#spm2

[venus-haze]

Rip This Place Apart (Driller Killer x Reader)

Summary: He’s gonna rock your world, baby!

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. This is based on an anonymous request. I wrote this while I was dealing with a bout of insomnia, ironically. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Descriptions of blood and gore. Sexually explicit content. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

A man kept appearing in your dreams, and he wouldn’t go away. Leather-clad and oozing obnoxious amounts of sex appeal, he was the opposite of a problem, until your dreams started feeling a little too real. Maybe it was your subconscious’ way of telling you to get laid, but every time you had some kind of interest in a man, he clouded your mind until you either made a fool of yourself or retreated.

That night was going to be different, though. You and your friend Marcie had spotted a flyer for a funky looking local band called Shriek and the Spyders, a group of self-professed psychobilly hooligans who were known for their wild shows and over-the-top onstage antics. A bartender who’d overheard you and Marcie discussing the show the day before advised, “Wear something you won’t mind getting stained.” Your interest piqued, and you figured a skimpy black top and similarly black skirt would do.

The Crypt was a hole-in-the-wall joint that certainly lived up to its name. You could hardly see inside, save for a few red overhead lights, because of course they were red. The light fog that swathed the room was either from an effects machine or so many people chain smoking. When you approached the bar, you scanned the cocktail menu, all named after and inspired by classic monsters. You ordered a Frankenstein-themed drink, wondering if it were possible for a place to be too campy.

“C’mon, let’s try to get closer to the stage before they go on,” Marcie said once you both got your drinks.

About fifteen minutes later, the band strutted onstage, an abundance of leather and pompadours. Almost like—no, you weren’t supposed to be thinking about him. Not bothering with introductions, Shriek and the Spyders went right into an upbeat song that made the raucous crowd go wild. They didn’t let up, sweat dripping down Shriek’s face as he ran back and forth across the stage, microphone in hand.

In the middle of their third song, a spray of fake blood rained over the crowd, leading to cheers and screams nearly drowning out the music. Some of the effects looked a little too realistic for your comfort. The bass player’s “eye” popped out at one point, and the lead guitarist’s face seemed to literally melt during a solo a few songs later. 

You and Marcie had been dancing along to the whole set, your drinks long since discarded, half spilled on each other as other concert-goers bumped into you. It was the most fun you’d had in a long time, but you couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that settled in your gut no matter how much you tried to focus on the show.

In the middle of another song, Shriek broke into a howl as a giant drill emerged through his chest, spraying the crowd with blood again. Except, this time you weren’t so sure it was fake. No one else seemed to care. The carnage only electrified the people around you as they roared and cheered when Shriek collapsed near the microphone stand, his guts hanging off the stage. The floor beneath you shook at the crowd’s riotous stomping and jumping at the scene they’d just witnessed. When you looked up at the stage, you were horrified to see him. Gore hung from the end of his drill-tipped guitar, splattering the crowd as he revved it, keeping eye contact with you and grinning slyly at your disbelief. 

He leaned into the mic, the corners of his lips curling into a cat-like grin as he announced with a swoon-worthy croon, “This is dedicated to the one I love.”

Then he pointed right at you.

The energy in the room shifted to a tangible malignancy, or maybe it was your own panic as you tried to push and shove your way out of the crowd. Instead, you only found yourself being forced closer to the stage, his romance-laced innuendos and skillful guitar strumming overwhelmed your senses and made your skin crawl. It felt like the whole crowd was in on his scheme to get you.

With each song you were shoved closer, and closer, until for the first time since he manifested in your dreams, you were able to reach out and touch him.

Was he even real?

You were dizzy by the time the show ended, hardly able to protest when you were manhandled and told something about wanting to be seen backstage.

“I want details!” Marcie shouted, oblivious to your plight as the rent-a-cop shuffled you away from her. 

