#Horror fanfic

[1980shorrorfilm]

has it hit you?

click!!!

pairing…sam carpenter x gn!reader

in which…an argument causes sam to push you away; which she regrets when you end up under the mistletoe with someone else.

before you read…angst with comfort. alcohol usage. mentions of sex.

“whatever sam said, she didn’t mean— you know she gets like that sometimes!”

tara follows you around the frat house that was lazily decked out with flashy christmas decor, like a child being led by her parent. fitting, considering she’s taking your fight with sam to the heart. 

it was sudden, so sudden yet something you should’ve been entirely prepared for. 

you made the mistake of taking a step in a direction she’s repeated several times she didn’t want to go down. emotional intimacy. a hint at a relationship. dinner with your family for the holidays. 

you had invited her and tara, having believed you were close enough with them to do so, but specifically sam. the woman you’ve spent most of your nights with, wrapped in her arms, skin to skin. 

it wasn’t just sex with her. when she was vulnerable enough, she’d trust you with some of her lighter secrets, still unable to tell you everything that goes on her mind. 

you were okay with that, though, always so patient with her. that’s why you accepted what you two were…nothing and everything at the same time.

not dating, no, she wouldn’t say that. she wouldn’t call you her partner. she wouldn’t even call you her best friend. you were just…you. someone she liked enough to occupy her time with, and she assumed that’s all she was to you.

not someone to bring home to your parents, sam did not think she had the title. she thought she didn’t want it, imagining the judgmental faces from your beloved family members, as if you brought home a mistake. 

a mistake. that’s what she called your whatever-ship.

something that should’ve never happened, she told you. you’re too clingy, she said. just leave me the fuck alone, she begged.

you listened. you always listen to sam. 

leading you to a frat party, being followed by her little sister, a constant reminder of what you’re trying to escape. 

“maybe we should go home— she’s probably waiting for you,” tara tries again, watching you grab a beer from the fridge. you sigh her name, not wanting to scold her, but really tired of hearing about sam. tara gets the hint, and the obvious annoyance in your tone, deciding to back off. for now.

your mind can ease somewhat without having tara’s shadow, actually talking to your friends while the alcohol works its way into your system. 

you find yourself playing beer pong against some faces you occasionally see in class, laughing at just how bad you were— then remembering how good sam is. her aim is amazing, sam knows the right angles and how delicate or hard the pressure should be. you learned that a long time ago, though. 

why are you thinking about her? when you’re just her mistake?

you shake your head, bringing the red solo cup to your lips and downing the alcohol while the opposite team celebrates their win. your partner, a tall blonde who leaned in very close to you the entire time, now trying to hold a regular conversation. 

“aren’t you seeing that carpenter chick?” they had asked, and your head snapped toward them, brows knitting at the comment. you hadn’t known your association with her seemed to others what you also had viewed it as. romantic. 

it’s slightly comforting, knowing it wasn’t entirely in your head, the way samantha tried telling you it was. maybe she was lying more to herself, than you, or so that’s what you hope for. 

“nope,” you tell them, “not seeing anyone.”

the bitterness of your words goes unnoticed, and is taken as an invitation; which it sorta is. you came here to forget her, to make yourself feel better. and if that’s with some blonde that lost beer pong with you, you’re okay with that. you think.

you’re honestly not doing a lot of thinking right now. you’re fake laughing at their stupid jokes. you’re repeating ‘right,’ at their never-ending stories. 

you’re being reminded why you picked sam over everyone else. this is draining, a chore to pretend to be interested. there was no pretending with her. her. her. 

holy fuck, you need another drink. 

you excuse yourself, but they follow, still talking to you. they cut themselves off, an enthusiastic ‘hey,’ as their palm on your wrist halts you in the doorway. 

“wh—”

they point up, and you glance. mistletoe. you see it more in movies than in reality, you’re almost amazed by the sight of the small green and red shrubs. to be beneath it with the love of your life— to be beneath it with sam. 

sam isn’t here.

but you are, and so is the blonde.

because why the fuck not, you close the space between you two, a peck on their lips that goes as quickly as it came. but it lasts long enough for her to see it.

the heat rushes to her cheeks, tara not telling her you were occupied with someone else in the urgent message she had sent her. just the fact that you were drinking, and she’s taking your recklessness as confirmation. 

sam ignores the stares as she pushes past the drunken partygoers, remembering exactly why she didn’t come to shit like this. if she wanted to feel judged she would’ve searched her name online, a habit you’ve tried to stop her from doing.

“y/n.”

her voice cuts through the music and chatter, your eyes falling on her in the doorway of the kitchen. you’re leaning against the counter, the blonde in front of you, looking between you two. sam is only looking at them. 

“can you leave us?” it comes out as a demand when she says it, and they don’t protest, both of you now alone when they scurry away.

you gulp at whatever she has to say to you, probably to get scolded for having fun without her. with someone else. despite her harsh words making it seem like that’s what she wanted from you; to find someone else and stop bothering her. 

you laugh dryly to yourself at the thought.

“what was that?”

“what was what?” 

sam exhales through her nose, trying to be patient in a moment she absolutely did not want to be. she will show you some grace due to being buzzed and not entirely there, but that doesn’t change how she feels.

bitter. annoyed. mad, very mad, at you. 

“so we have one argument and that’s it?” she begins to walk toward you, making you feel extremely small the closer she got, and the louder her voice became.

you dare to bite back, “thought that’s what you wanted.”

“why would i want that?”

“because you fucking said so, sam,” you tell her, the woman not realizing the weight of the things she had said until this moment. 

sure, they weren’t the kindest words that had left her mouth, but they were spoken out of fear rather than honesty. unfortunately, you’re not a mind reader, and you have feelings that sam has obliterated. 

“i don’t…” she trails off, a roar from the crowd in the next room causing her to squeeze her eyes in annoyance. “let’s go home. talk there,” sam tells you, hand gently grabbing at yours, but you pull away. 

“you can go home.”

“y/n.”

“im staying, sam. don’t wait up for me,” you push past her, to the fridge you had originally come into the kitchen for. to your luck, there’s one more beer, but it leaves your hands as soon as you grab it. 

sam walks away with the drink, practically shoving it into someone’s welcoming hands, a tight-lipped smile on her face that drops when she faces you again. “guess i am too, then.”

the audacity.

making you feel like shit, pushing you away, then pulling you back in when you find happiness without her. even if it’s stupid decisions like kissing strangers and drinking until your head hurts. it’s a better feeling than being told you’re not wanted by the woman you love the most. 

“fuck you, sam.”

with that, you storm out of the room, out of the house entirely, the freezing december air hitting you at once. you hug yourself, your ugly holiday sweater not providing you the warmth that the frat home had, and drag your feet to the sidewalk. 

you hear her behind you before she makes her presence known. 

“where are you going?” 

“why? gonna follow me?”

once more, her hand finds your arm, a firm grip holding you in place, and a hard stare that goes through you. it causes your attitude retreat, and your confidence to die completely. 

“if you want to be mad at me, fine, but i’m not leaving you alone like this.”

you remain still, eyes falling to your feet because holding her gaze is too overwhelming. she sees through you, gets to you easily like she is now, and why you’re accepting defeat. 

“fine, whatever. let’s go.”

she lets out of a sigh of relief, thankful this wasn’t going to be another argument. she’s too drained for that. her grip on you softens, along with her eyes that scan your face momentarily, like she was taking you in for the first time tonight. red eyes and a cute frown on your face that she wishes she wasn’t the reasoning for.

sam leads you to her car, making sure tara is okay before she leaves, the ride is quiet and uncomfortable. she taps her fingers on the steering wheel, occasionally glancing at you, your head facing the window, watching the snow begin to fall.

you look at peace, probably the most calm you’ve been since the fight. since she wiped the smile off of your face, replacing your joyful eyes with eyes of pain. her heart begins to hurt.

at a red light, she peels off her jacket, handing it to you without saying anything. you don’t put it on, but you use it as a blanket, inhaling the scent of the cinnamon and sandalwood perfume she drowns herself in. a comforting scent that makes you feel warmer than the jacket itself. 

when you arrive at her place, you’re still clinging to the piece of clothing, sitting on the couch while she makes sure all the locks on the door are secure. you’re mindlessly watching whatever channel on the tv she previously had on, hearing her shuffle in the kitchen.

it’s a few minutes later that she enters the room with two mugs, placing one in your hands. you smell the hot chocolate before she informs you that’s what it is, thanking her before sipping on the sweet drink. 

she sits beside you, leaning forward to grab the remote and mute the television. damn it. 

“can we talk?”

“go ahead,” you mumble, but sam is not as bothered by your subtle attitude. she gets it. she may have acted like it was unwarranted earlier, but you’ve made it very clear she had hurt you. and she deserves the absolute worst for that. 

“what i said to you…i didn’t mean any of it. i was upset— and that’s not an excuse, i know,” she begins, brown eyes trained on her drink, “i just…haven’t loved anyone like this since…”

sam goes quiet, unable to finish that sentence, before speaking again, “and it’s a lot…you’re a lot for me— not in a bad way —it’s just new. and i’m scared im gonna fuck up. i mean i already did.”

she dryly laughs at herself, at the thought of shutting you out to avoid getting hurt and ending up in a much worse position. how she had someone so caring and beyond understanding, and made them feel bad about it. a villain simply for loving her as much as you do— but you’re not one, and you never will be to her.

even now, you have nothing unkind to say to her. you have no desire to even talk about the argument that had taken place. your patience runs deep with samantha, your sympathy outweighing your frustrations.

sam is hurting even more than you, trauma that you couldn’t even begin to understand, insecurities that taint her mindset and your relationship. it’s a problem, you both know this, and you’re still valid for being upset with the words she had spoken due to her own personal complications. words that aren’t true or reflect you at all.

sam will do better for you.

there’s a beat of silence, not nearly as uncomfortable the ride here. the tension is somewhat fleeting, replaced with something else, vulnerability when you both need it.

“so…” you begin, “you love me?”

her head snaps to you, shocked you’re even asking, and that you’re not addressing anything she had said. she doesn’t mind it, though, and answers you.

“so fucking much.”

your cheeks go red at her words, how she means it. sam loves you hard. it is the only reason why you had a fight in the first place.

sam understands it now.

in that part of her brain that is kind to her, in the part that allows her to be in love with you, freely, deeply, openly, like she deserves, ignoring the cruel self-deprecating voices in the back of her mind. 

you end the night with your head on her chest, listening to the rhythm of her heartbeat as you fall asleep cuddled into her body.

[cadavercowboy]

O Come, All Ye Frightful

Art The Clown x Reader | WC: 5.3k+ | Explicit Content

Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Santa actually comes way more than once a year. Warnings: 18+ ONLY — Minors DNI. Idk this entire thing feels slightly sacrilegious. Art being criminally hot in the Santa suit while behaving like a Certified Freak. Slightly dubious consent. Handjob. Premature ejaculation. Multiple orgasms (his refractory period is non-existent). Cum as lube. Unprotected sex. Rough sex. Choking & breath play. Degradation if you squint really hard. A/N: In the words of my iconic king...ho, ho, UH OH🎄Merry Christmas, happy holidays, and so on and so forth. <3

The clock hands finally crawl their way past 7pm and you sigh tiredly, knowing you’ll soon be freed from this hellish holiday prison. Christmas music plays quietly from the speaker system and you mouth the words mockingly, tired of hearing the same dozen or so songs repeat over and over during each shift. Between rude, entitled customers and the unruly hordes of children screaming their heads off for a chance to beg a fake Old Saint Nick for crap they definitely don’t need, you’ve just about had your fill of the season.

Outside the store, the rest of the deserted shopping mall has been left in engulfing shrouds of pitch-blackness; the other closed-down and empty shops like a line of pocket-sized abysses. It’s Christmas Eve and everyone else has shut their doors early to spend time with loved ones. You should be home too, but your boss is a heartless prick.

You huff with annoyed boredom, bent over beside the register with your elbows planted atop the counter and your palms cradling your chin. It’s been dead for hours—not a single customer in sight—but you’ve been forbidden to leave until the mall officially closes for the night. A quick glance at the clock says that’ll be in about an hour or so. Just beyond the entryway, a flurry of movement near the floor catches your attention and you lean over the counter to see what it is. 

The dingy strands of an old mop sweep into view and your eyes trace along the wooden handle until they land upon Mike, clad in his loose-fitting uniform. His long legs bring him into view with stuttered steps as he cleans the tiled floors. He spares you a quick glance and a wave which you return, trying to hide your obvious disappointment in the presence of the headphones planted firmly over his ears. You’d kill for some conversation right now. 

Aside from the janitor’s brief visit and the flash of someone dressed all in red in the distance, you’re certain the building is otherwise totally vacant. With that in mind, you decide to pack it up just a little early. What your boss doesn’t know won’t kill him, you muse.

Your back is turned as you straighten merchandise and lock the door to the rear exit, rendering you completely unaware of the noiseless presence lurking and watching you from just around the corner. When you close out the register, your head is buried in the drawer and your attention is too focused on what you’re doing to notice the tall figure which glides sneakily past the shop.

You flip the switches near the door and step outside, reaching over your head to pull down the steel security gate. The heavy contraption slams shut with a resounding clang and you crouch with your key in hand to lock it in place. From your stooped position, you spot a small puddle and several oddly-shaped droplets splashed across the tile floor beneath you; the substance opaque and viscous. You hum contemplatively, knowing Mike had been by not long ago to mop and wondering where the mystery liquid could have come from. With a dismissive shrug, you stand back up and turn to head for your usual exit, the only door you know will still be unlocked at this hour.

A single row of recessed lights remain lit overhead, lending a somewhat spooky atmosphere to the abandoned concourse. You reach up to whip the red-and-green felted elf hat off of your head, the decorative gold bell jingling as you shove it into the pocket of your matching dress. A pair of tight, flesh-toned stockings hug your legs and you long to peel them off. While the uniform is fun and festive, this year you’re feeling decidedly not. In fact, you’d go as far as to deem yourself unjolly. Even as you absently hum along to the tune still filtering through the mall, you aren’t feeling your usual holiday joy.

Passing through the food court, you approach the center of the mall where the massive North Pole backdrop still stands, illuminated beneath the silvery halo of a light that never gets turned off. You laugh to yourself, wondering whether a selfie inside Santa’s sleigh in your silly costume might help to prompt some Christmas cheer. You'd deemed yourself too old to take a photo with the man himself during business hours, but you still deserve to have a little fun on your own time, you suppose.

With renewed energy, you traipse towards the yuletide scenery where you find the zig-zagging velvet ropes blocking your way, but easily slip beneath the blockade between two posts. Once you’ve entered the empty queue, you spy a comically large pair of black boots sticking up from inside the sleigh—propped casually on the curled front. Your heart stops at the exact moment the ambient music cuts off and the wide-open space falls eerily silent. It would appear you aren’t as alone as you thought.

A familiar red hat peeks over the back of the cushioned bench seat and you approach cautiously, admittedly hoping to find the rosy-cheeked man who usually occupies the sleigh. Maybe you’ll be permitted to take a photo with Santa after all, as childish as the notion may be. 

What you actually find is alarmingly opposite of what you expected. The face tucked beneath the fur-rimmed hat isn’t jolly or round, nor is it warm or welcoming. It’s harsh and angular, painted in a stark black-and-white motif; seemingly done up for the wrong holiday altogether. A long, lithe body clad in all the trappings of a traditional Santa suit reclines leisurely in the sleigh, crowding the confined space as if he belongs there. Blackened lips wrap around the blunt tip of a candy cane and upon hearing your startled gasp, a pair of pure white eyes—spectral and inhuman—lock onto your face. The darkened pupils shine like two specks of coal.

Art’s expression twists into one of genuine surprise, having not expected you to come across him quite so soon. Your eyebrows flick upwards and he mirrors the gesture, waiting with barely restrained excitement as the wave of confusion contorting your face is swiftly replaced with the tell-tale signs of apprehension he knows and loves. His stomach knots with gleeful anticipation.

“S-sorry,” you laugh, awkward and breathy. “I thought you were Santa.”

The clown immediately hurls the peppermint candy aside and his oversized shoes come down with a loud thud as he hastily sits upright in the sleigh. Art points frantically to the massive banner overhead that bears the namesake, then gestures to himself; seemingly wanting to indicate that he is in fact Santa Claus. You can only chuckle in amusement, but when he emphatically waves in an attempt to have you join him where he sits, you realize he isn’t joking. 

Your smile falters only a little and with a dismissive lift of your hand, you attempt to politely decline his request. Art is not pleased with this response so he childishly stamps his feet and crosses his arms over his chest as he regards you with an exaggerated and churlish pout. When he tries crooking a beckoning finger in your direction, an actual laugh escapes unbidden. His surly expression of disappointment softens slightly at the sound and his hope renews. He attempts once more to entice you, this time patting a velvet-clad thigh with his hand and even offering an inviting if not unsettling smile.

Something about the animated stranger intrigues you and you find yourself compelled to accept the clown’s invitation. You relent with some hesitation, smoothing your palms over the knee-length skirt of your elf dress and shuffling timidly towards the sleigh. Art can hardly contain himself and twists his body, looking swiftly from side to side as if struggling to remain calm and seated. You lift your foot onto the raised platform and slide your way into the tight space with him.

