#TW murder Tumblr posts

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

Vincent Price and Harvey Stephens -

The Bat (1959)

[elsa-fogen]

Some pics from my meme

[mcondance]

till death starring stu macher

dead dove, do not eat. like the dove is actually fucking dead.

written from stu’s pov-ish.

remember when i said i needed stu to kill me and then fuck my corpse as a final act of desecration and perversion? happy halloween. and happy kinktober.

he’s proud.

lifeless, but still warm. the blood pouring from your abdomen is still bright, rushing red. his skin prickles with what he’s feeling.

jesus.

you’re still so pretty. prettier, really, now that he’s conquered you. now that you’re his victim.

so his hand draws to your hot face, and he wipes away the tears you’d shed. he’s in control of himself. the only one the driver’s seat when he raises up over you and gazes at you with blown pupils, like he did when you were still here.

his mind is moving a million miles per hour, bouncing off of logic and murder and perversion, as his eyes dart down to the waistband of your sleep shorts, tiny ones you only wore when you were alone, or with him. you trusted him.

you trusted him. he’s hard. ridiculously hard, harder than he ever got when you were alive, even when you were letting him turn you into something unrecognizable for his pleasure.

he killed you in your home, in the space you let him into because you really, really trusted him, even when it was obvious you shouldn’t have.

it’s your fault, really. stupid girl, not smart enough to know the man she was fucking was a killer.

how did you not know, he thinks.

what a pretty body.

maybe those guys are right, maybe his knife does represent his dick. they have to be, with the way it felt nothing but sexual when he sunk it into you, when you called his name and looked right into his eyes like you used to when he fucked you, when he kept going even when you pleaded with him to stop.

his bloodied hands drag your shorts and panties down your heavy legs and waste no time in pulling his pants down. black blown-out eyes focus on the fountain of blood pouring from your stomach. this is sexual, the blood, the wound, the kill excited him more than your cunt ever did.

he loved your cunt. still does. he loves your blood, too. he swears to god it’s a different red than everyone else’s, a gleaming vermillion he’s never seen before. pleasure is pleasure, your warmth wrapped around him felt good. but he liked to hear you beg more, to see you wrap your hand around his wrist and plead with him to let go as your eyes began to flutter.

your eyes. shut closed forever.

you feel just like you did when you were alive. still tight and wet and your tits bounce just like they used to. jesus, they’re so pretty, feel so good under his hands.

he’s sweating. it drips down onto your neck as your body rocks with his movements. he’s fucking you, hard, rutting into you and grunting and groaning with so much feeling he thinks he’s going to fucking explode.

one last time, he gets to defile you, to steal your innocence and light and make you his.

you screamed when you first saw him. mask on but shroud forsaken. terror, then confusion, then realization, then fear.

you couldn’t be faster than him even if you tried your hardest.

the sound was beautiful. your shoulder firm under his hand as he held you still.

his mind is on fire.

you felt betrayed, really. brown eyes big and hurt like you couldn’t believe what he’d done. he sunk down with you, guiding you to your living floor as he watched your life leave you. he watched your blood pour from your wound. he nodded as you reached up for him, rubbing his face and pleading as if your show of connection in your final moments would mean a thing to him. still, unmoving as he listened to you beg him to “get some help, stu, please, please help me, why would you do this, stu, oh my god, oh my god, god, stu, please. please, please, pl—.” he watched you take your last breath, and he savored it all.

his hips stutter as he cums, and he pulls out to jerk himself onto the hole he carved earlier. lights flicker behind his eyes as his rubs the tip of himself through the bright red blood, smearing it all over your stomach.

he owns you. from the moment he saw you, he owned you. in life, and in death.

[longtallglasses]

If it takes all night... (vampire!mike au)

Mike needs to get over his feelings for Will before it kills him. Literally. After a night out with a mysterious stranger turns into a surprise vampire attack that he should've seen coming, Will comes in to save his skin with a makeshift stake to the heart. However, the real nightmare begins when Mike starts showing signs of turning into a vampire himself. But Will is willing to do anything to help him survive... anything.

fresh vampire mike and human will are fighting feelings for each other and somehow that's worse than a vampire coven stalking their every move...

for @bylerween day 4! transform!

[movntaindrew]

DEATH DOESN’T DISCRIMINATE, BETWEEN THE SINNERS AND THE SAINTS, IT TAKES AND IT TAKES AND IT TAKES.

(Wait For It, Hamilton) — warning: descriptive murder & violence, and multiple mention of death.

13 is the number of death. The unlucky number.

