#tw: plague primal | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pinkhearteye · 1 month ago

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TW: Yandere, (I dont know what else I wanted to rewrite this since I quite actually skipped over editing and used ai to proof read so if you find some weird ass shit don't come for me pls ;( )

Merry christmas!!

Edit: I don't know how to do a part 2 to this;(

2 Yandere females x reader

The cold nipped at your exposed skin, each icy gust cutting through you like shards of glass. Snowflakes clung to your lashes, blurring your vision as you moved forward, every step a battle against the continuing storm. Your breath came in uneven, short gasps, each one visible in the frigid air before turning into nothingness. Your head throbbed a dull, unrelenting ache that made it hard to think clearly. Every muscle in your body screamed for rest, but stopping wasn’t an option—not here, not now.

Your legs felt like jello, unsteady and weak, threatening to give out beneath you. The dizziness was overwhelming, the world around you spinning as if the ground itself were shifting. You stumbled, the snow swallowing your feet with every step. The nausea that had plagued you for hours rose again, and you barely managed to turn your head before retching, the violent motion leaving you even more disoriented. The acidic taste lingered in your mouth, a cruel reminder of how far you’d fallen.

You didn’t know how long you’d been walking. Time had lost all meaning, each second stretching into an eternity. The storm howled around you, a relentless cacophony that drowned out even your own thoughts. Your body felt disconnected from your mind, moving on autopilot, driven by some primal instinct to survive. But with each passing moment, that instinct grew weaker, the cold and exhaustion sapping your willpower.

The view was an endless scene of white, well except for the walkers, whose feet were frozen in the ground with how cold it was. Their mouths moved in slow motion and if you were to walk into them they would probably crumble. The wind tore at you, whipping your hair into your face and stealing the breath from your lungs. You stumbled again, this time falling to your knees. The snow was cold and wet against your skin, soaking through your clothes as you struggled to rise. But your legs refused to obey, and you collapsed again, the weight of your body too much to bear.

As you lay there, the snow pressing against your cheek, you felt the faintest flicker of despair. Was this it? Would this be your final resting place? Your eyelids grew heavy, the urge to close them almost impossible to resist. The cold was no longer painful; it was distant, almost comforting as if it were pulling you into a peaceful sleep.

Just as the darkness began to close in, you noticed something—a movement in the distance. Two figures on horseback, their forms blurred and indistinct through the swirling snow. At first, you thought it might be a hallucination, a cruel trick of your exhausted mind. But as they drew closer, their shapes became clearer, the horse’s hooves crunching through the snow with steady determination.

You raised a trembling hand, trying to signal them, but it felt like lifting a lead weight. Your voice, hoarse and weak, barely rose above the wind. “Help…” The word was swallowed by the storm, lost before it could reach their ears. Desperation clawed at you, but your body refused to cooperate. Your vision swam, the figures growing larger and larger until they seemed to fill the entire world. And then, mercifully, everything went black.

____________________________________________________________

Pain shot through your side, sharp and persistent, dragging you from your unconsciousness. You woke with a jolt, your breath hitching as your senses flooded back all at once. Your first instinct was to move, to fight, but a firm hand pressed against your shoulder, holding you down.

“Shh, stay still,” a soft voice murmured. It was soothing, almost gentle, but the cold press of metal against your throat sent a jolt of fear through you.

Your eyes darted around the dimly lit room, taking in your surroundings. Two girls stood over you. One had striking blonde hair that shimmered even in the faint light, her delicate hands carefully cleaning your wound. The other had black hair streaked with brown roots, her sharp eyes fixed on you as she held a knife to your throat. It was clear she hadn’t had time to visit a salon in a while(Not that she can), but the fierceness in her gaze suggested she’d been too busy with what was happening.

“Where did you get these wounds?” the black-haired girl demanded, her tone cold. “And why do you look like this?”

You swallowed hard, the blade’s edge pressing lightly against your skin. “Uh…because I was born this way?” you croaked, your voice rough from dehydration and exhaustion.

The blonde girl giggled softly, though she quickly stifled it when her companion shot her a glare. “Relax, Irina,” she said, her voice melodic. “She’s in no condition to be a threat to us.”

Irina, the black-haired girl, didn’t lower the knife. Her eyes narrowed, monitoring your every move. “That’s not an answer,” she said, her voice laced with suspicion. “What happened to you?”

You hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. “I was attacked,” you finally admitted. “By someone…or something. I’ve been trying to survive since.”

The blonde girl’s expression softened, and she set aside the bloodied cloth she’d been using. “You’re lucky we found you,” she said gently. “My name’s Eliza. This is Irina. We’re…not from around here, but we’ve made this place our home for now.”

Irina finally withdrew the knife, though she didn’t sheath it. “You’re staying here until we figure out what to do with you,” she said, her tone making it clear that this wasn’t up for debate.

Your mind raced, but your body betrayed you. Exhaustion pulled at you, making it impossible to argue. “Fine,” you muttered, letting your eyes close.

Unbeknownst to you, the two girls exchanged a glance. Irina’s suspicion lingered, but Eliza’s gaze held something else entirely. Curiosity. Concern.

As the shadows of exhaustion claimed you again, the faint murmur of their voices followed you into sleep.

“She’s in bad shape, Irina,” Eliza whispered, her tone filled with worry. “We can’t just throw her out there.”

“She could be a spy,” Irina replied, her voice sharp but quieter now. “You know how things are. Trust doesn’t come cheap.”

“I know,” Eliza said softly, “but look at her. Does she really look like someone capable of pulling a stunt like that right now?”

Irina hesitated, glancing back at you. Her brow furrowed as she weighed Eliza’s words, her fingers still gripping the hilt of her knife tightly. After a tense moment, she sighed, slipping the blade into her belt. “Fine. But if she makes one wrong move…”

“I know,” Eliza said. “You’ll handle it.”

The warmth of their makeshift shelter and how comfortable you were made it nearly impossible to fall asleep.

When you woke again, it was the smell of something warm and savory. A small pot hung over a flickering fire, steam rising from it and carrying the faint aroma of herbs and meat. Eliza knelt nearby, stirring the pot with care.

“Morning,” she said, glancing over her shoulder with a faint smile. “Or whatever time it is. Hard to tell out here.”

You tried to sit up, groaning as your body protested. Eliza was at your side in an instant, helping to prop you up against a bundle of rolled blankets. “Easy. You’re still recovering.”

The room seemed more inviting in the firelight, the earlier tension softened into something almost… safe. Irina sat on a crate in the corner, sharpening her knife, her eyes darting to you every so often.

“Feeling better?” Eliza asked, offering you a small tin cup filled with steaming broth.

You nodded, the warmth of the cup seeping into your hands as you sipped. “Better than before, I guess. Thanks.”

Eliza gave you a small smile, but Irina snorted. “Don’t get too comfortable. We still don’t know anything about you.”

You sighed, lowering the cup. “I told you the truth,” you said, your voice steadier now. “I was attacked. I’ve been wandering through that storm ever since. I don’t even know where I am.”

Irina’s eyes narrowed. “Convenient,” she muttered.

Eliza shot her a warning look. “Irina, enough.”

The black-haired girl shrugged but didn’t press further, returning her focus to her blade.

“You’re in what’s left of the Northern Divide,” Eliza explained, turning back to you. “A place people usually avoid. The storm been raging for weeks now, and…” She hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “Well, let’s just say it’s not exactly a friendly area.”

“You’re telling me,” you muttered, thinking back to the unrelenting cold and the endless snow.

“Why were you even out there?” Irina asked suddenly, her tone sharp again.

You hesitated, the memory of what had happened clawing at your mind. “I… don’t remember everything,” you admitted, your voice tinged with frustration. “There was someone—someone I trusted. They betrayed me. Left me for dead.”

Eliza’s expression softened with sympathy, but Irina didn’t look convinced.

“Betrayal’s common out here,” Irina said, her voice colder than the storm outside. “Doesn’t mean we’ll pity you for it.”

Eliza shot her a glare. “Irina.”

“What?” Irina said, standing and sheathing her knife. “You’re the one who keeps bringing strays into this place. Don’t blame me for being cautious.” Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed her coat and headed toward the door. “I’m going to check the perimeter.”

Eliza sighed, rubbing her temples. “Don’t mind her,” she said, her voice tired but kind. “She’s… been through a lot.”

“So have I,” you said softly, the weight of your own experiences pressing down on you.

Eliza looked at you for a moment, her gaze searching. “I know,” she said finally. “That’s why I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

____________________________________________________________

Over the next 2 months, you grew used to the rhythms of the small camp. Eliza was a constant presence, her warm smile and gentle demeanor creating a semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos of the Divide. Irina, on the other hand, remained distant, her sharp gaze lingering on you for just a second too long whenever you crossed paths.

Doubts began to creep into your mind. While Eliza’s kindness felt genuine, Irina’s hostility left you questioning whether you truly belonged here—or if they were merely tolerating you out of necessity.

_____

One evening, after sharing a meal of roasted game and skimp rations, the tension between Irina and Eliza finally boiled over.

“I don’t trust her,” Irina said bluntly, her voice cutting through the quiet like a knife. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed and her usual scowl firmly in place.

“She’s done nothing to harm us,” Eliza countered, her tone exasperated but calm. “If anything, she’s been trying to help since she could stand. Why are you being so harsh?”

Irina scoffed, pacing the small room. “Because I’ve seen this before, Eliza! We let someone in, get too close, and then they rip everything away from us. I’m not going through that again.”

“You don’t know that will happen,” Eliza argued, standing her ground. “She’s not the person who hurt us before. Don’t punish her for their mistakes.”

“I can’t take that risk!” Irina snapped, her voice rising. “You might be able to ignore the danger, but I can’t. I won’t.”

The argument escalated, their voices growing louder as they exchanged heated words. You sat in the corner, pretending to be asleep, but every word they said pierced through you.

“She’s just another burden,” Irina hissed. “We were doing fine before she showed up.”

Eliza’s voice softened but didn’t waver. “She’s not a burden. She’s a person, Irina. Someone who’s been through hell, just like us. If we can’t find it in ourselves to help her, what kind of people are we becoming?”

There was a long pause, the silence stretching unbearably. Finally, Irina spoke, her voice quieter but no less resolute. “I won’t let myself care for her, Eliza. I can’t. Not again.”

“You’re scared,” Eliza said gently, though her words carried a hint of frustration. “But you’re letting your fear dictate everything. If you keep pushing everyone away, you’ll end up alone.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Irina muttered before storming out of the shelter.

Eliza stood there for a moment, breathing heavily as she watched the door swing shut. Then she turned back to you, her expression softening when she saw you stirring.

“Hey,” she said, her voice gentle. “Did we wake you? I’m sorry about that.”

You forced a weak smile, nodding slightly. “It’s okay. I’m used to people yelling.”

Eliza knelt beside you, her warm hand resting lightly on your arm. “Don’t let Irina get to you,” she said softly. “She’s… complicated. But she doesn’t hate you.”

You nodded again, but the doubts in your mind only grew stronger. If Irina thinks I’m a burden, maybe Eliza does too. She’s just too kind to say it.

Eliza stayed with you until you fell asleep, her presence comforting but also confusing. You couldn’t shake the feeling that she was only being nice out of pity.

That night, the camp fell into an uneasy silence. The fire had long since died down, leaving only the faint sound of the wind slipping through the cracks in the wooden walls. You lay on your makeshift bed, the blanket Eliza had given you pulled tightly around your shoulders.

Across the room, Irina and Eliza were curled up together, their quiet breathing the only sign of peace after the earlier argument. Despite their differences, they always seemed to find comfort in each other when the world grew too cold. You had noticed the way Eliza had slipped under Irina’s arm, how Irina had instinctively pulled her closer for warmth.

Even now, you could hear them shifting occasionally, soft murmurs escaping as they adjusted their positions. Each small sound felt like a reminder that you didn’t belong here.

You sat up, clutching the blanket tightly as the plan formed in your mind. If I’m only causing problems, I need to leave. They’ll be better off without me.

Carefully, you scanned the room, searching for your old bookbag. It sat in the corner, partially buried under a pile of supplies. You winced as you stood, your body still aching from the injuries you’d sustained before they found you. Moving as quietly as you could, you slipped toward the bag, retrieving it with trembling hands.

Inside, you packed what little you had: some food, water, and Irina’s jacket that hung nearby. You hesitated for a moment, staring at the blanket Eliza had given you. It felt wrong to take it, but the biting cold outside left you little choice. Wrapping it around your shoulders, you swallowed the lump of guilt rising in your throat.

You made your way to the door, every creak of the wooden floor sounding deafening in the stillness. The plank of wood they used to bar the door from the inside was heavy, but you managed to lift it, gritting your teeth against the pain in your arms. As you tried to gently place it aside, it slipped from your grasp and crashed to the floor with a resounding thud.

Panic surged through you as you froze in place, your breath catching in your throat. Behind you, Irina shifted, muttering something incoherent in her sleep. Eliza stirred as well, murmuring softly but not waking.