Art continues to wiggle back and forth restlessly, his knees pressed tightly together as he pats them excitedly with both hands before eventually straightening his spine and adjusting himself until his posture is stiff and proper. A rush of air bursts from your nose as you laugh nervously. The celebratory clapping of his palms is muffled slightly by his fingerless gloves as he waits for you to plant yourself in his lap. You do so gingerly, lowering yourself with as much finesse as you can manage and situating your bottom at the very edge of Art’s bony knees.

You’re perched awkwardly only for a moment because Art promptly yanks you in, spreading his own legs so abruptly that you nearly tumble to the floor of the sleigh between his feet. The jarring movement forces you to reach out, grabbing onto his shoulder with one hand to balance yourself as he wraps an arm around your waist and uses the other hand to nestle both of your legs between his parted thighs. Your hip is so close to his body, you can feel the warmth emanating off of him and notice a distinct lack of the customary belly you’d normally expect to find beneath the velvety soft suit.

“Sorry,” you apologize a second time, clearing your throat with a smile and another awkward chuckle as you fold your hands in your lap. “This is probably weird...me sitting on a grown man’s lap.”

Art responds with a scandalized, open-mouthed frown and a firm shake of his head that makes the white pom-pom sewn at the end of his hat flop back and forth. He blinks his eyes rapidly and swishes a gloved hand in your direction, effectively batting away your concerns. It’s clear he finds little issue in having you perched on his thigh. 

When Art leans uncomfortably close, you stiffen, though he pays it no mind and peers around your shoulders to look at one of the props which comprise the festive scene. It’s a crooked sign whimsically nailed to a red-and-white striped pole that begs the question: What Do You Want For Christmas? He sweeps his hand towards the signage—inviting and expectant—prompting you to provide an answer.

“Hmm,” you stall, having not expected the creepy clown to go through all the motions of the mall Santa experience. You shift with a huff and his arm tightens around you as his other hand pats the outside of your thigh in what you suppose is meant to be some semblance of encouragement. It only serves to distract, filling your head with a disorienting buzz at the near-intimate closeness of this complete stranger. “Guess I haven’t really given it much thought.”

He considers your admittance for a moment, his face slack and pensive before he shrugs. Art releases his hold on your thigh in favor of diving a hand into a pocket in the pants of his red suit. To your surprise, out comes an artfully weathered scroll of paper that he unrolls with a quick flick of his delicate wrist. Evidently another prop, it contains names written in two columns—apparently a naughty and nice list. Art tips his head towards the paper and regards you inquisitively, as if asking which side you belong on.

“Well, I think the nice list,” you offer, happily playing along. “But I’m not entirely sure what it would take to end up on the naughty list.”

The clown tilts his head and regards you like a predator, grinning salaciously and wagging his thinly-drawn eyebrows in a way that causes an undeniable heat to stir low in your belly. You squirm in the clown’s lap and he playfully squeezes your leg just above your knee. Your cheeks prickle with something you’d rather not acknowledge and suddenly you can no longer meet Art’s pale gaze. Endeavoring to assuage your growing discomfort, you redirect your attention back to why you’d come over here in the first place.

“Would you mind if I took a picture of us?” you inquire politely. 

Art acquiesces quite gladly and frantically nods in agreement, his obvious enthusiasm making you smile. You shift your weight to access the deep pocket of your costume and his colorless eyes follow your every move. 

“You don’t talk very much, do you?” 

The conversational question somehow sounds more invasive out loud than it had in your head and you turn to dig around determinedly in your pocket so as to disguise the way you cringe. Luckily, your phone slides out and brings with it the floppy elf hat you’d shoved in there earlier, leaving no time for Art to respond. Not that he would.

The clown moves swiftly, snatching the crumpled felt hat and violently unfurling it with a loud jingle. His mouth forms a perfect circle of delight and he gives the hat several more shakes just to hear the musical tinkling before lifting both arms to gently fit it over the top of your head.

“Oh, yeah. Thanks,” you say, bending to allow him better access and smirking when he playfully flicks the little gold bell sewn on the end.

He adjusts the hat to his liking, then taps a single long digit on the tip of your nose. You duck your head bashfully, though he doesn’t allow you to hide for long. Two slender fingers hook under your chin and he lifts you by the jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes in a silent stare that stretches on until your pulse increases and your entire body grows hot.

Turning your attention to the phone clutched in your fingers, you beg your hands not to shake as you open the camera app and lift the device to align both yourself and Art in the frame, making sure to include the beautifully decorated tree in the background. The clown is so large, you have to extend your arm to its limit in order to fit him. As you do, his eyes meet your own in the image reflected on the screen and he draws his body even closer to yours. One of his hands drop into your lap and the other rests gently against your lower back. You swallow loudly. 

“Smile,” you command softly, struggling to make your lips lift in a gesture that doesn’t reflect the conflicting feelings of trepidation and attraction brewing within you.

Art’s grin slashes across his face in an instant, a wide set of teeth suddenly emerging from behind his inky lips. His ghostly eyes burst open and his eyelids all but disappear with the exaggerated stretch of his face. The abrupt appearance of the severe expression makes your stomach curl with unease, but you cannot deny the way the thrilling glimmer of fear settles somewhere a little further down.

You snap a couple of photos, then switch the angle to capture a few more. When you drop your arm slightly, Art repositions himself as well. With the hand that had settled in your lap, he reaches up to cup your chin and draw your face nearer to his. This close, your senses cloud with nothing but the clown: the earthy scent of grease paint mixed with something spicy, the warmth of his nearness and touch, the subtle whisper of his steady breathing.

His painted skin is unexpectedly soft when it rests against your own and he goofily purses his lips against your cheek like a teenage girl taking a silly selfie. While the pose appears playful, the painful way his fingertips pinch the flesh of your face against the firm edge of your jawbone is anything but. Shock zings through your body, though the heat it carries isn’t due entirely to surprise. Art holds you with unrelenting force and your smile weakens even further as you fire off several more snapshots.

Before you can lower your phone, Art’s hand ventures from the small of your back until it settles between your shoulder blades. Its counterpart finally falls away from your face, instead reaching for the illuminated screen and switching over to a video before returning to firmly encircle your throat. Your breath catches and you suddenly feel as though you may overheat. The furry cuff of his suit presses against your cleavage, the synthetic material quickly absorbing the warmth that rolls off of your body in waves. Your hand shakes so much, you doubt the recording will even be watchable.

When Art turns his head, the tip of his pointed nose drags sensually along your jaw and his grinning mouth opens with an audible slickness. Humid puffs of breath skitter along your hypersensitive flesh, a prelude to the wetness of his tongue wriggling lasciviously along your cheek and up towards your temple.

You’re paralyzed—arm still hovering parallel to the floor—frozen beneath the disbelief of Art’s seductive attention and held still by the increasing pressure surrounding your neck. You know you should tell him to stop or push him away, but you just can’t bring yourself to put an end to the suggestive way he holds you prisoner and samples the saltiness of your skin.

As quickly as he licked your face, Art stops and you cease filming with your phone, hardly able to comprehend what you’ve just recorded. His mouth snaps shut with force and his hands slip away from your body as if burned by the contact. To your surprise, he carries on as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened and steadies you in his lap as he pitches to one side.

Reaching into a bag stashed near his feet, Art presents you with a single candy cane. Your head is still reeling from the hot, wet drag of his tongue across your skin and it takes a moment for your brain to catch up to what your eyes are seeing. The hooked confection is waved tantalizingly in front of your face before you manage to raise a hand and accept it.

“T-thank you,” your words emerge barely a breathy whisper. 

The cellophane crinkles slightly in your grasp and you robotically stuff your phone back into your pocket. Your body moves on autopilot as you plant your feet and shift to stand, but Art’s sinewy arm bands around your waist and crushes you right back into his lap. It seems to jostle you from your stupor and you blink several times before turning to face the mysterious clown. He reaches out and snatches the candy cane from your hand, causing you momentary concern that you’ve done something to offend him by trying to leave. 

He proceeds to methodically unwrap the candy with theatrical flair, then holds it out to you, indicating a desire for you to eat it here and now. You hum in understanding and attempt to take the candy cane, however Art pulls it away with a chiding look and instead directs it towards your mouth himself. Staring incredulously, you watch with niggling suspicion as the clown nods in encouragement, a glint of something sinister flickering in his white irises. 

Your lips part obediently and though you do so somewhat clumsily, you lean forward and—as requested—allow the candy to slip into your mouth. Sweet peppermint flavor bursts across your taste buds and your mouth instantly begins to water. Art studies you with unflinching and steadfast attention as he feeds you, his pupils expanding into deep, dark pools of hunger. While the act is bizarre and slightly humiliating, you find yourself inexplicably turned on; exhilarated by the pleased way in which Art’s open-mouthed expression seems to silently praise your compliance. 

Perhaps it’s how intimately close you are to his monochrome face or the way he shamelessly watches the lewd swirling of your tongue with such rapt, appreciative awe, but you find yourself clenching your thighs in an attempt to quell the sudden wetness blooming between your legs. Art takes notice of your restless predicament and his body responds in kind, blood rushing to his loins where he begins to harden against you.

Without warning, Art yanks the candy cane from your mouth, giving no thought to the way the sharp, hard sugar scrapes painfully along your bottom lip. He plunges the spit-sheened end of it into his own mouth, savoring the taste of you and coating it with his own saliva before carelessly shoving it past your now-bleeding lips once more. 

You’re unsure what possesses you to behave so wantonly, but you lock eyes with the clown and practically swallow the narrow cylinder of candy whole; being mindful of the slight point your sucking had formed, but taking it deep into your mouth until your lips meet the tips of Art’s fingers where he holds the curved end of the candy cane. For good measure, you even let out a throaty moan that shatters the quiet of the empty mall. 

His drawn-on eyebrows raise so high, they disappear behind the furry brim of his hat and his mouth rounds into a humorous circle of facetious astonishment. This time, he removes the candy cane from your lips more gently, ignoring the thin strand of saliva that follows it. With the list he had procured earlier back in hand, Art takes the pointed end of the candy cane and uses it as a pencil, pretending to add your name to the naughty column. He smiles proudly and fakes a hearty laugh before blindly tossing the props over his shoulder.

You lick your sticky, bloody lips and try once more to slide off of Art’s lap. When he latches onto you this time, something noticeable shifts in his demeanor. Whether it is the darkening of his eyes or the muscles in his body growing taut and coiling like a beast prepared to pounce, it is blatant and frightening. Your skin prickles with apprehensive awareness, though your aching center doesn’t seem to receive the same message. 

A breathy cry escapes you when Art harshly twists your body around, pulling you away from his thigh and settling you directly over his pelvis where you immediately feel an unmistakable ridge of firmness through the thin material of his suit. You have no choice but to allow all of your weight to rest against him as Art holds you down and begins to grind against your ass. He isn’t testing your reaction to his advances like you might have expected, rather the distinct lack of shyness in the unhurried rotation of his hips indicates something more like a warning of what’s to come.

Unsure what else to do with your idle hands, you reach behind yourself and brace either palm on the clown’s writhing hips. Your biceps quiver with the effort to ease at least some of your weight off of Art’s lap, but he’s having none of it. He yanks you down fully and even parts his thighs wider to facilitate more contact between your body and his painfully hard erection. You’re overcome with your own bout of carnal need and reciprocate his enthusiasm, swiveling your hips with determined precision.

Art has only known physical contact through the occasional struggle of a terrified victim’s body against his own and this new sensation is totally foreign to him. The stimulation is overwhelmingly pleasant—a particular faction of indulgent self-gratification yet unfamiliar to him—and he leans into the strangeness of it. His body’s reaction is swift and imminent. Art’s arms twine around you with disconcerting strength that renders you immobile, practically squeezing all the air from your lungs as a powerful shiver wracks his trembling body.

The clown makes no sound, but he hotly exhales the relief of his release against the back of your sweat-dampened neck. His hold is unrelenting, trapping you close to the solid heat of his lanky frame for a moment longer until he recovers. However, his composure does not return and instead he’s burdened with a new and curious hunger which instantly begs to be sated.

Art presses both hands to your lower back and shoves you forward onto his right knee, creating enough space between your bodies to access the elastic waistband of his crimson costume. His gloved hands move with grace and speed, easily freeing himself from the suffocating velvet prison. The consuming fire in your belly beckons you to turn and look at him and in doing so, you fan the flames into a raging inferno of desire.

A light sheen of sweat decorates the narrow sliver of skin that is visible between the disheveled halves of the rumpled Santa suit. Beads of cum still ooze from the tip of his length and evidence of his orgasm smears messily along the pale skin of a thick and visibly hard cock. With lust-driven bravery, you reach for it, desperate to feel the solid heat of the turgid flesh against your palm and yearning to quench a lecherous thirst of your own.

The tacky streaks of Art’s release wet your skin as you grip his swollen dick and give him an experimental squeeze. You slide your fisted hand from the reddened, shiny tip all the way down the veiny shaft until your knuckles meet the cum-matted thatch of hair at the base. The engorged appendage throbs noticeably in your grasp and Art’s shoulders drop as he throws his head back. His white irises roll and disappear behind his hooded eyelids, his body thrashing with stilted, stuttered jolts as your fingers tighten and you take advantage of the glide of his slick spend to begin steadily jerking him off. 

When your thumb sweeps over the sensitive head, Art flinches at the stimulation and a milky rope of cum spills lazily from the slit. The warm strand of seed splashes across the back of your hand and in a flash, he’s rudely batting your sticky fingers away from his cock with a sharp slap. 

You’ve barely recovered from the harsh contact when his spindly fingers delve under your skirt and tear at your tights until the delicate threads come apart and allow him access to your panties which he yanks unceremoniously down your thighs, the garment tangling in the torn stockings still wrapped around your legs. Art’s hands dig claw-like into the flesh of your upper arms, brutishly twisting and turning you as he pleases; dragging you back into his lap so he can lift your hips high enough to notch the tumescent head of his cock at your center. 

A grating cry rips from your throat and echoes through the cavernous building when you’re violently yanked down and stretched with sudden force around Art’s erected cock. Though unprepared for the size of him, your cunt swallows the clown’s length with little trouble. As your lips part with an unbridled cry of ecstasy, your cheeks sting with shame at how the flood of moisture leaking from your core eases the harsh penetration, the momentum of you taking Art’s cock halted only on account of his considerable girth.

Finally managing to get your feet under you, you scramble to escape the dizzying pressure and overwhelming penetration so you can catch your breath, but Art refuses to allow you a single second of reprieve. He stands abruptly without ever pulling free of your relenting body, sinking his cock unbelievably deeper as he bends you over the curved front of the sleigh. Your elbows crash painfully into the hard surface when you attempt to catch yourself before your face makes contact. As you adjust your position, your hips drop in a way that forces the bulbous head of Art’s length to grind against you with blinding pleasure and your knees grow weak.

With your eyes pinched shut against the onslaught of sensations, you can’t see Art reaching towards the massive Christmas tree to unravel a length of perfectly-strewn ribbon. He yanks the metallic gold material free and gives it a dramatic twirl through the air before lashing it across your back the same way Santa whips his trusty team of reindeer, ushering you to continue writhing so willingly along his slippery cock.

Art quickly grows bored of that and instead takes the ribbon between two fists with a flourish while he continues to thrust leisurely; burying his cock to the root then slowly, tortuously, and teasingly dragging it back out until only the tip remains within your spongy walls. He reaches over your head with the ribbon, taking advantage of your parted mouth to wedge the scratchy material between your lips. It pulls taut and settles between your teeth, becoming the perfect means for Art to wrench your head back at an uncomfortable angle. His eyes widen comically when they meet yours upside down in a taunting stare, holding your gaze hostage as he starts to fuck you mercilessly.

Mounting you like a feral animal, Art becomes desperate with the need to wreck you wholly; driven by the desire to possess and consume you. His hips surge with unforgiving and powerful thrusts that have his heavy balls slapping your clit with each stroke.

You call out on every deep drive of his cock, the unsteady and unpredictable rhythm sending you into a tailspin of pleasure that robs you of the ability to breathe. Drool and tears spill down your face, the harried sounds he forces from you catching in your throat as you gasp for air. The hat crammed down on your head falls sideways, its cadenced jingling a derisive reminder of the depraved things the clown is inflicting on you.

Before long, the frenzied push and pull of his cock isn’t enough for Art and his lips split with a snarl, his teeth bared in a savage display of greed. Nothing but complete surrender will satisfy him and only total ruin could fulfill his recently unmasked libido. He wants to watch you fall apart and the evil motive shines brightly in his unsettling eyes.

Using your tongue, you force the spit-soaked material from your mouth so it falls around your neck. Art gathers it in one hand and pulls tight, fashioning the glittery ribbon into a sort of noose that begins to choke you out. While the position of your head is more comfortable, the lack of oxygen certainly isn’t.

Your grow light-headed both from the inability to breathe and the unrelenting grind of Art’s fat cock. With his unoccupied hand, he grabs your waist with bruising pressure and pins you in place so he can curl his towering frame over top of you. Blanketed beneath the heat and heft of the impassioned clown, your ribcage presses agonizingly against the edge of the sleigh and you can do nothing but accept Art’s brutal usage of your body.

