it away. He wanted to kiss you, to tell you that you were perfect, that you took him like you were made for him - or that you would, when the time was right, he was sure of it. But not until you were feeling better, not until you wanted to, until you chose.
“…Holy fuck,” you mumbled above him, sounding somewhat hazy, and he instead had to fight his usual giggle-snort. How were you this cute, he wondered, it wasn’t even fair.
He heard you shift slowly, reaching for something else on your nightstand - he winced as he caught himself secretly hoping it wasn’t the lube again. After a day of agony, he wasn’t sure he could go another round as enthusiastically as you.
But instead, he heard a soft, familiar tapping. In his scattered haze, it took him a minute to place it — until he saw your arm dangling over the side of your mattress, your phone still clutched in your hand as you waited for a text to send.
He caught his name on the screen before you pulled it up again, and hurriedly, he rummaged in his pocket to pull out his own just as the notification of a new message appeared.
<[Thinking of you, handsome <3 Hope work isn’t giving you too much trouble today?]
You wicked little minx. Maxi slowly released his palm from his teeth, bringing up his second hand to write back.
[Aw, miss you pretty. <3 Work’s been… work haha. Feeling better?]>
That was as close as he could think to summarizing the situation, anyway. And he was reasonably sure ‘hey look down here :)’ wouldn’t be very well received, even if he was starting to become aware of your own more… interesting tendencies. He glanced up at the bottom of your mattress as he waited for his own message to send, pondering this. He knew the two of you were still in the early stages, but he was now deeply curious what other strange urges you were hiding in that sweet little head of yours. Besides apparently liking his dick enough to want a memento of your own - something that, if he wasn’t already still flushed, would’ve made him do so all over again as he thought about it.
He heard your phone buzz, and his heart lept at your quiet little excited noise as you rolled over on your mattress. He was half-tempted to peek and see if you were kicking your feet in the air, for as much as you made him want to do the same, but he kept himself out of sight.
A second of fast typing later, your response appeared:
<[So much better omg. Sorry about work though :/ Do you maybe want to hang out tomorrow? We could watch a bad movie and drink about it.]
‘Yes,’ Maxi sent immediately. He winced at his own eagerness, then quickly added:
[Whenever works for you, if you feel up to it! No pressure if you start feeling bad again.]>
He heard you roll back over onto your back, giggling to yourself. He restrained himself from sighing in relief. At least you thought he was cute, and not desperate.
Another response popped up on his screen:
<[Oh I’m definitely better, no worries. <3 My place, maybe seven-ish if that’s okay?]
And then, as he was typing a confirmation, another:
<[And don’t sweat needing to drive home or anything btw. I have a spare toothbrush and stuff lol. ;)]
Maxi resisted the urge to punch the air, both because it would send his fist straight into your box spring, and because he was far too old to be doing that and not feeling ridiculous about it. But he definitely wanted to, in the moment.
[Haha sure. I’ll see you then angel <3]>
You wouldn’t need to know he was seeing you before.
Or at least, he would tell you later. Much later.
(as always, if you read this far, you’re a saint and I love you! <3)
#SFBF#Blood Fest#Blood Fest 2022#maxi morvant#maximilian vincent morvant#maxi morvant x reader#maxi morvant x you#slasher oc#slasher oc x reader#necromancer oc#plus size reader#non-binary reader#genderqueer reader#morvant mortuary#monsterkisser fics#mdni
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Blood Fest week 3 Vincent Sinclair x GN Reader
Vincent Sinclair x GN Reader
Week 3 of Blood fest here! I present to you a nice little sappy drabble of the reader and Vincent being cute, sorry not sorry!
prompts Mask. Chains. Bone. Sleep
keywords: Powerless. Fervor
Sometimes the sweet moments, you shared with Vincent made you forget he and his brothers murdered people and turned them into wax figures to give the fake allusion to life in this ghost town. Even with the mask he used to cover his defects, all you could see was your love and devotion for the man who had given you a chance when no one else would. Also, both of you had a morbid sense of what art was and could be, so you had no problem accepting his wax figures hid the dark secret of a human body beneath, learning this drew you to him in the first place. You found yourself lost in Ambrose, attempting to leave your life behind, and somehow by sheer luck, not running into Lester or Bo allowed you to explore the wax museum and run into Vincent for the first time; the rest was history.