Backstage was a stretch. More like a narrow hallway with a utility closet and a small, graffiti-covered room that had been requisitioned by the bands. The door to the makeshift dressing room slammed behind you when you stumbled inside. He was waiting there for you, sitting on a grungy looking red velvet couch, his leather-clad legs spread wide open. His jacket was discarded in the corner of the room, revealing the sheen of sweat and blood that coated his body.

Your eyes drifted to his drill, large and intimidating, with a red tip that looked angry against its large shaft. You could’ve sworn you saw it twitch a bit, and recoiled at the thought of it penetrating you. 

With a click of his tongue, he drew your attention back to him. Raising his hand, he beckoned you over to him with a curl of his index and middle fingers. You felt a jolt rush through your core at the motion. Almost involuntarily, you approached until the points of your kitten heels touched the tips of his steel-toed boots.

“How’d you like the show, baby?” he asked.

“It was…a lot.”

“It was all for you.”

“Yeah…” you trailed off, blatantly ogling the bulge straining against his tight pants.

He grinned, thrusting up toward your face. “Could use a little help, sugar,” he crooned, eyes dangerous as he palmed his crotch. “Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true.”

You let out a shaky breath in response, and proceeded to sit on his lap. He threw his head back, groaning at the sensation of your weight on him. Tangling your fingers in his slicked black hair, you pressed yourself closer to him, kissing his neck as you rolled your hips against his. You nipped at his throat when you felt his cock twitch against your pussy.

“Goddamn, baby,” he moaned. “Gimme more of that.”

Rolling your hips again, you let out a soft whimper at the friction from his pants on your clit. It was as if a switch flipped inside you, desperation flooding your senses as you chased your pleasure, grinding against him, almost embarrassed at the sounds your wet pussy was making as it rubbed against his hard cock. 

Your breathing shallowed, muscles ached as you rutted against him, feeling yourself getting closer to orgasm. For a moment, it felt like he was only there for you to use, to get off with like some living, leather-wrapped sex toy. Maybe he was. You weren’t thinking clearly enough to question it.

“Wanna go all the way with you, baby,” he forced out. “Wanna make you mine.”

You moaned at that. “Yours.”

You swiftly shifted so you could pull off your panties, tossing them aside on the couch. He undid his pants, his leaking cock springing free from its leather confines. Your pussy involuntarily clenched at the size of him, and your eyes frantically met his smug face. 

He reached between you, his fingers stroking your sensitive pussy. “Cat got your tongue?”

You kissed him again, more teeth and tongue than before as you lifted your hips, slowly lowering yourself onto his cock and whimpering into his mouth at how it stretched you mercilessly. You caught his bottom lip in your teeth, biting down a little too hard and drawing blood, but he took it in stride, licking it from his lips.

He sung your praises, his hands firmly on your hips as he guided you, your pussy taking all of him. His five o’clock shadow scratched at your sensitive skin as he pressed kisses to your neck and shoulders. 

“Fuck!” you cried out as you bounced on his dick, your cervix pounded by his length. Your vision blurred with tears, thighs burning as you kept riding him. So close. “I—I’m gonna—“

“That’s it, sugar. Come for me.”

Your orgasm rolled through you, rocking your hips against his as you held onto his shoulders to steady yourself. Your pussy pulsed around his cock, and you could feel his hot cum fill you as your body milked his seed from him. He was vocal when he came, your name practically echoing throughout the room in a perverse melody.

Riding out your orgasm, you shuddered against him, feeling his soft, spent cock still buried inside you. 

“That was…are you real?” you asked breathlessly.

“In dreams you’re mine, all the time,” he answered cryptically, kissing you with a disarming tenderness.

[fandomsyouveneverheardof]

[daxagere]

^^ me rn

j oh nny... i wa nt to hug him... !! i wanna. hug himm . i'm gonna cry. i love him i want him to tak e care of me

[midnightmurdershow]

Slumber Party Massacre II (1987) Directed by Deborah Brock

[freakoutgirl]

the 80s was like "you know what's scary? rock n roll."

[crisispider]

[ ◉¯] ✧˖° → @redhead-reporter Liked for a thing!