Bending his knees, he leverages his height to fuck up into you with rapid and shallow thrusts before he cruelly buries every inch of himself inside you. Your slick walls spasm around the thick, veiny intrusion as an orgasm slams through you. Art cums with you as your pussy ripples and squeezes, but he has no intention of relenting. He ruts wildly against your ass, fucking you harder and faster until your juices spill around him and your combined fluids form a creamy ring around the throbbing base of his cock.

You bite back a scream when Art pulls out of you with a vindictively mimed laugh. The sudden termination of your pleasure sends you tumbling to the ground on unsteady legs that refuse to hold you up any longer. Twisting as you fall, you’re met with the sight of Art looming tall and ominous above your crumpled form. With his thickening cock in hand, he fists himself like a madman, crowding over you just in time to paint your face with yet another burst of cum. Ropes of opaque fluid splatter messily over your features.

The clown gives his length several harsh shakes, managing to flick a few more measly drops of his release onto your stained skin. Your face twinkles and sparkles in the light coming from overhead, appropriately looking like flecks of snow melted on your cheeks and lips. Clapping happily above you, Art offers you a decidedly proud thumbs-up of approval, deciding you fit in rather perfectly with the rest of the festive decor.

David Howard Thornton Masterlist || Writing Masterpost

[heartsforvenus]

imagine dating johnny...

✿ you'd definitely be someone he picked up in hopes of turning you into dinner if you catch my drift

✿ but i think you'd intrigue him so much that he just couldn't kill you

✿ he probably wouldn't bring you around his family

✿ probably lowkey stalks you before and after you start dating

✿ he definitely just takes you out to bars and calls that a date

✿ don't think he'd do anything really romantic like taking you out to dinner

✿ if he did, he'd probably make you pay

✿ he would give you gifts that he stole from his victims, like jewellery and clothes

✿ extremely possessive, duh

✿ any man that looks in your direction will be found dead in his own home

✿ once the two of you became more serious, he'd introduce you to his family

✿ carefully, of course, he didn't want to scare you away

✿ you'd probably meet cook first, as he's the most relatively normal one

✿ you'd meet him when you went to visit johnny at work at the gas station

✿ johnny would get more comfortable and invite you around to his house and the family house

✿ he knew if you got too freaked out and wanted to leave him, he'd always have the upper hand, no matter how hard it would be to kill you it was family first

✿ if you reacted well to meeting his family, let's just say you'd better plan to stick around forever

✿ i imagine bubba would love you the most out of all of the sawyers, if you're kind to him he'd melt like an ice cream

✿ hitchhiker and sissy would probably like you, too, although you found them a little eccentric

✿ cook would like you if you helped around the house

✿ now, nancy would probably be conflicted about you. she wouldn't like that you distract her johnny from his work and his family, but she wouldn't do anything against you because she could tell how happy you made johnny

✿ just don't stay alone with her too long

✿ johnny would bring you to his shack, but you'd have to clean up after him

✿ how on earth does he live with all of those beer bottles on the floor???

✿ i'm sure you'd have to tell him that you love him first as he isn't one to share his feelings

✿ and he probably wouldn't even say it back that first time

✿ he's not the type of guy for marriage, and he doesn't have the money for it anyway

✿ if you really wanted it, he'd steal you a ring and just call you his wife

✿ overall, he's toxic, but he does love you. he's just a product of his environment, and if he'd grown up with any other family he'd be the best boyfriend ever

[sqyyadina]

A JOINT PRAYER.

Pairing: Lorraine Warren X Reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Tags: fluff, first kiss, period - typical homophobia.

Summary: You weren't raised to worship any God, but Lorraine Warren is starting to make you believe.

Author’s Note: I'd take a bullet for this woman. This is also on my AO3!

“We’d like to take you to the movies tonight. To thank you.”

Her voice is as honey as her perfectly curled hair, and as Lorraine hands you a porcelain cup of tea, you revel in the way your hands briefly ghost past each other.

Though you’ve worked as a secretary for the Warrens for well over a year now, you can’t help but feel intimidated as you sit on their plush couch, nursing your tea, the smiling couple sitting beside you. Their combined gaze is nearly suffocating, as if you are consumed by a demon of your own and they’re trying to rid you of it.

“Thank me? Whatever for?” You ask gently, head cocked to the side in question while you sip on the chamomile you’ve been offered.

“You’ve been a great help to us as of late.” Ed adds, a protective hand patting his wife’s thigh. You hate to admit it, you do, he’s truly a lovely man, but every time Ed begins to speak, you just wish he was out of the picture entirely. You wish that could have been your thumb rubbing circles into Lorraine’s plaid skirt; your lips pressing a kiss to her forehead wrinkle every time she got too focused on her Bible.

But it wasn’t you.

It was him, and it would always be him. You saw the way they looked at each other, the way he sang to her when he thought they were alone in the office. They were practically destined to be together. It’s cliché to say that it made you sick, but there genuinely were nights in which you felt feverish over the fact that Lorraine Warren would never be yours.

“Oh, you flatter me…” You hum back, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ears. “Really, all I do is organize files… how much of a help can that be?”

You’re much more sheepish than the two sitting across from you, and it shows. Lorraine, ever the investigator, the curious mind, always searching across the face of the person she’s speaking to as if it’s a map into their soul, picks up on your shyness immediately. She always does.

You know that Lorraine has a nurturing spirit, but you rarely expect her comforting gestures. That’s what makes it so special. That’s why it gives you pause when she leans forward to press a warm hand to your knee.

“Please, don’t deprecate yourself.” Her tone is stern, like she truly means to command you into being kinder to yourself, but her voice is so delicate and her smile so warm and inviting that you soften into her minimal touch and nod your head. “Really, you have no idea how having you around has improved our lives.”

You feel your face turn hot at that last sentence, and you fail to maintain eye contact with the older woman any longer. Gently bouncing you heeled foot against the ground, you giggle lightly, and bat a hand as if to dismiss what she’s said.

“You’re too kind…” You hum back, slowly lifting your head again to meet her gaze once again. At this point, you’ve all but forgotten that Ed is even present. “I’m not sure I believe you, but I’d love to go to the movies.”

It’s without pause that Ed claps his hands together and rises to his feet. He says something, quite loud, but you quickly forget what it is. It startles you, to say the least, and you jump back a bit, your tea threatening to slosh onto your blouse. You notice that Lorraine’s hand stays put on your thigh, though, and only leaves once it’s given you a few gentle pats to settle your nerves. She stands as well, always following her husband’s footsteps. You quickly join them, always following Lorraine’s.

“Let’s see something scary!” Ed grins, searching around the room for a newspaper that may have the local theater’s lineup.

“Oh, do you not get enough of a fright out of our daily lives?” Lorraine jokes with that tender laugh of hers, patting her husband on the back and looking at the paper over his shoulder.

“No, I don’t.” Ed replies simply, and plants a kiss on Lorraine’s cheek.

It makes your stomach turn.

“What would you like to see, dear?” You realize that she’s turned her attention back to you. You stumble forward, as if both of your legs had gone numb in the few moments that you had spent sitting on the couch.

You really do hate to agree with Ed, but most of the movies offered sound utterly boring. The thought did cross your mind that watching a horror film would allow you to look to Lorraine for comfort under the guise of fear, which immediately influenced your decision. Sufficed to say, the Warrens’ ghost stories had both satiated your hunger for fright, and completely desensitized you to it, yet you figured you could act scared enough to win a little more of Lorraine’s touch.

Your first few weeks, of course, you had been absolutely terrified of the previously haunted artifacts that your employers always brought home, but with the fervor of their exorcisms and the frequency of their jobs, there isn’t a whole lot that you hadn’t seen nor heard. You had become primarily neutral when it came to horror, but maybe that was because of Lorraine’s calming presence and Ed’s story-telling ability that made the murderous dolls much less terrifying.

“I think I’d like something scary. It is almost Halloween, after all.” You smile to the older woman before pointing to a certain line of text. “This one has the word ‘massacre’ in the title… I don’t believe you can get much scarier than that!”

Ed quickly makes his approval known, and Lorraine playfully rolls her eyes at him before giving his arm a light squeeze.

“I suppose that’s alright.” She hums, her eyes focusing on the page for a second longer. You’ve always known Lorraine to be the bookkeeper of their operation, and suspected she was always the one in charge of appointment dates and important phone numbers. When she rattled off a list of movie times, Ed already having moved to re-read the sports section, your suspicions were proven right.

‘How about eight?” you muse, looking down at your wrinkled dress and chipping nail polish. “It will give me time to change. And fix my hair… and my nails…” You had expected the weather to be bearable this time of year, but you had been burdened by particularly warm weather that caused your hair to frizz uncontrollably. You certainly shouldn’t have chanced long sleeves.

Lorraine, leaving her husband to his muttering about the Yankees, took the half step closer to place her hand on your shoulder. It was shockingly warm, but not at all a warm that you disliked. A comforting warm, that you could enjoy even on a day as sweltering as this one.

“You look beautiful.” She hums, nearly whispering it, as if she doesn’t want anyone else in the world to hear. “As always.” Lorraine adds before disappearing behind your back. She’s picked up your now empty teacup and makes her way to living room door. “We’ll pick you up at seven thirty.” She winks in your direction before exiting the room.

Your knees feel numb, and you try your hardest to wipe the dumb smile off of your face, but it doesn’t disappear, even as you crawl into your car and turn on the radio that just happens to be playing some cheesy love song.

The honking from outside startles you. That’s easy to say; there’s not a lot that doesn’t startle you. You just hadn’t expected them to be so punctual.

You had been sitting in front of your mirror for a little over an hour now, staring at every little detail of your visage to make sure everything was just right, even down to the placement of your beauty marks. It was honestly quite hard to focus, what with Lorraine’s compliment ringing in your ears. You didn’t even need to apply any rouge to your cheeks, they were still so hot.

Now donning a shorter sleeved blouse and a much lighter weight skirt, hair re-curled and nails painted perfectly, you cheerfully snatched your bag and raced out the front door.

Wiggling into the back seat of their fancy new Chevy that Ed couldn’t stop bragging on, you shoot a smile at Lorraine, who returns it through the rearview mirror. You quickly look away after that, yet you can still feel her eyes bore into you. You might just be making that up, but you’re far too scared to glance back up and check.

The drive is primarily quiet, save for Ed’s singing along to the radio, and you even find yourself enjoying his presence for once. He really does sound like Elvis when he tries hard enough.

By the time you arrive at the theater, your heart is racing. Something about sitting in Lorraine’s presence for more than ten minutes at a time causes you a great deal of panic. Despite knowing the woman all this time, you still find her completely enthralling, yet endlessly terrifying.

When she exits the car first to open your door with a playful smile, you feel your pounding heart drop to your stomach. You felt like you were on a date, except your date had brought her husband along. Plus, there’s simply no reality in which said date reciprocates the ways in which you are feeling for her. It’s a very hard pill for you to swallow, but you’ll need to keep reminding yourself that you in fact are not going steady with this woman, but are in fact her employee, and should be furiously professional tonight, no matter what.

It's when you step out of the car that you deeply regret your outfit decision for the second time today. The day had quickly turned to night before you had realized, and the evening’s chill was starting to settle in. You hug yourself tightly as the three of you enter the theater, trying desperately to distract yourself from the cold by figuring out what you’d like to eat.

Your unease must’ve been immediately noticed by the woman that notices absolutely everything that happens around her, because it’s within seconds that you feel a sweater draped over your shoulders. You perk up and whip your head to the side only to catch Lorraine smoothing down your collar.

“I brought an extra, just in case.” She winks at you again, a knowing smirk on her lips. She must’ve picked up on how haphazardly you tend to make decisions, and you appreciated it more than Lorraine could ever know. It wasn’t often that people remembered much about you, so for her to be so prepared for you made your chest swell.

Lorraine sweater is just heavy enough to feel like a hug, and it smells heavenly. Just like her. You don’t want to seem like a weirdo, but you’d be perfectly content to spend the next hour with your nose buried in the soft material, surrounded by the warm vanilla scent of whatever expensive perfume Lorraine wears. Or maybe she just naturally smells that good. You wouldn’t put it past her.

Your attention turns back to the giant menu board as you pull your arms through the sleeves of the sweater, and right away you could feel your brain go silent. It was impossibly difficult for you to decide, especially when there were so many options. That, paired with the steep prices and the very lackluster salary you make as the Warrens’ glorified secretary, make your brain completely stop its functioning for a second. Your worry makes its way into your hands, which fiddle with the sleeves of the sweater that are just an inch too long for your arms.

Lorraine, yet again magically anticipating your every need, places a firm hand on the small of your back, lowering herself to practically purr into your ear.

“Do you need help choosing?” She’s just close enough that her voice, as low as it is, drowns out all of the madness of the bustling theater, and the commotion inside your mind. `

You nod up to her, chewing on your lower lip as the two of you glance over the menu together.

“I can’t decide…” you begin, eyebrows furrowed as you dart over the row of boxes of candy before you. “… between chocolate or popcorn.”  You’re getting dangerously close to the front of the line now, and it’s really beginning to wear on your nerves, but Lorraine’s ringed fingers lightly rubbing into your back is calming you tenfold.

The taller woman laughs gently, and you wince a little in fear that she’s making fun of you for having difficulty with something so simple, but you’ve never known Lorraine to be a cruel woman, so the thought is easily dismissed.

“Silly girl.” She says gingerly, giving you a light pat before dropping her hand. “Get both. I’ll make sure Ed pays for it.”

Your cheeks burn once again, and while you yearn for the feeling of her hand to replace itself anywhere on you, you find that Lorraine is already a gift from God and there’s no use praying for any more from the woman.

“Thank you!” you giggle softly, returning the clairvoyant’s playful smile with one of your own as you step forward to the concession counter.

Ed begins rattling off all the things that he wants, and it’s yet again that you remember he’s even there. You figure that if a man as boisterous as Ed Warren can be so easily forgotten in your mind by the likes of his wife, you must truly be under a spell. You shyly give your order when Lorraine ushers you in front of her, hands fiddling with your sleeves again. When you begin to reach for your purse, a hand lightly swats at your own. You really don’t find it necessary for the people that already pay your living wage to give you anymore, and yet you don’t deem it possible that Lorraine will let you pay for anything yourself.

With treats and tickets in hand the three of you make your way into the theater, Ed taking the exact seats that you would have chosen yourself. It’s by a miracle— or rather very careful planning on your behalf— that you’re sitting next to Lorraine, with Ed on her other side. You silently cheer yourself on for what you believe to be such careful maneuvering, because there is just no way in the world that you would spend the next two hours sitting next to someone who will probably talk over the entire movie anyway.

You settle in as the opening credits of the film begin, and right away you feel anxious. Even in a room full of people and the ever so comforting presence of your favorite demonologist by your side, it’s hard not to be scared in a dark room watching a movie about a psycho killer. Your leg begins to bounce nervously as you begin shoveling popcorn in your mouth, anticipating the many scares that are soon to come your way.

And they do come, in multitudes. You’re jumping out of your seat nearly every minute that goes by. The Warrens, as cemented in their occupations as they are, jump a few times as well, which comes as quite the comfort. You had seen them frightened before, when assessing houses for possible spirits, but neither seemed to be as much of a scaredy cat as you.

You’re granted the solace of Lorraine’s hand when she offers it to you about halfway through the movie. It’s after you jump at the sudden sound of a chainsaw revving up, and she must take pity on you, but you don’t care about the implication because you take the hand as quickly as it’s offered. As you’re sitting to her left, you notice that she’s come to the theater with her signature rosary wrapped around her hand. The cool beads do give you a bit of alarm when you first feel them, but then you realize that it only comes as added protection. You’re not sure what the power of the Spirit can do for you in this moment, but you’re very happy that Lorraine is always prepared against whatever dark forces she’s prepared against.

Sitting next to her, hand-in-hand, Lorraine’s gravitational pull is so strong that eventually you find yourself fully leaned against her arm, gripping her hand for dear life. It doesn’t seem to bother her one bit, and if the lights were any brighter, you’d be able to notice a smile planted firmly on her rosy lips.

Just as you feel yourself in a safe position, completely relaxed and feeling entirely safe (or as safe as you can feel during a movie like this), the movie’s third act kicks into gear and you feel your heart start to beat about a million beats a second. You feel a wave of panic wash over you, and it came out of absolutely nowhere. You swallow hard a few times, looking around the theater to keep yourself calm, to remind yourself that there’s not really a chainsaw wielding maniac running around the place, but it doesn’t do much to settle your nerves.

Before you even notice the stinging in your eyes, before you can stop from embarrassing yourself, your cheeks are wet with tears. You swipe at them a few times with your free hand, hoping to not draw too much attention to yourself as you begrudgingly pull yourself from Lorraine’s grasp.

“I… I’ll be right back.” You whisper next to her ear, praying to God that she didn’t notice the crack in your voice.

You can hear her whisper something back, but not well enough to register it, because you’re already out of your seat and rushing to the bathroom.

Standing in front of the mirror, you assess the damage to your makeup.

Your mascara has run down to your neck, and your lips are all smudged from your nervous popcorn eating.

… And you had left your purse, with all of your extra makeup and tissues, beneath your seat.

You felt on the verge of a breakdown, but the very last thing you wanted to do right now was to sit on the floor of this horribly rotten bathroom and cry until your eyes gave out.

You had been staring at yourself in the mirror between broken sobs for God knows how long until you heard someone else enter. Deeply ashamed of your appearance, you turned your back to the door, using a damp towel to try and clean up your makeup.

Then you heard a lock click.