Now you called the boys' family and Ambrose home and you got to curl up next to a man who had the ability to make anyone feel powerless and break a grown man's bones when it was necessary, but with you, he was only rough when you asked for it and even then he was gentle. Getting to coax him to lay down with you and away from his chained-up newest piece of art became a nightly chore within itself but it was one you gladly did with enthusiasm. Sure you could lull yourself to sleep just by watching Vincent sculpt the wax carefully onto an unfortunate tourist with his usual fervor and the warm atmosphere and ambiance of the various machines at work made it easy to just drift off.
So what a nice feeling it was laying there half asleep all cozied up in Vincent’s sweater that all but engulfed your body in his comforting scent, through half-lidded eyes you focused on the dim glow of the nearby candles Vincent was so fond of using. With each drip of the wax falling from the candles your eyes grew heavier until you felt the dip of the mattress. Giving out a sleepy groan you started to move before Vincent’s bare lips are brushing against the side of your head in a ghost of a kiss and made a noise that you assume is meant to shush you. Letting yourself relax again you let Vincent move you so you’re laying against his chest and those large arms have wrapped you into a bear hug. If you weren’t on your way to dreamland you would have given him some sleepy kisses too, but you can save them for the morning. For now, you can enjoy being in Vincent’s embrace as his heartbeat and breathing slow down and he kisses the crown of your head one more time before you both fall asleep.
#SFBF#house of wax#vincent sinclair#vincent sinclair x reader#slasher files blood fest#writing challenge#Slasher x reader
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Bloodfest: A Mother's Love
Author's Note: This is a bit different than my other writing, but this was what my mind drove me to do! I hope you enjoy the little drabble. My mental health has been not doing so well, so I thought I'd make something with a good, peaceful ending (of sorts). Also!!! The Bloodfest is being hosted by the lovely and talented @the-slasher-files! Go take a peek at the prompts and key words and perhaps write a little fic for yourself.
TW: Description of Panic/Anxiety, Light Gore (not super detailed), otherwise it's mostly fluffy ig
prompts: Rope. Teeth. Size. Blood
keywords: Wicked. Rain
Her hands gripped onto the cold, soggy grass while her feet desperately tried to move her forward. She pushed herself upright, the soles of her shoes smacking against the ground and sending shockwaves through her legs. Her tired limbs are desperately trying to keep up with the primal instinct of survival, her torso lurching forward while her thighs burn from overexertion.
Breathlessly, she dashed into the forest, her feet skidding in the muck while the sound of too many footsteps thundered behind her. Lightning casted macabre shadows through the leaves, her arms wildly brushing any twig of branch aside as her panting breaths turned to panicked wheezing. The rain on the leaves covered the sound of her terrified whimpers until she careened forward, a disagreeable root catching the toe of her shoe. A terrified yelp erupted from her throat as she was sent careening into the dirt and leaves, twigs snapping under her weight and scratching up any vulnerable flesh. Hot tears began to stream down her cheeks while her mind frantically told her it was over - she was dead. She was oh so dead.
The snapping of twigs and branches along with the angry shouts let her know just how close they were. The cold forest floor held onto her body as exhaustion took over, closing her eyes and curling up into the fetal position. Their flashlights began to illuminate branches through the thicket, the ground seeming to tremble with each footstep that neared. The rustle of fabric made her eyes open, a distinctly large shadow being cast over her. She didn’t even know someone was in these woods with her - other than her assailants, of course. A subtle huff came from the shadowy figure as their hand dropped to their side, the undeniable glint of an axehead catching in the light.
“Mercy,” she murmured with dirty lips, squeezing her eyes shut as the shape loomed over her. She gulped and then felt the person step over her. Her head was silent and she did nothing, her aching limbs deciding that the forest floor was where she ought to be. Where she should eternally rest.
The sterile white light of flashlights illuminating the darkness behind her eyelids let her know that her assailants were near, but the unholy gurgling noise and wet thud left her confused. A woman shrieked and the raucous noise of fearful footsteps made her eyes lazily open. She watched as they scattered like rats as that shadowy figure gave chase, reeling their arm back and throwing a hatchet into the back of a person’s skull. Some of the assailants tried to fight back in order to get to their target, but that figure was terrifyingly swift with each kill. The night kept her from seeing the blood spatter, but a wicked part of her wished she could see their faces as they perished.