Coincidentally, Morgan’s luck began to diminish as death began to loom over her at the age 13. But she was never the target. Death seemed to enjoy seeing a child witness direct or indirect deaths of her loved ones, snapping his fingers and taking their breaths away before her.

First was her nanay and táta. It was brutal, they died on a friday when she was 13. She was only 13, a 13-year-old shouldn’t be seeing so much blood. A 13-year old should be worrying about her first day of high school, not sitting between her parents, her new shoes soaked in their blood.

The same year, her friend died. She was in the orphanage, watching the news. He saw his face— his hair that was once red like hers was dyed black, but it was Jason’s face regardless— on the screen; Billionaire Philanthropist’s adopted son, dead. She was only 13 and she already felt so alone.

Everyone’s gone but Death himself.

13 is the number of death. It must be her number.

Because she was 13 when she snapped back to reality up blood in her hands. 

Morgan began to hyperventilate, the blue knife clattering on the ground— where did that come from?— as she stared at the body before her.

“Morgan!” she heard a voice called out but it was drowned by the multiple whispers in her head— she doesn’t understand it, they’re talking a lot, all over each other— and the fact that her hands were red and wet.

She wished she didn't remember. But she remembered it clearly.  

It was one of Fish Mooney’s goons, cornering her and Harley by some alley, demanding for the heirloom Fish was after.

Morgan survived purely by instinct and Harley’s huge hammer. She wasn’t sure what was going on, Chat— the whispers, the eyes, you, the reader—wanted her to fight and help Harley. But then one of the goons had slipped Harley and Morgan was cornered. The guy loomed over her— like how Death does, like how the clown did—

FIGHT—FIGHT—FIGHT—FIGHT BACK— The voices were loud, for the first time, they all agreed on something.

This man works for Fish Mooney, he wasn’t probably above harming a child. Morgan acted on impulse when he got too close, fear in her veins and Morgan rarely feels afraid nowadays. When he grabbed her arm, the guy’s face changed until his lips were red, his skin was bleached, his hair was green…

Morgan began to hyperventilate. It was him. Here. Again. Before the clown could do anything, Morgan wordlessly raised her arm, gripping her knife— wait, where did that come from?— and slit his throat.

When she saw red, Chat stopped. Morgan was surprised by the silence so Morgan didn’t stop. As the clown stumbled back, choking on his own blood, she lunged and plunged her blade into his skin. Not once. Not twice. All her anger was released with every push of the knife and it…

It felt freeing. To end him. Because that meant she’d be freeing the people he had killed too.

Chat quieted down. Is this how to make it stop talking? (Is this why she does this again? Is this why she takes and she takes and she takes?)

Until with a blink of her eyes, the clown wasn’t the one bleeding on the alley floor. 

And Morgan staggered backwards. She was only 13 when she caused a man to bleed out. Her eyes widened in fear of what she just did, she let out a strangled gasp, the knife clattering on the ground.

As she stood there, Morgan realised there was no guilt pooling in her stomach. No, it was more of a... 

“Morgan!” she heard Harley call out to her again.

… Disappointment.

Chat returned to her head. Ecstatic, amazed, terrified, and worried. And Morgan was disappointed because it was just a guy, it wasn’t him. The clown was still alive out there, Morgan didn’t kill him. She no longer felt free.

“Morga— oh my god,” Harley said. Morgan turned to her with an unreadable expression. “Oh god, did you—“ she shook her head and approached the redhead, concerned etched on her face. “Morgan, are you okay? What happe—“

She was only 13. A 13-year-old like her should be worrying about her upcoming recital, not thinking about how annoyed she was that it wasn’t the Joker that was on the floor, that it wasn’t the Joker’s blood in her hands.

Death no longer loomed over, no longer making her witness his powers. No, Death took her hands, guided her at age 13, and had her do his work for him.

[hussyknee]

[ed-recoverry]

Pauly Likens Jr., a 14-year-old transgender girl, was recently found murdered.

She was stabbed. Her body was found dismembered in a river; a man was recently arrested for her death. Her cause of death was trauma to her head.

She was supposed to be celebrating her 15th birthday this Saturday.

Her family has started a gofundme to cover her funeral.

Trans lives matter.

Trans kids deserve to live.

Keep trans kids safe.

[incorrectbatfam]

Jason: Okay, so get this.

Jason: You make ten meals, you're not a cook.

Jason: You make twenty paintings, you're not an artist.