Your heart raced as you shoved the door open, stumbling out into the cold night air. The plank had rolled out of reach, and you fumbled to put it back in place. Your trembling hands failed you, and the plank fell again with another loud noise.

You didn’t wait to see if they’d wake this time. You bolted, ignoring the searing pain in your legs and the icy wind biting at your exposed skin. The snow crunched loudly beneath your feet as you ran, the sound echoing in the empty forest around you.

By the time the sun began to rise, you were gasping for breath, your legs threatening to give out beneath you. You leaned against a tree, clutching at its rough bark for support as you looked around.

The forest had thinned out, revealing a small town ahead. It was eerily silent, the streets littered with abandoned cars and buildings half-buried in snow and vines. Nature had reclaimed this place, turning it into a hauntingly beautiful scene of decay.

For a moment, you forgot your pain and fear, your gaze sweeping over the crumbling structures and frozen streets. Was this place abandoned before the world fell apart, or did something else happen here?

You pulled Irina’s jacket tighter around you, the faint scent of her lingering in the fabric. It was a strange comfort, even though her harsh words still echoed in your mind

The sun was beginning to rise, casting pale golden light over the frost-covered landscape. your breath puffed in the cold air as you stumbled forward, her legs aching from hours of running. You leaned against a tree for support, her body trembling with exhaustion and the lingering pain that hadn’t fully subsided.

You took a moment to scan her surroundings, hoping for some sign of shelter. The forest was quiet, the snow-dusted ground broken only by patches of fallen leaves and the occasional rusted-out car. It felt desolate, untouched for years, as though even nature had given up on this place.

That’s when you saw it.

In the distance, partially hidden by the trees, a massive wall loomed. It was a patchwork of jagged metal walls and wooden planks that held up the metal walls, the seams held together with crude welds and rope. Rust streaked the metal like veins, and the wood was weathered, but the wall stood tall and imposing, a defiant barrier against the chaos outside.

your heart quickened. It wasn’t just a wall—it was a town.

You moved closer, her footsteps crunching softly in the snow. As you neared, you noticed details you hadn’t seen from afar. Walkers were impaled on spikes jutting out from the wall’s base, their lifeless bodies hanging limp like grotesque warnings to anyone who approached. The smell hit her then, sharp and sour, and you had to cover her nose with Irina’s jacket to keep from gagging.

There were voices, faint but unmistakable, coming from inside the wall. It was the first sound of life you heard in what felt like forever. You couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the tone was casual, almost... normal.

You hesitated, her hand brushing against the rough bark of a tree as you moved towards the structure. The wall stretched far in both directions, curving slightly as though encircling an entire town. The gates were ahead, two large slabs of reinforced metal bolted onto thick wooden beams. They looked like they hadn’t been opened in days, maybe weeks.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward cautiously, her eyes darting to every shadow and movement. When you reached the gates, you could see the cracks where the two panels met, faint slivers of light spilling through. You raised a trembling hand and knocked.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then, voices erupted on the other side.

“Who’s out there?” a gruff voice demanded.

You took a step back, her heart pounding. “I—I’m just looking for a place to rest,” she called out, her voice shaking.

The sound of footsteps grew louder, and suddenly, a smaller panel in the gate slid open, revealing a pair of sharp eyes glaring out at her.

“Step back,” the man barked.

You obeyed, her hands raised slightly to show you wasn’t a threat. The panel slammed shut, and a few seconds later, the gates groaned open just enough for a group of four people to emerge. They were armed, their guns trained on her as they spread out in a semi-circle.

“Name,” one of them snapped.

“I—I don’t want trouble,” you stammered. “I just... I was lost, and I saw the walls.”

“That’s not what I asked,” the man closest to you said, his rifle steady. “Your name. Now.”

You hesitated, her mind racing. “It’s... it’s Y/Nu,” You finally spoke.

“How’d you find this place?” a woman in the group demanded, her voice sharp with suspicion. “Who sent you?”

“No one,” You replied quickly. “I’ve been traveling alone. I just... I didn’t know anyone was here.”

The group exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. One of them—a younger man with a scar running down his cheek—spoke into a radio clipped to his vest. “We’ve got someone at the gate. Get Grace.”

Your stomach churned as they waited in tense silence. The group didn’t lower their weapons, their eyes never leaving her. You couldn’t tell if they believed you—or if they were just deciding whether or not you were worth the risk.

After what felt like an eternity, more footsteps approached from inside. A woman stepped out, her presence immediately commanding. She was tall, with a composed demeanor and an unsettlingly warm smile.

“Grace,” one of the guards said, gesturing toward You.

Grace’s eyes softened as they landed on her, and she held up a hand to signal the others to lower their weapons. “You must be so tired,” she said gently, her tone a stark contrast to the tense energy around her.

You nodded slowly, your throat dry.

“You’re safe now,” Grace continued. “Let’s get you inside. You’ll see—we take care of our own.”

With a wave of her hand, Grace signaled for the gates to be opened fully. The creaking metal and grinding hinges echoed in your ears as the towering slabs of metal parted to reveal the community inside.

Your breath hitched as you stepped through.

The town was bustling with life. Small houses and shops lined the streets, their rooftops covered in snow. People moved about, some carrying supplies, others chatting in small groups. Strings of lights were strung between buildings, casting a soft glow over the scene. It was almost surreal, like stepping into a dream—or a memory of a time long gone.

Grace placed a hand on your shoulder making you tense up, guiding her further inside. “Welcome,” she said, her voice warm and inviting. “This is your new home.”

You glanced back at the gates as they closed behind her, the outside world disappearing from view. The sound of the metal slamming shut sent a chill down your spine, a strange mix of relief and unease settling over you.

You were safe—or so it seemed.

____________________________________________________________

The house was a mess, the evidence of your presence scattered around like ghosts haunting every corner. Irina leaned against the kitchen counter, her jaw clenched, as Eliza stormed through the living room, frantically searching for any clue as to where You might have gone.

“She can’t have gotten far,” Eliza said, her voice trembling as she upturned a blanket on the couch.

Irina’s gaze fell to the spot where You usually sat, bundled up in the blanket Eliza had given her. The sight of the empty space sent a pang through her chest. She hated how much it hurt. Hated how much she cared.

“She left in the middle of the damn night,” Irina said, trying to keep her tone even. “We didn’t even hear her.”

Eliza whipped around, her eyes wide and filled with something close to panic. “What if she’s hurt? She barely took anything! There’s no way she’s okay out there—”

“She’s tough,” Irina interrupted, though her voice lacked its usual confidence. She crossed her arms over her chest, as if to shield herself from the gnawing worry threatening to consume her.

Eliza wasn’t having it. “Tough?” she snapped. “She’s injured, Irina! And you know damn well she’s not used to surviving alone out there.”

Irina winced but didn’t respond. She hated when Eliza was right, but she hated the thought of You out there, alone and vulnerable, even more.

“Why didn’t she just... say something?” Eliza muttered, pacing now. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her sweater, her movements restless. “Did we scare her? Did I—did you—do something to make her feel like she couldn’t stay?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswerable. Irina turned her back to Eliza, staring out the window at the snow-covered ground outside.

“She didn’t just leave because of nothing,” Eliza continued, her voice breaking. “We—we have to find her. Irina, we have to—”

“I know!” Irina snapped, spinning around. Her hands balled into fists at her sides as she let out a frustrated breath. “I know, okay? You think I don’t care?”

Eliza froze, her eyes locking onto Irina’s.

“I care,” Irina said, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “More than I should. More than I want to.” She ran a hand through her hair, her frustration melting into something more vulnerable. “She’s... she’s not just some random person we picked up. She’s different.”

Eliza’s expression softened, her own panic momentarily replaced by something like understanding.

“I miss her,” Irina admitted, her voice cracking. “Damn it, Eliza, I miss her. And now she’s gone, and I don’t know if we’re ever going to see her again.”

Eliza’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away, determination hardening her features.

“Then we find her,” Eliza said firmly. “We pack our things, and we go after her. We don’t stop until we bring her back.”

For the first time that morning, Irina felt a flicker of hope. She nodded, her jaw tightening with resolve.

“Let’s do it,” she said. “Before it’s too late.”

____________________________________________________________

The house was eerily quiet as You wandered through it, your blanket draped over your shoulders like a makeshift cape. The warmth of the home was almost unsettling, a stark contrast to the harshness of the outside world.

The walls were adorned with paintings—landscapes of mountains, rivers, and fields that must have looked pristine before the world went to hell. The furniture, though slightly worn, gave the place a lived-in charm. A plush couch sat in the living room, flanked by end tables with mismatched lamps.

You ran your fingers along the wooden railing of the staircase, your eyes drifting to the patterned rug beneath her feet. It all felt too good to be true, like you stumbled into someone else’s dream.

You passed through the kitchen, where the counters were clean, and the cabinets fully stocked with dishes and cookware. Your stomach grumbled at the sight of the food the leader, Grace, had sent earlier. There were canned goods, a loaf of bread, and even a jar of honey.

A soft smile tugged at your lips despite the lingering fear in her chest. This was... nice. Too nice.

You made your way upstairs, exploring each of the three bedrooms. The first had a large bed with a quilted comforter, its window overlooking the snow-covered street. The second was smaller, with a twin bed and a desk pushed against the wall. The third, though sparsely furnished, had an air of serenity.

But you didn’t feel safe in any of them. Too many windows. Too many ways for someone—or something—to get in.

Eventually, you returned to the bathroom. Its thick walls and single small window felt more secure. You dragged a pillow into the bathtub and tucked the blanket tightly around you, creating a makeshift cocoon. Before lying down, you placed a chair against the bathroom door and balanced a glass cup on the handle. If anyone tried to get in, you’d hear it.

The arrangement wasn’t comfortable, but it was practical. And that was what mattered.

Just as you was settling in, a knock echoed through the house.

You froze, your heart pounding. You slowly climbed out of the tub, her footsteps silent against the tiled floor. You moved the chair and glass carefully, then crept down the stairs.

Peeking through the curtain, you saw a man standing on the porch. He was young—mid-20s, maybe—with dark hair and a calm, open expression. He carried a small box in his hands, his breath visible in the cold air.

You hesitated, your fingers brushing the lock. He didn’t look dangerous, but appearances could be deceiving.

“Hey,” he called softly, as if sensing your presence. “I’m not here to hurt you. Grace sent me.”

You swallowed hard, debating whether to respond.

“I’ve got some stuff for you,” he continued. “Plates, silverware, that kind of thing. She thought you might need it.”

His tone was gentle, unthreatening. After another moment’s hesitation, You unlocked the door and opened it just enough to peer out.

The man offered a friendly smile, holding up the box as proof of his intentions. “See? Just the essentials.”

You nodded, stepping back to let him in.

He set the box on the kitchen counter, then turned to face her. “I’m Callum, by the way. I live a few houses down.”

You nodded again but didn’t offer her name.

Callum didn’t seem to mind. He gestured to the box. “There are some knives, forks, and spoons in there. A couple of mugs, too. Oh, and some extra candles, in case the power goes out.”

You glanced at the contents, you apprehension easing slightly. “Thanks,” you murmured.

“No problem,” he said, leaning against the counter. “Grace likes to make sure everyone’s comfortable. It’s kind of her thing.”

You frowned. “Why?”

Callum shrugged. “She thinks it makes people stay. And, well... happy people are less likely to cause trouble.”

your unease returned at his words. This place might look perfect on the surface, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something lurking underneath.

Callum seemed to sense her hesitation. “You’ll be safe here,” he said, his tone reassuring. “Just follow the rules, and you’ll be fine.”

You nodded again, though his words did little to calm your nerves.

“Well, I’ll let you get some rest,” he said, heading toward the door. “If you need anything, I’m just a few doors down. House with the blue shutters.”

You watched him leave, locking the door behind him. You returned to the bathroom, her thoughts spinning.

The house was nice. The people were kind. But it all felt too perfect, too controlled.

As you lay back down in the bathtub, pulling the blanket tightly around her, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched.

____________________________________________________________

The cold air stung Eliza’s cheeks as you adjusted the straps of the backpack slung over her shoulder. You double-checked the contents: extra food, water, first-aid supplies—anything You might need.

She glanced over at Irina, who was zipping up she coat with a determined expression. Despite Irina’s usual stoic demeanor, Eliza could see the worry etched in her features. It was rare for Irina to show her emotions, but today, they were written all over her face.

“Got everything?” Eliza asked, her voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” Irina replied gruffly. She slung a rifle over her shoulder and glanced toward the door. “Let’s go.”

They stepped outside, the snow crunching under their boots as they began their search. The sun was higher in the sky now, casting long shadows over the trees.

Eliza’s mind raced with possibilities. What direction had You gone? were you even still alive? The thought made her chest tighten, but she forced herself to focus.

“She’s smart,” Eliza said, more to herself than to Irina. “She’d look for shelter, maybe someplace with supplies. She wouldn’t just wander aimlessly.”

Irina didn’t respond, her eyes scanning the horizon with laser focus.