Once all of the trespassers were finished off, the tall figure began to hum. A familiar tune, one heard in nurseries. The figure came back over to the girl, crouching down as lightning illuminated the sky once more. A homemade rabbit mask greeted the girl as strong arms cradled the girl. The hare-masked figure lulled the terrified girl to sleep in her arms, taking her back to somewhere that the Huntress knew this girl would be safe.
When the strange girl opened her dirty eyelids, the warmth of a large fire kissed her cold cheeks and with each beckoning finger of flame, she crawled towards it, finding a hand-stitched quilt had been wrapped around her.
Towards the heat. Towards the warmth.
Her instincts made the girl's weak arms slowly pull her across the stone floor to the hearth. As she neared, there was something holding her back. Looking down, there was a grass rope tied around her ankles, keeping them together so she couldn't escape. With a dissatisfied huff, she laid on her belly and reached outwards, feeling the heat emanating from the flames and giving her feeling back in her fingertips.
The peaceful lullaby neared, filling the tranquil forest with an angelic hymn. The Huntress' hums were so thoroughly perfected that it was hard for the strange girl not to turn her head and ogle at the hare-masked woman outside. The rich tones and mature vibrato made the girl's heavy eyelids sink down, fluttering as they tried to stay open. However, a mother's song warms the depth of a lost soul and mends the wounds of stolen time.
#sfbf#horror#fanfic#my writing#sfw#the huntress#dbd fanfic#huntress dbd#slasher fandom#horror community#drabble#bunny mom
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I Won’t Tell
WOO I finally finished another thing! This time I made it for the first week of the Slasher Files Blood Fest! I’m trying my best and while I’m probably only going to be able to shoot out some short fics for the time being I wanted to try to shake some inspo loose <3 Hope y’all like some more Grabber <3
Grabber x GN!Reader
Keywords: Wicked. Rain.
Prompts: Rope. Size.
Warnings: Non-smut, kidnapping, tied with rope.
Word Count: ~300
"I won't tell."
Rain pounded the windows just as harshly as your heart against your rib cage. Your soaking wet clothes had been discarded in a heap on the floor, the only warmth coming from the radiator you faced. Rough fibers burned against your wrists bound behind you as you refused to stop trying to find some way to loosen them. Your ankles were firmly attached to the chair, any movement to try to escape and you would take it down with you.
The man before you did nothing more than shrug off his own wet shirt onto yours on the dingy kitchen floor. Not even his mask fell off in the scuffle, its cruel toothy grin mocking you as his eyes narrowed behind the shallow holes of the plastic. Seeing his broad chest bare for the first time only reminded you how inferior you were to him. How easy it was for him to control you. You couldn't fight him. You couldn't even escape with the sounds of the storm hiding your movements.
"Please," you whimpered, feeling your resolve finally crumble with the latest attempt for survival. "Please just let me go. I won't tell. I promise."
You couldn't bear to look at him as tears welled up in your eyes, your voice catching in your throat as it threatened to close up. The bindings were the only thing keeping you from shuddering uncontrollably, the combination of fear and chill that had seeped down into your bones knocking the determination you had held onto desperately this entire time out of you once and for all. Just like he wanted.
His hand shot out and grabbed your chin roughly, causing you to flinch and squeak out in shock. Forced to look up at him, his massive hand a reminder of how easily he could snuff out your life stroking your jaw like a dog. His eyes gave nothing away, not even when he bent down to your level as he chuckled to himself. But the laugh didn't match his eyes.
"I know you won't."