"Mhmph?" He felt the rustling FIRST, and then it was followed by a SCREAM. That had Peter flipped over in a HEARTBEAT, his hands reaching out to gently reach for her shoulders. "Shhh Shhhhhh hey hey.. shhh hey.. M..come back to me.." His voice was SOFT & GENTLE, not wanting to STARTLE her more than the nightmare already had.

[art--harridan]

[Image description: A digital drawing of The Driller Killer and Courtney Bates from Slumber Party Massacre 2. They are facing off against one another. The Driller Killer floats above her, with a wide, menacing grin. His pose is jovial and laid back, and he's pointing his bright red drill-guitar hybrid down at her, grazing her shoulder with the drill bit and drawing blood. Courtney's expression is equally manic, mouth smiling and eyes wide. Eyeliner runs down her face, and her shirt is stained with blood. She points a oxyacetylene torch and a lighter at him, setting him ablaze. The fire is coloured with pinks and blues, following the established colour palette of the piece. The pair has an electric blue outline. The background is a gradient from pink to blue, with a wavy texture overlaid. Surround them, there's the text "come on baby - light my fire", distorted in different ways.]

let's buzz!

[stormcried]

My one huge roleplay wishlist one day is to find a Symbiotes writer and have their symbiote bond with drake so it’s a every day adventure for the pair!

[from-beyond]

I am filled with love for my film professor. He is like. You may write about whatever you want as long as you are passionate about it. You want to write your midterm on the queer subtext of SPM2? Go ahead. Your final is gonna be about Bad Dreams? Have fun. You wanna give a speech on Frankenhooker? A+

[pondslime]

⚠️ WIP’S??? FIVE OF THEM??? FROM ME??? UNPRECEDENTED 💀  

This is by no means all of the WIP’s that are lurking around my fic folder......but these are the only ones that have been plotted out to such a degree that I KNOW they’ll eventually be fully fledged fics. (Other, ephemeral fic ideas revolve around The Driller Killer from SPM2 and Lady D from RE8.....but......we shall see......)

If you peek under the cut, there are a handful of excerpts (of varying lengths) from all five of these! All of these are NSFW fics, but not every excerpt is smutty!

⚠️ mentions of animal death/slaughterhouse conditions

The killing served a purpose. It was the only way to get back to his table where he could sink into the movement and the cutting and the blades.

All you have to be is useful, Tommy.

If you’ve been useful then you’ve done enough. There’s nothing more you had to do. There was only one way to go when you stood on the ramp, and it was here. The cattle never understood that. They came because they had to.

For the first five years, there were always new faces to replace the old ones, new hands to help hoist the meat off the hooks. Snatches of conversation in his ears, the metal slam of lunch pails. People were always talking about how things changed, but it all seemed the same as it ever was. You just had to be willing to work, even when it was hard. Not everyone could do that.

Things only die if you let them—beyond that was dust and dirt and sky.

Each year, the drought held Fuller in her cracked, bleeding palm. She was the determined sort and the town fit so well in her grip. The crowds around the tables thinned, the timecards on the wall grew scattered and few. Throughout all those years, the fifth slot from the top remained empty.

Ten years is a long time to go without rain.

⚠️ voyeurism, stupid deep thotz from goofy dumb frog man

You’re alone out here—at least, you think you are. It’s a nice thought, isn’t it? Comforting, warm—not unlike all the buttery yellow light spilling out of your wide-open windows.

You’re off the beaten path and there’s nothing to fear out here, no one to hide from. Nothing but the dark to watch as you reach up to fish in the cupboards, your shirt riding up your stomach. And the dark does watch you—it, and everything in it.

A woman alone in a house in the middle of the night. They’ve been telling stories about you for years. People have seen it countless times, stuffed into air-conditioned theaters, watching imaginary versions of this scene a thousand times over. If they exited the theater they could find her on the newsstand—she splatters the headlines, her name cried out over police sirens. They stay in the theater because reality isn’t what they want, not now. They want her. You, she, the woman past the glass—an unknowing siren. Mythic. The audience knows she isn’t really alone. They grip onto their popcorn buckets with greasy hands, the air thick with the imagined tension. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, hums along with the jingle on the television.