Jason: But you kill ONE PERSON—

[rrcenic]

nex benedict was a native american non binary kid who was beaten to death in the girls bathroom at their school in oklahoma. the school forced them to use the girls room and they still got fucking killed.

their school didnt even call 911 when they were dizzy and bruised and bleeding after being assaulted by three older girls and having their head slammed on the tile floor. they were suspended for two weeks. they died from the head injuries 24 hours later.

NEX WAS SIXTEEN. SIXTEEN. THEY LIKED MINECRAFT AND ARK SURVIVAL EVOLVED AND THEIR CAT ZEUS.

THEY WERE A CHILD.

THEY WERE TOLD TO COMPLY TO THE RULES ABOUT BATHROOMS AND THEY DID AND THEY WERE STILL BEATEN TO DEATH. BECAUSE IT HAS NEVER BEEN ABOUT BATHROOMS AND BIOLOGICAL SEX. IT IS ABOUT SILENCING AND ENDING US.

trans kids are not safe anywhere. terfs and transphobic influencers teach children to hate their peers and people DIE. i hope terfs know that they are the reason people die. nex's blood, and the blood of thousands of trans kids who have been killed, abused, and ended their own lives, are on your hands.

im disgusted and depressed and scared

important additions!!

@donuteater13 added this link to a source

@wonderthestars compiled this info:

as @minecraft666 said, the staff needs to be held accountable for not calling an ambulance and allowing the transphobia to exist

https://ohs.owassops.org/apps/staff/

[jadelucille]

I always come back😈😈

[j0celynh0rr0r]

Unbothered

[intheholler]

the appalachian murder ballad <3 one of the most interesting elements of americana and american folk, imo!

my wife recently gave me A Look when i had one playing in the car and she was like, "why do all of these old folk songs talk about killing people lmao" and i realized i wanted to Talk About It at length.

nerd shit under the cut, and it's long. y'all been warned

so, as y'all probably know, a lot of appalachian folk music grew its roots in scottish folk (and then was heavily influenced by Black folks once it arrived here, but that's a post for another time).

they existed, as most folk music does, to deliver a narrative--to pass on a story orally, especially in communities where literacy was not widespread. their whole purpose was to get the news out there about current events, and everyone loves a good murder mystery!

as an aside, i saw someone liken the murder ballad to a ye olde true crime podcast and tbh, yeah lol.

the "original" murder ballads started back across the pond as news stories printed on broadsheets and penned in such a way that it was easy to put to melody.

they were meant to be passed on and keep the people informed about the goings-on in town. i imagine that because these songs were left up to their original orators to get them going, this would be why we have sooo many variations of old folk songs.

naturally then, almost always, they were based on real events, either sung from an outside perspective, from the killer's perspective and in some cases, from the victim's. of course, like most things from days of yore, they reek of social dogshit. the particular flavor of dogshit of the OG murder ballad was misogyny.

so, the murder ballad came over when the english and scots-irish settlers did. in fact, a lot of the current murder ballads are still telling stories from centuries ago, and, as is the way of folk, getting rewritten and given new names and melodies and evolving into the modern recordings we hear today.

305 such scottish and english ballads were noted and collected into what is famously known as the Child Ballads collected by a professor named francis james child in the 19th century. they have been reshaped and covered and recorded a million and one times, as is the folk way.

while newer ones continued to largely fit the formula of retelling real events and murder trials (such as one of my favorite ones, little sadie, about a murderer getting chased through the carolinas to have justice handed down), they also evolved into sometimes fictional, (often unfortunately misogynistic) cautionary tales.

perhaps the most famous examples of these are omie wise and pretty polly where the woman's death almost feels justified as if it's her fault (big shocker).

but i digress. in this way, the evolution of the murder ballad came to serve a similar purpose as the spooky legends of appalachia did/do now.

(why do we have those urban legends and oral traditions warning yall out of the woods? to keep babies from gettin lost n dying in them. i know it's a fun tiktok trend rn to tell tale of spooky scary woods like there's really more haints out here than there are anywhere else, but that's a rant for another time too ain't it)

so, the aforementioned little sadie (also known as "bad lee brown" in some cases) was first recorded in the 1920s. i'm also plugging my favorite female-vocaist cover of it there because it's superior when a woman does it, sorry.

it is a pretty straightforward murder ballad in its content--in the original version, the guy kills a woman, a stranger or his girlfriend sometimes depending on who is covering it.

but instead of it being a cautionary 'be careful and don't get pregnant or it's your fault' tale like omie wise and pretty polly, the guy doesn't get away with it, and he's not portrayed as sympathetic like the murderer is in so many ballads.

a few decades after, women started saying fuck you and writing their own murder ballads.

in the 40s, the femme fatale trope was in full swing with women flipping the script and killing their male lovers for slights against them instead.