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SLASHER FILES' BLOOD FEST 2022 MASTERLIST
Just wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who joined in, even if it was just for a week. I appreciate you all and you are all so talented. Thank you... See you in October 2023 🔪🤍
WEEK ONE
Jason in Trick or treat by @morgue-ratt
Micheal Myers - Teeth by @yeyinde
Jason & The Coven by @thrall-of-the-hill-arch
The Huntress - A Mother's Love by @reijniana
Vampire OC - Payment Plan by @thesightstoshowyou
Bo Sinclair x gn reader by @boxxyass
OC x reader by @queendeeshorrorimagines
Grabber - I won't tell by @lucifers-horror-harem
Werewolf x afab reader by @applesontheground
Billy Lenz x reader by @feelin-woozy
Our strange duet by @morvantmortuary
Sacrificial night by @the-slasher-files
WEEK TWO
OC x reader by @queendeeshorrorimagines
Asa Emory in God Complex by @morgue-ratt
Touching in the dark @morvantmortuary
Herbert West x gn reader by @applesontheground
Give in by @the-slasher-files
Heavens night by @lucifers-horror-harem
Sugar and Scarlet by @bisexual-horror-fan
Next by @thesightstoshowyou
Michael and Anne by @thrall-of-the-hill-arch
WEEK THREE
Leslie Vernon x gn reader by @applesontheground
Vincent Sinclair x gn reader by @boxxyass
We match by @bisexual-horror-fan
Glass by @morgue-ratt
WEEK FOUR
OC werewolves x gn reader by @applesontheground
WEEK FIVE
Norman Bates x gn reader by @applesontheground
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B L O O D F E S T: week 1
Size, Blood, Teeth, Rope
Jason Voorhees in Trick or Treat
1k+ words, kinda silly, the whole idea behind this is what if someone was nice to Jason? People should be nice to Jason.
THERE was someone tapping on the side of your trailer, you were sure of it now. You’d stopped chewing, listening. The rain was coming down, pinging against the tin walls and it was nearly deafening but you heard it. You put your peanut butter and jelly.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Definitely not the rain.
What was supposed to have been a relaxing vacation at Crystal Lake had been rained out and you were trying to not let it sour you too much, even if you’d hauled your trailer all the way to Jersey, chasing summer as far as you could. You’d heard the stories of what sort of things happened at the camp. Drownings. Murders. Killer senior citizens. You hadn’t been sure, as you drove up the highway, if you believed in the camp’s dark angel, Jason Voorhees, but you also weren’t stupid so you made sure to set yourself up on the far side of the lake.
Tap! Tap! Tap! THUD! THUD! THUD!
You believed in him now. You called out in a wavering voice; “Hello?” The knocking stopped and so did your heart, if only for a moment. “Who’s there?” The silence felt sentient and wicked, the suspense crushing you.
You heard someone trying to open the door, messing with the lock but when that didn’t work, the door was kicked open with so much force it banged on its hinges and you screamed as you sunk to the floor, holding your head in your hands. The first think you processed was just how huge the man was as he leered over you with horrible black shark’s eyes.
No. No, those weren’t his eyes. It was his mask, the huge black sockets in his hockey mask. He was absolutely drenched from the rain, his clothes clinging to his frame. You stared up at the man that you had been so certain was just a camp fire story and tried to remember what they called him. Your fear clouded brain was just about blank and your mouth was dry.
“Jason?” Jason Voorhees peered down at you, the mask making him unreadable. Had you made him angry? Yes, just by parking here, you had made him angry. Obviously. “Is your name Jason?”
Suddenly he was reaching for you and you came to terms with the fact that you were about to die.
Instead, Jason grabbed your shoulder and pulled you to your feet like you weighed nothing. You noticed he only used one hand, there was a machete in the other. Even when you were standing tall. He towered over you and you had to bend your neck to look him in the face, or mask as it were. You watched, nearly awestruck as he moved passed you and grabbed your sandwich of the counter.
You were so bewildered by what was happening as this wall of man grabbed your plate and brought your measly dinner closer to his mask. “Wait!” The urgent tone in your voice surprised you and cause Jason to pause, your PBnJ hanging in the air halfway between the plate and his masked mouth. “There’s peanuts in that.” You could hardly believe yourself; did you really think this... lake monster, this camp fire story was allergic to peanuts? “It could make you... really sick.”
Jason put the sandwhich down just as carefully as he’d picked it up but he didn’t seem ready to leave.
Thunder boomed outside and you winced at the sudden sound. Your anxiety was through the roof but you’d always been one of those people that focused on the little things rather than the main problem, the little things you could solve by yourself and apparently now was no different.
“I’ll... you sit down, I’ll make something else.” You said, eyeing the machete. You were sure about it now, there was something distinctly red dripping off the blade and onto your relativity clean floor.
Jason put the plate down gently enough that the thing didn’t break. He lumbered passed you again and you realized just how tiny your mobile home was. He set his machete on the dining table before folding himself into your chair. It was almost comical and it was certainly miraculous that the chair took his weight. Jason sat, his hands between his thighs, and waited patiently.
You realized a little too late that you’d situated him between you and the door.