She’s beautiful. She’s innocent. She’s on the edge of so much danger. It’s sitting out there in the dark, staring at her through the window.

Maybe, through the lens of the pimply teenage boy, his hand fishing lecherously into his popcorn bucket, you like it. The woman in the house keeps her windows open as if she knows she has an audience, like she wants them to see her. They want to look in and she obliges. Maybe. There’s truth in that, truth in every adolescent fantasy.

You wander around your empty house, waiting for a man who won’t come. His appearance has been…interrupted.

Leslie peers around the tree, knocking his sickle against the wood in anticipation.

⚠️ references to canon violence/trauma

“What are you going to school for?”

“Um. I’m not sure anymore.” She sips at her coffee. “It was Marketing and Advertising, but I don’t know if I’m still doing that.”

“Not your thing anymore?”

“I don’t know.” She shakes her head, huffing out a bemused hiss of breath, squinting out at the square. She sits with the words in her mouth for a second. “Sometimes I feel like it is, like, it really is, still. And then, like, I don’t. Like, I used to make all kinds of things. And I just…can’t, anymore. And when I do, it’s…different. It doesn’t feel like me anymore.”

“What changed?”

I lost some people. I put off a lot of stuff. I told her to tell him the truth, but I never managed to do that myself. Little hypocritical, Carly.

My finger’s gone. They never found it.

His pockets had been empty.

“I’ve had a weird year.” She looks over at you, staring at the buttons on your coat. “Like, really weird.”

“I’ve had weird years.”

“Yeah, but…uh.” She smiles at your hands. Your nails are a deep blue today. “Mine…was definitely weirder.”

⚠️🔥tiny snippet of smut, mommy kink + light puppy play

“Hold on.” Tiffany pulls back, pursing her lips. Tilting your chin up, her forehead wrinkles as she scans your face. She snorts out an incredulous giggle. “Is that my lipstick?”

“You, uh. You left it in my car. I…borrowed it.”

“You little thief!” She grins, her eyes alight with manic glee. “Always acting like you’re so innocent! Who knows what else you’ve snatched?”

Giggling, she drags her thumb down your lips, smearing the lipstick onto your chin. You gaze up at her, swallowing nervously.

“Oh god, you’re a mess, baby.” She clicks her tongue against her teeth, shaking her head. "You stealing my panties too? Taking ‘em home to rub that nasty little pussy on?”

"Uh—”

She grinds down on your lap, beaming. Holding onto your chin, she mashes your lips together, moving your head up and down in an affirmative nod.

“Yep, princess! I know you are.” She cackles, the tip of her tongue peeking from between her teeth. “That’s pathetic.”

“Mommy—”

“Watch it, pipsqueak.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder, regarding you with twinkling eyes. “Anyway, puppies don’t talk, right?“

You nod enthusiastically, blinking up at her.

⚠️🔥tiny snippet of smut, light degradation, depersonalization + lost autonomy

The discomfort crests over and suddenly you feel loose and pliant, eagerly rocking back against the thickness of his fingers. It’s just another thing you were made for, just something else to give to him over and over.

Bo laughs. You can hear the grin that’s plastered across his face.

“Oh, she likes it.” His voice pulls another moan from your mouth. “This ain’t natural, baby.”

Of course it isn’t. None of this is. Wax carrots, stores full of beetles and rot. Everything in this town was the idea of something else. Things that used to be other things, left to decay and waste away behind glass. And you’re one of those things—you always were.

“You ‘member when I met ya’, darlin?”

The rest of the world keeps moving, thundering away. At least, it must be. The people that come to town and never leave came from somewhere, didn’t they? The stripped corpses of cars on the side of the street are reminders that life exists outside of this place.

There are cars in other towns, parked on different streets. There are places without dust. There are always other futures. Sometimes you turn down the wrong road, and sometimes you die. Sometimes you don’t. That’s just the way these things go.

Here, who are you?