men began to enter the "find out" phase in these songs and paid up for being abusive partners. women regained their agency and humanity by actually giving themselves an active voice instead of just being essentially 'fridged in the ballads of old.

her majesty dolly parton even covered plenty of old ballads herself but then went on to write the bridge, telling the pregnant-woman-in-the-murder-ballad's side of things for once. love her.

as a listener, i realized that i personally prefer these modern covers of appalachian murder ballads sung by women-led acts like dolly and gillian welch and even the super-recent crooked still especially, because there is a sense of reclamation, subverting its roots by giving it a woman's voice instead.

meaning that, like a lot else from the problematic past, the appalachian murder ballad is something to be enjoyed with critical ears. violence against women is an evergreen issue, of course, and you're going to encounter a lot of that in this branch of historical music.

but with folk songs, and especially the murder ballad, being such a foundational element of appalachian history and culture and fitting squarely into the appalachian gothic, i still find them important and so, so interesting

i do feel it's worth mentioning that there are "tamer" ones. with traditional and modern murder ballads alike, some of them are just for "fun," like a murder mystery novel is enjoyable to read; not all have a message or retell a historical trial.

(for instance, i'd even argue ultra-modern, popular americana songs like hell's comin' with me is a contemporary americana murder ballad--being sung by a male vocalist and having evolved from being at the expense of a woman to instead being directed at a harmful and corrupt church. that kind of thing)

in short: it continues to evolve, and i continue to eat that shit up.

anyway, to leave off, lemme share with yall my personal favorite murder ballad which fits squarely into murder mystery/horror novel territory imo.

it's the 10th child ballad and was originally known as "the twa sisters." it's been covered to hell n back and named and renamed.

but! if you listen to any flavor of americana, chances are high you already know it; popular names are "the dreadful wind and rain" and sometimes just "wind and rain."

in it, a jealous older sister pushes her other sister into a river (or stream, or sea, depending on who's covering it) over a dumbass man. the little sister's body floats away and a fiddle maker come upon her and took parts of her body to make a fiddle of his own. the only song the new fiddle plays is the tale about how it came to be, and it is the same song you have been listening to until then.

how's that for genuinely spooky-scary appalachia, y'all?

[our-trans-youth-experience]

Rest in Power, Nex Benedict

A 16 year old kid who loved nature and looking after their cat Zeus. Who enjoyed reading, watching the Walking Dead, and playing Ark and Minecraft. They loved to cook and would often make up their own recipes. They did well in school, being a straight-A student. Rest in power a teen who was human and had interests and ambitions and challenges and friendships. A trans youth who was brutally murdered just for being trans, when that was only a fragment of who they were as a person.

Nex Benedict, Jacob Williamson, Brianna Ghey, and other trans youth like them were real people with real lives. They deserved better, longer, happier lives. They deserved to grow up and not fear for their lives. They deserve to be remembered as who they were, not just as another trans kid who was killed, as people with families and normal human lives.

[allurilove]

Yandere Stalker x you

Rated 18 + -- mature short content !

Content Warning: This story contains themes of obsession, stalking, manipulation, and violent fantasies. It delves into the unhealthy and dangerous mindset of a stalker obsessed with you. Reader discretion is advised.

WORD COUNT: 3.6K

INCLUDES: Stalking, blood kink, obsessive behavior, cunnilingus, fingering, fem reader, choking, mentions of cheating, p in v sex in public, murder, death, he's not a good person, dom yandere?, degradation?, he can be a bit of a gaslighter, gore, and more.

*This is the third fic to this little mini series. Check out the first part, and the second part for a better understanding! He is referred to as "your stalker." The italicized portion is his inner thoughts! This fic is inspired by the show You, and this is purely fictional writing!*

SYNOPSIS: Your stalker's obsession intensifies as he becomes involved with another woman named Daniella Foster, who he views as inferior to you. Despite his disdain for your best friend, he engages in a flirtatious and sexual relationship with her, all the while fantasizing about you.

What's more dangerous than a sick, psychotic, and perverted man?

I ran out of your blood today.

Just four hours ago, I was completely fine. The vial of your period blood was nearly empty, but I was able to stick my finger inside to collect the last of your crimson essence. I sucked a particularly big blood clot off my finger, and I was able to start my day with a huge smile.

Four hours ago, I could claim that I was a normal and functioning man, someone you wouldn’t blink an eye at, and that was all thanks to you.

Four hours ago, I was able to brush my teeth, take a shower, and clean myself up for the day. I had an extra pep in my step, and I felt like I could take on the world with a positive outlook.