You switched on your hot plate and started toasting the bread while you heard a heavy thud. You whirled around and saw that saw that Jason was tapping his foot. You cleared your throat. “Do you want to take off your coat, you might--” You had to stop yourself. Surely, he wasn’t worried about catching a cold. “You might want to take off your coat.”
The mask stared blankly back at you.
You applied a generous amount of cheese to the bread, a slice of tomato and a shake of bacon bits. You bit the inside of your cheek, clearly this wouldn’t be enough. You grabbed a third slice of bread. You probably shouldn't have turned your back to him for this long but the fiend from Crystal Lake didn’t try anything as he waited for his double decker grilled cheese. You pulled out a fresh plate and put it down in front of him. “There you go.”
Jason pulled up the bottom of his hockey mask, reveling a maw of necrotic flesh and crooked teeth but you managed not to react aside from widening your eyes. He ate quickly but you noticed that to your surprise, he chewed with his mouth closed.
He moved to wipe his mouth with his sleeve and you swear, it was your mother’s voice when you chided; “Hey! No, no. Don’t use your sleeve!” You grabbed a paper towel and handed it to him. Jason seemed embarrassed and he took the napkin, wiping his face before pulling the mask down.
The next few moments were a blur as he he rose from the little chair and approached you almost timidly. With a heavy hand, his patted your head before picking his machete off your table and headed out into the storm.
You closed the trailer door behind him but it wouldn’t latch shut. Jason had already disappeared into the blackness; the night embraced him as a mother would her child. You washed his plate and went to bed, the storm suddenly peaceful again.
When you woke the next morning, you had convinced yourself the late-night encounter had been a dream until you headed outside for some fresh air.
You had to remember how to breathe.
On the side of your trailer, someone had painted a lopsided heart in fresh, red blood.
#SFBF#slasher files blood fest#bloodfest 2022#jason voorhees#friday the 13th#jason voorhees x reader#frenzy scribbles
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SFBF - Week 2 - Michael & Anne
prompts: Gore. Toys. Fluff. CNC
keywords: Cold. Rapture
-
Sunshine in the winter time felt like an angel's kiss; morning frost melting into droplets on warm skin. Crimson droplets fell off Michael’s skin, staining the near perfect snowfall under his feet, boot crunching to alert those around he was finally moving once more. The predator had taken flight, leaving a shaking young man in his wake. The cold or remnant adrenaline could be to blame; he’d allow her to make her own assumptions as she took the sight of him in. Blood soaked the young man from the tips of his blonde locks to the leather of his boots; a sight she was becoming all too familiar with at her door. Winters seemed to push him to her threshold over crossing the woods to his home once more. The young man never told her about the home; he barely spoke a handful of words in the number of times they had met. At the most, she knew he could talk and that his name was Michael.
It seemed he had a nasty habit of finding trouble when allowed to wonder on his own; the woods held many terrible secrets. Anne often wondered what they would do if they actually started to uncover the bodies buried there, by him and those before him. Would they ever stop digging? The coven was a rotted shell of what it used to be; Michael was the most recent ‘experiment’ they had picked up. They dotted on the young man as if he were a brother to them, or a crush. Anne didn’t think he cared for anyone in that way. She wasn’t sure he had ever been taught how. She wasn’t about to try, so she elected to show him simple things. Kneading bread, which he seemed pretty good at already- they used him for kitchen work, it seemed. Soon she showed him how to patch his clothes, for as nimble as the man seemed with a blade, his coordination with a needle was atrocious. They worked on that until he could do enough to get by.
She broke from her small trance of thought when he let out a small hum, his means of asking for permission. Nodding, she watched the young man strip to nothing before he wondered into her guest shower. Mud and blood would cake the tub edges. Something for her to clean as she considered trying again. Getting him away from the women for any length of time had been difficult; she baited him with warm showers and treats at first. Once he felt comfortable enough to shower on his own and stayed to learn, Anne had asked him about leaving the witches. He had stopped showing up for almost a month after that. She didn’t ask again. Hearing the shower turn off, she moved to get an old towel, as well as the man did to clean himself, remnant blood often stained his skin if not patted away. The woman often found herself wondering if it was appropriate, her help and her efforts; she nearly as often came to the conclusion he needed someone to keep him in mind. Michael was little more than a hobby or pet to the women that were supposed to mind him.
Part of her wanted to ask if he told the women of his visits, it was better if he didn’t. Against a whole coven, she was practically useless. Hell, against Michael, she doubted she’d make it out alive.