Another person at the wrong place at the wrong time—the wrong face, the wrong mouth. Something just wrong enough about you that you can’t leave. For how long, you’re not entirely sure. You’re running on borrowed time, and everything ends here eventually.

There, what were you?

The world keeps turning without you. It wasn’t going to stop. It doesn’t know of this place. It doesn’t know about you. It used to, maybe. But it forgot.

Does it matter?

To be kept forever, preserved here. It’s better to be something than nothing, isn’t it? When they touch you, you’re an idea. You’re a dream. Dead to the world, fucking yourself back on his fingers. It feels good, it feels bad. Something that is nothing that is something again. That’s the point.

“Don’t you be selfish, now!” Bo’s voice cuts through the haze of your brain. He grabs onto your hair, tugging your head up. “Thought we were showin’ Vincent a good time, darlin’?”

[cobaltspartan]

funniest part of when the three of us were marathoning the raimi spiderman movies, during spm2, maddy and i kept fawning over alfred molina and then ⅔ of the way through the movie doc oc takes a sip of liquor from a glass being held with one of his robot arms and janelle just blurts out "oh I get it now"

[venus-haze]

Mr. February (Driller Killer x Reader)

Summary: You get an unexpected visitor while looking through the February issue of Playgirl, whose centerfold of the month is doing absolutely nothing for you. Lucky for you, he’s willing to give you the real thing. At least, you think it’s the real thing.

Note: This is a ridiculous, raunchy, and extremely self-indulgent fic that I wrote mostly in three hours so take that as you will. The reader is a cis woman but no other descriptors are used. This was so fun to write because the Driller Killer in SPM2 is nothing if not outrageous. Shorter than what I usually write, but there’s very little plot to this. Do not interact if you are under 18 or if you post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: Sexually explicit content including oral (f. receiving), hair pulling (m. receiving), finger sucking (m. receiving), light choking (m. receiving) brief daddy kink. Dubcon to be safe since through most of the fic it's intentionally unclear whether it’s a dream or not. Do not interact if you are under 18.

Mr. February was not doing it for you. Blond hair, muscular build, and a boy-next-door smile as he leaned against the door frame of an auspicious suburban house with nothing but a toolbelt on—no matter how many different ways you tried to imagine the scenario, you couldn’t get into it. When your good friend Brenda had a girls’ night at her place, you lamented your sexual woes over glasses of wine. To your comfort, the other women present also weren’t particularly impressed with Playgirl’s recent offerings.

A little after one in the morning, you called it a night, heading upstairs to the guest bedroom Brenda was letting you crash in. Your other friends lived close enough to walk home if they wanted to and decided to stick around longer. Carefully shutting the door behind you, you looked at the centerfold that the group of you had bemoaned. How could it be possible that a man could be simultaneously so hot and so sexless?

You hoped the half bottle of wine you’d consumed would help get your imagination going, not that you hadn’t gone that route before. Undressing down to your bra and panties, you laid down on the guest bed. You grabbed the magazine yet again, as if staring at the nearly nude handyman would somehow make you suddenly attracted to him. 

Huffing in frustration, you glared at the magazine by your side. Brenda had given you the advice to cancel your subscription and try to find something raunchier, more tailored to your tastes than the generic guys in the safest porno mag you could possibly buy. The more you stared at Mr. February, the more annoyed you felt, his perfect smile mocking you as you slid your hand between your legs, trying to find some way to picture the guy in a scenario that would actually get you off.

Minutes went by, and nothing. He was too clean, too sterile, too perfect. You couldn’t picture him being able to do anything besides a pleasureless and mechanic missionary position that plagued the pill-popping housewives of old. Jesus. You’d have better luck with a fully clothed missionary at your front door than the schmuck on the glossy pages of the magazine. 

You threw your arm over your eyes, thinking instead about how much you’d like to kick Mr. February in the toolbelt. Sleep caught up with you more quickly than you expected, because your frustrated, horny brain seemed to conjure up a man that was far more to your taste. Your limbs felt odd as you sat up from the bed upon hearing a low whistle come from his lips as he stood on the other side of the room.