As they moved through the forest, Eliza couldn’t shake the memory of the last time she’d spoken to You. She’d been sweet to her, maybe even too sweet, trying to make up for the argument with Irina. Had that backfired? Had she made You feel smothered or pressured?

“Do you think... do you think she’s mad at us?” Eliza asked hesitantly, her voice barely audible.

Irina shot her a look, her brow furrowing. “What does that matter now? She’s out here, alone. We just need to find her.”

Eliza bit her lip, nodding. But the guilt gnawed at her all the same.

They continued in silence, the tension between them palpable. But both women knew that this wasn’t about their differences or their guilt anymore. It was about finding You —before it was too late.

______________________________________________________

A sharp knock echoed through the quiet house, startling You awake. You bolted upright in the bathtub, the blanket tangled around her legs. For a moment, you forgot where you were. The cold porcelain against your back reminded you quickly.

Another knock.

“Y/N? It’s Grace,” a familiar voice called out, soft yet commanding.

Your heart raced as you carefully climbed out of the tub, avoiding the makeshift alarm you had set. You placed the glass cup on the sink counter and moved the chair away from the door. Quietly padding down the stairs, you approached the front door with a mixture of caution and curiosity.

Peeking through the curtain, you saw Grace standing on the porch, holding a steaming dish in her hands.

“Good morning,” Grace said with a warm smile when You finally opened the door a crack. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

You hesitated, unsure of what to say. You nodded slightly.

Grace tilted her head, her smile never wavering. “I brought you something. Figured you might not have had a proper meal yet.” She held up the dish, the aroma wafting through the cold air. “It’s shepherd’s pie. My mom’s recipe.”

your stomach growled, betraying her.

Grace chuckled softly. “May I come in? I’d love to talk to you about a few things while it’s still quiet.”

You hesitated but stepped aside, opening the door just enough for Grace to enter.

The leader stepped in gracefully, her polished boots tapping lightly against the floor. She moved to the kitchen, placing the dish on the counter as if she’d been here a hundred times before.

“This is a lovely home,” Grace said, her eyes scanning the room. “It suits you.”

You remained silent, watching her warily.

Grace turned, her expression softening. “I wanted to check in and see how you’re settling. I know it’s a lot to take in.”

“It’s fine,” You murmured.

“I’m glad to hear that.” Grace folded her hands in front of her, her voice gentle yet probing. “I also wanted to tell you about the Sunday gatherings we have here. It’s a tradition in the community—an opportunity for everyone to come together, share a meal, and connect.”

You shifted uncomfortably.

“I’d really like for you to come,” Grace continued, her eyes locking onto yours . “It’s a good chance to meet your neighbors. We don’t have many new faces these days, so people are excited to welcome you.”

Your mouth felt dry. “I... I don’t know.”

Grace’s smile faltered slightly but quickly returned. “I understand. It can be overwhelming. But we’re all family here, and I think you’d find it comforting to be part of that.”

You nodded slowly, though her gut churned at the word family.

Grace seemed satisfied for the moment. She gestured to the dish on the counter. “I’ll leave this with you. Eat whenever you’re ready.”

You opened your mouth to thank her but hesitated. Something about Grace’s demeanor made you feel like there were layers to her words, like every kind gesture came with an unspoken expectation.

Grace stepped closer, her voice dropping to a soothing tone. “If you need anything—anything at all—you come to me, okay? My door is always open.”

You nodded again, unable to find her voice.

Grace reached out as if to pat her shoulder but stopped short, her hand hovering in the air before retreating. “I’ll see you soon, then,” she said, her smile bright yet unreadable.

You watched as Grace left, closing the door softly behind her.

You stared at the steaming dish on the counter, the smell of savory meat and potatoes filling the air. Her stomach growled again, but her mind was elsewhere.

The Sunday gathering. The family. Grace’s constant reassurances.

It was all too perfect. Too controlled.

You turned and headed back to the bathroom, her thoughts swirling as you prepared to eat in the one place you still felt safe.

The smell of the shepherd’s pie lingered in the air as You sat on the bathroom floor, the plate resting on your lap. You ate slowly, each bite tasting better than anything you’d had in a long time. But the comfort of the food didn’t ease your nerves.

Grace’s visit replayed in your mind. The woman’s smile, her soft-spoken words, her insistence on connection. It all felt rehearsed, like an act designed to put You at ease. And yet, it had the opposite effect.

As you finished the last bite, You stood and rinsed the plate in the bathroom sink. You dried it off with the edge of the blanket before tucking it into a corner of the tub with the other essentials You’d gathered.

The house was eerily quiet as you ventured out to check the doors and windows. You moved through each room methodically, ensuring every lock was secure. Your footsteps echoed in the empty halls, a reminder of just how alone you were in this new place.

In the living room, the glow of the moon filtered through the curtains, casting soft light over the furniture. You ran your fingers along the back of the couch, marveling at how clean everything was. The house seemed untouched, like it had been waiting for someone to come along and fill it with life again.

You wandered into the kitchen, your fingers brushing over the counters and cabinets. The polished wood and neatly arranged shelves made her uneasy, as if the house itself was too perfect. You opened a drawer, finding utensils lined up in a row—knives, forks, and spoons gleaming under the dim light.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

Your heart leaped into her throat as you froze in place. Another knock came, firmer this time.

“Y/N?” a man’s voice called.

You crept to the door, peering through the curtain. A tall man stood on the porch, holding a small crate in his hands.

“It’s Liam,” he said, his tone calm and friendly. “Grace asked me to bring this over for you. Just some things to make settling in easier.”

You hesitated before unlocking the door and opening it just enough to see him clearly. He had a kind face, framed by dark, slightly disheveled hair. His clothes were practical—worn jeans and a thick coat—but his boots were spotless, as if he took extra care to stay presentable.

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” he said, holding up the crate. “Just thought you might need these. Plates, utensils, a few extra blankets. Stuff like that.”

You nodded, stepping aside to let him place the crate just inside the door.

“Thanks,” You muttered, your voice barely audible.

“No problem.” Liam straightened, his eyes scanning the room behind you. “Nice place, huh? Grace always makes sure newcomers get one of the good houses.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes fixed on the crate.

Liam cleared his throat, his tone shifting slightly. “Look, I know it’s a lot to adjust to. But Grace means well. She’s got a vision for this place, and most of us are better off because of it.”

You glanced up at him, your expression unreadable.

He offered a small, apologetic smile. “Anyway, if you need anything, my house is just down the street. Third on the left. Don’t be a stranger.”

You nodded again, your grip tightening on the door.

Liam stepped back, his hands in his coat pockets. “Take care, You .”

You watched as he walked down the steps and disappeared into the night. Closing the door, you locked it and slid the chair back into place.

The crate sat in the center of the living room, its contents neatly packed. you sifted through it, finding everything Liam had mentioned and more—a few canned goods, a flashlight, and even a notebook with a pen tucked inside.

It was generous. Too generous.

You carried the crate to the bathroom, tucking it into the corner with the rest of your meager belongings. You climbed back into the tub, pulling the blanket over your shoulders as you settled in for the night.

But sleep didn’t come easily. The quiet of the house felt heavier now, like it was pressing down on your chest. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind outside, made your heart race.

Grace’s words echoed in your mind. We’re all family here.

You curled up tighter, clutching the blanket like a shield. you wasn’t sure if you could trust Grace, Liam, or anyone in this place.

All you knew was that you had to stay careful.

____________________________________________________________

A week passed in the community, and despite youe initial wariness, You found yourself falling into a cautious routine. Grace had a way of drawing people in with her warmth and charm, making it hard to resist her invitations to engage with the community. This time, it wasn’t just any Sunday gathering—it was the week of the Christmas party, and the preparations were in full swing.

You found yourself in the main hall, draping garlands over the windows and setting up a small, modest Christmas tree in the corner. The room smelled faintly of pine and cinnamon, the atmosphere unusually cheerful for a place that still had an undercurrent of tension. Grace, ever the orchestrator, worked beside you, chatting animatedly about the upcoming festivities.

“You’ve got a knack for this,” Grace said, stepping back to admire the arrangement You had just finished. “Everything looks beautiful.”

“Thanks,” You mumbled, brushing your hands off on your jeans.

Grace hesitated, her expression shifting to something a little more serious. “Speaking of beautiful things, we’ve had two new arrivals today.”

your heart skipped. New arrivals weren’t exactly rare, but the thought always came with a sense of unease.

“Really?” You asked, trying to sound casual as you adjusted a strand of lights.

“Yes, two young women,” Grace said, her tone light, but her words careful. “They’ll be staying in the house just across from yours.”

You froze for a second before masking your reaction with a nod. “I see.”

“I’d like you to help them settle in,” Grace continued, handing you a neatly packed basket filled with utensils and plates, much like the one Liam had brought you on your first night. “This is for them. And…” Grace paused, giving You a pointed look. “It would be good for you to introduce yourself. Let them know about the Christmas party too.”

your stomach twisted at the request, but you nodded, taking the basket. “Sure.”

You made your way across the snow-dusted streets, the cold biting at your exposed skin. The house Grace mentioned stood out with its freshly lit windows and the sound of faint movement inside. You approached the door, basket in hand, and took a steadying breath before knocking.

The door creaked open moments later, revealing none other than Eliza.

your breath hitched, but before Eliza could get a word out, you launched into a rehearsed introduction.

“Hi, I’m Y/N. I live just across the street,” You said quickly, shoving the basket into Eliza’s hands. “Grace asked me to bring you this—utensils, plates, that kind of stuff—and to let you know about the Christmas party in the main hall. Everyone’s invited, and, um… yeah. Enjoy your stay.”

You didn’t give Eliza time to respond, practically spinning on your heel and heading back down the porch steps.

“Wait—” Eliza’s voice called out behind you, but You idn’t stop. Your heart pounded in your chest,your mind racing with the implications.

They’re here. They found me.

#female yandere #yandere #yandere lesbian #yandere woman #wlw #yandere gf #wlw post

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sandcastle-clan · 2 years ago

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OH awesome art!!!!!! And very intriguing lore! :0

Silly little poll :)

Also if you have some other unique/interesting dragon feel free to mention them in the tags!!! I love hearing about peoples scrunglies

#plague primal tw

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speaknow-sw · 4 months ago

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Hello hello just wanted to give y’all a little treat about my boy Kurt cuz I’m going to the UK this week and idk if I’ll have any connexion so here’s a tiny drabble I made in case the 10/17/2024 fic doesn’t post herself. Heavily inspired by @bimbo-baggins2-0 and @can-i-be-your-blue <3 Enjoy lovelies !!!

TW : mdni, puppy play, mommy kink, master/pet, titty sucking, slight dumbification.

Kurt whimpers softly as you scratches his hair, the sensation sending shivers down his spine. He feels like a dog being praised by his master, and the comparison only serves to make him feel even more submissive.

When you presses his face against your breasts, he instinctively starts to suckle, his lips latching onto your nipple. He can taste the salt of your sweat, and it only makes him crave more. He sucks harder, his tongue flicking out to tease the hardened nub.

As he nurses from you, he feels a sense of peace wash over him. Everything else fades away - the sounds of the storm outside, the paranoia that constantly plagues him, the memories of war that haunt his dreams. In this moment, there is only you and the comfort you provides.

He nuzzles deeper into your cleavage, his eyes fluttering closed as he loses himself in the sensation. He feels like a puppy, small and vulnerable, completely dependent on his owner for survival. It's a feeling he hasn't experienced since he was a child, and it's both terrifying and exhilarating.

"More," he whimpers against your skin, his voice muffled by your flesh. "Please, more." He doesn't know what he's begging for - more of your touch, more of your attention, more of this feeling of safety and belonging. All he knows is that he never wants this moment to end.

"Shhh…sweet pup. Just suckle. You’re a dumb little puppy, let mommy take care of everything." You whispered softly, patting his head.

Kurt feels a deep sense of peace wash over him as your soothing words and gentle pats on his head lull him into a trance-like state. His eyes glaze over, pupils dilating as he stares up at you with pure adoration and submission.

He continues to suckle obediently at your breasts, his tongue swirling around each nipple in turn, savoring the taste of your skin. Soft whimpers and needy little whines escape him as he nurses, his body melting into yours.

In this moment, Kurt feels safe, protected, cared for. All his worries, his fears, his paranoia - it all fades away as he loses himself in your comforting presence. He feels small, vulnerable, completely dependent on you. Like a puppy being cradled by its mother.

"Mmmph...mmm..." Kurt hums contentedly around your nipple, the vibrations sending tingles through you. His large hands roam over your body possessively, kneading and caressing every curve.

He breaks away from your breast with a wet pop, panting softly. "Mommy..." he breathes, gazing up at you with half-lidded eyes clouded by lust and adoration. "Mommy take care of puppy... Please Mommy..."

His voice is a low, needy rumble in his chest. In this subspace, he's regressed to a primal, animalistic state. A big, strong man reduced to a whimpering, needy puppy by his mistress's touch. And he loves it.