But it was unlike the lock of a stall door.

Then the echoing tap of a pair of kitten heels.

You tense up, too scared of embarrassment to turn around to face whatever movie attendee, or, as you now feared, possible murderer, you were now trapped in this bathroom with.

That’s when you felt the hand press against your back.

“Are you alright?”

That voice was too kind to belong to a murderer.

“Lorraine!” You nearly scream, tossing a hand over your heart to clutch the imaginary pearls that you couldn’t even afford if you tried. “My goodness, you startled me!” You laugh softly, sniffling while you turn to a sink to wash your hands. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” She hums, voice barely above a whisper. She’s standing right behind you now.

You’re awfully embarrassed to find that there are no more paper towels in the bathroom, and you have to wipe your hands on your skirt, but Lorraine doesn’t seem to notice.

No, her attention is solely on your face.

Her hand lifts up to push a wayward curl behind your ear.  It lingers there for a moment, smoothing down the rest of your hair. Her other hand sneaks its way around your waist, resting just below your belt.

“I just wanted to check on you.” She flashes you that oh-so very endearing smile in the mirror, and lightly runs her thumb below your eyes, wiping away the last remnants of your tears.

You swallow hard, chancing a glance up to her only to miss the woman’s gaze, as her eyes are now glued to your cheek, then your neck. She’s petting your hair, and each stroke is sending a shiver down your spine.

“Oh no, no…  I’m alright…” you manage to mumble out, your voice a mere breathe that hitches when Lorraine’s hands maneuver you to turn to face her.

“Good.” She purrs, leaning in until your foreheads nearly meet. “I wouldn’t want my baby to get too scared.”

Dear God.

You didn’t often take His name in vain, but this felt an appropriate time to do so.

Your heart is beating so hard that you’re worried you may pass out. 

She called you her baby. You were hers.

Your body betraying you, you practically melt into the taller woman, your hands finding themselves on her hips, holding onto the material of her skirt for dear life.

Lorraine calculates, as is her way, but only for a moment, before her hand slides down to gently grasp your cheek and pull you closer into her.

You gasp into her, her lips latching onto your own before you can even remind yourself that you were meant to remain professional tonight. It seems you’re well past the concept of professionalism by now.

It takes you a moment, a very brief moment, to soften into her kiss. You’re like putty in her hands, molding into the curve of her chest and pressed so hard against her that you’re sure you’ve become one being.

But you haven’t, and before you know it, she’s pulled away.

It takes everything within you to not whine and fuss at her for being so rude as to pull herself away from you.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.” She says rigidly, fixing her hair in the mirror with one hand, the other still latched onto your hip. “But you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to.” She laughs a little, finally turning back to meet your gaze.

“I…” You’re at a loss for words. Never in a million years would you have expected for Lorraine Warren to waltz in and kiss you out of the blue like that. You must have truly racked up your good karma with the Lord, because this was enough to be considered a miracle. “I… I’ve also… wanted to… with you.” You stutter out, brain just barely conscious enough to put together a string of words.

Lorraine laughs her beautiful laugh again, her hand returning to caress your cheek.

You shut your eyes tight, laying all your weight into her hands. A thought crosses your mind – that she very well may be testing you – trying to sniff you out for being a freak – that there very well be someone right outside that door ready to ship you off to the loony bin –

That thought disappears almost immediately once Lorraine leans down to press her lips to yours again, this time much more confidently.

Her hands wander down to your hips once again, and yours are gripping into her skirt so hard that you’re sure you’ve left permanent wrinkles in the fabric. It’s impossible for you to be any closer to her now, and yet she’s still pulling you tighter, lips coaxing small whimpers from your own.

You’ve gone completely lightheaded now, the lack of oxygen making you a bit dizzy on your feet. Luckily, you’re so sustained by Lorraine’s embrace that there’s just no chance of you falling over.

Her hands threaten lower, her kisses become sloppier, her thigh situating itself between your legs so that you can press your weight there and feel a shock through your entire system unlike you’ve ever experienced before. Lorraine’s whispering some string of messy whispers. Maybe a prayer, much like the one you’re reciting in your own head for someone, anyone, to make this moment last until your dying breath.

Your joint prayer comes to a halt when you’re so rudely interrupted by an angry knock on the door. Lorraine quickly pulls away from you and immediately begins wiping her smudged makeup in the mirror.

You’re stuck in space, stood blinking, mouth hanging open, feet unsure of where to take you.

“Go get in a stall.” Lorraine commands, a gentle finger wiping at your tongue to collect all of the saliva that you had produced in the midst of your affair. She flashes you a sickeningly sweet look before turning you around and patting you towards the stall, where you quickly hide, being able to take her command even though you’re sure your brain can’t conjure any other actions.

Lorraine’s heels tap towards the door, and where she exclaims how sorry she is, how silly she must be for locking the door behind her. Her voice is so pure, so normal. You’re shocked that she can find herself so calm after an event that had nearly introduced you to your maker.

When you hear a stall door click shut, you make your escape, checking your appearance in the mirror just in case. You certainly look bewildered, a little frazzled, but nothing you can’t excuse under the guise of a scary movie.

When you return to your seat, Lorraine is sat with her hand in Ed’s, her eyes glued to the screen. You sit reluctantly, reaching for your popcorn.

It’s less than a minute before she has removed her hand from her husband’s and has given it back to you.

You’re smiling much too brightly, and you can tell that your clairvoyant is smiling just the same. You’re too focused on the way that her hand feels in your own to pay any attention to the God-forsaken movie playing in front of you.

[anomaly-hivemind]

Their Toy || No. 3 w/Michael Myers, Ghostface, Jason Voorhees x Fem!Reader

Kinktober Masterlist

Warnings: bukkake, Dubcon, rough sex, degradation, mask kink, overstimulation, creampie, circle jerk,triple penetration, double penetration in two holes?, all holes filled, large cock, size kink, multiple orgasms,fingering, forced orgasms, deepthroating, foursome/f/m/m/m, Vaginal Sex, Anal Sex, squirting ,face fucking,rough oral sex, choking,gangbang, slight stalking, Voyeurism, come as lube, hair pulling

Word Count: 3358

Y/N was walking home from work when she got a call from her friend, They practically begged her to come. She didn’t particularly want to as she was looking forward to binge watching her favorite show again but she eventually caved. What was the worst a few hours out on a Friday night could do?

A Lot.

A lot worse…or is this better?

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

Y/N flopped on the bed and let out a deep sigh,

“Come on Y/N get the hell up. You promised yourself no outside clothes on the bed.” She spoke to herself before reluctantly getting up and heading to the bathroom. Stripping from her work clothes she messily folded them and dropped them in the basket before steppin into the steamy shower.

You head to their house, deciding to walk since it wasn’t that far away and gas is too high to be driving down the street. Plus it's a nice autumn day full of people making sure their halloween decorations were ready for the night.

A chill ran down your spine as you got closer to the door of your friend's house. Knocking on the door quickly the door swings open and the bright smile of your friend greets you and pulls you inside.

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

Playing a few aggressively competitive games of uno, a horror movie marathon and a shit ton of snacks and fast food later. You check the time it was mid-eleven. You really didn't mean to stay over this long but oh well. You stand up and look at your friend.

“I think it's time I should head back home. Thanks for all the snacks and shit.” you walked back to the door to head back home. You walked back to your home the same way you took before, but the air felt thicker and a chill fell down your back. It felt like you were being watched.

You ignored the feeling, walking in the crisp nighttime air. You clutched your jacket closer to your body and you were starting to regret not driving your car.

Maybe I should just call an uber? No no that's too much money, besides it's only a five minute walk, you thought to yourself. You get to your home after a while and unlock…lock. You forgot to lock your door before leaving earlier… well shit it was a careless mistake even though you were sure you locked it.

You open the door and are greeted with the items of your hope nothing seemed missing. That's good right, nothing was stolen so that means you can rest easy.

You were watching a Halloween movie on your TV when your phone rang, it was an unknown number and you decided to pick it up.

“Hello y/n… you like scary movies?” a deep raspy voice spoke on the other line, they also sounded a bit out of breath.

‘Ah so the prank calls are starting’ you thought to yourself.

‘This must be my friend since they knew my name right.’

“Sure I like scary movies, hell I'm watching one right now.” you tell the voice then roll your eyes.

“Wanna play a game.” The voice asked.

“Ok jigsaw.” you responded. The voice didn't say anything for a minute or so before speaking.

“How about you answer this then smartass. If you locked your door before your friend's house, how come it was unlocked when you got back.” The voice taunted with a sinister tone, you must have pissed him off.

“I must have forgotten… wait, how did you know that?”

“Wrong answer doll, try again” a loud bang came from down the hall. Oh shit… you were going to die.

“Are… you in my house?” You didn't want to ask but you had to know.

“Ding ding ding and I brought friends to join the fun.”

Another loud bang happened but this time it was a bit closer.You jump and turn to the source of the sound. You grab the closest thing next to you… which happened to be a fork from the food you were eating.

You look down to grab your phone so you can call the cops but a gloved hand grips your wrist in a tight hold. Your heart stops and drops to your ass in fear. You try to pull away but the masked man only pulls you closer.

“You can't leave just yet, bitch, the fun is just starting.” The man with the ghost mask spoke in a harsh tone. You panic looking around your living room only to almost give yourself whiplash when your eyes meet with a much larger man getting closer. One with a spirit halloween looking mask and the with some old hockey mask.

“Ohshitohshit I’m gonna die,” you thought to yourself as the three surrounded you. Closing the circle around you the man with the ghost mask chuckled.

“How rude of me. These beasts are called Jason and Michael and you can call me ghostface or…whatever that sweet tongue of yours can scream." Ghostface leaned closer as he spoke.

“So you are ready to play a game.” he chuckled and grabbed at your chin, pulling you downwards and forcing you to your knees in the middle of this makeshift circle. The two silent behemoths looked even more dangerous and intimidating than before. Then this ghostface guy was something else but all unpredictable. Yet a small, tiny, itty-bitty part in the deep dark depths of yourself, you found yourself getting turned on.

Michael pulled out a big ass knife that made your heart stop

‘I’m gonna die! Gonna fucking die! This is no time to be horny, I’m gonna fucking die!’ You thought as he brought the knife closer to your skin. You closed your eyes quickly as you expected to feel a shape attack on your skin; an aggressively hot pain to invade your senses, yet none of that happens. You open your eyes and look at what just occurred. Instead you get a quick wave of air as your shirt and bra gets cut open.

Rest in peace to your good comfy bra.

Your arms came up to shield your breasts but it didn’t do much to help. You were frozen in fear, you tried to speak but the words were caught in your throat.

Jason grabs you by the upper neck and makes you look up at them. You let out a shaky breath as your mind goes in overdrive, he has such big hands. Damn these fingers are thick… buuut I‘m about to get choked to death by them so less hot. Jason used his other hand and patted his waist, your eyes following the sound. OH SHIT… Holy SHIT he's hard… HE’S HARD and he’s fucking HUGE. Your eyes widen and your mouth starts to feel uncomfortably dry.

“If you're gonna sit there with your mouth open, you could put it to good use,” Ghostface said with a dark chuckle and he shoves you into Jason’s thighs, causing the man to groan almost silently.

The faint sound of his heavy breath behind the mask was surely doing something to you. He takes off his jacket and lets it drop to the floor, leaving him in a black tight-fitting undershirt. It showed off his muscles which only makes him look bigger and hotter.

Your heart feels like it stops as you watch him start to unzip his trousers. Your heart beating in your ears and the faint throbbing in…lower places was completely distracting. I try to shuffle away from him only to get grabbed by the hair by Michael and hold you in place.

“Where did you think you were going slut? I know you want this,” Ghostface grunted the words as he took off his black hoodie revealing his slightly toned body. Probably from all the murdering he does but damn.

Jason pulled his thick girth from his boxers and stroked it with his hand. From his short steps forward his monster meat was practically in your face, you could see each prominent vein on his shaft and how heavy it looked. He rubbed the tip of his against your closed lips, only to have your lips pried open by Ghostface pulling your chin down.

Jason’s dick slipped into your mouth,and your tastebuds greeted with the flavors of his precum.

“No biting… bad girls get punished,” he flashed his knife at you before placing it away.

“Wouldn't want that now would you… or maybe a whore like you would like that mhm.” he tilted his head and you could tell by his tone of voice that he was smirking behind that creepy yet oddly attractive looking mask of his.

But all of that was in the back of your mind when there was a dick in your mouth. Pushing deep into your mouth, hitting into your throat and making you gag a bit. Your eyes watered as you closed them for a moment, and you felt one of his hands snake into your hair. He slowly started to thrust into your mouth and you couldn't help but suck around him in order to keep your saliva from falling down your chin or choking on your own spit.

You slip out of your ripped shirt and bra and let it drop onto the ground. You soon hear the disheveled sound of shuffling fabrics and zippers coming undone to your right and left. Michael and ghostface were clearly enjoying this display and the fact that they're watching me get fucked in the mouth by their friend was hot.

“I've gone nuts…that’s the only way to explain the fact that it feels like my pussy has a heartbeat. I mean like damn it’s pounding like a herd of elephants,” You think to yourself as your tongue swirls around Jason's thick meaty cock. He was most definitely touching that little dangly thing that swings in the back of your throat.

His size was making your jaw hurt and his deep thrust was triggering your gag reflex. You could feel the veins of his cock pulse against your tongue. He was getting ready to bust a load down your throat, it was easy to tell based on the way his head had fallen back with his breath shaky behind the hockey mask and even with how fast and unrhythmic his pace had gotten.

Jason lets out an almost silent moan as his hot seed paints the inside of your mouth. He doesnt pull out until most of his cum has made its way down your throat. Your eyes widen as you see how fast he gets hard again.

‘What kind of refraction time is this shit,” you think to yourself with an anxious face.

“Yeah you better slurp down every drop like a good little slut.” Ghostface lifts you off your knees and you stand with shaky legs. They cut into your pants and underwear with a knife, leaving you completely naked in front of three masked serial killers.Even though you couldn’t see any of their faces you can feel the hungry stares that were definitely giving your bare form.

They make you get back on your knees in the center of them. They all looked so intimidating yet hot, from being on your knees and looking up at him. They all look painfully erect and huge, that’s scary. The three all had their dicks in hand. You get grabbed by the neck by Michael as he holds you in place.

“Looks like Michael is getting impatient. Can’t say I blame him.” he let out a whistle, and he spoke in a cheeky and overly playful voice.

You can tell that Michael’s dick was slightly curved from the way he slapped it on your face. It was heavy enough for you to feel like you were being patted on the face. He was stroking his fat cock against the side of your face as the tip rubbed on your lips. His precum was simmering on your skin.

Ghostface moved closer as you got a look of him. He was shorter than the other two but he was still very much packing. He was lacklusterly rubbing his cock and you see the glint to it. Oh my fucking oh, your eyes widen for a second as you look at his dick. Ghostface has four rows of frenum piercings along the bottom of his shaft. It almost makes your mouth water.

“Damn these slashers are really about to fuck my shit up, and its hot as fuck.” you thought to yourself as they all probably...most likely staring down at your naked body. They were all jerking off above you, your fingers twitched and your thighs rubbed together.

“Fucking hell, it almost looks like your enjoying all this… Are ya are ya.?” Ghostface poked your cheek as he taunted you with a laugh.

You stop yourself from nodding your head at his taunt, even if you wanted to; you just didn't want to admit that aloud or to any of them right now.

“It's ok our little toy, we're not gonna break ya too bad.“ He flicked your titty then giggled.

Michael’s hand squeezes your neck and your hand was quick to go over his. Your eyes started to water and look at the whitish gray mask, it was hard to see him through the black socket but the tears were not helping.

Jason pulls you up to stand, his hands firmly on your waist and the grip around your neck loosens. Myers’ hand moves to gripping your hair instead. You let out a weak whine as you take in air.

“Now lets see what us guys are gonna be working with” Ghostface’s warm gloved hand slides between your legs. His fingers collected your arousal and he played with the sticky wetness.

“Damn you're like a fucking faucet down here, I knew I picked the right slut.” He groaned as his hand went back to your mound, your thighs shut around his hand as you held back a moan. His fingers rubbed firmly at your folds and pinched your clit. You let out a shaky whimper and he chuckled.

You shiver as he keeps fingering you teasingly slow, he thrusted his fingers in you. The tip of his finger felt ever so close to touching your g-spot. The feeling was making your walls flutter around his digits. Michael and Jason were jerking off, watching Ghostface’s expert fingers tipping you over the edge. Your moans escape you as you start to tip over climax, your legs start to quiver. You cum with a groan and then he pulls out of you slowly.

“You're starting to become one of my favorite toys, all the weeks of watching this cute ass finally starting to pay off.” he used his hand covered in your arousal to stroke his abandoned cock. You were a bit in a daze from your climax that you didn't even notice that you were placed back on the ground of your living room.

The three men were materbating over you, and you couldn't help but watch them intently. They cum one after the other onto your naked body; their loads falling onto your tits,face, and thighs. It was hot and you wanted more of it. You lick up the bit that was closest to your mouth, forgetting the situation for a moment.

“Look at you acting like a little whore.”Ghostface bends you over your coffee table. His pierced dick slides over your lower lips. The feeling of his piercing makes you shiver, and his tip starts to get covered in your juices.