“This all for me?” he asked.

Black haired and leather-clad with a smile that made you squeeze your thighs together, he stalked closer to you, his tongue darting out from between his sharp teeth. His wild eyes took you in with an intensity that was nothing short of famished. He wanted to eat you alive. Finally.

Leaning back in the bed on your elbows, you gave him a confident smile as you pushed out your chest, welcoming the attention. It was your dream, after all.

His hand ghosted your arm as he picked up the magazine at your side, looking it over for a moment. Shaking his head at the centerfold, he hit it with the back of his hand as if in solidarity with your disdain. This guy, am I right? He closed it, his attention on the cover.

“Playgirl,” he read aloud, before bringing his gaze to you, an amused grin spreading across his dangerous face. “Is that what you wanna do? Play, girl?”

Girl rolled off his upturned lips in coils that wrapped around your throat, rendering you incapable of answering. Girl was demeaning, mocking, as if you didn’t have a full time job that paid for your own apartment. Girl went straight to your pussy as you nodded in response to his question.

He licked his lips, tossing Mr. February aside as he caged you onto the bed with his body. You tilted your head up to kiss him, not bothering with any pretense of testing the waters. It was your dream, and he’d kiss you back how you wanted him to, pent up and passionate with the sweetest hint of desperation. Without hesitation, he parted his lips for you, allowing you to slip your tongue in his mouth, the warmth and taste almost making your head spin at how real he felt. 

Still supporting yourself on your elbows, you threw a leg over his hips, pressing his body closer against yours, only exacerbating the flush of heat that’d spread across your skin. His touch made you feel like you were burning, kissed by invisible flames that left you needy for more. 

Reluctantly, you pulled away, dazed and breathless, though his lips followed yours, starving for another taste of your strawberry glossed lips. His were soft, though yours wouldn’t stay that way for long as he nipped at your bottom lip with his teeth, clearly reveling in the whimpers you barely managed to let out. You were almost disappointed when he showed you mercy and gave you a gentle kiss before drawing back.

“Goddamn, you’re something else,” he murmured.

“What about you? Who are you?” you asked, searching his face for an answer. You must have known him from somewhere, unsure if your subconscious could conjure up someone like him on its own.

“I’m the man of your dreams, baby,” he crooned. “I got the tools to give you everything you need.”

He took your hand, placing it over his crotch, his hard cock straining against his tight leather pants. Your breath caught in your throat, he certainly wasn’t exaggerating. Squeezing his erection, a jolt of electricity rushed through you at his groan, deep and unapologetically loud as he jerked his hips against your hand.

“Not so fast, baby,” he said, his smile almost mischievous, like he was letting you in on a secret. “I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

He hissed through his teeth when you pulled your hand away from his pants, pride bubbling in you for eliciting such a reaction from him, and over his clothes no less. Still, he wanted to take the lead, and after so much frustration on your end trying to make Mr. February fulfill something other than a wonderbread fantasy, you were more than happy to lie back and let your dream lover do the work. He shed his jacket, kicking it to the edge of the bed.

Rough hands glided across your skin, a shiver racing down your spine until he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties and pulled them down until he threw the garment on the other side of the room. He pushed your thighs apart, and you released a shaky breath in futile preparation for how his tongue would feel on your pussy.

He sure as hell didn’t beat around the proverbial bush, his tongue teasing your clit as he slid his index and middle fingers inside you, as if it’d at all be comparable to what you’d felt in his pants earlier. That wasn’t the point of it, though, not when he relentlessly lapped at your pussy, the sound of your own arousal on his tongue almost embarrassing you.

No one could hear it, not in a dream, so you indulged yourself, grabbing a handful of his greased hair and pulling him closer. He groaned against your sensitive cunt when you tugged on his hair, the sensation making your pussy clench.

“You like that?” you asked, your voice light as you tried not to moan out your question.