Standing to greet the man with the towel around his waist, she motioned for him to bend down. Reaching for his hair, she ran the dry material through it a few times to collect stray water, as suspected crimson streaks soon came out clear. Anne used the pads of her fingers to work down to his scalp; she could hear a familiar purr building in the man’s chest as she did. “You need a shave, Michael- it's not filled in enough yet,” she teased, motioning for him to stand once more. As he did, Anne hung the towel on the banister. She’d throw it in the wash once he was on his way back through the snow. “Michael, I wanted to show you something,” she spoke calmly while the man started to dress himself again. It seemed he didn’t have much time to stay that evening. When he seemed ready to follow, she started for the garage, where she had first found him. Huddled by the tailpipe of her car, trying to steal some warmth, he had been a muddy and pathetic sight. The man used to hesitate following her into that place; he no longer had reason to fear it.
“I started to make you a gift. But, I want your input on something,” she opened the tool cabinet as the man stared at her curiously. Moving to the counter, the woman set down a tan bag, revealing only two items to him. One was a dark green scarf; it looked soft to the touch and warm. Michael fought the urge to rip it from her hands as she moved to get the second. It was far smaller than the scarf, a soft metal ding rang out as she set it on the counter. A small leather flap held together by a metal fish, a keychain holding a single golden key on its loop.
“Which one do you want?”
“Want?”
“To keep. I know you can’t take them home, but they’ll be in this closet for when you’re here,” she explained slowly to the other before letting him look both over. Taking the scarf, the man rubbed it on his face. A pleased hum left him before he set it down to inspect the keychain. “Where does the key go?”
“The front door, I keep the garage unlocked, but in case you need to get inside.”
The silence to follow felt tense. Michael’s breathing slowed, and both items were returned to where she had laid them out. It was a full measure before he spoke again.
“I have to pick?”
A relieved sigh left the woman followed by a breathy chuckle, it seemed he was feeling braver than usual. Perhaps a bribe would have worked better sooner, “Well- since it seems you like them both. I think you can have both.”
“What do you want?”
“That’s the thing about a gift, Michael. I don’t want anything back- I just want you to have them.”
Michael’s face often lost any real emotion when he was deep in his thoughts, eyes glazed over .
“If this is too much-” Anne paused, seeing the ghost of a smile break over his lips.
“Thank you.” It was the closet she had come to see any type of pleasure in the man’s features. Anne wondered what his full smile would look like. A rapture of sorts, she imagined, pure joy. Just the small break in his lips made her desire the help the young man grow tenfold, she would free him of that life.
At any cost.
@the-slasher-files
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BLOOD FEST: WEEK ONE
Prompts: rope, teeth, size, blood
Keywords: wicked, rain
Dale Smith (OC)
AN: I decided to write about my oc, Dale Smith. I hope everyone enjoys!
Rain fell from the midnight sky as Dale walks home from a night out with his colleagues at the firm. The dimly lit streets gave him an ethereal glow as he held on to his umbrella with his left hand while his right hand held on to his suitcase.
Stumbling with his keys, Dale stammered into his apartment as he hears his dogs stir awake. His home phone's voice-mail echoed through his living room as he pressed the button to play out his voice-mails.
He walked towards his office to his suitcase on his oak desk but when he entered, he sees a noose hanging from his ceiling fan. The rope swayed back and forth as he cautiously walked closer to his desk.
The size of the rope was a lot larger than he thought. His blood ran cold as he saw that the brown rope had stains of crimson around it. Dale looks down at his desk seeing an envelope with blood stains on it. His nerves filled his body as he chews his bottom lip.
He felt his hands trembled as he lifted the letter from his desk, carefully ripping the sealed envelope open. Dales stomach hits the floor as the first thing he saw was several bloodied teeth moving freely on the bottom of the envelope. 'How could someone be so wicked in doing this?' Dale thought to himself.
Dale takes a deep breath of courage before grabbing the sheet of paper. He opens the letter and his face became pale before he suddenly felt someone covered a rag over Dale's face. He attempted to struggled against the unknown intruder but it ultimately failed, causing Dale to fade into unconsciousness.
#sfbf#SFBF WEEK ONE#Queendeeshorrorimagines#oc: Dale Smith fic#im sorry if this is too short#horror writing#blood orange juice
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