Don’t you see how much life you give me? Your blood alone has made me feel like I was on top of the world, like I could float up into space with just your plasma to help me survive.

But now, it was gone.

Your stalker stared blankly at the window as his body was jostled side to side, his hands tightly gripping the handle of his tote bag that rested on his lap. He tried to ignore the obnoxiously sick person near him, who didn’t even bother to cover their coughs. He closed his eyes to avoid staring into the eyes of another person across from him. He was sandwiched between two burly people: one shouted loudly into their phone, clearly having zero spatial awareness, while the other snoozed. The woman's head drooped as she nodded off, and her greasy hair brushed against his cheek.

She had a distinct smell of sweat and wet socks. Your stalker apologized to the man next to him as he slightly leaned his body away from the woman. He was stuck in this position unless someone took pity on him and spoke up.

His car was in the shop. The tire had unexpectedly given out, causing him to swerve into oncoming traffic. The car was old anyway, a gift from his parents when he first got his license in high school. That must have been, what, ten years ago? He didn’t like to think about his age; nothing good ever came from it anyway.

Your stalker rummaged through his bag, his hand searching for the familiar plastic tube he used to steal your period blood. His fingers brushed against a particularly sharp blade he kept for “safety” reasons before they wrapped around the vial. He had really tried to savor it. He would carefully open his mouth and tilt the vial just enough for a single drop of blood to settle onto his tongue. Sometimes he would pour a bit into his coffee, or he would put it into his food. Either way, it made him feel closer to you. It was a comforting notion to think about, that he was the only man and human who had access to you in such an intimate way.

Your stalker sighed as he put the empty tube back into his breast pocket for safe keeping.

He didn’t like taking public transportation. New York was known for having odd things happening on the trains, buses, and subways. He was pretty sure that last week someone had set a rat on fire, a poor woman got robbed in broad daylight, and a group of teens were filming their dumb YouTube prank videos on the elderly.

Your stalker felt a flare of irritation as the woman leaned on his shoulder again. He gently nudged her off and ignored the way she woke up all startled. He glanced down at his phone, counting the number of stops, and saw he had twelve more before he could get off.

He was going to Manhattan for a job. An absolute douchebag had hired him, and his name was Myron Vykolv. He was the type to spend his money on trips and a bedazzled car rather than giving back to charity. Vykolv was an artist's worst nightmare: fickle, a headache to deal with; but surprisingly, he had good taste in art. He had to; he hired your stalker, after all.

He pulled out his phone to scroll on social media, his eyes scanning the copious amount of braindead content, and he paused when he saw a familiar face. He pressed the buttons on the side of his phone, his screen flashing, and the screenshot he took was saved in his photo album. Your stalker zoomed in, and his eyes widened as he saw the perfectly harmonious facial features. The baby tee top had a cute graphic splayed on the chest area, hair slicked and pulled back into a bun, and gold hoops dangling from those nicely formed ears.

It was you.

He glanced down at the caption: "a coffee date with my favorite bff." Posted exactly five minutes ago. It wasn't your account, but it was the closest thing he had to you. Your stalker decided to follow your coffee-manic and bikini-loving friend, and every post and picture she had, you were in it too.

She made it almost easy to stalk. Jesus, what if a deranged man had decided to show up to her place in the Beverly Hills area on the street of— seriously? Did she really just post her full address online?

Daniella Foster. The epitome of a fun and ditzy socialite who spent way too much time at parties and clubs. A trust fund baby if there ever was one, with her daddy being a big shot in the entertainment industry. Despite all that privilege, she never quite made it big herself.

Your stalker snorted as he saw the array of failed projects she had been in. Modeling? Wasn't in the cards for her. Acting? Horrible. A piece of cardboard would've had more personality than her. Originally from Tampa, Florida, then she moved to California, where she had her comically large house, and then… she decided to bless us by coming to New York. Lucky us, right y/n?

Your stalker looked up from his phone and realized the train had come to his stop. He got up from his seat and quickly made his way out. He felt his phone vibrate in his hand and looked down: Daniella requested to follow you. That was fast.

He clicked accept.

She's a shameless flirt, your stalker soon found out, and he’s not the least bit surprised. Daniella slid into his DMs with a picture of her provocatively sucking a lollipop, and her first words to him were: “What do you look like?”

Gee, take a gander, Daniella. My profile picture is a high-definition shot of my handsome and sexy fucking face. But sure, ask me about my looks as if you were actually interested. Your stalker rolled his eyes. He didn’t even want to respond to that message, but he had no other way of seeing you again. You would probably run at the sight of him, and that would be the most sane and correct thing you could do.