He lifted his head for a moment, a fucked out expression on his face as if you’d been giving him head and not the other way around. Your wetness glistened on his lips and chin, as he looked up at you. “Fuck yes, do it again.”

You tugged on his hair again, your fingernails scraping his scalp. He groaned, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Damn, he looked almost…pretty.

His voice was close to a growl when he praised, “Just like that, baby.”

His face disappeared between your legs again, and you choked out a gasp as he licked up your juices before bringing his attention back to your clit with a desperate pull at his disheveled locks. He held your legs, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs as if to steady himself as he brought you closer to orgasm.

You could’ve sworn you heard a loud bang followed by muffled screaming. It almost sounded too real to be a dream, and for the first time since this mystery man arrived in your bed, the twist in your gut wasn’t from pleasure.

“What was that?” you asked, your voice soft as it trailed off into a moan.

“Nothin’ but a good time, baby,” he answered slyly. “You just focus on me.”

With a curl of his fingers inside your wet pussy, you couldn’t do anything but whimper in response, pulling at his hair again. You struggled to keep your eyes open, and with no protest from him, allowed them to shut as pleasure crept up on you. 

Your hips bucked as he flicked his tongue on your sensitive clit, and with that you were gone. Your moan sounded almost pained to your own ears, but you’d never felt an orgasm so intense before, one that made your toes curl and your pussy ache as it clenched around his fingers. 

When you were finally able to open your eyes again, he was still eating you out, as if to see whether or not he could make you cum again on his tongue. You whimpered, sensitive and breathless as he didn’t let up. 

His name. Fuck, you didn’t even know his name, and your brain was too fuzzy to come up with anything besides an almost pathetic sounding, “Daddy.”

“Say it again, baby,” he groaned.

“Fuck daddy, more,” you pleaded.

Gripping the sheets for some kind of leverage, you came, harder this time as you let out a moan that seemed to echo throughout the room. In the back of your mind, you were wondering if you were moaning so loudly in real life. Would they wake you up? Would they even mention it?

Licking up your pussy again for good measure, he lifted his head, looking to you for your direction. Weakly, you shook your head. He smirked a bit, crawling back up to you and pressing his fingers that had been inside you against your lips which you mindlessly opened your mouth and began sucking.

His eyes were wild again as you sucked your cum from his fingers, dragging your tongue along each one as you looked at him through hooded eyelids. He pushed his fingers further back in your mouth, his knuckles brushing against your lips. 

“You think you can take more, girl?” 

Your whine was muffled from his fingers in your mouth.

“Don’t tell me I wore you out already,” he teased.

Slowly, he pulled his fingers from your mouth before sticking them in his own, to your shock. It didn’t last long, though, because his lips were soon on yours again. You kissed him more passively this time, considering why you felt so exhausted, as if it were real. In a dream, you’d be able to last longer despite your pent up frustration thanks to Mr. fucking February, couldn’t you?

You felt too good to question it, and brought your hand to the side of his neck, caressing the skin with your fingertips before moving them ever so slightly to squeeze gently. He moaned into your mouth, and you smiled a bit, squeezing again. Placing his hand over yours, he guided you to put more pressure, and with the way his hips jerked when you did so, you were sure he was going to cum in his tight leather pants. It was a wonder he could even move in them, even if he were just a figment of your horny subconscious.

“Aren’t you hot with all of that on?” you asked as you moved your head back slightly, noticing the sheen of sweat on your own bare skin.

He grinned. “I’m hot with it off too.”

You laughed, until you heard the screaming again, but didn’t pay it any mind. Weird things happened in dreams all the time, and you wanted this one to last as long as it could. If not, you hoped you dreamed about him again, that it wouldn’t be something you’d have a fleeting memory of when you woke up, only to forget it the moment you got out of bed.

Unfortunately, he had other plans, as it seemed like you blinked and he was standing next to the bed, fully dressed again, his hair looking like you’d never even touched it. Licking your lips, you took in his appearance. The next time you dreamed about him, maybe you’d have him do something more interesting with the leather. He cracked a grin, as if he knew what you had been thinking.