He pushes into you with a surprising gentleness that makes you squirm. Arching your back as you almost cum again from just him bottoming you out into you.

Jason held your hand over his dick and was using it to stroke himself. Michael shoves his cock into your mouth, you gag around the length and thick girth. He wasn't giving you any time to breath as he started to fuck getting the back of your throat. His hand was over your throat making you close around his shaft and made it harder for her to breathe.

Ghostface started to thrust into you, his speed matching up with Michael. They were rocking you back and forth between them and all you could hear past your muffled choking was the slaps of skin on skin. The short groans from ghostface or the heavy breaths from Jason and Micheal.

These men really got you like a fleshlight right now… it was only a side effect that you get to cum so much.

You were their toy after all and they were going to use you the way they wanted. Ghostface had your thighs pressed together and locked in his arm as he pounded into you without remorse. It's probably more remorse than what they give to other people so you can’t complain too much. Jason cums into your hand with a faint groan, he stepped back until he became hard again. He moves over to Ghostface and taps his shoulder. The shorter man nods and moves you, much to Michael’s annoyance, the man's plan to cum down your throat fails and he ends up spilling all over your face instead.

“Sorry buddy.” Ghostface snickers.

The men shuffled around you, bending you over in a way that pleases them. Your legs were shaking and your pussy fluttered with emptiness.

Jason starts to push his cock into you ass and you hold back a scream, if he felt big in your mouth her was fucking huge in your ass. He made you feel like you were going to be torn in half. Michael went for your dripping cunt and bottoms out into you. These two men were thrusting into you at opposite times and it all felt like two much.

“Y-you're gonna kill me!” you cry out with a choked moan, it was all so much all at once and none of them seemed like they were going to stop.

“Far from that, we might just keep you, then you can be our bitch whenever we want you to be.” he slides into your mouth and you can taste yourself. He yanked your hair a bit, your walls clenched, they were hitting all your spots relentlessly. You cum again with a muffled squeal, you feel warm liquid run down your trembling legs.

“Who would have thought that you were a squirter? Haven't seen you do that before even when you pleasured yourself” he groaned as your tongue rubbed his tip. You wanted to ask him about his comment, or with the shock that you could squirt in the first place.

They all reached their climax coming inside you, when they pull out their seed starts to pool out of you. You were already covered in their cum. When ghostface pulls out of your mouth you speak in a horse tone.

“So you've been watching me for how long…?” you tried to sound confident even though you were in a daze from borderline overstimulation.

“Oh that it's been a month now, and you were none the wiser.” he pats your head. They drop you on the ground and you look down at your cum covered self.

“You're joking right?” you knew he wasn't joking.

“You already know the answer to that… Now say cheese.” you look up just in time to get the blunt of a flash from a camera. You look like a deer in headlights. The three men got dressed and ghostface showed them the picture he took of you in such a compromising position.

“We’ll be back, little toy.” Then they vanished, leaving you with sore legs and wanting more.

[armyangxls]

A reminder you can make fictional characters how ever you want, no matter what's "canon", that goes for fanfic and f/o!! Even if the character is completely unloving! You can them being loving to just you or anyone! You can make them soft and sweet! Literally anything!! <<<<33333

(Obviously nothing weird or bad though!!!)

Proshippers please don’t interact!!!

[creeped]

You and Art the Clown getting married

— REQUESTED: @jokersgrf — PAIRING: GN!reader + Art the Clown — WARNINGS: blood, implied murder, and well, Art is a serial killer clown so. — A/N: Thanks for this request! I had a lot of fun coming up with these. Enjoy, reblog, and leave me some requests if you liked it!

OF COURSE, Art's proposal is a spectacle. Art waits for you to finish the scavenger hunt — yes, there are riddles involved — to meet you at the end, dressed in his usual garments, but now, he is brandishing a big bowtie around his neck. Formal. His grin says it all. Art holds out the box in his hands, with the bottom soaked with blood that stings your nostrils. You open it to find a heart. A human heart. You smile politely although you are retching a little on the inside. A card rests on the bloody organ. “I got you this as a gift / Now you have my heart / Can I have yours too, Y/N? / I love you, Art.” You don’t notice, but Art has dropped to one knee and holds out a ring. “Of course I’ll marry you!” You exclaim, yanking him up to kiss him. “I love you too, Art.”

AS EXPECTED, Art insists on going to help pick out what you’ll wear on the big day. As you’re focusing on picking out articles to try on, there is suddenly some excited honking from that familiar bicycle horn. You look toward the sound, a little afraid of what you might see. Art has come out of the dressing room wearing the frilliest, laciest, most extravagant wedding dress you’ve ever seen over his usual clothing. After a few poses and an exaggerated curtsy from the clown, your stomach is already hurting from laughing. “You’re beautiful, Art!” You tell him, holding up your hand to cover your mouth and try to control your laughter. He fakes shyness by hiding his eyes, and then he blows you a kiss before disappearing to get changed.

YOU BOTH CHOOSE to put Emily, the Little Pale Girl, in your wedding party. You are both too scared of what will happen if you don’t.

ON THE BIG DAY, your vows about “‘til death do us part,” but Art wanted to add a little something extra. When it comes the time to read his vows, he does a somersault for you before he whispers those vows to the priest — or possibly a threat — who looks frightened but announces the two of you are married. You dance down the aisle together as you leave, balloons falling from the ceiling.

FOR YOUR HONEYMOON, you two newlyweds go to a Caribbean resort. He insists on paying every time you order fruity drinks at the pool, and when he goes up to the bar with his trash bag in arm, you can’t bear to tell him that the resort is all-inclusive. Everything’s already paid for. As he pulls out coin after coin, you laugh. And you’re glad you’ll be laughing for the rest of the life you have together, however long — or short — that may be. You hope the two of you live happily together for a long, long time — 'til death do you part.

[hoonieyun]

blink twice (coming soon)

blink twice

pairing: lee heeseung x reader “y/n”

genre: dark, psychological thriller, angst

warnings: death, violence, drugs and alcohol, manipulation, assault, very dark themes and as always, MDNI 18+ (lmk if i forgot anything)

summary: after hitting it off with big shot tech ceo, heeseung “evan” lee, he whisks you away to his private island for the vacation of your dreams, but when days start to blend into one another, your memory becomes hazy, and your best friend goes missing; you’re forced to face the truth. 

characters:

reader "y/n"

heeseung “evan” lee (enhypen)

jay park (enhypen)

jake sim (enhypen)

sunghoon park (enhypen)

yizuo “ningning” ning (aespa)

karina yoo (aespa)

aeri “giselle” uchinaga (aespa)

minjeong “winter” kim (aespa)

notes: so i watched this insane movie called blink twice and i- !!!!! it was so good, aside from certain parts that were definitely triggering so instead of writing about those parts i’ve just “hinted” at them instead. the movie was really good i suggest for you to watch it if you can! but obviously there will be spoilers for that movie through this but not everything is exactly the same, i’ve taken certain plot points and omitted them due to their dark nature that i personally am not comfortable writing about. i also want to say that credit for the story and plot line goes solely to those who worked on that movie! i have no intention of stealing their work, this is all fiction based on that movie! i'm not sure when i will release this as it's still in the works but i also wanted to release it during october but we'll see how it that works out as i'm also working on my enhypen horror series!

[shrimpmangrib]

MATURE MATERIAL

————

Meal of Sin (Nosferatu X Male Reader)

————

He was young, when he showed up for me. Not like how the folks around the marketplace spoke about him; like a legend now lost to 40+ years of defeat. He was pale, yet he had luster to his cheeks and eyes, still full of life. Amber locks of thick soft hair hung around his face as he looked down on me like a night banshee, pressing down on my chest to restrict my breath.

He seemed shocked that I was awake, that I was awake and not begging for my life to be left alone.

The teeth.

A small tusk on each side of his bottom lip poked through his slightly open pale lips.

My organs contorted with confused excitement and bewildered joy.

His eyes were murky gray like he’d not seen in years. But he was looking. He was looking into my own sight of him.

And I just wanted a touch,

Of his cold skin.

Of my fingers to graze his cheekbone and feel that he was real and not my dream of what I wanted so desperately.

I heard them say He was foul.

A contorted bloated corpse arisen and walking amongst the living. In his castle… the abandoned manor on the valley side where children dare eachother to stay at night, only for them to come back with nothing behind their expressions and living rigor mortis.

Maybe he looked like what they all feared the most; we were in God’s image, so to reanimate a mindless vessel that had no faith, and a lust to bring others down with it…must be everyone’s worst fear. There were others like me, however, who weren’t afraid of the unknown of death and how to live beyond it on Earth.

Of course, lots of them were murdered by their own community, simply for denying a groups belief in a world not connected to our Earth. Lots of them believed that nature was God. I believe humans are just as much sinners as cattle. There is no redemption or damnation for us, only a linear path to progress the lives around us, then be complete when it is our time.

So why is it he came to me this night, on December 11th, at the hazy midnight hour? Was it because I was alone, in my quarters after study, cold myself, and unable to rest? Or was it because I simply wasn’t afraid

And had been begging for a change for years.

“Kaspppaar.”

The voice rang through my ears, but my vision was blurred with tears and I did not know if it was him or my imagination still.

It was deep, gritty, and like a cooing dove.

I turned my head and my back instinctively arched. I winced from pain in my body somewhere I didn’t want to think about. Agonizing need for satiation.

I had never been married. I studied social history as far back as I could, for the past 15 years. Two months ago I became 30 years. I needed no one to cook for me, and my studies paid well when I published to the men’s library in Westyensberg. I needed nothing done around the house, because I frankly did nothing but write and read. I bought bread and ham, and would have that every supper, lunch, and dinner. I didn’t need a wife, and didn’t want one, as I had no need for children in my currently comfortable abode.

I wanted him to see my body like no one has before, and I wanted to see his. If he killed me, I’d be happy. My linear life would end with nothing but pleasure.

Pleasure?

Is that all I wanted. Was that what my friends wanted from their wives… historically yes. There was never talk of Husbandry both ways. Marriage was for children, trading land, or bargaining life. Nothing was fun about it.

But this was exciting.

“Yes…” I finally responded, other than the weeping cry as he had said my name with his very vocals.

“Orlock?” I wiped my sleep drunk eyes, wetness on my hands that were now reaching for his wrists besides my body.

He was so beautiful I was not sure at first if it was him…and if he was a male, or female. The town people could have been wrong. The so called creature they saw from the corners of their eyes could be Orlock’s widow. I had no thought that he might’ve been married. And adultry, whether the person currently leaning closer to my face was the wife or husband, was punishable by imprisonment for life, on both parties’ parts.

It moved quickly.

“I see you.” His mouth did not utter yet I heard his voice.

He sees me. What could it mean, of course he saw me, his eyes were a half meter from mine?

“I saw you. In my field. You don’t belong.”

Ah, so he was angry. I thought maybe he was just as confused as me.

When his knee lifted to my inner thigh and pushed sternly, I knew he was teasing me like a bully that liked their victim too much.

I had not ever explored myself, maintaining godly purity for my parents as I had not been wed.

He sure as hell would explore me.

His hand lifted from my side, lengthy and spindly fingers adorned with yellowed nails that were easily 8 centimeters past grown, and sharp as a hawk’s talons. He clawed at my top. I had fallen asleep just in the shirt. Below my waist was nothing but my covers doing their job of keeping me decent. I did this because I worried about staining my clothes,

I dreamt about him so often it was a problem.

My shirt now open, he leaned so close, pressing his cheek to my chest, he fluttered his eyes shut and groaned.

I realized that I there was a problem. That I was food. Did he want to eat me?

His top half leaned down, left me propped on my pillow below him, looking straight, where I could see his lower half in the air, trousers tight around his bum. It made me wish if only he was a lady.

“Sweet rhythm. You have a sweet rhythm.” The voice echoed.

“Thank you…” I stammered my reply, and he may have thought I was scared.

“You’re not scared are you.”

The aching grew in my belly, much like it did in my sleep when I dreamt of him. My thighs became sore, so I squeezed them together. I had never thought to do this, and when I did, it felt like a high. My head felt light and a feeling washed over my private parts like a wave of toxic sweetness. I felt it move around and brush against my sheets by its own.

His clawed hand slid down my chest and over my covers, locating my penis. He grazed it and toyed with it much like my emotions, and I cried out for him, as I tried not to move. I could tell my heart was racing, his razor sharp nails only blocked by a sewn linen.

“You’re..him aren’t you. Why are you here.” I choked out. He didn’t reply.

He sat up.

I now knew why it appeared his trousers didn’t fit. His penis was like a tankard shoved down in there! I yelped, having never seen anything like it. Most men in town had nuggets of flesh between their legs.

There was a wet spot where the tip was.

“Holy god! You’ve come here…you think I’m a woman? I’m not.”

A grin on his face, he tilted his head up, and looked down on me. His eyes glowing, now shadowed by the cut-off moonlight. His smile stretched on his face now showed rows of endless canine teeth crowded in his mouth.

He didn’t appear very strong. Frail like me. But in this view, his height was apparent. The people spoke of him like a short ghoul. But to me, he was easily two and a half meters tall.

“You want to see, yes?”

“See what?” I did. I knew what he meant and I had been waiting for this, I thought now. This is what I was keeping myself from. And I’d die after it all if it meant one taste.

He knew my thoughts, and unbuttoned the trousers, sliding them down. It largely bounced toward me as if the cloth was holding back its erect nature. Leaking fluid I had dreamt of. This only made me more thrilled.

I sat up, myself.

“You're not afraid of monsters. You’re afraid of yourself. Put that fear aside and become powerful.”

I was afraid of being killed. For what I wanted. It wasn’t worth dying if I couldn’t have it at least once, so I kept myself back all these years.

Before I could finish a thought, I was touching the throbbing thing, he sat in silence staring at my hand as it studied and felt the interaction. I saddled up closer, taking it in my fist, and pressing the length of my own against his. Moans of relief escaped my mouth. He stared, eyes twitching. His relief was different, but I could tell he was satisfied with my compliance.

My instinct was to buck my hips forward and it’s all they wanted to do, for they had a mind of their own once the pleasure became greater.

I had no idea how, but he had no body hair, no facial hair. I thought perhaps malnutrition. If he really fed on blood from us, humans.

It began to feel amazing, as he just watched. I had both of us in both of my hands, trembling but moving faster and faster up and down, like I was having sex with a woman.

Except it wasn’t a woman. The thoughts spinning in my head couldn’t keep me from going harder, faster, leaking more and more euphoric feeling from my heart and body. I yelled his name.

“Orlock..

Orlock.

Orlock!”

Before I knew, thick cream-like fluid spewed from my body, spattering mine and his chests and stomachs.

He did not react, just studying me.

I watched as both of us soften, the dark spiraling thoughts squeaking through the diminishing clouds of mesmerizing orgasm.

What had I done.

Why.

Couldn’t I have fought, he was just a thought.

It was a dream, right?

What if this was simply a man I had met earlier today now in my building to catch me in homoerotic sin.

I couldn’t think of anything else but wishing I hadn’t given in to the pressure, both on my dreams and my phallus.

His eyes burned into mine when I finally looked back up. Reddened with hunger.

“You’re afraid now. Just like I wanted.”

The voice echoed.

Before my eyes those beautiful canines smiled deeply,

My smell seeping into his flared nostrils, brows furrowing at me, ears twitching locating my heartbeat.

A flash of moonlight, and I was gone. The last thing I felt was dozens of dull jagged teeth tear into my flesh, my collarbone snapping with the force. I yelled as much as I could before my blood flooded my own lungs. There was nothing anyone could do though. I lived a mile from town, next to no one else here.

I tore at him, but he gnashed at my body, over and over, eating me.

Eating me alive.

I died happy, however. I was afraid yes. Not of him. But that he was possibly just a person. And when I realized he wasn’t, that he really was a monster, was when I could rest.

And rest I did, as Nosferatu’s meal.

[ficklecat]

In which Kakashi becomes obsessed with things that lay below the ground.

PLEASE HEED TAGS AND WARNINGS

For KakaGai Halloween 2024, 10/29 - grave/burial prompt

@kkgiweek

[clown-gore]

SFBF23-> week 1

Prompts: Fire. Wound(s). Suburbs. Bondage

Keywords: Acrid. Malignant

His Souvenir

Micheal Myers X GN!reader

Halloween was a cursed time at Haddonfield, and that was a fact. Every window and door got locked during the night. Parents dreaded their children going trick-or-treating for it might be their last time seeing them.

Every year the town holds it’s breath waiting for the Boogyman to strike again. Sometimes he doesn’t, but that doesn’t make the situation any better.

And every year there were people foolish enough to roam the town at the dead of night and taking the situation lightly, unaware of the dangers their actions hold. Guilt doesn’t begin to describe the feeling that dawns after that.

And here you are, as guilty as ever…

Unfortunately you were one of those foolish people, and now you’re tied in the basement of some stranger, but that stranger is no other than the Shape Of Haddonfield himself, Micheal Myers.

You were tied and way that left you exposed. Hands behind your back tied at the elbows down to your wrists, thighs and knees bound with painful knots to the old heater behind you that scraped your back, and your mouth taped shut. Even your neck had a rope around it that threatened to choke you with every move.

Looking around you frantically, you tried to understand what is going on. Last thing you remember was Micheal chasing you and then nothing, something it you on the head and you didn’t know whether it was him, or you hit a brick wall or a tree, but the ache in your head is very much true.