So, what does a man say when he’s mediocre, average, and you’re clearly out of his league? “I look like the man of your dreams, sweetheart.”

Your stalker had spent hours sexting and courting this woman who had flooded his inbox. Even when he was painting for a client, he managed to multitask and send a dick pic. He sent her whatever she wanted to keep her hooked, and just by her messages alone, this must have been the only time a man actually matched her level of craziness and horniness.

Days turned into weeks and then soon into months. The moment he woke up, he would see that she had sent him hundreds of messages in one night—she must've been drunk again.

He spent hours reading each message, and he hearted the ones that he felt were the most important. It was actually coming to an end, thank God, but to his surprise, she asked him out on a date.

"So, what do you do? Who are you?" The girl in front of him asked.

He shouldn't have said yes because now he was sitting in a restaurant that he could barely afford or get a reservation to, and he had to be with this woman who wasn't you. She was dressed beautifully - he'd give her that. He liked the dark colors of her red dress, the way he could drink in the curves of her hips and chest, and how it gave him a clear view of her body.

Now, he wondered what you would have worn if you were on a date with him. Would you have put in this much effort and shown this much skin? Would you have laughed at all of his jokes to boost his damn ego, or knocked him down a peg? Would you have ordered something light so you could have sex afterward, or would you have eaten something hearty and called it a day?

He pretended to think for a while, all before he gently touched her hand, and his fingers caressed her soft skin. "Who am I?" He teased, his voice slightly deepened as he gave her a playful once-over. "I'm hurt. After all these months, you still don't know who I am?"

"Why don't you refresh my memory?" She tilted her head.

Your stalker sighed and he looked around briefly. This place was intimate, for high rollers only, and he could just imagine how much of his money was going to go down the drain. The tiny candle on the table, the white clean cloth, and the vase with a single rose was still too romantic for his taste. His thumb traced circles on her hand, and the other grabbed for his steak knife.

“I'm an up-and-coming artist,” He replied with a bit of a shrug.

“An up-and-coming artist, huh?” She echoed, her fingers now interlocked with his. “Do you come often?”

Lord, please have some mercy and shoot me. Do I come often? Wouldn’t you like to know, you slut. Is this the type of person you really want to spend your time with, y/n? Daniella is not you, and she could never be you. She parades herself around for anyone and everyone to ogle at—she is the epitome of what’s wrong with the dating scene. No wonder she doesn’t have a boyfriend. No wonder she’s desperate enough to entertain me—of all people.

I know the type of people you like, Daniella, and it’s not me.

“You know what you’re doing when you ask me that.” he brought her hand up to his lips and he kissed it. “I can tell you can make a man come often.“

Daniella giggled and her chest puffed out. She leaned closer to him, and he can practically drown in her scent of vanilla and cake. “I have an art piece that I think you'll appreciate. It's back at my place… wanna see it?”

Fuhhhhhck no. Your stalker slipped the knife into his pocket.

Your stalker smirked and he leaned in closer as well. He could see the makeup on her face, the gloss on her lips, and he could see a glimpse of her ample breasts. “I don’t know… is it one of a kind?”

Underneath the table, her leg started to caress his, and her foot slowly found its way to his crotch. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped, and he held onto her hand tighter. As much as he hated this, he would have been lying if he had said that the attention wasn’t nice. He felt the pressure around his groin tighten as she pressed her foot onto it, and she gently rubbed it up and down while maintaining eye contact.

“It’s an original piece…something that can’t be replicated. I’m sure you’ll love it.” Daniella said coyly, and she bit down on her plush lips.

She knew when to strike when the iron was hot. A taxi was called, and she made out with him in it. Her body was pressed up against his, and she felt his hand grip on her ass. His hand then slid up her thigh, his fingers ripped her black sheer stockings and two of them found their way to her entrance. He bit down on her bottom lip and his tongue slipped into her mouth.

She's a fun girl. She knew exactly how to inflate a man's ego and pride. He heard her sweet, light moans, and her hips started to grind onto his hand. His thumb played with her clit, and they only pulled away when the cab arrived at her house. He grabbed her hand and tossed a couple of bills at the driver. He slammed the door shut, and before she could unlock the door to her house, he pressed her against his body.

"W-We're in public...!" Daniella's face was flushed and she tried to close her legs, but your stalker was quick to pull them back apart.

He narrowed his eyes and tugged down her panties. "So? Don't tell me you have morals all of a sudden." he snorted.