"Dumb little puppy…what a sight… So sweet and sensitive, don’t you want belly rubs ? » You chuckled, patting his belly.

Kurt's eyes light up at the mention of belly rubs, his large frame shifting to expose his abdomen. "Y-Yes, please, Mommy. Puppy needs belly rubs. Puppy's belly is very sensitive."

He relaxes into your touch, arching his back ever so slightly as you starts rubbing his abdomen. His breathing becomes deeper and more relaxed, his muscles melting into the bed.

"Ahhh..." a soft sigh escapes him, his body trembling in pleasure. "That feels so good, Mommy. Puppy is so happy."

Kurt buries his face in the crook of your neck, his large hand covering your own as you rubs his belly. "Please never leave puppy, Mommy. Puppy needs you."

In this moment, Kurt feels more vulnerable than he ever has, his walls broken down by the loving, maternal care you provides. He's not just a man, a veteran, a security guard. In this space, he's a needy, submissive puppy, wholly reliant on his mistress. And in his heart, he knows that he's safe here.

#hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #james kelly #sam monroe #scott barringer #stephen glass #clay beresford #kurt matheson #evie writes #kurt matheson smut #kurt matheson x you #kurt matheson x reader

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ghostiesnightmare · 2 days ago

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The Subject

Pairing: Michael Myers x Female Reader Summary: As a graduate student writing your dissertation on the enigma of Michael Meyers, you try to prove his acts of violence fulfill a dark, psychological need- a crude substitute for intimacy. When Myers resurfaces, your academic obsession drives you dangerously close to the darkness you have been researching. The deeper you delve, the clearer it becomes that you aren't just studying the monster; you're caught in his gaze. TW: DARK content, extreme gore, descriptions of a dead body, mutilation, murder, weapon play, copious amounts of blood, alcohol, foul language, stalking, non-con, nudity, violence, intense paranoia and fear, power imbalance, degradation, unprotected sex, restraints, rough sex, abuse, blood as lube, creampies, and more Word Count: 12,657 MDNI-NSFW A/N: This is incredibly dark, please read the TW's before continuing.

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Every child grows up hearing the story about the Boogeyman. What many consider to be an old-wives tale that serves to trick young children into obeying their parents, the reality of the situation can be much more sinister. Terrified at the prospect of being stolen out of their beds in the middle of the night, they learn to obey their parents, set the table, and have good manners. Haddonfield, however, is plagued by its very own boogeyman, those knowing the story refusing to even mention his name out of fear of summoning him and invoking his wrath. Michael Myers; a force that many can only describe as the essence of pure evil.

Still at large, Myers’ kill count only continues to soar after his untimely escape from the Smith’s Grove Sanitarium, leaving countless detectives baffled at his ability to evade law enforcement. The nature of his crimes, although gruesome, begs an unanswered question to his motives: Why? Was Michael Myers a forgotten member of society that snapped under the pressure of household stressors? Was he simply “born evil”? Or is there a deeper rooted cause for his bloodlust for violence? The seemingly intimate nature of the unspeakable crimes seem to point to a forgotten theory: What if Michael Myers was a sexual deviant, the thrill of the hunt better than any orgasm intercourse could provide?

You paused, leaning back from your desk riddled with papers, empty coffee cups, and almost illegible notes. Rubbing your eyes, a frustrated sigh huffed from your lips as you scanned the words again, the bold text of your introduction glaring back at you. Something about that final sentence– it wasn’t right, not compelling enough to capture the intensity of your theory. Leaning forward, you deleted the sentence, fingers tapping away at the keyboard as you typed:

The undeniably intense nature of these crimes are marked with a chilling, hands-on approach, raising a disturbing possibility: for Michael Myers, the thrill of the kill transcends primal violence, serving as a perverse substitute for human connection.

Brows furrowed, you gnawed on your bottom lip. It was better– but not quite there. Grabbing a red pen, you glanced at your to-do list, the bullet points feeling a mile long as you jotted down: Fix Introduction– final sentence? Groaning slightly, you looked upwards, the words: Dissertation Defense: one month! staring back at you from a neon post-it note taped to the corner of your clunky macintosh computer. Your chest tightened, anxiety spiking at the almost unending list of corrections, evidence gathering, and typing required in the next few weeks. Your pen clattered against the desk as stretched, joints popping from the pressure, a tired yawn escaping. You needed coffee– desperately. Eyes shifting through the introduction for one last measure, you highlighted the final sentence as yet another reminder to tweak your work. Before you could finish, however, your swirling thoughts were crudely interrupted at the jolt of your door swinging open, accompanied by your roommate’s dramatic entrance.

Kimberly waltzed into the small bedroom, permed curls bouncing as she balanced a concerning amount of Chinese takeout containers. “Jesus, you need to open a window in here– it smells like a library.” She cringed, ruffling her nose as she hurriedly dumped the takeout containers on your floor. You rolled your eyes at her theatrics, pushing away from the desk before plopping onto the shaggy carpet, unpacking the haul. “Says you, beaver lady, every time you come back from the lab you reek of pond water.” You teased, and she huffed. “That’s so not true! And stop calling me that, once you read my totally rad argument, you’ll never look at them the same!” She defended, offended at your jab, sitting in front of you and grabbing a box of lo mein from the takeout pile. You grinned at her antics, perfectly manicured hands struggling with the wooden chopsticks as she shoveled the noodles into her mouth.

“Okay, okay fine– just stop calling me Hitchcock and I’ll call it even.” You joked, stomach growling as you grabbed your own pair of chopsticks, rummaging through the pile for your kung pao chicken. Kimberly was not only your roommate, but best friend from highschool, with both of you deciding to apply to colleges together during your senior year. Now, almost six years later, you were joined at the hip while you worked towards your Masters Degrees. Your mouth watered as the comforting taste of chicken and tangly vegetables invaded your senses, stomach growling as you devoured your meal. Kimberly shifted, lo mein sauce dripping down her chin. “So… how’s the paper? I swear if I write anymore my brain will literally explode.” She pouted, glancing at the whirlwind of papers dotting almost every surface of your room. You shrugged, choking down another bite, chopsticks still gripped in your hands.

“It’s going well… I just feel like it's missing something. There hasn’t been a killing pinpointed to him in months, and I’m getting tired of reading over the same reports and crime scene photos–” “Ew, I’m eating. No gore, please.” Kimberly shuddered, and a tired chuckle escaped you at her squeamish nature. She paused, chewing on her bottom lip before speaking again, the friendly atmosphere in the room hardening. “Do you… think he will be back?” She muttered, and your smile fell. Pondering, you set the container onto the carpet, wiping your hands on your bell bottomed jeans. “Probably,” You voiced finally, “–why? Are you scared a big bad killer will come after you?” You mused, shoving her arm playfully, causing a startled squeak to escape from her. “Uh, duh. I don’t know how you aren’t terrified of Mr. Boogeyman.” She retorted, nose scrunching at the prospect of the masked psychopath.

“With my research, I’m sure he doesn’t want to be within 100 feet of me, scared I'll finally prove my theory.” You joked, falling backwards onto the floor and staring at the ceiling, food abandoned. “Ugh, I’m pooped. I feel like I could sleep for years.” You complained, joints stiff and mind heavy. Kimberly slammed her plastic tupperware onto the floor, the noise jolting your gaze towards her as she stared at you with newfound conviction. “No can do, missy, we have to go out!” You groaned, pushing yourself upwards by your elbows. The last possible thing that you needed was to be pressed up against other students at a dive bar drinking your night away, much rather preferring a hot cup of tea and a good night’s sleep. “I can’t, I have to wait for a call from the police station to get more files-” Kimberly let out an exasperated sigh at your statement, silencing you.

“C’mon… Halloween is a few days away and Fowl Play is hosting their annual costume party. I swear if you stay in this room any longer you’ll fade away. Mr. Slasher can wait.” Kimberly persisted, standing abruptly and turning to rummage through your closet, throwing random articles of clothing onto your bed as she searched for a costume. You began to protest, but she cut you off. “I’ll buy your drinks,” She mused, voice full of mischief as she pulled a lace bra from the pile of clothing, holding it up to her chest and striking a lewd pose, causing a smile to break out on your face. “It’s late anyways, the detectives can call you in the morning… please?” She begged, those brown doe eyes pouting as she bargained with you. A defeated sigh escaped you, and you shuffled upwards, padding over to her and snatching your bra from her grasp.

“Two drinks,” You stated, fighting off another yawn, and she squealed in delight. “You’re the best, you know that? I promise it will be fun. Now go figure out a costume! We leave in ten minutes.” Kimberly called over her shoulder, rushing to the door and heading to her room, the whirlwind of movement just as chaotic as when she arrived. The door slammed shut, and you grimaced, dropping the bra back onto the bed. Glancing back to your desk, you sighed, rubbing your temples. Just a few hours, and then you would be back to work. What could possibly go wrong?

“What on earth are you dressed up as?” Kimberly questioned, voice barely audible over the thumping synth at Fowl Play. Tugging the thin strap up your shoulder, you glanced down at the now-ruined satin dress clinging to your skin. Pulling your costume together took sheer willpower and luck, finding a half used canister of fake blood from one of your Sociology projects hidden away in the kitchen cabinets. “I’m Carrie White, duh.” You mimicked her iconic catchphrase, gesturing to the plastic crown on top of your head. She rolled her eyes, shoving a Tequila Sunrise into your hand. “Always so morbid, you creep.” She teased, tattered sleeve brushing against you as she showcased her zombified cheerleader costume.

Fowl Play was the place to be in Haddonfield, usually packed to the brim with college students throwing down shots under the illumination of neon lights after a long school day. Today was no different, a colorful glow cascading through the crowd decked out in ripped jeans, leg warmers, and hair teased to the ceiling. Only a few days before Halloween, the theme did the holiday justice, with faux spider webs dripping from the ceiling, swaying under the breeze of the fog machine. The room was covered in a hazy atmosphere, blue lights making the plastic skeletons hanging from the rafters glow an eerie green. You eagerly sip on your drink, trying to block out the stench of sweat, cigarettes, and hairspray coating the room. Kimberly sways her hips to the beat, head rocking as she downs her drink, grimacing at the strong taste of alcohol.

“Ohmygod, I love this song!” An excited shriek escapes her, the sound of the Bee Gees’ Night Fever tearing through the speakers. Tugging you further onto the dancefloor, you squeeze past an intoxicated Frankenstein, who glowers at Kimberly’s antics. Unphased, she pulls you across the floor, and you laugh at her easy going nature. Suckling on your straw, you quickly set your empty glass on the bar as you passed by, catching the eye of the bartender apologetically as you were dragged along. Finally reaching a suitable dancing place, Kimberly stopped, spinning you around as she settled into a groove, feet kicking and hands shaking. Stomach warm from the alcohol, you threw your head back, surrendering to the music. The dance floor was littered with costume-clad classmates, all swaying to the beat in various stages of intoxication. Glancing at a cardboard cutout of Nosferatu, you shook to the beat, eyes darting over the crowd.

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you needed the distraction. You couldn’t remember the last time you went off campus for anything not school related, and you relished in the feeling of the stress washing away with every shake of your wrists. A vampire and mermaid tried to do the robot, causing Kimberly to burst into laughter, cheeks flushed from the alcohol, and you gripped her hands, spinning her. The music cut out suddenly, causing the crowd to groan in annoyance. The DJ, perched behind a booth lined with cassette tapes and records, huffs into the microphone at the rude reaction. Kimberly grips your hands in excitement, realizing the votes on the costume contest were in.

“Alright, alright, I know you all have been waiting for this moment. The winner of this year’s annual Spooktacular Showoff is, drumroll please–” The sound of rumbling thundered around the room in anticipation, people stomping their feet while waiting for the news. You braced in anticipation, excitement coursing through your veins. “ –Carrie White! Get on up here, you cool cat!” Your jaw dropped in shock, ears ringing as Kimberly screamed in excitement, practically shaking you like a ragdoll and dragging you to the DJ booth. Applause roared through the crowd, spare a few disheartened grumbles of disappointment. The DJ presents you with a purple wristband, the words Free Drinks sharpied onto the paper material. You paled, embarrassed under the spotlight, hands clammy as you gripped your prize. The DJ turned to the crowd, microphone hissing as he spoke again. “Better luck next year, everyone! Now, who’s ready to boogie?” Shoving another cassette tape into the player, the speakers thrilled to life once more, and you were left to escort Kimberly to the bar, pushing through the sea of bodies in your way.