He picked up the discarded magazine, looking at it once again in amusement before throwing it into the garbage pail by the nightstand. “You’re not gonna need that anymore. Not that Mr. February was doing you any good anyway.”

“Nope,” you agreed. “It’s all you.”

“That’s what I’m here for, baby.”

You tilted your head, unsure of what to expect next. If you were lucid dreaming, couldn’t you wake yourself up? Though, you weren’t sure exactly how to do that. The clock in the room read a normal time, you knew enough that in dreams they’d be distorted. Sighing, you supposed you’d just wake up on your own naturally.

Your dream man leaned down, regarding you with a tenderness that seemed odd on him. He caressed your cheek, the cool leather of his glove giving a slight reprieve to your warm skin.

“See you tomorrow night, sweetness,” he said, giving you one last kiss before you blacked out.

You woke up, a cloud of grogginess still in your mind, a whisper of soreness in your limbs. You looked down at the wet spot on your sheets, brushing it with your fingertips and bringing them close to your nose. It smelled of you and something vaguely familiar, though as much as you wracked your brain, you couldn’t identify it. What a weird dream. At least, you thought so, until you noticed your panties on the floor, right where he’d thrown them.

[caesarclowningaround]

got the Slumber Party Massacre/Slumber Party Massacre II 4k/blu-ray 2-pack today. had a fun movie night, including being able to watch SPM2′s uncut version!! Honestly, it didn’t really offer much overall. Most of what got cut were a few lines and some scene transition shots. But there were a couple of gems in there.

My favorite was probably the one where before they go to the condo, there’s a brief scene of Courtney post-nightmare taking down a couple of posters in her room, including one of Atanas Ilitch. Which is super funny. It really does look like they initially were going to play more into the idea that it’s all in her head, right down to how the killer looks.

There was another brief one of the Driller Killer getting another line in before Courtney sets him on fire. Again, overall the new scenes and shots didn’t add much, but it was still fun getting to see what was left on the cutting room floor. worth seeing :D

[daxagere]

i m wonderin if the driller killer/johnny would. take care of me. hes a comfort for me. and i'd be so happ y . . if he took care. of me... he loves me i kbow rbut. would he take care of me in my regressed state

i hop e so :D

[ace-of-hearts-and-spades]

I just read your tags on my Driller Killer fic and thank you so much! I’m so glad you liked it🖤 It was a lot of fun to write, and I definitely want to write more for him in the future. Thanks again!

Ahhhh of course!! 😊 SPM2 Driller Killer is so underrated and underappreciated, so it’s nice to see him getting some love. And your fic was such a fucking delight to read. Literally perfect in every way. If you do choose to write more of him, I will 100% be reading! 💜💜

[maximuswolf]

About to start 10 days off of which Ill be pretty much housebound for 9 looking for a newish release to sink my teeth into any of the following/suggestions (PS5)

About to start 10 days off of which I’ll be pretty much housebound for 9, looking for a newish release to sink my teeth into, any of the following/suggestions (PS5) Narrowed it down to the exciting list of;Fc 25Black ops 6New World Space marine 2Dragon Age veilguardFor each I’d say;Fc 25, I can play these till the cows come home, but I don’t enjoy it, I’ll end up frustrated and more annoyed thank before I sit down, plus will 100% be sucked in by micro transactions Black ops, haven’t bought a cod since MW1 remake, I’m 33 now and I feel too old for it but I did enjoy DMZ with my friends, even if it was pointless New World: going In blind but even with serious grind on a mmo you can still end up nowhere SPM2 feel a bit worried it’ll HellDivers 2 us and kill itself off, looks great fun but not sure how much playtime it has Veilguard, love the dragon age series even if the always let me down, read a free reviews for this, most independent ones call it boring, not exactly endearing.That’s where I’m at!Will not be accepting osrs as a suggestion, I started again last month, played sooo much completed little 😂 Submitted November 02, 2024 at 06:56PM by Agius91 https://ift.tt/BGxjk2E via /r/gaming