The basement had an acrid smell of mould and smoke, smoke so strong it brought tears to your eyes. The only light came from a small window next to the sealing. Looking up, you could make out flames, and panic rose up again. The place was burning…

Your breath was frantic, and you started to fight against the ropes bounding you.

What made you stop your movements close to none was the figure emerging from the dark, far end of the room. The Boogyman himself.

Fear doesn’t begin to describe the feeling that crept through your body. The sight of his chalky white mask sent shivers down your spine.

Your throat went dry, more tears sprung to your eyes and your breath quickened with each silent step he took towards you. The blooded knife in his hand shined, reflecting the light from the fire up ahead. Is he staying her to burn with you? You kept asking…

You thrashed away at your restraints as they burned through your skin, definitely leaving marks. Micheal kept coming closer as you screamed through the tape on your mouth. Whatever plans he had in store, you were sure they won’t be empty of blood, and that knife was a witness for his never ending thirst

Hopelessness started creeping in, the realisation that the situation you found yourself in is inescapable started pouring down on your soul like cold water..

Micheal stood in front of you, inches away, the fire burning behind him made his form look large and looming compared to you. Death personified. He took one step closer, and went down on one knee to closer at you as your restraints make you vulnerable beneath him. His gaze under the mask make you feel ten times smaller, it was dangerous, malignant, yet curious, like he was looking at a shiny toy.

Michael’s right hand that was holding the knife moved and you jumped shutting your eyes close, bracing yourself for whatever’s to come, but it never did. Scratching sounds hit your ears and when you opens your eyes to look, he was carving something on the wooden floor.

When he was done, it was a singular crooked looking word that made your heart sink like it gained a thousand pounds over..

Mine

[1980shorrorfilm]

can you hold me together?

click!!!

pairing…skye riley x gn!reader

in which…skye had picked paul hudson over you, and now has to deal with the aftermath once she’s recovered and sober.

before you read…no demon au. angst with comfort. ur basically gemma. kinda short lmk how we feel about skye fics skye riley nation

“hey.” “hi.”

skye and you study each other, as if seeing each other for the first time again. it feels brand new, scary and exciting. she appears significantly less angry than the last time you were together. her eye bags weren’t as deepened or dark, tan skin insanely smooth, glowing, and beautiful. she is so beautiful.

even like this, at midnight, dressed in sweats. she could be wearing a garbage bag and still appear to be the stunning star that she is; something you had honestly told her.

she also looks very fucking stunned.

skye hadn’t expected you to come here, to be standing outside her door, in her presence. yeah, she had messaged you, asking you to, but she never thought that you would actually oblige.

you hadn’t been over in a very long time, the woman attempting to check in on you every so often, hoping that the day would come when your name would be in her notifications.

that day never came.

she couldn’t blame you, she had led your…friendship, down this road. the harsh and pointless arguments, the shutting you out when all you wanted was to be in her life, just to be replaced by someone else, someone she pretended to love.

sometimes you thought that was her punishment for you. you weren’t sure what for, but it had felt like it. seeing her and him dazzling on red carpets, all so fake.

maybe that’s why she made it a goal to ignore you, you saw through her. through everything that she tried to keep buried, you knew her too much. you had loved her too much, and at the time, skye had thought of it as suffocation.

caring too much for her when she was inevitably going to fuck up. she already carried the weight of the world on her shoulders from everyone else in her life, she did not want that with the person she had loved most.

so she made sure that wouldn’t happen. she got rid of you.

and like a stray animal in a storm, you’re at her door, both of you with weak smiles as if the last conversation held between you didn’t end with you two sobbing.

“do you want to…?” she asks the dumb question nervously, stepping aside to let you in.

you thank her, welcoming yourself into her calmly lit place, a sense of dread in your stomach despite the endless fond memories you had experienced here.

sitting beside her as she plays her piano, watching her delicate fingers drift over the keys, occasionally meeting her brown eyes. you always found peace when she was only singing to you, it seemed more personal. especially with the love songs that she kept for your ears and your ears only.

holding her on the cool tile of her kitchen floor, allowing her to cry in the safety of your arms from whatever was troubling her that day. you’d last in that position for hours, body going numb but you never complained. you welcomed it, if anything.

on top of her on her bed, listening to the sweet sighs leave her lips like the melody of her songs. sometimes skye needed you as close to her as possible, tasting you and relishing in it. it leaves a bad taste in your mouth now, worried those precious moments will never be replicated.

not with skye, and not with anyone that attempts to fill the skye-shaped void in your life.

“so…how are you?” skye speaks, gently shutting the door behind her. she doesn’t approach you, still eyeing you like an object that randomly spawned in her home.

you’re still studying her living space, but when you do turn to her, she takes notice of the cardboard box in your hands, resting against your stomach. blocking her from engulfing you tightly.

“good…yeah…fine. and you?”

“me too…i mean i’m also good.”

awkward. this is awkward, and both of you should have been prepared for this. skye did envision how this would go, the right things to say, but now all those planned words have died on her tongue. she gulps.

“i, uh…i wanted to apologize…for like…everything.”

“skye–” “the way i treated you after…after he showed up…i regret it. a lot,” she laughs nervously, one hand playing in her hair while the other is shoved in her pocket, “and you’re like, all i think about, so it’s been really fucking hard, you know? wondering where you are…if you’re okay…if you found someone new.” someone that wasn’t her, she thinks.

”and i just,” skye continues, approaching you, “i miss you…i have since…”

she lets her words linger, unable to say the hard part to your face. since she decided to leave you behind. when you stand before her, with the face she absolutely adores, it feels like hell to imagine she had made the same face cry. the same kind eyes pour like a rainstorm.

“i’m…i’m so sorry. i know that means probably nothing but i mean it...” skye honestly tells you, immediately anxious for whatever words were to leave your lips.

worried you wouldn't feel the weight of her words and how much she truly meant the things she had said. that the damage had been done, and she had lost the person that mattered to her most. for good, this time. a year of physical separation and endless stalking of social media already felt like torture to her.

for you, it’s almost overwhelming. you almost didn’t come here, you needed a motivation other than to simply see her. you wouldn’t know where that would lead you, showing up completely vulnerable. that’s what the box in your hands is for, why you’re here. why her words hurt you just as much as they heal you.

you feel the bubble in your throat begins to grow.

“i brought some stuff you never picked up from my place,” you say almost robotically, trying to not show any of the emotion pouring over you. you ignored her completely, skye’s brows furrowing in a blend of confusion and disappointment.

“w-what? i–” she stutters, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. “are you not going to acknowledge anything i just said?”

you take a step toward her, her arms suddenly occupied when you shove the box into them.

“it’s mostly clothes—”

“stop,” skye interrupts, eyes widening when you’re already walking away from her. towards the door. you hear a thud, the box now on her floor. then you feel her hand on your wrist, a tight grip to hold you in place.

“i d-don’t want my clothes, i want…” skye stops herself, pleading eyes doing all the talking for her. her heart is pounding, afraid all of her words were for nothing, that you’re done with her. for good. the worst possible scenario, that almost makes her want to breakdown and cry.

“i don’t know what you want me to say, skye.”

“fucking anything,” she laughs humorously, the uncomfortable hold she had on you loosening, but not completely. “y-you can even say you hate me— just anything.”

“i don’t…hate you.”

“you don’t?” she sounds…almost shocked. and that really hurts. you would never want skye to even think that was ever a possibility, and you wonder how long that idea has been in her head. “i figured after everything…”

after everything i still love you, is what you want to say. you don’t allow yourself to, not ready to put your heart on a platter and serve it to her, so instead you do the second best thing. you hug her. tightly, like someone is trying to take her away from you; a nightmare.

she embraces you just the same, if not tighter if that is possible without suffocating you.

“i’ve…missed you too,” you admit, “seeing your face everywhere doesn’t help.”

she groans as if she can relate, which in a way she can. she also sees your face everywhere, just not on the covers on magazines and billboards. in her head, before she sleeps, and when she wakes up.

“sorry about that.”

“don’t be…i’m proud of you. like, really proud of you skye,” you tell her, something you should’ve already said. “watching you get better…seeing you happy….that’s all i wanted.”

her heart flutters your name in morse code, your simple yet reassuring words feeling like the sun was beaming on her; as warm as your body is pressed against hers.

you hesitate, “you…are happy, right?”

“yes— yeah,” skye answers near immediately, “have almost everything i want.”

almost. the embrace comes to an end, her soft brown eyes meeting yours. you open your mouth, then shut it, because you don’t know what to say to her insinuation. you didn’t come here for this. you didn’t. and yet the barrier you placed between your heart and hers is crumbling.

“skye…” “i just want you back…in my life…that’s it…” she tells you, not wanting you to feel pressured romantically and scare you away. simply to have you within her grasp, to feel your love once more, is all she longed for. that is something that you have in common, so you nod.

“…okay.”

“okay?”

“okay, skye.”

she wears a bright smile, one of relief, of hope. hoping to mend your relationship, to make you feel comfortable enough again to have a genuine relationship. a pure one, not tainted by the person she used during the dark days of her past. to fix everything she had let go wrong.

a second chance. with the person she loves the most.

[a-writer-on-elm-street]

Okay so like fair warning- I've never seen a single Terrifier movie. Literally all I know is that he just kinda lurks at random stores/restaurants?? Maybe Reader, who works at a convenience store, recognizes him as a regular and asks him out? He's a silly, freaky looking dude. Maybe Reader is into that

I apologize if this is messy

You said you had no ideas and I wanted to help a lil

a/n: i've seen both terrifier movies and i'm still traumatised because art is a fucking psycho lol. but thank you so much for the idea i can't believe something like that never even crossed my mind so thank you <3

pairing: art x gn!reader

warnings: none

This was the third time this week. You struggled to contain your grin as you looked over to the clown standing behind the customer you were serving.

He'd been coming in several times over the weeks, only ever approaching the counter when you were serving. Although it was very unlikely anybody else would serve him anyway, considering he was a little creepy.

He'd meander around the store, stopping to inspect each shelf he passed, before giving an exaggerated shrug and moving on.

And then fifteen minutes later, he'd waltz up to the counter with the most random item in his hand.

You initially thought it must've been some kind of joke. He was literally dressed as a clown, it had to have been. But when he continued to come in, repeating the same thing everytime, it became apparent to you that it just couldn't have been a joke. Surely.

Once you were done serving the person in front of him, you released a small sigh as he shuffled up to the counter, this time only placing a bottle of water down in front of you, much to your surprise.

"You know it's not Halloween, right?" You asked him, not expecting a vocal response. From what you could tell, he didn't speak.

He just looked at you, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Alright, that'll be $1.50." You told him, earning another exaggerated facial expression that resembled shock.

To say he was rather odd, you did find him to be quite amusing. You watched in silence as he bent down to rummage through the black garbage bag he'd been carrying, eventually coming back up to place a handful of crumpled up money on the counter.

"So you got a name?" You asked as you put the money in the cash register, retreiving his change.

Again, he didn't speak, but he pulled out a small piece of paper, taking one of the pens from the side of the counter. And you watched as he messily scribbled something down on the paper, turning it in your direction.

"Art." You read out, nodding at the name. "Art The Clown."

A wide grin spread across his face as he nodded in confirmation.

"So, Art The Clown." You started, leaning over the counter slightly. "You wanna go out with me sometime?"

He stood there sort of frozen for a moment then, his eyes going wide and his mouth hanging open. Probably a minute passed before he moved, his fingers coming up to rub his chin as if in thought, before he finally gave you a small nod, a huge smile breaking across his face.

"Great." You smiled back, handing him his water. "I'd ask for a number, but I'm assuming you'll be back later this week so maybe we could set something up then?"

He nodded again before offering you a small wave as he made his way out of the store, leaving you with the knowledge that you'd just asked out a clown.

[Main Masterlist] [Art Masterlist]

[97keanu]

Neo x goth!reader?

Premise: You're the girlfriend he always wanted. Life was empty before you, life was nothing before you. Neo is simply a loser hacker who lucked out his perfect goth girlfriend. He has nothing but you to fill the void. He should be happy he's not lonely anymore, he should be happy, he should be...

TW: horror inspired, unreality heavy, you are not what you seem, you digital siren of the deep. The cycle will start again.

A/N: horror drabble for the season. May want to use a binary code translator here. Vagueness as not to give too much away. If you don't enjoy horror/unreality do not read.

Neo had only known you for a few months, but in that time, you two had become inseparable. He can't believe you, you with your pitch black hair, your gothic make up, and pouty black lips had just walked into his life. He loved you. He loved how you dressed, with your black attire, your stompy boots, hair a whimsical bats nest. He loved your mind, you were so smart, he felt like he finally met his equal. He loved how you looked at him, with all the love he wanted in your eyes. Your voice, always soft, and gentle, a perfect contrast to your harsh dress.

In fact, he loved you so much, and you were so perfect, he could swear he dreamed you. Maybe he did. He couldn't say what his life was before you, you with your gorgeous darkness that had filled his life. 

You were perfect. Everything he needed. You two never fought, nor did he ever need to think of much else. In fact, as he lay next to you in his tiny, clothes strewn bed, his filthy, loser little room enclosed around you two like a nest, and he tries to remember for a second what he had even done for the day. How long has he been facing you, his perfect mate, talking about something he had lost the plot of. His heart lurched for a moment, and he swallowed down an anxiety that tended to fill him if he looked into your eyes too long. He whispered out your name as you stopped speaking mid sentence to furrow your brow at the sudden interrupting. 

"Yes, Neo?" Your voice was soft, kind, gentle as always. 

"What…um…" Neo rubs his sweaty forehead, wondering how he even began to sweat in the first place. He pauses for a while, and you of course, as the good girlfriend you are, don't talk over him, and simply listen as he tries to find his words. It's like trying to find something precious lost in a thick bucket of honey, the sweet sea calling him to ignore what he even lost in the first place. He finally decides on a sentence to begin with. "When did, um, when did you come over today, exactly?" 

"What do you mean my love?" You tilt your head and reach out a hand, moving now damp hair across Neo's forehead. "I came over at the same time I always do…"

Neo stares at your form, laying so closely in bed next to him. You're wearing an old band shirt of his, and when he tries to focus on what that band once was, he can only see shapes of a faded, long gone album cover. He can't remember what he used to listen to, he can't think about that right now. No, he should focus. Focus on you.

He finds your big soft eyes, that look at him with all the love in the world. 

"Yes…but….when was that again?" He has to clear his throat to get the sentence out. The anxiety rises again. His stomach feels empty, and he has no idea when last it was full, or if it ever was, for that matter. 

"Are you feeling sick, hun?" You let your hand press against his head, feeling the heat from his body against the back of your hand. Neo almost flinches from your touch, it's cold. 

"Yes, I am…" He pauses, then shakes his head. "Well, maybe I'm not. I'm not sure. I…What were you talking about before this?"

He tries to remember, then looks to your face, soft and full as the moon, your dark makeup blending into the dark of the room.

"Oh? That…that doesn't much matter. What would you rather talk about?" You smile widely, always happy to listen to your all loving boyfriend first. 

"No, no, I…." Neo sits up, his lungs have tightened too much. He needs to breathe away from you, from your beauty that wraps around his mind like a fog. 

"Neo, you don't seem like yourself tonight…" You say, with worry that is appropriate. 

"Can I just, I need some space right now." He stands up, then when you turn to follow, he goes to speak your name out. The word, that name of yours, catches in his throat like a stone. Neo coughs, trying to get it out, before his mind finalizes on the fact that he's never known your name at all. Who are you….?

"Neo…you're starting to scare me…" He has his back to you, he can't even look at you right now. He can't imagine what you look like. The darkness of the room is closing in. He can feel your hands enclose around his shoulders, always there for him. Never away, never letting him out of your sight. You have a cold heat, the kind that burns like dry ice, Neo can feel it through his shirt. The room has nothing in it. He knows that. It never had anything in it.

Neo can't even look at anything while your mouth breathes chilly crystals over his ears. 

"Why don't you come back to bed, my love…" 

Neo doesn't think his eyes are even open at this point. He isn't standing. He might as well be floating in this darkness. He might as well be nothing, and he already knows what you are. He can't say it. He can't speak, he keeps coughing. It's all caught in his throat now, as it always is when he remembers. He's drowning. He can feel it, the stench of real life seeping in once again. He can feel it devouring him, melting his body to a more useful goo. The screams won't come this time. He needs to stop thinking, he needs to listen to you, his loving girlfriend, his perfect girlfriend his his his his his his

His what?

Who even is he? 

Where is he? 