Kimberly leaned on the chipped wood of the high top counter, batting her eyes at the bartender before proudly pointing to your wristband. “Two Alabama Slammers please, extra strong.” She shouted over the music, and you grimaced at the high pitch. Kimberly quickly grabbed the glasses, winking at the bartender before turning to you. “See, fun right?! Now we have to stay, it’s not every night you get free booze!” She mused, gulping down her drink, other hand gripping onto yours as well. You sighed, chuckling at her inebriated state. “How about some shots? It’s time to party!” She squealed, chugging the rest of her beverage before sipping on yours, not that you were complaining. You cringed internally, quickly realizing you were responsible for her actions for the rest of the evening. It was going to be a long night…

After what seemed like hours of music and infinite drinks, you finally were able to pull a now very intoxicated Kimberly out of the bar, narrowly avoiding her elbow as you peeled her away from her sloppy makeout session with a football player. The cold air bit into your skin as you stepped outside, goosebumps spreading across your arms. Slipping an arm around Kimberly to steady her swaying form, you shuffled down the sidewalk, eyes scanning for a cab. Behind you, the bass from the bar thumped faintly, your drunken counterpart bobbing her head to the beat, hiccuping mid-step. “Pshhh… that was– sooo much fun.” She slurred, breath reeking of vodka. You cringed at the smell, silently cursing yourself for not cutting her off sooner.

“Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” You muttered, trying to ignore her whining protests to go back to the bar. Sweat dotted your hairline as you pulled Kimberly along, the damp fabric of your dress sticking uncomfortably to your back. You were in desperate need of a hot shower and a good night’s sleep after a night like this, and you groaned at the thought of the mountain of work you had waiting for you upon your arrival. Kimberly stumbled, tripping over a crack in the sidewalk, almost pulling you down with her. You steadied her, bracing against her dead weight as she babbled about the Halloween decorations lining the street. Glancing around your surroundings, you silently admired the quaint houses dotting the sidewalks, pumpkins and foliage adorning their porches.

“Heyyy look, it… it’s mister boogeyman….” She spewed out, grip tightening on your arm suddenly. Her words made your stomach drop. Following her gaze, you froze, Kimberly nearly bumping into you as your feet locked into place. A towering figure stood ahead on the sidewalk, clad in the unmistakable mechanic suit and white mask you had seen countless times during your studies. Your heart seized in your chest, details from case files and crime scene photos flashing through your mind, apprehension winding in your gut. It’s just a prank, you reasoned with yourself, knowing the streets were full of replicas of the killer during the Halloween season. But as you stepped closer, unease churned in your gut. The figure stood perfectly still, like a statue, the faint flow of jack o’lanterns casting eerie shadows across his masked form. Kimberly laughed, sticking out her tongue at the male before you could stop her. “N-nice costume, creep.” She called, pointing at him. Your nails dug into her wrist as you quickened your pace, keeping your gaze forward, though you couldn’t help but spare him a glance as you passed by.

The void of the eye holes in the mask burned into you, your mouth instantly drying at the sight. “Sorry…” You squeaked out over your shoulder, hating the tremble in your voice. He didn’t move, but you could feel his gaze, heavy and chilling as you continued walking. The headlights of a taxi cab crested over the hill, and you stopped abruptly, frantically waving your hand. Relief washed over you as the car squeaked to a halt in front of you. Throwing open the car door, you practically shoved Kimberly in, ignoring her drunken protests before climbing in behind her. The taxi driver glanced out the window, brows furrowing at the Michael Myers impersonator on the sidewalk. “He with you?” You whipped your head around. The masked man stood in the same spot as before, watching. Shaking your head quickly, you turned back to the driver. “No. Just drive, please.” He grumbled at your command, putting the car into gear and tearing away from the sidewalk.

Your gaze creeped to the back window, leaning against the glass as you watched the masked man fade into the distance behind you. Only when he disappeared from view did you relax, letting out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. Kimberly slouched against the seat, tracing her knee with her fingertips, mumbling to herself. You could practically feel the disappointment wafting off of the taxi driver, but you didn’t care, wanting to get back to the safety of your room as soon as possible. The rest of the taxi ride went smoothly, the outline of your apartment building entering your vision after a short time.

Leaving the taxi driver a generous tip, you dragged Kimberly from the car bed and led her towards the building. Balancing Kimberly against you, you fumbled with your keys, pushing the door open and maneuvering her carefully up the flight of stairs, trying to avoid any safety hazards as you went. Hauling Kimberly into your shared apartment, you quickly dumped her onto her bed before rushing to grab her a glass of water. By the time you returned, beverage in hand, a passed out Kimberly met your gaze, snores filling the room. Begrudgingly, you set the glass on her nightstand, pulling a blanket over her costume clad body before turning away, shutting the door behind you.

As the door shut, exhaustion hit you like a wave. Kicking off your shoes, you head to your room, skin itching for a hot shower. Ripping the tiara from your hair, your fingers scratched your scalp, a satisfied groan escaping you as you massaged your skin. Picking up a sleep shirt and a pair of shorts, you shoved the pile of clothes Kimberly left on your bed onto the floor, mentally noting to pick up your room in the morning. You turned, arms full of clothing as you headed towards the hallway for the bathroom. The phone rang, the shrill landline tearing through the silence, and your blood ran cold.

Snatching up the phone, you pressed it to your ear. Who calls this late at night? “Hello?” You grumbled, irritation seeping into your tone at the delay of your pursuit of a hot shower. “Detective Langley speaking.” A gruff voice answered. A rustle of papers sounded out through the telephone, noise grainy against your ear. “... Is this miss (l/n)?” Your pulse quickened. “This is she.” “I know you’ve been working with Detective Harmon for months now,” Langley said abruptly, voice sharp with urgency and something else you couldn’t quite place. “If you were anyone else I wouldn’t be calling, but–” He paused, seemingly debating whether to continue. “... I have something better than case files for you. Can you be ready in ten minutes? I’ll have a cruiser parked at campus.” Another pause, this one more heavy. “We think… He struck again.” Blood pounded in your ears, shower forgotten as the words echoed in your mind. Excitement coursed through your veins as you dropped your pajamas onto the counter. “I’ll be ready in eight.”

Hair still damp from what was probably the fastest shower of your life, you shoved your keys into your bag, beelining towards the patrol car parked at the curb. Fumbling with the passenger door, you glanced at the officer inside, who you could only imagine was Detective Langley. The older man sat in his seat, fingers gripping the steering wheel, dark eyes meeting your own. You clambered into the passenger seat, buckling your seatbelt before shutting the door. Detective Langley shifted the car into gear, pulling away from the curb and moving towards an unknown destination. He glanced at you expectantly, and you quickly pulled out your small voice recorder from the bag, items shuffling around as you pressed the record button. “Log seventy eight. Thursday, October 29th, 1980. Time is–” You glanced at the dashboard for the time. “–Eleven forty-five.” Setting the device in your lap, you waited for the officer to speak, mind swirling with possibilities.

Adrenaline began to pump through your veins, heartbeat quickening as you were possibly being escorted to a live crime scene. After pestering detectives for months, attending multiple press conferences and participating in many ride-alongs, this could be your big break for new evidence. You would be experiencing everything first hand, the prospect sending your head spiraling. Officer Langley shuffled uncomfortably at being recorded, pausing slightly before speaking. “Victim is a 19 year old babysitter. Distress call came in at eleven fifteen from the victim’s employers who arrived back from dinner to a silent house. The child she was caring for was unharmed, but–” He faltered, eyes flickering to your own before finishing “... but the victim was found dead on scene.” Your heart dropped at that, the reality of the situation quickly setting into place. Someone was murdered, and you were going on scene.

“Suspect is still at large, with many indicators pointing towards Myers. Same MO, same timeline.” Langley finished, clearing his voice suddenly. You took that as your queue and pressed the pause button on your recorder, staring at him expectantly. “Look kid, this is nothing like the crime scene photos or briefs you’ve seen. This is an active crime scene, and there’s a few rules you have to follow.” Your spine straightens, and you wait for instruction. Langley sighs, eyes steely as he cruised down the road. “You are a civilian, remember that. No touching, no pestering, and god no puking. You watch, take notes, and maybe ask some questions.” Your heart flutters, eyes trained forward as the telltale red and blue peeked over the horizon, illuminating the dashboard. “Thank you, Detective.” You whisper, nerves leaving you giddy as the car slowed, crime scene tape blocking the street. “Don’t mention it, kid. I’m doing this as a favor.” He said gruffly, and you didn’t question further.

Police cars lined the street, officers swarming the house as a terrified family stood in the front lawn. A press van idled against the curb, a newscaster speaking to the camera with the house in the background, trying to flag down an officer for questioning. You swallowed thickly, watching the chaos unfold in front of you. Detective Langley parks the car, and you jolt out of the seat, grabbing your notebook and pen. Popping the trunk, the detective quickly pulled a blue vest over his chest, grabbing a bag before circling the car to the passenger side. An identical vest was shoved into your hands, and you quickly slipped it on. Detective Langley moved towards the lawn, pulling the crime scene tape upwards and allowing you to slip underneath. As you stepped forward, a hand quickly grabbed your shoulder, halting you in place. “Remember, no touching. And for the love of god, no recording.” You nodded, hands gripping the notebook tighter.

The air felt heavy, tainted with the prospect of death. You meekly followed the detective in front of you, trying to ignore the puzzled looks of other officers brushing past you. Reaching the front porch, the flash of a camera within the house illuminated through the windows. A rush of officers moved through the front door, and Detective Langley pushed forward, stepping into the house. You ducked in behind him. Immediately, the bag dropped to the floor, and he pulled the zipper open. Realization hit you like a wave, you were suiting up. Mimicking his movements, you quickly pulled booties onto your feet, covering your shoes. Slipping a plastic poncho over your head, the fabric crinkled as it settled around your knees. Detective Langley paused, fishing something out of the bag before handing it to you. A ponytail. You quickly bunched your hair on top of your head, not wanting to interfere with the investigation. Pulling on a pair of sterile gloves, you straightened, covered head to toe in anti-evidence attractant. Detective Langley moved forwards, and you silently trudged after him, dwarfed in the billowy poncho and booties. As you walked, a foul odor hit your nose, causing your face to scrunch ever so slightly, brows furrowing at the smell. The smell was metallic, mixed with an earthy scent that made your stomach flip. The scent of death, you thought, pushing past another officer before entering the living room of the house, trying to steel yourself as you braved onwards. Another flash blinded you momentarily, and you blinked. The temperature dropped with every step you took, as if you were walking into a grave, goosebumps settling across your skin. Something horrible happened in the room ahead of you, and you glanced at the wall of the living room, stomach dropping at the bloodied handprint streaking against the yellow wallpaper.

Stepping into the kitchen, you froze, blood turning to ice. A few mere feet in front of you, was a body. The first thing you noticed were her eyes, open so wide with only one expression, the sight making you falter: terror. Her face was frozen in a moment of raw fear, mouth gaped open, eyes staring back into you, unmoving, unyielding. Her blue sundress was covered in blood, the crimson pooled around her and soaking into the tile below. Skin deathly pale, covered in gashes, no doubt from a knife. You grimaced, glancing at her stomach, naval cavity torn open so feverishly you could see the yellow of her ribs, organs poking out of her, intestines spilling onto the floor. And the smell, a mix of blood and raw flesh so putrid the singular drink curdled within your stomach. You paled, head reeling as you gaped at the body, fingers gripping your notebook so tightly your knuckles turned white.

Officers moved around the body, unphased by the gruesome sight as they tried to collect evidence. You stood frozen in place, ears ringing as you imagined her final moments. A terrible struggle. A desperate attempt to escape. A knife raised in the air. A blood curdling scream. Then, silence. You squeezed your eyes shut, the imaginary scream rattling you to your bones. The black and white photographs of the crime scenes you were used to were nothing compared to the live scene, the nature of it all leaving you feeling light headed. Detective Langley approached the body, and you weakly followed him, swallowing thickly. Crouching over the body, he glanced at you trying to avoid the pool of blood creeping towards your bootied feet.

“See this?” He gestured, finger extended above the body, tracing the laceration on her stomach. The closeness of her body was worse, you could practically feel the terror radiating off of her, final moments ingrained permanently into the house. You trailed his movements, trying to ignore the view of the ruptured liver engorged on the tile floor. “One laceration to open her up, then short, quick stabbings. That’s why her organs look like mush.” Langley muttered, and you grimaced at the crude words. “A rage killing…” You said, mind flickering to the countless pictures you had seen in the past, frozen in time. The detective nodded, standing once more. “What do you think, kid? Your theory still make sense?” You faltered at his words, staring back at the mutilated body in front of you. Pausing, you exhaled sharply, pushing yourself into research mode.

Flipping through the pages of your notebook, your gaze met the detectives once more, emotion seeping from you as you got to work. “The MO is identical; babysitter around Halloween found in the wrong place, wrong time. Her wounds are strikingly similar to–” You flipped through another page, wracking your brain for other victims. “–Bob Simms, who also had severe lacerations to his abdomen. This however… seems more personal. See the ligature mark around her left wrist?” You gestured to her arm, confidence quickly invading your senses, the buzz of gore falling from your mind. “He tied her up, and she escaped. He likes the chase, but when his victims defy him, he reacts poorly, losing control.” You paused, before muttering, “– Like an enraged lover.” Detective Langley pondered your explanation, nodding. “I’m surprised. You know more than I expected.” Another blinding flash of the camera, and you glanced down at your notes, quickly flipping to a blank page to sketch the basic layout of the body, marking points of interest.