He wished that she would just shut up. She opened her mouth to rebuttal but he wrapped one hand around her throat to keep her still and quiet, and he shimmied off his pants just enough for his cock to be out. "I didn't come here for you to talk all the damn time. Shut it, before I put that mouth of yours to good use."

Your stalker lifted her up and made her wrap her legs around him. His dick then entered inside her, and he groaned at how wet and ready she felt. It's been awhile since he felt actual warmth, and her walls started to clench around him. His breath is ragged as he fucked her. His eyes were closed and he couldn't help but bite down onto her shoulder. Daniella cried out, and her body was tense as his teeth broke into her skin.

"God... you needed this, didn't you?" He purred as he licked up the puncture wound. Your stalker then looked down to watch his cock disappear into her. "You need someone to fuck your brains out." He sharply thrust into her again, and his hands dug into the plush of her ass to help with the momentum.

Your stalker dragged his tongue across her bleeding shoulder, then pressed his body against hers, pinning her to the wall. With one hand still gripping her body, he used the other to shove his fingers down her throat, silencing her whimpers."You're the prettiest whore I have ever seen. Isn't that right, y/n?"

Your stalker truly believed he was being intimate with you. Daniella, who? All he knew was you. All he ever wanted was to feel you, to taste you, and to be able to hear you mewl around his cock. He wanted to see your eyes roll back into your skull, to paint your skin with butterfly kisses, and for him to finally come inside you again and again. It actually pissed him off to no end that he had to be stuck here with her.

When he felt himself getting closer to the edge, he unceremoniously pulled out of her, and his white stream of cum dripped down onto the ground. He sighed as his dick softened, and he gently helped her stand on her own legs again. His hand dipped underneath her body, his fingers playing with her wet folds, and he spread them apart to furiously rub at her clit. Daniella gripped onto his arm to keep him firmly there until she felt her leg shake.

Your stalker watched with a bit of fascination as what seemed like an endless amount of juices squirted out of her. He got onto his knees and helped her to sit onto his face. After he cleaned her all up, your stalker suddenly remembered something and his hand patted down his pockets.

"Hey... I think I'm missing my phone." He started his little lie. "Can I borrow yours? I forgot that I had an important call--"

"Bag." She just said and pointed to the one that was tossed to the side.

He muttered a "thanks" before he went over and rummaged through her purse. "What do you think about doing this again?" he kept an eye on her as his hand aimlessly tried to look for her phone. "I had fun tonight, and I'd like to see you one more time."

He could feel the various items in her bag. A packet of cigarettes, two lip products, house keys, a whole perfume bottle, but fuck where was her phone?

He watched as Daniella rolled down her scrunched up dress. The woman then raised her brow and she crossed her arms. "I'm pretty sure you said another woman's name."

"I didn't." He said rather quickly. "You drank a lot of wine--it was almost like you were trying to bankrupt me." He joked, and his hand firmly gripped onto what felt like a smooth case. He pulled it out of her bag and there it was. "What's your password?"

"Trying to change the subject, are we?"

"I'm pretty sure your phone is the subject, unlock it pretty please?"

Daniella pulled back her hair and she stared at him expectantly.

"I said give me your password, not a blowjob." Your stalker frowned.

She gave him an exasperated look. "It's my face dumbass." she then snatched her phone back from him.

"You don't use your thumb? What kind of update is that?"

"God, you're so poor." He heard her mutter.

That was so unwarranted, and sort of hurt.

Though it made him feel a lot better when he finally decided to slit her throat. Now that she was distracted, he discreetly pulled out the steak knife from his pocket before he dropped her bag and roughly yanked her back to him. His hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her screams as he dragged the serrated blade across her neck. The knife sawed through flesh, muscle, and sinew, blood spurting and gushing with each desperate pulse of her heart. It took him a while to sever her head completely, his arm burning with exhaustion as he hacked away, the blade catching on bone and gristle, her life draining away in a torrent of crimson.

Your stalker wiped his bloodied hand on her dress, he grabbed the phone off the ground, and he groaned when he saw that the screen was cracked. He tried his best to work the damn thing, his finger poking at the messaging app multiple times before it decided to open. Daniella had a plentiful amount of unsaved numbers but they had weird emojis next to them. One number was from a different country and had the eggplant emoticon.

Then he found the only saved number: y/n.

You're apparently a good girl and shared your location with your best friend. How adorable, you even share every given moment with her too. You even talked about how you were thinking about going back to your serial cheater of an ex.