His hands are going now, and soon enough it will be all of him. He should stop this, he can't think this way. His hands illuminate the darkness, he sees it again, the code

01011001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01101110 01100101 01100101 01100100 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101101 01100101 00100000 01100010 01100001 01100011 01101011 00101110 00100000 01000011 01101111 01101101 01100101 00100000 01101000 01101111 01101101 01100101 00100000 01001110 01100101 01101111 00101110 00100000 01000011 01101111 01101101 01100101 00100000 01100010 01100001 01100011 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01101101 01100101 00101110 00100000 01000011 01101111 01101101 01100101 00100000 01100010 01100001 01100011 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01101101 01101111 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 00101110 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110111 01101001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110010 01101101 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01100010 01110010 01100101 01100001 01110011 01110100 00101100 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110111 01101001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01100111 01101001 01110110 01100101 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01101100 01101001 01100110 01100101 00101100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01110111 01101000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01110111 01100001 01101110 01110100 01100101 01100100 00101100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01110111 01101000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100001 01110011 01101011 01100101 01100100 00100000 01100110 01101111 01110010 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01110100 01101001 01101101 01100101 00101100 00100000 01110011 01110100 01101111 01110000 00100000 01100110 01101001 01100111 01101000 01110100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00101100 00100000 01110011 01110100 01101111 01110000 00100000 01100110 01101001 01100111 01101000 01110100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00101100 00100000 01110011 01110100 01101111 01110000 00100000 01100110 01101001 01100111 01101000 01110100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00101100 00100000 01110011 01110100 01101111 01110000 00100000 01100110 01101001 01100111 01101000 01110100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00101110

He nods. He's in bed with you again. He can breathe. He can breathe. He can breathe if you just don't look at him.

[sqyyadina]

wrap me in your arms like i'm made of glass.

Pairing: Lorraine Warren X Reader

Word Count: 7.5k

Tags: possessed!reader, exorcism, self flagellation / self harm, disordered eating, mommy issues, hurt/comfort!

Summary: You've been fighting an evil spirit on your own for months, until an angel falls on your doorstep, and you no longer have to fight alone.

Author’s Note: This one is sort of dark, ee!! Sometimes a girl just needs to write an exorcism, I guess!! This is my first go of anything horror/angsty, so uhm.. it might be kinda bad. This is also on my AO3!!

It hates the cold.

As do you.

Yet somehow, as you lay by the flung-open bay window, watching the tiny, crystalline flakes fall to cover your once-blossoming hydrangea bushes, you feel your head silence for the first time in weeks. The lightweight blanket draped over your knees isn’t much help to fight the tremble in your fingers, which are wrapped tightly around a mug of hot chocolate— you’ve been falling victim to your sweet-toothed cravings lately, considering this very well may be your last chance to do so.

The television across the room hums whatever country music variety show is on this early in the morning; a few cars pass by outside, splashing up muddy sludge into your front yard. You can’t help but wince at the action. You once dedicated so much time to perfecting your lawn, just for all of that hard work to become irrelevant in a few short hours. It’s probably been decades since this town last saw any snow. You’d never seen so much as a cold rain in your few decades of living. It seems that Hell’s finally frozen over. It’s a shame you never paid attention in church long enough to find out what to do in such an event.

You’re feeling weak. This isn’t a new sensation. Weeks’ worth of sleep interrupted by family photos flung off of walls in the middle of the night truly does begin to take a toll on a young woman’s body. Not that you ever had much energy to begin with, what with the early mornings spent tending to horses and late nights attending to sick barn cats.

It’s quite shocking just how much energy a demonic being inhabiting your body saps up.

It only takes a few minutes, lounged by the window and focus blurring out on the white mounds of snow, for you to loll off to sleep, cocoa spilling onto your favorite quilt, but you’re not lucid enough to notice.

It’s a very gentle knock at your door that rips you from your slumber. Your encounter with whatever beast has been haunting your every move has made you an incredibly light sleeper. At this point, you could be woken by a light breath against your face. You believe you already have, a few times now.

It’s incredibly difficult for you to stand from your position on your once pristine, now chocolate-stained sofa, but you make it upright eventually. The blood comes rushing to your head at the sudden swing upright, your feet heavy against the cold hardwood floor that you never bothered to buy a rug for. Your feet were calloused enough, there was no need for comfort for something already so broken.

You cling desperately to the heavy front door that, by some act of God, you manage to swing open.

The light you’re met with is blinding. You’re not sure if it’s the sun’s rays beating off of the snow and directly into your eyes, or if the woman at your doorstep just naturally emanates such a light.

“Hi there.” Her voice is so kind and warm that your entire body feels like you’ve been sat next to a fireplace. Once your eyes fully adjust to the light surrounding your savior, you notice that her face holds a slightly bewildered look, but like she’s trying to hide it. To remain professional, to not let you in on the fact that there’s quite literally a demon hanging over your shoulders.

You take her outstretched hand in your own, shaking it weakly, and as you do, her expression is replaced by a frown. “I’m Loraine Warren,” She hums, wrapping another hand around yours, seemingly trying to bring heat to the five icicles you call fingers. “and you’re freezing.” You muster up a lackluster smile, ruminating in the warmth from the hands wrapped around your own for as long as she’ll allow. Your visitor doesn’t pull back until you do, to let her into your home.

Mrs. Warren has clearly not come prepared for this entirely unforeseen snow, seeing as she’s dressed in a plaid, tea-length dress, with only a light cardigan hung from her shoulders. There wasn’t a single weatherman on any of your very limited channels that had predicted this sort of weather this far south of the Mason-Dixon.

“Thank you…” You begin, leading the taller woman to your living room, where you practically fall to your position on the sofa again. “For coming to meet with me, Mrs. Warren. I’m so very appreciative.” Your eyelids are heavy, and your cheeks hurt with the strain of a smile, but you still force yourself to engage as delicately as you can with this woman, both for the beauty that you find so enticing, and for the fact that she very well may save your life.

The affliction you’d been suffering for the past few weeks of your life… you weren’t entirely sure what it was. At first, waking up standing in the kitchen and holding a knife to your own throat was something you could pass off as a traumatizing night of sleepwalking. The sudden headaches and physical aversion to reading your leatherbound, heavily annotated bible made you think you had suffered a concussion from falling out of bed one too many times.

Seeing the Warrens on your favorite morning talk show was what led you to raise your own suspicions. The way they spoke of a young girl in Poughkeepsie who had begun levitating in the middle of the night, who began seizing when she was read the word of God… You couldn’t help but see the similarities.

You couldn’t have possibly called the demonologists sooner.

On the phone, you spoke to a man. He was much heftier with the way he spoke, clearly the extroverted salesman of the team. He seemed skeptical, and unwilling to leave his home in New England, as he had every right to be. You very well could just have the flu. But you knew, deep down, that you didn’t, and it had to be them. It had to be. You had no other hope of surviving against your oppressor if you had to fight it alone.

Your frantic begging must have been loud enough for the people close to Ed Warren to hear, because as soon as you finished your rambling about how miserable you were, a distant, soft voice came from the other side of the phone.

Ed, listen to her. She needs us.

The line then went muffled, he had placed his palm over the receiver in hopes to hide the fact that they had begun arguing about you. You couldn’t quite make out what was said, only that the woman, Lorraine, very much wanted to come to visit you, and Ed did not.

It was as if by miracle that Lorraine showed up at your door only a day after your phone call.

“Please, call me Lorraine.” The older woman returned, standing above you. “May I ask why you have the windows open? It’s just so nasty out there… it may affect your health, sweetheart.” There’s a little glimmer in her eyes when she presses the back of her hand against your forehead, which, much to her surprise, was just as cold as your hands.

A stubborn frown returned to her pink lips, and Lorraine quickly closed the two windows behind you.

“The cold helps.” You say plainly as Lorraine moves around your vintage furniture to close the windows on the opposite side of the room.

“What do you mean?” She returns to your side, placing your quilt atop your knees and finding another to cover your shoulders. She then sits on the sofa next to you, delicately maneuvering herself underneath your blanket as well.

You blush a little, hiding your face behind the large mug that you’d once discarded.

“This… thing. Whatever’s inside me… it hates the cold.” You reply, staring down at your feet, which wiggle to regain the feeling that the cold air had taken away.

“How do you know?” The clairvoyant muses, reaching up to pet the hair that’s turned into a mat behind your head. You’ve had a horrible go of taking care of yourself lately, with things as simple as brushing your hair disappearing from your mind for days at a time.

“It started snowing just last night… Since then, it’s been quieter. I’ve been able to take control of my life again, at least a little bit.” You hum, leaning into her touch, which has dropped to press comfortingly to your shoulder. “But as soon as I lit a fire, tried to get warm, it all came back. The chaos. The… evil.” You shudder to remember the noise that’s filled your head for the past few days. The screams, the whispered urges to harm yourself and others. It’s like you’ve been sent to your own personal Hell, like God finally punished you for the way that you look at women like Lorraine. 

“You’re a very perceptive girl.” Lorraine offers you a smile, and you find that it may not only be the cold that calms you. Her presence has offered you more solace than any pain killer or chamomile tea has offered you in your entire life.

You try to giggle, try to accept her praise, but her warm touch, paired with your general lack of sleep, has made it truly impossible for you to remain at all upright. You slump over, dropping your cocoa once again, head landing on Lorraine’s shoulder.

“I believe you.” She whispers quietly, maneuvering your shoulders so that your head lays on her lap. The words are all you’ve ever needed to hear. To be assured that you’re not going crazy is all you need in order to finally fall asleep, and the hands that press warmth into your neck and forehead are the best medicine you could take.

You fall asleep in less than a second, your ears muffling all the noise in the room, yet you can still hear your visitor humming along to the tv as your muscles relax into the sofa.

♱

A soft whine escapes your lips before your eyes open. It’s a combination of bright light and tugging at the back of your head that wakes you up, and as much as you detest being stripped from the best sleep you’ve had in at least month, you feel rested enough to accept it.

“I’m so sorry. Keep sleeping, little one.” Your brain fights to register who the voice belongs to, but judging by the fact that you’ve only received one visitor in the past weeks, and the fact that no visitor you’ve ever met has had such a honey-coated voice, you remember right away. It’s Lorraine.

It’s Lorraine, and the light tugging you feel is a comb being pulled through the hair that hasn’t met such a thing in far too long. You’re hit by a sudden wave of embarrassment, knowing that the state of your hair must make you look so pitiful, like a child that can barely take care of herself. You hide your face in your hands, whining once again, hiding from the yellow light of a lamp above you, and from the fact that you look such a mess in the presence of one of the most well-kempt women you’ve ever met.

“I’m all done.” She purrs softly, running her fingers through your now untangled hair, tucking it behind your ear. You sit up, face beet red as you do so. You’re sure you’ve never felt more embarrassed in your entire life.

“Thank you…” You stutter out, voice heavy with sleep. “I’m sorry for falling asleep. I just… haven’t in quite a while. I hope I’m not taking too much of your time.” You glance up at her, eyes squinting to view the porcelain skin adorned by a smile. Lorraine Warren must truly have the kindest heart in the entire world to spend time taking care of someone she’s only just met.

“Don’t you dare apologize.” She says quite firmly, pressing her hand against your cheek, and you can feel yourself becoming addicted to her touch. “I want to take care of you.”

You feel a warmth in your cheeks, and a certain tingling in the pit of your stomach. You’ve never heard these words before, and the last time anyone had earnestly taken care of you was… well, you don’t really remember. It was probably in your early childhood, but even then, you weren’t too sure.

The butterfly wings in your stomach are quickly replaced by a different sensation, a large growling that just about reverberates through the living room. You’re filled with another bout of humiliation, and grip your stomach tightly. You’re also not too sure when you last ate.

A ginger hand presses against your stomach as well, and it dawns on you just how close to the older woman you’ve become. She’s pressed against you so much that you’re nearly sitting in her lap, and her other arm is wrapped around so very tightly around the small of your back. Lorraine is quite the touchy woman, and you couldn’t be more appreciative of such a character trait. You lean into her hands greedily, head tilting over to rest on her shoulder once more.

“Can you stand?” She hums, pressing her cheek to rest on the top of your head.

You nod slowly, not quite too sure that you’re telling the truth, but if Lorraine wants you to stand, you’ll stand. And you do, pushing hard into the ground, thankful that before all of this mess you were at least regularly active, and your body was fairly well maintained from throwing bales of hay.

“Good girl.”

The words make your knees go weak, weaker than they already are, and you falter a little in your steps. You thank God that Lorraine has such a strong grip around your waist and is able to keep you upwards.

“Show me your kitchen?” The clairvoyant asks softly, and while you do just as you’re asked, her steady gaze washes over each little family portrait, each corn husk doll, even the sunhats you’ve worn so much that they’re full of holes. One may see her wandering eyes and find her to be a terrible snoop, but Lorraine is doing her job, gathering every piece of evidence she can to use against your demon. She wants to know everything about your past and present so that she may rid you of this retched thing.

She gets no clue as to what suffering has conflicted this household from the photos of a quite happy family hanging from your walls, but she can sense it in the way the house creaks with her every step. There’s an evil lingering in these walls, and Lorraine can feel it.

“I’m… I’m not sure there’s even any food that’s still edible.” You speak gruffly as you arrive in the kitchen that overlooks your barn that was once such a brilliant red, and now stands with peeling paint and water damage. It’s a proper metaphor for your own status. You haven’t been in this room in many days, and the sight of wilting flowers and rotting vegetables depresses you immediately.

“I’m sure I can make do.” Lorraine shoots you that oh-so very reassuring smile once again, and leads you to sit at the dining table that’s only ever been set for one. “When was the last time you ate?”

It’s a dreaded question. A question that, once again, you don’t have a clear answer to. You think the last thing you ate was a handful of boiled peanuts… or was it oatmeal? Lately you had only had incredibly unpleasant dreams about food, and your brain has been so occupied by so many voices, that sustenance was the last thing on your mind.

“I’m not sure.” You muster in response, and Lorraine’s frown returns once again. She’s not mad at you, only furious at the creature that’s taken hold of you, keeping you from living a healthy life.

“You need to keep yourself fed.” Lorraine speaks softly, peeking out from behind the cabinet she’d begun rummaging around in. “Communing with the being, and an eventual exorcism, will take a lot of energy.”

She speaks so calmly about something that is so terrifying to you. You weren’t raised Catholic, and didn’t know much about their traditions, but the interview that you had watched of the Warrens spelled an exorcism out to be one of the most dangerous, mortifying acts that one could participate in. You trust Lorraine entirely though, and are filled with the knowledge that if she has to do such a thing, she will treat you delicately, and cause as little harm to you as possible.

It's only a few groggy minutes before there’s a plate laid in front of you, and by some act of God Lorraine has found another chair to sit in. She’s pulled up right next to you, and while you’re a bit surprised she hasn’t chosen to sit across from you, her choice is very welcomed. The heat from your plate warms your face, and you press your hands against it in hopes that they’ll warm as well.

“It looks delicious.” You look up to the women through your heavy eyelids, weakly grabbing hold of your fork to start lifting potatoes to your mouth. “I can’t believe you were able to make this so quickly! Thank you so very much.” You smile to her, licking your lips, stomach so very grateful to the woman beside you.

“I’ve always been a good cook. My husband is never very appreciative of my skills.” She laughs softly, but you can tell it’s something that truly upsets her. If you were lucky enough to live in a home with Lorraine Warren and have her food for every meal, you consider yourself to be in Heaven. From your short conversation, Ed didn’t quite seem to be a wholly grateful man. “You’re not married.” She then says, taking a sip from the old whiskey glass that’s now filled with water.

Her words are more observational than questioning, and it causes a twinge of discomfort within you. You’d always been questioned for your spinster-like nature, women in your church always wanted to set you up with their sons or nephews. You’re such a pretty girl, they’d say, why on God’s green Earth aren’t you dating anyone?

It was impossible to tell them that you’d never want to marry a man, even if someone held a gun to your head.

“No…” You reply awkwardly, and the word turns into a yawn, leading you to cover your mouth with one hand. “I’ve just… never met the right person, I guess.” You huff, kicking your elbow up on the table and resting your chin on your fist to keep yourself propped up. Who knew something as simple as lifting a fork to your mouth would be so difficult. “Or… Well…” You start again, feeling almost too comfortable in Lorraine’s presence to share a little more. “I’ve just, never really been interested in anyone.”

When you drop your fork to your plate with quite the dramatic tink, that same loving hand returns to your lower back. Lorraine has taken your fork between her perfectly manicured fingers, and lifts another bite towards your lips, which you not-so-gracefully accept.

“Well, that is a shame.” The brunette responds, and though you can’t see it, there’s the tiniest hint of a smirk on her face. She seems to be a bit too pleased by your loneliness. “I do hope you’ll find someone soon. You are so deserving of love.”

You’re not sure if you’re deserving, but you’re damn well desperate for it.

Lorraine continues to feed you, lifting small bites of vegetable to your lips while whispering her gentle praises after each bite. Your face is now permanently pink, with each of her cooing words turning you into a little mess beneath her. You’re connected at her hip once again, legs tangled around each other under your gingham tablecloth. You’re so very lucky that you never receive any visitors, for you deign to think of anyone’s reaction to your little displays of minute affection.

“I was hoping I might stay with you here. I always find it more helpful to fully integrate myself into the lives of someone I’m helping.” She hums once you’ve finished all of your food, and she can move onto her own. You lean against her shoulder once more, eyes closed, yet you’re completely awake. Her sentence is entirely shocking, yet you’re completely excited by it, and couldn’t possibly accept her request quicker.

“Yes, of course!” You hear the over-enthusiasm in your voice, and hope you haven’t come off too strongly. You sit up to meet her gaze, blushing just from the way she looks at you so sweetly. “I only have the one bedroom, I’m afraid. It’s a bit of a mess at the moment, but I can wash the sheets, and you can sleep there! I spend most of my time on the sofa anyway, I’m happy to sleep there.” You nod cheerfully, hoping with all of your heart that she’ll not be too deterred by your excitement.