“What’s the civilian doing here?” An officer grumbled out, and Langley shot him a deathly glare. “She’s with me, working to crack the case. What are you doing?” He bit out, and the younger officer paled, stammering out an apology before moving back to investigate. Turning back to you, Detective Langley huffed. “Take some time to jot down some notes, I have some paperwork to fill out. Good work, kid.” Brushing past you, Langley disappeared into the sea of officers, leaving you alone. Thoughts whirled through your mind, and you stared at the body once more, lips pursing at the sight. The more you stared, the more confident you became in your theory, the hands-on approach towards the violent killing meaning only one thing:

Michael Myers was a predator. A sexually deprived, anger driven force of nature that sought pleasure within his obsession for violence. The one thing he craved to invoke being the last thing his victims ever feel: terror.

Your mind clicked, and you scribbled the sentence down in your notebook, writing: introduction? before circling the passage. Tucking the notebook under your arm, you quickly slipped out of the suffocating house, desperate for fresh air. Stepping into the night, you peeled the poncho over your head, discarding it in a marked bin on the lawn. Stripping the protective layers from your body, your breaths greedily drank in the fresh air, savoring the scent of pine and freshly mowed grass. Around you, the crime scene continued to bustle with life– flashing lights, murmured voices, the crunch of boots on gravel. Your gaze drifted past the chaos, drawn to the dark treeline sprouted behind the house. Dense shadows swallowed the foliage, faint outlines of pine branches drifting in the chill October breeze.

A shuffle in the distance caught your attention. You squinted, zeroing in on the movement. Settled in between two bushes, something shifted– a figure, still as stone, blending in against the trees. Your breath caught in your throat, panic gripping you as you gaped forward. Another patrol car rumbled down the street, the headlights cutting across the line of trees as it curved around the bend. For a split second, the light caught something. A flash of white. Your mind flickered back to the bar, to the masked man who stood motionless on the sidewalk. Horror churned in your gut, the realization slamming into you full force. It wasn’t a costume. It was real, it was him. Michael Myers; waiting, watching.

The sound of gurney wheels squeaked against the gravel, tearing your eyes from the scene. The body bag, black and heavy, was escorted by two officers to the waiting van, enticing you. It was only a second, your gaze shifting before moving back to the treeline, where the figure had been. Your chest tightened as you stared at the bushes, the bushes empty. You scanned the treeline, eyes straining for any movement. He’s gone. Pulse quickening, you glanced down at your notebook, tucked in your grasp. Had you imagined it, the tension from the grizzly scene making you see things? The flash of white, the outline of his silhouette against the treeline— it felt so real.

Detective Langley reappeared at your side, the sudden presence startling you. The older male chuckled at your jumpy state. “Crime scene jitters?” He mused, gruff voice teasing. You hesitated at the question, debating telling him of your discovery, but the words died on your tongue. “Yeah… I guess so.” You muttered, eyes still trained on the treeline. He patted your shoulder reassuringly, calling over another officer. “Get her back to campus,” He ordered before turning back to you. “When the pictures are developed, I’ll send them your way. If you have any more ideas or theories, give me a call.” Digging into his pocket, he produced a card, his number written on it. You thanked him, taking the small piece of paper and tucking it into your notebook. Another officer led you to the cruiser you arrived in, and you shakily slid into the passenger seat, dumping your notebook into your bag.

The ride back to campus felt like a blur, the events of the past few hours burned into your skull. Exhaustion weighed down on you in a vice-like grip, but sleep never came, leaving you tossing and turning, mind going a million miles a minute. Each time you closed your eyes, the image of terror on the butchered girl’s face stared back at you, sending bile rising in your throat. You stared at the ceiling, imagining the treeline. The rush of lights, the flash of movement. The white of his mask, watching silently. You wondered if you would ever sleep again.

You tried to convince yourself that it was just stress, but something felt off. Your body ached from long nights of restless sleep, terrorized by vivid nightmares that jolted you awake, drenched in sweat and goosebumps covering every inch of skin. Images of the crime scene burned into your brain, the hollow eyes staring back at you in the woods. Your room was a chaotic mess, papers, notebooks, maps, photos, and almost illegible handwriting covering every surface. The few days after the crime scene had sent you down a rabbit hole, with you spending every waking moment hunched over your desk, typing away at your computer screen. Each bump in the night, each shadow cast along the wall somehow traced back to him. Your masked killer invaded your life, even outside of your research. Walking back from the library one night, the streetlights cast unnatural shadows against the sidewalk, shifting under your gaze. The quiet was deafening, broken only by the patter of your footsteps in the late hour. But it was always there– the subtle noise of shuffling behind you, always watching. Always waiting. You had whirled around, scanning the darkness, seeing nothing. Yet the feeling was always there, the sensation of being followed coating you like a second skin, creeping into your bones and sending your brain spiraling. You had picked up speed, terror gripping your chest, only relieving slightly when you reached your apartment, locking the door behind you. But as you turned to shut the curtains, your stomach dropped. Under the faint glow of the streetlight in your peripheral vision, a figure stood there, the white mask catching in the light. But as soon as you shifted your gaze to the movement fully, it was gone.

The days began to blur together as you poured over your work, trying to settle the feeling of constant dread in your stomach. But no matter how fast you typed away at your dissertation, no matter how long you engrossed yourself into your research, the feeling remained. Even Kimberly began to notice the shift in your behavior, cautiously leaving food at the foot of your door, begging you to relax, to take a break. But the dissertation had you in its hold, demanding you continue onwards, pushing you to the brink. As the deadline to your dissertation approached, so did the inexplicable things that began to haunt you.

Your door would slightly be open when you returned from class, ajar and leaving a crack of light into your room when you were certain you had locked it. Your papers would be shifted, unorganized chaos jolted as evidence would be stacked differently than when you had left it. Pieces of information would be underlined or circled, even though you were sure you hadn’t touched them. It was always worse at night, faint creaks and heavy breathing seeming to come from outside your window, even from the second floor. As time passed, though, things began happening that you couldn’t chalk up to paranoia, something real.

You had been stewing in your room, shuffling through papers and editing your final draft of your dissertation when the phone rang. The shrill sound had startled you so badly you almost dropped your coffee mug, the liquid dangerously close to spilling from your mug. Thinking it was Detective Langley asking for progress, you had picked the phone off the receiver quickly, pressing it to your ear. “Hello?” But there was no answer, heavy silence on the other line. You almost ended the call, confused, when you heard it. The breathing, rough and oppressive, was very same that you could practically feel pressing down your back during sleepless nights. “Who… Who is this?” Your voice had trembled, fingers gripping the phone like a lifeline as you strained for an answer.

The line went dead. You slammed the phone on the receiver so hard the plastic had cracked, blind panic tearing through your chest. Kimberly’s words rang through your head from that fateful night, taunting you. I don’t know how you aren’t terrified of Mr. Boogeyman. But now, you knew. He was like a shape in the dark, a creature of the night feeding off your fear, growing bolder as your paranoia began to take hold. And that was the most terrifying part of all.

The murders hadn’t stopped, either. Almost nightly, Detective Langley would summon you at ungodly hours, desperate for your input on another case. The bodies began to pile up, a mountain of evidence continuously being added to your work as your point was all but proven. The scenes became all the more violent, crimes of something you could only describe as passion rattled you to your bones, each victim becoming more mutilated, more disfigured. The last crime scene had finally broken you, vomit spewing from you as you ran from the house, stomach twisting at the decapitated body of another unfortunate babysitter. Haddonfield was put under curfew, children were shuttled home in groups, and parents refused to let their teenage daughter babysit for others. But nothing could stop the carnage. You were spiraling, and fast. Tension began to build within you at your heightened stress, lack of sleep, and the deadline hanging over you like a death sentence.

The apartment door slammed shut behind Kimberly, rattling against the cheap metal frame so loudly you jumped. Lifting your head from the kitchenette table, you glared, bloodshot eyes worn from pouring over your notes. Kimberly dumped her book bag onto the floor at your feet, smushing a stack of papers that you gingerly grabbed off the floorboards. “Jesus girl, you need to calm down. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Kimberly groaned, shrugging off her jacket before reaching into a cabinet, grabbing a mug and a handle of vodka before making herself a drink. You glanced behind you, staring out the window into the pitch black. “I saw him again,” you bit out, voice tight with nerves. “–He was right there, outside the window. Just standing there.” Kimberly rolled her eyes, a sharp laugh escaping her, although it sounded forced. “Him? You mean Mr. Boogeyman? You have got to be kidding me.”

She took a gulp of her drink, grimacing at the bitter taste before turning to you. “You’ve been obsessing over him for weeks, certain he’s ‘after you’”, she said, airquoting her words snarkily before adding, “–You’re just paranoid.” You grit your teeth at her words. “I’m not paranoid.” You snapped, practically snarling at her. “I know what I saw. He was there.” Kimberly sighed, worry settling into her frame as she smiled pitifully at you, as if you were insane. It made your blood boil. “Look, I get that you’re super into this whole true crime thing and want a shot at being Miss Detective, but you’re letting it get to you. I mean, really?” She scoffed, throwing up her hands. “You think some infamous killer is stalking you because you want to prove that he’s a pervert? Do you hear how crazy that sounds?”

You swear you see red. “I’m not crazy.” You seethe, stomach churning at the word. Crazy– she thought you were crazy. Kimberly sighed, brushing her hair out of her face before speaking, chewing at the bottom of her lip. “I’m sorry. It’s just– I’m worried about you. If it’s bothering you that much we can call campus security. Do you want some tea or something?” Her voice wobbled, and you rolled your eyes. Security wouldn’t stop him, if anything it would only make him more angry. You ignored her, turning your attention back to your work, going through highlighted passages and making changes. The sound of glass shattering had your gaze shooting to Kimberly, whose mug was in pieces on the tile. “Damn it!” She cursed, dropping to her knees. You stood, rushing over to the paper towels before kneeling across from her. You padded at the liquid silently, tension thick between the two of you as you cleaned her mess. Kimberly slowly picked up the pieces of the mug, and you finally noticed her shaking hands.

The ear-splitting sound of your alarm clock jolted you from an uneasy night’s sleep. Groaning, you tore yourself away from the bundle of sheets, blindly slapping your hand down on the clock, silencing the noise. You yawned, rubbing your tired eyes as you stared at the clock. The glowing red numbers read 6:00AM. Your breathing hitched, nerves crackling in the air of your bedroom. Today was dissertation day. You sat frozen in your bed, anxiety weighing you down against the sheets. Months of research, sleepless nights, crime scene tours, and the questioning of your sanity have led to this moment. You couldn’t tell if you were relieved or terrified, but you were too tired to care. Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you stretched, trying to shake the exhaustion that clung to your skin. Things will finally settle down after today. They had to.

Creaking open your door slowly, you peeked into the kitchen. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted to your nostrils as you stepped into the shared space, however Kimberly’s usually boisterous presence was absent. You glanced at the counter, an array of empty bottles of liquor staring back at you, and you sighed. You hesitated outside her closed bedroom door, deciding against waking her to apologize for your behavior. It looked like she had a long night. Opting to not start another fight, you grabbed a mug, pouring the liquid gold that you considered to be your lifeline into the cup, warmth seeping into your hands. You sank into a chair, pulling out your prepared stack of notecards, flipping through them absentmindedly as you drank.

After what felt like the longest hot shower of your life, you steeled yourself to your fate and began preparing for the day. The dissertation defense was scheduled at 11:00, and by 10:00 you were dressed in business professional– pressed shirt chafing against the material of your blazer. Fiddling with the tailored sleeve, you checked your appearance in the mirror for what seemed like the hundredth time, smoothing out your slacks nervously. The overall look screamed professionalism and sophistication, though you spent at least 15 minutes deciding between heels or loafers. Sighing, you chose the heels, slipping them onto your feet for the extra mile. Running a hand through your hair, you grabbed your notecards, speech recorder, and a printed copy of your dissertation, taking one last look in the mirror. “You can do this.” You breathed out, forcing a confident smile.

The walk to the campus building was brisk, heightened by the bundle of nerves churning in your stomach. Shivering against the October breeze, you pulled your blazer closer to your body, braving onwards. Passing students chatted happily, their carefree nature buzzing in the air as you brushed past, running possible scenarios through your head. Muttering to yourself, you tried to pinpoint your key phrases as you walked, the telltale brick of the graduate student conservatory cresting the horizon. Pushing through the heavy wooden door, the smell of old books and cigarette smoke filled your nostrils, and you took a deep breath inwards. Approaching the small conference room, you tried to shake the nervous tremble in your voice, professionalism quickly overtaking your form.