Your stalker gasped, his head reeling back in shock. You were about to go back to your ex? Your ex, of all people? You couldn't have, what—moved on like a normal person? You couldn't have gone out and fucked around with someone new? Someone like him? It's like you purposely make the wrong choices just to be saved. Before he could be your little personal super hero... his eyes slowly made its way back to the body on the ground, and then to the keys that were in her bag.

Have you ever heard of cuteness aggression? The rush of impulsive behavior that you get after seeing a cute and defenseless puppy? I get that when I see you. I think you're so adorable that it makes my heart burst. Your stalker stared up into your apartment, and the car windows were rolled down to air out the perfume he dumped into the body bag.

However, there was nothing cute about this ugly pig-like fuck that touched your waist. That man had no redeeming qualities, and boy, did I want him to start squealing in pain. I wanted to pinch his body until he had yellowish-brown bruises all over. I wanted to crush his skull with my bare hands and feel his pulse drop. I wanted to be able to drink the blood shower that would come from their body and bathe in it. I want them to realize that you’re off the market, and that you’re solely mine.

They’re not good for you, love. You have seen that time and time again, and they have disappointed you before without fail; so why do you welcome them with open arms? It hurts to see your legs over their shoulders, and to see a bit of your face contorted in pleasure and ecstasy. Is it the sex? Is it the way they give you a fleeting moment of what could have been if they weren’t constantly cheating on you?

That’s pathetic, and you know it. But it’s okay, I’m willing to look past this little transgression. It’s not completely unforgivable. They must’ve broken you down and made you vulnerable enough to pull your pants down. It’s not your fault. It’s theirs.

Your stalker continued to stake out your house, patiently waiting for your ex to come down to the lobby. The moment he did, your stalker would be ready. He might not have been able to get your blood, but killing your ex and taking his was like killing two birds with one stone.

Allure: This is the first fic I wrote that actually has y/n in it! And it's pretty unedited, so if there is mistakes I will probs fix it later on. This dragged on for waaay longer than it needed and tbh, I am never writing a long fic like this again LMAO

[loudclan-clangen]

Loudclan - Moon 29: Part 3

Things are gonna get a bit darker than they have been in the second half of this moon. Be warned and check the tags! Happy Spooky Season!

The sun is ever-present in the summer sky. It sits vigil alongside the clan. Soon after the bodies arrive at camp a patrol sets out to track the rogues, but finding that they have already crossed Shadedclan's territory, it is decided that the opportunity for revenge has passed. They'll double patrols and wait to see if the murders try to cross the territory on their way home. Many are upset, but few argue. As the sky begins to lose it's duskiness, the vigil is ended, the bodies buried, and the clan cats left to filter back into camp at their own pace. Wildfirecry excuses himself to clear his head, while Dancepaw attempts to bridge the gap with the only brother he has left.

Seeing Rosehiptree will be left alone in the burial place, Songpaw decides to stay for a while.

It takes Wildfirecry three days to find the farm cats.

There are Forestclan traditions that were never passed on to Loudclan. Rites that were deemed too dark to touch the newborn clan and thus were cast aside. But here, miles past the valley territories, they live on.

Wildfirecry returns to Loudclan's camp a week after the vigil having lost two lives. No one questions where he has been. The scent of rancid dried blood still lingers despite a fresh coat of oil, and his wounds, while closed, are unmistakably fresh. The clan returns to an uneasy normalcy.

[Whoo! I did it! This moon was INCREDIBLY hard for me. The first part relies so much on my dialogue skills, which, is the part of comic-making that comes least easily to me, and the second part is super experimental, which was so much fun, but also mentally tiring. (On that note please let me know if it's like impossible to see. I meant for it to be a bit difficult to make out, but it's hard to gage between my ipad and my laptop whether it will be readable for all of you. I can fiddle with the color grading tomorrow if necessary.) And finally, Rosehip's experience here is really, really close to my heart. That means that her scenes here are ones that I really wanted to write, but also that I had to take a couple of breaks to make sure that I wasn't wearing myself down too much, so sorry that it took longer than I thought and I haven't been able to answer as many asks as I had hoped to. Anyway, despite early difficulty I had a GREAT time finishing this moon up and I'm happy with how it turned out! Songpaw and Rosehiptree are keeping the trauma dump to best friends pipeline alive and I love them for it. Erminekit is kinda being a brat but he really just wants to be there for his best friend and everyone is getting in the way! He doesn't really get the concept of "giving someone space". As far as Moon 30 I have a science class that I'd like to get finished by the end of the month, so it will probably be a minute. Hope you guys enjoy!]

First Moon

[incorrectbatfam]

Jason, to Roy: We murdered a man together. I feel like that was bonding.