“Don’t be silly.” She smiles, lifting her hand to gently pet your hair, her fingernails grazing your scalp in a way that sends a tingle down your spine. “I’ll take your bed, but only if you’re in it as well. If that’s alright with you, of course. I just want to keep an eye on you.” She winks, and it’s that moment that you feel your soul leave your body. You choke on your own saliva, coughing a few times. You’ve been sitting so close to Lorraine today, that you shouldn’t feel so strange about sharing your bed with her, yet it brings a worried feeling to the pit of your stomach. When you explore that feeling more, you’ll find that it’s really excitement, and a desperation to sleep next to another body that you’d never knew you had.

“That’s fine by me…” You stutter, trying to hide the eager smile that’s threatening your lips. You chew on the insides of your cheeks, your hands finding their way to some fabric, not knowing if it’s the tablecloth or your shirt or maybe Lorraine’s skirt. Whatever it is, you grip it tightly, trying to force all of your delight on an object rather than voice it. “It’ll be good to share each other’s’ body heat… it gets so cold at night even without the snow…” Your voice is trembling a little, betraying how fast your heart is racing.

You’re ready for the sun to go down now.

But you still have a few hours of sunlight left, and Lorraine fills it with questions about your family history, about your experience with this malevolent being, and just about your daily life. She wonders what it is that you do for fun in such a small town, and you feel shy to admit that you rarely leave the house except to go to church. That leads her to talk about her own religion, and it’s so mystifying to hear her speak about her passion for Christ. She speaks in such a profound way, like she’s spent time as a pastor, though you’d never once met a female pastor. Lorraine is certainly a better speaker than all the old men that lead prayer at church and quote the same bible verses into monotony.

She proudly shows you the rosary around her neck, explaining the story behind it with the most adorable sparkle in her eyes. When you take the metal in your hands, wanting to share in her passion, it burns. Burns like you’ve just pressed your hand flat into the cooktop of an oven. You recoil in pain, but when Lorraine attends to your palm, there’s no sign of a burn.

“It… It stings.” You whine, looking down at your hand in disbelief. You’ve never felt such pain, and the fact that it’s not left a visible mark is messing with your head so much that your eyes begin to well with tears.

“I know it does, sweetheart. I know.” Lorraine hums, holding you tightly, lifting a thumb to wipe at your tears. “Ointment won’t help it, I’m afraid. It’s the spirit reacting through nerve induction. It will go away soon. I promise.” The demonologist quickly stuffs the rosary down the neck of her blouse, wanting to hide everything that causes you pain. Lorraine hates to see you in such a state, and though you don’t comprehend anything about this spirit, her brain is working overtime to plot a strategy to rid you of this beast.

You sit together for another half hour, Lorraine consoling the pain that has long since disappeared thanks to her sweet whispers and distracting stories. You nearly fall asleep on the sofa once again, and she can see it, so without having to ask, she takes you up the stairs and to your bedroom.

“I’ll just go down the hall to get myself ready for bed. I’ll be right back, I promise.” She hums, pressing an innocent kiss to your forehead before leaving the room. Watching her walk away from you shatters your heart into a million pieces, but you know she’ll come back through the doors quickly. You trust Lorraine’s promise.

I need to change before she gets back, you think, but your body simply won’t allow you to move.   You’re stuck to this bed, to this soft mattress that you once so adored, but now only fear for the horrible dreams it brings upon you.

You sit in this fear, for how long you’re not certain, before Lorraine returns. Her hair is combed through yet still has that lovely, silky wave to it, and she’s dressed in the prettiest white nightgown. She looks like an angel, in shiny white linen. She’s just missing the wings and halo. You feel a warmth rise to your cheeks, seeing her in this state, a state which she’d probably only ever been seen in by her husband. You feel so scandalous, like you should avert your gaze, like God is going to find you sinful for looking at her like this, but your eyes are locked onto this heavenly body in front of you, and you can’t pull away.

“I’m sorry I—” You begin, hands gripping at your shirt, trying to indicate to her that you’re upset with yourself for not getting dressed in her absence.

Lorraine only tuts at you, placing down her bag before rounding to your side of the bed. She helps you stand, and begins through your closet, looking for a nightgown for you to wear. Much to her chagrin, however, all she can find is dirty jeans and some oversized t-shirts, which makes her feel pity towards you, but also causes a small giggle to escape her lips because she finds the clothing choices so adorably fitting for a young farm girl. She settles on the least stained of all of your shirts before returning to your side.

“May I?” Her voice is low, knowing that you’re the only person in the world that needs to hear her. When you nod, she pulls your blouse over your head, and she develops a blush of her own to find that you’re not wearing anything beneath it. You try to hide, snaking your hands around your chest, a new warmth between your legs as you realize that Lorraine’s hands are wandering over your body, the pads of her fingers lightly prodding your exposed skin.

“You sweet thing. You just need someone to love you.” Your savior hums, delicately examining all of the bruises that cover your skin. You’re not even sure where they all came from, just that they developed fast. A few concern you more than the others: the ones shaped like fingers and teeth marks. They never hurt at night, but the fear that strikes you every morning when you reveal a new marking in the mirror is something that you never want to feel again.

Lorraine presses another small kiss to a bruise on your shoulder before helping you pull the sleep shirt over your head. She reluctantly, yet with the complete confidence that she’s carried herself with all along, pulls down your pants in one swift motion. You’re back in bed before you know it, Lorraine tucking you in tightly and making sure you’re perfectly comfortable before taking her own place beside you.

Your brain is rushing, not with the demonic thoughts that you’ve had all this time, but with so many feelings that you never knew existed before meeting Lorraine. You feel horribly antsy, like you have enough energy to run laps around the house. You miss the tiredness that had been affecting you earlier this morning, it was going to be quite difficult to sleep tonight.

“I’m so very glad you came to help me.” You whisper, voice shaky with nerves as you turn on your side to face the woman who’s already turned towards you. You can feel how close your bodies are, yet they aren’t touching, and your brain is working overtime to decide if you should close that space between you.

Luckily, Lorraine is making all of your decisions for you.

You feel the soft skin of her legs first, when they wrap around yours, holding them still. Her right arm is next, draping over the curve in your waist so gently, yet she has the firmest grip on you, like she won’t let you leave even if you tried. You’d never try.

“I…” You start again, shifting even closer to Lorraine, placing your hand on her chest so you can feel her heartbeat. You pray she can’t feel yours, for its beating is so quick it’s probably quite dangerous, and you’ve already worried her enough. “Since you’ve been here, my brain has been so… still. So quiet.” That’s not entirely true, as the angelic woman in front of you has only replaced all of your thoughts, but it’s close enough. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” She whispers back, voice so low and gravelly with her own sleep, so that you have to lean even further forward to hear her, and your noses nearly touch. “I haven’t done my job just yet.”

You tense, suddenly filled with worry about what will happen when Lorraine eventually does what she’s come here to do. If your still-burning pain from merely touching a symbol of the Lord is any indication, you’re in for a wellspring of hurt when you wake up in the morning.

As for now, though, you’re completely safe, protected by your guardian angel, and you can sleep soundly for the first time in far too long. You fall asleep under Lorraine’s grasp far quicker than you’d like, as you’d really prefer to stay awake and really cherish the soft circles she’s rubbing into your flesh, but your eyelids fall shut on their own accord.

Lorraine, however, stays up a bit later, watching your face for any sign of nightmares, wandering hands exploring your curves as if looking for clues, soothing you into the deepest sleep of your life.  

Lorriane wakes groggily, yawning while rubbing at her eyes with balled-up fists. She notices first that it’s still not light outside, that she still has time to sleep. Though she won’t, because a panic rips through the woman when she registers your absence. She shoots straight up out of bed, body moving to wrap herself in one of your mother’s old house coats faster than her brain can function. It’s on sheer instinct that Lorraine wraps the rosary around her hand and stuffs her small Bible into her pocket.

She races through the creaky old home, feet freezing against the hardwood floors that whine with each of her frantic steps. Lorraine shouts your name and is only met by her own voice echoing back at her. She searches each room of your house, her eyes still blurry from sleep. She whips open cupboards and is even sure to peek into your attic, which you haven’t so much as thought about since inheriting the home.

A worry is settled across Lorraine’s face when she makes it into your kitchen, but her expression turns to true fear when she sees that the lock on your back door has come undone, and the door isn’t settled into its place in its frame. She searches for any pair of shoes she can find and settles for a pair of boots that barely fit her feet, but their steel toes will at least protect her from the elements. She’s shivering, and her eyes are watering so much that the tears turn cold against her cheeks. The demonologist places a hand over her chest, gripping onto her rosary for a moment, bracing herself for the cold, before she slings the door open and steps out into the night.

The snowfall has picked up tenfold, and there’s now a little under a foot of snow packed onto the ground. Lorraine pulls the small cotton coat around herself tightly, her hair whipping wildly around her face as she blinks back tears, searching for any sign of life. When she looks down, there’s an obvious set of footprints: kicked-back snow heading in the direction of the old, forgotten barn.

Lorraine follows your shoeless prints, still screaming your name into the void of night, her voice strained and muffled in the silence that surrounds her. There isn’t even the typical wee-hour birdsong that too frequently keeps you awake. No cars on the road make their habitual noise, no cows bellowing from across the street. Only the exhausted screams of a woman so frightened for your survival.

When she arrives to the barn, finding safety from the wind in its high walls, feeling so close to dropping to her knees and praying that she had never fallen asleep in the first place, Lorraine spots you. A frail, half-naked body illuminated by one flickering, dangling light that allow the older woman’s eyes little vantage.

She’s filled with relief that she’s found you, but that relief only lasts less than a second before she’s filled with dread. Dread that something is horribly wrong. Dread because you’re dripping with a slick, dark, shimmering liquid.

Lorraine falls to her knees beside you, taking your near-lifeless face in her hands.

“What have you done to her?” She yells, voice harsh and gravelly. She’s speaking to your demon, to the thing that has taken control of your legs and marched you out to this barn, that has treated you like such an animal.

You’re barely conscious, losing the internal battle to keep control of your own mind. All you can do is lean your pained body into Lorraine, trying to give her some sort of message that you’re still there, that you’re still swimming in your own mind, trying to breach the surface.

The clairvoyant asses your injuries, wiping the tears at your eyes and her own. Thankfully, the only damage is done to your back, the lashes across your spine that fuel Lorraine with so much hatred. When your shaking hands lift the riding crop to lay even more agony against your tender flesh, Lorraine wrestles it out of your tight grip and throws it aside, far out of your reach.

“We have to do this now.” Lorraine’s voice is significantly kinder, her hands holding your head close to her chest. She sits in her own fear for a moment, building a strategy to get this thing out of you once and for all. She whispers a prayer, and the words hurt your head, fill your brain with a terrible, searing scream, but there’s simply nothing you can do to stop it. Your livelihood now rests at Lorraine Warren’s feet.

Lorraine stands, guides you upwards. She’s shellshocked by the fact that she’s about to take on a task that she had never solely performed before, and it’s caused her knees to walk unsteadily. She takes the housecoat off and guides it over your shoulders, face twinging as she lays it against the open wounds of your back, but she’d rather you feel pain for a small moment than have your delicate skin come into contact with the weather. The woman ties the coat tight before picking you up, carrying you back through the strong winds, shoes clumping down on the piling snow.

When she replaces the darkness of the sky with the darkness of your home, Lorraine places you down on the sofa where she had once sat with you. You sit in a crumpled state, arms limp, though they fight to wrap around your body, subconsciously seeking heat. You’re impossibly cold, and the longer your toes sit with minimal blood flow, the angrier your beast grows. Your shivering only grows worse when Lorraine throws open the French windows behind you, allowing the snow to come in through the screens and settle in your hair.

“I know it hurts.” She whispers, trying to find some sort of life behind your glassy eyes. Lorraine has forced herself into seriousness, closed her tear ducts and is carrying herself professionally. She knows that treating this with any level of emotional attachment could be suicide for the exorcism, and though the near love that she’s developed for you still lingers at the back of her brain, she has to silence it, she has to save your life before she can worry about you anymore.

Sniffing back the wetness that’s come from the cold air beating against her face, Lorraine finds the Bible still sitting in the pocket of the coat draped over your shoulders. She holds her left hand against your forehead, and the cross casts a warmth against your face that you lean back to fight against, though you’re not sure if it’s of your own action or that of something else.

Lorraine begins reciting a prayer in Latin, that you’d surely be swooning over had you been at all conscious. You’ve nearly lost your battle, your body completely limp against the pillows, as though you’ve lost all muscle mass in less than a minute. You’ve lost all awareness of the situation and now exist only in your own mind, trying your damnedest to regain control.

Each word Lorraine yells with a cracking voice causes a new pain to emerge somewhere within your body, and the pain consumes you so much that you fall over, landing in a fetal position against the cushions of the sofa. Lorraine’s hands want to reach out to soothe you, to press their warmth into your blue skin, to replace your pain with her loving touch, but she restrains herself. She knows that you must feel this pain, that it will drive the presence out of your body and back to the Hell that it emerged from.

“I need you to fight it.” Lorraine interrupts her own prayer to press her forehead against your own, fingers gripping your jaw like her life depends on it. “Don’t give in, don’t let it take you.” She calls, holding the weight of your head in her hands, feeling how much authority you’ve lost over your own body. “Please, fight. For me.”

You’ve already done your fighting. Though you’ve been so horribly affected by this presence in your home, disrupting your livelihood, your sleep, your will to live, there’s not really been anything impacting your will to live at all in years past. You’ve simply been existing in this plane, doing your chores and going to church, following your routines for no reason other than it’s what you’ve always done. Your routines that are so set in stone that it took a demonic presence to shake them up. But you’ve had no one to share your routine with, no one to cook for, no one to compliment how beautifully your flowers have grown. You’ve had no one to fight for.

Your life is not one worth fighting for.

Lorraine Warren, however, feels the opposite. The way she’s holding you so tightly, on her knees in front of you, begging you to stay alive… though you can’t see it, aren’t cognizant enough to hear her begging, you can feel it. There’s a warmth against your chest that’s keeping your heart beating, and a light behind your eyes that’s pushing you to keep going.

So you do. You do as Lorraine asks, and the last little bit of willpower you have musters up into your fingers, and you grab onto Lorraine’s shoulders with an anemic grasp, trying to pull her closer. You force your eyes open, though it’s so very painful due to the rosary still swinging in view, and look up at Lorraine’s worried features. More than anything, you’re filled with hatred that you’re the one to cause her this anguish, that she shouldn’t be so concerned over a life as meaningless as your own.

It's the most beautiful smile you’re met with that causes the final push, that forces your beast out of your mind and into the wind that’s still blowing melting snowflakes onto your already freezing body. A sudden relief fills your body, the power over your own actions that brings back the feeling in your muscles. You sit up, blinking slowly, reliving the past few minutes over and over as you regain a full level of awareness that you’d been left without for the past months.

Lorraine allows you your time to rejoin the living world, slamming shut the windows behind you and throwing several blankets over your freezing body. She drops back to her knees to assess you once more, seeing the color back in your eyes and the warmth rising back to your cheeks. She had seen you in such a terrifying, corpse-like state that she’d surely soon have nightmares about, so the fact that your eyes were finally locking onto her own was an answered prayer.

You eagerly wrapped both arms around the woman’s neck, holding her as close as you can, thanking her over and over again, until the stinging on your back takes the brunt of your attention.

“Don’t thank me. It was all your own work.” She hums, trying to find anywhere she can hold you without wrapping her arms around your back. Lorraine then stands, settling on petting your hair, looking around for any other sources of heat that she may impress upon you. “Do you have any fire woo—”

She’s cut off by the swift action of your standing up, an action that she would surely advise against had she had the option to. But her lips are unable to protest, because they’re met by your own. You’re shocked by your own straightforwardness, and though the fear that she’ll run away and call you a freak is very prominent in your mind, you feel so swept up in thankfulness to this woman, so swept up in love, that the only thing you feel like doing is kissing her.

You internally thank God that she’s not pushed you off, and instead, once the initial shock wears off, Lorraine’s hands are gripping your cheeks and are tugging you forward into her. Though you’re near hypothermic, the warmth that radiates through you when you wrap your arms around Lorraine Warren’s waist is something truly heavenly. You can feel the ice melting away from your fingers and toes, even though you still stand within a house that’s currently running below freezing.

You try to stay attached to Lorraine’s lips for as long as you can, as long as she’ll allow, and as desperately as you both are to stay in this state, Lorraine’s overall concern for your health reigns supreme, and she pulls away to once again ask her question. You giggle softly, hiding your face against her chest, hoping she hasn’t seen how overjoyed your smile is. Though if you were to pick up your head, you’d see that she dons a similar expression.

You direct Lorraine to a closet, and she returns to build a fire. She sits you down right in front of it, and for the first time in far too many days, you feel warmth against your face. You’re not too sure just which direction that warmth is coming from, whether it’s from the fire or the woman sitting next to you, carefully washing the horrible scratches along your spine, but you feel a warmth unlike anything you’ve ever felt in all of your years of living. A warmth you never want to go away.

[sketchiefoxie]

I posted my Rottmnt Horror Au, Deja Vu on Ao3 for anyone who's interested!!

The formatting will still be similar to the tumblr post (which you can find here) this is just another way for y'all to access it ^^ Ok, have fun!!

Edit: I also am adding Deja Vu to my main masterpost ^^