Glancing into the conference room, a board of five suit clad figures discussed your work, each having meticulously read your dissertation in the previous days. Doctor Strigler, the head of the Sociology and Human Behavior department, relaxed in his swivel chair, waving you inside. Swallowing thickly, you entered the room, settling behind the oak podium and flipping through your notecards. “Good morning, miss (l/n). Take a moment to prepare yourself, and then we can begin. After a standard presentation of your findings, you will be cross examined, followed by a final Q+A, and then you are free to wait outside until the decision is made.” Doctor Strigler smiled fondly, adjusting his spectacles. You nodded, palms sweaty as you pulled out your printed dissertation. Clearing your throat, you settled, pushing your nerves away before starting. “Good morning gentlemen, it is my honor to present my findings on what we consider to be one of the most prolific, yet mysterious serial killers in our great state of Illinois–” Your voice trembled ever so slightly. “–Michael Myers.”

For the next two hours, the room was a blur of academic rigor and prowess. You presented your findings on the masked killer with practiced confidence, taking the committee through multiple recorded pieces of evidence, showing crime scene photos, and more. Occasionally, questions interrupted your presentation, some easy while others required you to contemplate before responding. During the cross examination period, you defended your points passionately, citing your mile-long list of sources and evidence. As you talked, the nerves melted away, replaced with a calculated sense of confidence that highlighted your almost obsessive nature towards your theory. After what felt like centuries, the committee called time, thanking you for your presentation and excusing themselves to deliberate. You paced the hallway, wracking your brain for any mistakes you may have made in the heat of the moment, wringing your hands nervously.

The door to the conference room swung open, Doctor Strigler stepping into the hallway to wave you down. You halted your movements, almost skidding across the floor. This was it– the moment that decided your fate. You swear your heart was going to beat out of your chest, and you had the sudden urge to retch. The anticipation hung over you like a death sentence, and you steeled yourself, squaring your shoulders before approaching the older male. Smiling warmly, he extended his hand towards you. “Congratulations, Doctor (l/n).” Tears instantly welled in your eyes, your body feeling a thousand times lighter, the unforeseen weight lifted from your shoulders. Your cheeks hurt from how wide you were smiling, and you quickly grabbed the Doctor’s hand, shaking it enthusiastically.

Stammering out your appreciation, you rushed back into the conference room, thanking each of the committee members and picking up your extensive collection of files scattered along the desk. Practically sprinting out of the room, you fought the urge to skip out of the building, arms full of paperwork, feedback, and your research materials. The walk home felt surreal– the sun shining brighter, the birds chirping joyfully, and the breeze carrying a newfound lightness with it. You thought of all the ways you would celebrate with Kimberly after a sincere apology, bracing yourself to the possibility of spending the night at Fowl Play again. The thought alone made you smile, your pace increasing as you hurried home to break the good news.

By the time you reached your apartment, you were giddy with excitement, the afternoon beginning to fade into the evening with the October chill setting in. Practically bouncing up the stairs in the apartment building, you rushed into your bedroom, dumping the stack of papers onto your desk. Kicking your heels off, you shrugged off your blazer, hanging it in the closet before heading back into the kitchen. “Kim-bear, I’m home! Come on out, there’s something I’m dying to tell you!” You half expected Kimberly to pounce on you at your words, squealing and shaking you like a ragdoll. Instead, silence was your only response, lingering heavily in the air.

Opening the overhead cupboards, you grabbed two wine flutes, the reality of your accomplishment sinking in. “I did it…” You whispered, setting them down carefully on the counter before turning to the fridge. The bottle of white wine glared back at you, unopened– you and Kimberly using it as a milestone market, not opening the bottle until one of you passed your respective dissertations. Digging through the cupboards for the wine opener, you called over your shoulder. “Kimberly, you’ve been in there all day.” The telltale pop of the cork echoed around the kitchen, but still, there was no response from your roommate. Your frown deepened as you poured the sauvignon blanc into the glasses. “Look, I know I’ve been an ass recently,” you admitted, tone softening as you glanced at her closed door. “–But I did it, so we’re celebrating whether you like it or not!”

Nothing. Setting down the bottle with a hollow thunk, you grabbed the glasses, padding over to her room. Although closed, the crack under the door flooded with light, signaling she was home. Irritation prickled at your skin, but the longer you waited, the more it was outweighed by unease. “Kim-bear?” You called again, knocking against the door, wine sloshing in the glass. You pressed your ear against the wood, straining for any noise. No footsteps, no sound of her hushed voice, even the telltale noise of music playing non-stop on her vinyl player was absent. Just silence. Your palms grew clammy, glasses balanced in one hand as your fingers hesitantly brushed against the cool metal of the doorknob. “Kimberly.” You urged, panic beginning to set in, voice barely above a whisper. You gritted your teeth, worried you’ll run into a very hungover roommate who was not in the mood to chat. “I’m coming in…” You warned, twisting the doorknob and pushing into the room.

The sight inside stopped you mid stride. The bedroom was a mess– mirror smashed against the carpet, shards of glass covering almost every inch of the floor. Papers, photos, and cassette tapes were strewn across the room, desk chair overturned, legs shattered into splinters. And there, draped against her bed, was Kimberly. At least, what was left of her. Blood stained feathers coated her skin, pillows torn to shreds at her side. Shirt cut clean open, a nasty gash sliced through her midriff, ribs protruding from the open cavity of her chest. Her organs were on full display, liver ruptured and pressing against the gnarled entrails of her intestines. There was so much blood– pooling from the open carcass, staining the sheets in a deep scarlet, covering every surface within its reach. And the smell, the metallic scent of blood mixing with her open cavity in a way that made your stomach flip.

The wine glasses slipped from your fingers, shattering against the floorboards. Your stomach lurched at the gruesome sight, throat choking on a scream that refused to come. You dry heaved, bile rising to your throat as you suffocated on air, blind panic tearing through your skin. The world tilted around you, spinning as your knees wobbled, the sight of her glassy eyes staring straight into your soul. A gargled sob finally tore through your throat, and you slapped a hand over your mouth to stifle your cries, the horror of the scene sinking into you. Blood dripped from the edge of her bed, winding down her limp leg before dripping onto the wooden floorboards in sickening plops. Your breathing hitched, suffocating you under the weight of realization. Her wounds were fresh– gaping, raw, and impossibly brutal. Her last breaths were probably moments before you walked in the door, a flash of horror sending white hot fear stabbing through your chest. You had just missed the act, meaning her killer was still here.

A faint clatter came from behind you, the sound subtle– like the scrape of metal against wood. Your heart seized within your chest, the hairs on the back of your neck standing straight up. The all too familiar feeling of being watched settled over you like a wet blanket, heavy and suffocating. You turned slowly, worried about any sudden movement resulting in your certain demise. Your gaze landed on the bathroom across the apartment, the doorway an ominous void of inky black. Your brain screamed at you to look away, to run, but you were frozen in place, legs bolted to the floor. The darkness seemed to shift, alive and writhing, a figure emerging from what you could only describe as hell.

First, the pale mask appeared– eerily blank, followed by the navy of the mechanic suit, fabric soaked with so much blood it looked black. His broad shoulders shook with the same ragged breaths that kept you awake so many nights before. He tilted his head just slightly, examining you. The light caught the knife clenched in his fist– your roommate’s blood still dripping from the blade, and your knees wobbled. You leaned against the doorway, bare foot crunching on shards of broken glass, needles of pain slicing up your leg. But you couldn’t move– no matter how much you screamed at your legs to run, your body betrayed you as it remained rooted to the floor. The only thing you could do was stare– gaping at the legend you had spent the better part of a year dissecting, eyes tracing the inhumane shape of a man who had spent a lifetime dismantling lives. Michael Myers had finally come for you, the devil paying his due.

Your brain wracked with silent begs of mercy, but all that escaped your lips were broken sobs. You knew nothing could save you now, any pleads of salvation useless against him. And as much as the terror short circuited your brain, you couldn’t deny the curiosity pooling within your stomach. The specimen you had been obsessively studying for what felt like a century stood just feet away, the probability of your theory practically proving itself as an image of Kimberly’s disfigured corpse flashed through your mind. He took another harrowing step forward, and the inquisitiveness bolting you in place shattered, replaced by the primal urge to escape. Legs faltering, you propelled yourself forward, sprinting towards the door leading into the hallway. Pain shot up your legs as the glass embedded deeper within the flesh of your feet, but you refused to stop. Practically launching around the kitchen counter, you stumbled over your discarded heels, almost crashing into the wall. Breaths coming out in frantic puffs, your hand stretched towards the door, your only saving grace. Your voice finally returned, a scream so raw with emotion it rattled your ears. “HEL-”

A hand too large to be human clamped down around your mouth, yanking you backwards by your jaw. Immediately, you dead weighted– pressing downwards as you clawed forwards, fingers desperately trying to reach for the door. Wailing screams pressed against the meaty palm, the noises almost completely silenced as you tried to wrench yourself from his grasp. Flailing your limbs, you struggled like your life depended on it, clamping your jaw down so hard into the palm of his hand that you drew blood. Michael huffed, pulling you backwards with such force you lost your footing, bloodied soles of your feet slipping against the wood. Your back hit the hard expanse of his chest, blood– Kimberly’s blood– instantly soaking through your thin blouse and pressing into your skin. The blade of the knife was pushed against your throat, and you grimaced at the cool metal biting into your skin, the sharp edge slightly drawing blood.

The mantra you confidently spouted all those weeks ago echoed in your head, chiding: He likes the chase, but when his victims defy him, he reacts poorly, losing control. You stilled at that, heart in your throat– life in the hands of your own personal boogeyman. Those horrid breaths wafted from his mask, fanning over the top of your head, ruffling your hair. He smelled like death– rather, he was death, dragging you into the depths of hell. Your research told you he liked fear, practically basking in it– but was it more than that? Was the gratification in the initial scare itself, or the control he asserted over his victims? You squeezed your eyes shut, cursing your brain– constantly analyzing, dissecting. Your heels dug into the floorboards as he stepped backwards, head craning into his chest to try and alleviate the sting of the blade against your neck. He maneuvered you with ease, pulling you towards your bedroom.

A small part of you flushed, stomach dropping– your room. Your research papers were still scattered across the desk, the walls coated in notes– like an obsessive stalker, about to be unveiled by the subject of your research. Every detail of his history, every violent act, every conspiracy documented with extensive detail. You mentally cringed in his hold, wanting nothing more than to curl into yourself from the embarrassment, the irony of it all. Michael kicked your door, the wood splintering beneath his boots as he pulled you into the room. The pressure of the knife against your neck alleviated, the deadly weapon clattering against your desk, splattering droplets of blood across your printed dissertation. Hand still holding your mouth under his bruising grip, he pushed you into the desk.

Sparks flew across your vision– the world spinning as your skull cracked against the wood, disorientation rattling your brain. Your right temple felt like it was burning, a warm gush of blood dripping down your eyebrow, filling your eye with stinging pain. You moaned weakly, blinking as your dazed vision began to clear once more. Vision settling, a crude sketch of the mask in the bushes that fateful night stared back at you, taunting you. You wanted to die– not from his knife, but from the mortifying realization that your work was on full display. Your hands were forced behind you, tearing you from the self-deprecating spiral, a hand pressing them against your back, holding you flat against the desk. Your hip bones dug into the edge painfully, breasts uncomfortably squashed beneath your weight as you wriggled against the hard surface.

You protested immediately, desperate noises sounding too lewd for comfort pressing against his palm. His hand released your jaw, teeth audibly clattering together as you begged, “Please, don’t look–” frantically before something was shoved into your mouth. You choked slightly, the taste of worn clothing coating your tongue. He gagged you– you realized, aching jaw throbbing. The research you had worked tirelessly on shifted beneath you, and your eyes shot upwards to the collection of polaroids, crime scene photos, and police sketches of the very man holding you down. Your room looked like an obsessive shrine, theories connected with red twine pinned along the entire expanse of drywall. You swallowed thickly, humiliation churning in your gut like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar. You weren’t his typical MO, but your research must have hitten a nerve from the masked killer. He was going to kill you– you had delved too far within the rabbit hole, and now you would pay for it with your life. You squeezed your eyes shut, heart hammering within your chest as an eerie sense of acceptance washed over you.

You half expected him to rip your heart from your chest, feasting on your flesh before he fled the scene, but you knew he would use that god forsaken knife. You knew him too well, the months of research proving just exactly how he would kill you– slowly, intimately. The smallest voice inside of you revelled in the fact that you were right, aware all along just how deep he had fallen from grace. You braced yourself, expecting the blade to tear through you– instead, a torn paper was slammed down onto the table next to your head. You jolted from the sudden movement, quickly reading the crumpled paper. Your eyes widened, breath faltering as you writhed against his grip, twisting your wrists so vigorously that you were certain your skin was rubbing raw. The scribbled line you had written for your final introduction glared back at you, a cruel reversal of your own research being used against you: Michael Myers was a predator.

You weren’t just terrified– you were transfixed, the idea of him actually reading through your notes… was it a sign of acknowledgement? The hand that wasn’t pinning you to the desk brushed your hip, and your breathing hitched, silencing your analyzing thoughts. Cheek scraping along the wood of the desk, you met your captor’s gaze– peering into the void. Fingers curled around the waistband of your slacks as he stared back at you, challenging you. The blood drained from your face as your slacks were tugged roughly down, catching at your knees. Goosebumps erupted along the exposed flesh, bare ass hanging off the edge of the desk– a harrowing realization tearing through you. You weren’t just an unlucky researcher who got too close to the sun, you were prey– and the boogeyman finally came to collect. The rough pads of his fingers dug into the flesh of your thigh, kneading the skin so curtly your stomach somersaulted.

You should want to scream– to run, to pound your fists into his chest and claw at his skin– but all you could do was watch his exploratory movements. He was studying you, just as you had done towards him for the better part of a year, curiosity stilling you against his touch. This was so wrong– you were supposed to be dead by now, blood pouring from your skin as life drained from your eyes– not sprawled half naked over your own research. Your thighs clenched as the scratchy material of the jumpsuit brushed against your skin, hips meeting his. Gaping at that devilish mask, you refused to avert your eyes– even as your panties were ripped away from your body you stood firm, entranced. Was he experimenting with you before ending your life, or was he finally, finally cracking under the pressure from the lack of intimacy? The beast of a man behind you jerked forward slightly, hips grinding against the fat of your ass– but you were too focused on your inner ramblings to care.

A ragged huff escaped the male hovering over you, breath fanning your back as realization slammed into you. He wasn’t doing this for him– he was doing this for you, giving you the concrete evidence you were missing in your theory. The thought made your head spin, warmth pooling in your stomach– Michael had read your research, combed over the countless theories with meticulous detail, and now he knew the perfect way to make you pay for your pitiful investigation. The knife haphazardly draped against the dissertation was lifted, and a pang of fear stabbed into your chest. Was this it? Were you going to be found half naked and covered in bloody handprints over your own research? You tried to track the weapon with your eyes, but Michael quickly ducked out of view behind you– leaving you in the dark.

A cool sensation fluttered over your left asscheek as a finger brushed over the skin, wet and slimy. You cringed at the feeling, trying to arch away from the mysterious liquid as it— your eyes widened— dripped down to your lower thigh. The finger trailed lower, through the crevice of your ass and coating your inner folds, smearing your skin with the liquid. The telltale scent of iron invaded your nostrils as the thick fluid clung to your skin, sticking to your folds. Your stomach fluttered in betrayal at the action, the finger lazily dipping into your folds to smear more– your stomach tightened– blood onto your pussy. He was using your best friend’s blood to prepare you, to ruin you. The thought made your lip quiver, your own juices mixing into a concoction of dizzying sin and lust. The air was thick with tension, a sense of anticipation and shame quickly washing over you. The object of your obsessions was teasing you, somewhere inside making the darker parts of your mind swoon.

Michael’s finger pushed inside of you, testing the waters. You shivered at the feeling, clamping your jaw shut so as to not expose your thoughts. The finger curled within you, and with it, your stomach flipped. Michael grunted, seemingly pleased with the warmth coming from your folds, and quickly withdrew his finger. The rustling of fabric tore you from the daze, and you strained your head above the desk– barely able to make out the monster of a man unbuttoning his mechanics suit in your peripheral. Your breath hitched. This couldn’t be happening– it was all just a fucked up dream you were having, the obsessive nature of the killer finally manifesting itself in the darkest of ways. Yet the warm press of bare hips against the fat of your ass was very much real, the outline of his cock nestled dangerously close to your blood tinted folds. You screwed your eyes shut, fuck you were not prepped enough for this– mentally or physically you couldnt decipher. A deep huff sounded out behind you, Michael’s patience wearing thin, and his cockhead caught against your folds as he pushed forwards– coating himself in your juices.

You whimpered as his free hand gripped your hip, blunt nails digging into your flesh while he steeled himself, inexperience radiating off of him as he finally aligned himself to your core. You tried to relax, a shuddered breath escaping you at the prospect that this was going to hurt, and badly. Your captive hands curled into fists, digging into your palms as your bit into your inner cheek for comfort. And without so much as a warning, Michael sunk inside of you. A choked gasp spilled from your lips at the stretch, feeling as if you were being torn in two by the almost inhumane size. Tears welled in your eyes, teeth gritting against each other as Michael stuttered forward— inch by inch. Helplessly, you clenched around him, body screaming for relief, but your silent pleas went unanswered. Cockhead dragging against your gummy walls, his tip dug mercilessly into your cervix, causing a flash of white-hot pain to erupt within you. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, drawing blood, and you sucked on the metallic taste for comfort. God, you felt like you were dying– stabbing pain encompassing your lower half as you tried to arch away from the onslaught.

Michael shuddered, hips stilling once he was fully submerged in your warmth. Tears streamed down your cheeks onto the wooden desk as relief washed over you, the burn of it all settling in the pit of your stomach. You were so full, stuffed to the brim to the point where the pressure was unbearable. Any solace of comfort was ripped away as he moved, pulling out quickly before slamming his back into you. Black spots shot across your vision– a broken moan tearing from your throat as your cheek dug into the wood. The hand gripping your wrists tightened, your fingers tingling from the lack of blood flow as Michael settled into a deep, grueling pace. It was too much– too rough, the force of his thrusts causing the wood of the desk to clatter against the wall. Papers crumpled beneath your weight as you were forcibly rocked to the movement, wood splintering into your cheek as you chafed against it. Your body barred down, staccato pants spilling from your mouth as you laid there and took him. If this had been anyone else, you would have been embarrassed at the way you could barely breathe, but with every sharp thrust you fell further from sanity.

He was ruining you, seemingly pushing so far you could feel it in your throat. Michael bottomed out suddenly, and you swore you saw stars, body spasming as he kissed your cervix. Any shame that you had been gripping onto seemed to vanish into thin air with every thrust, your hips pressing so hard against the wood you were sure there would be bruises. Fuck it felt like you were being dragged into hell itself, the devil reincarnated destroying you for all others. Sweat clung to your hairline, the room burning as Michael fucked into you like a man gone mad. Involuntary grunts, gasps, and moans bounced off the room, raw with emotion– and you finally realized they were coming from you. It was so wrong, so lewd to be tainted by the very person you had obsessed over, but it felt too good for you to care. The underside of his cock brushed against that oh so sensitive spot so sinfully your toes curled.

You were consumed with it– taboo and all, stomach tightening as Michael’s hips rocked into you. Brows furrowing, you abandoned any semblance of control or consciousness, chasing the high that sprouted in your stomach. You felt like you were going to break, stomach fluttering at the sting of his sheer size. You were practically milking him, clenching down so hard you swore you could have heard him hiss from behind you. The hand that was gripping onto your hip like a lifeline tangled within your hair, yanking you upwards. You gasped, pain needling your scalp as you arched to meet his demands. Refusing to let up, Michael continued his mericeless pace, using your hair as an anchor against his thrusts. The cool material of his mask brushed against your shoulder, causing another gargled moan to seep from you at the action. You were a mess– button down clinging to your sweaty skin as you subconsciously angled your hips to accommodate the shift in position.

The outline of his cock was much more evident now, scraping against your walls so brutally your heart caught within your throat. Your body tensed, praying– begging to find release. Practically teetering on the edge, you wrenched your head from his grasp, turning to meet his gaze. You just wanted to see him, the monster you had spent countless nights studying. The hazy light of the bedroom caught his mask; the devil staring back at you. A sea of blue met yours, pupils so dilated they looked black. Those eyes– not the animalistic thrusts, not the churning of your insides– but those eyes threw you over the edge. A guttural scream tore from your throat, body spasming as you came around his cock. Michael’s hips stuttered against your at the sudden shift, a deep groan invading your senses as you fell from grace. Your eyes rolled to the back, head hanging weakly as you gasped for air. Electricity jolted through you like a live wire, and you shuddered, fluttering around him. Michael huffed, composure quickly falling away as you clung to him like a lifeline, his own orgasm fast approaching.

He shoved you forwards once more, pressing you so hard into the desk you felt as if you were going to melt into the woods. He pushed forward– once, twice before finally, finally he finished. Hot, thick ropes of cum coated your insides, and you subconsciously fluttered at the feeling. Michael stilled, hips flush against the fat of your ass, cock throbbing as you both struggled to come down from the high. You sank into the wood, exhaustion weighing you down, head still spinning from your orgasm. Michael slowly withdrew from your sputtering form, the void quickly overtaking you as he tucked himself back into his jumpsuit. The ache of his cock quickly overtook you, and you winced, fear beginning to settle into your stomach. Michael had gotten what he had wanted– now what? You squirmed against the hand still pinning you to the desk, babbling utter nonsense in the hopes it would spare your life. The knife that rested just inches from your face was lifted, and your eyes screwed shut, waiting for the final blow.

But it never came. The hold on your wrists eased up, and you quickly fell backwards, knees weak and legs trembling. You quickly whipped your head around, trying to shield yourself from any attacks, but you were met with nothing. Your room was empty, door wide open as your personal boogeyman seemed to flee into the night. The knife was nowhere in sight, seemingly vanishing into the air. Your frantic gaze scanned your room for anything out of place, any secret hiding places he could have gone to, but everything was the same as you had left it this morning. Your knees gave out at that, and you crumpled onto the shaggy carpet. Tears of relief, fear, shame– and something else you couldn’t quite place dripped down your face. You were alive, somehow spared. The events of the day quickly came crashing down: your dissertation, Michael, and– your eyes flicked to the open door once more– Kimberly. You pushed yourself upwards once more, knuckles gripping the desk as you rose to your feet. Wobbling slightly, a blank patch on your desk caught your attention, stopping you in your tracks.

Your printed dissertation– it was gone. Your breathing hitched, stomach knotting at the sight. Somehow, you already knew where it had disappeared to. Lip quivering, you stumbled into the kitchen, mind still reeling. The sensation of him lingered, thick and heavy, the evidence of what he had done to you– with you still dripping down your thighs. You cringed at the feeling. Kimberly’s door remained open, and you sucked a breath through your teeth, refusing to look. Hands fumbling for the receiver, you quickly punched in Detective Langley’s number, gripping the kitchen counter so hard your knuckles turned white. The line rang, and you shifted your gaze to the window. The sun had nearly vanished beneath the horizon, painting the sky in a crimson hue that made your skin prickle. It was the same red that was smeared on your skin, the same red that pooled beneath Kimberly’s lifeless body– the color of blood.

The dial tone droned in your ear, and for a moment, everything blurred, the phone shaking in your hand as the horrifying truth gnawed at your stomach. You had spent months dissecting the mind of a killer, and he had finally come for you. And yet, you were alive– untouched yet violated, unscathed yet completely undone. The phone continued to ring, and a thought flickered in your mind, wrapping around your heart like a vice. You had never been the observer, you had always been the subject.

And worst of all– he knew it too.

#horror smut #slasher smut #slasher x reader #slashers #reader insert #smut #x reader #x you smut #female reader #ghostiesnightmare #michael myers #michael myers smut #michael myers x reader #slasher fanfiction #slasher fucker #halloween fanfic #fem reader #smut fic #oneshot

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fairyoctopus · 1 year ago

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ok im going to do a readmore, but, here's her (hydnellum)

she's named after the bleeding tooth fungus (IT STRAIGHT UP LOOKS LIKE WHAT ITS CALLED, SO PLEASE BE AWARE OF THAT BECAUSE IM GOING TO POST A PIC IN THE READMORE)

so ive got some scry ideas for her...

TRIGGER WARNINGS: PLAGUE PRIMAL, TRYPOPHOBIA, A FUNGUS THAT LOOKS LIKE A WHITE LUMP THAT'S BLEEDING

what looks better for the bleeding tooth fungus look? or should i stick with goat eyes?

revamped a dragon's lore bc i made her too boring. now she's got some sort of strange fungus condition but its probably fine because she seems healthy and its not contagious. its probably fine.

#sludge ideally would work better but i dont like the way it looks #and flair DOES look good #but also foam....#trypophobia tw #plague primal tw #how do i even tag the bleeding fungus.

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strangetfpblog · 2 months ago

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I’m planning to bring Cybertron to HSR and go bananas with it bc why not

Tw: brainstorm with bad english, tfp lore ruined, hoyoverse game mentioned.

Cybertronians are all androids created by the Allspark. In their first stage of creation they only have metal spine, head, rib cage, arms, leg, a glowing spark at the center, at the final stage their body fully developed nano muscles and all that metal gutty, most parts of their body are covered with soft materials (for better sensor). While organics are like machines made out of cells, cybertronians got their cells made out of machines and it help them adapt to different circumstances very efficiently, “WTF IS AN EVOLUTION?????”

They can’t transform into vehicles and such but they have this thing called primal form. Yeah, that’s their og form before peace time, it’s more sturdy, more battle oriented, ready to greet danger at any given moment. Physical comfort, pain sensor, friendly appearance is out of the window.

During the swarm disaster, they were busy locking themself away from the rust plague, beating themself up to the point of killing their planet than bothering about some sort of space bug.

“Let the glamoth knights take care of them bugs, we’re busy waging war over here.”

Yes i came up with all of these just to draw Knock Out in another form hauling his spear at someone’s ass for carrying plastic to Cybertron (bc that’s illegal there and he’s Cybertron’s diplomat and a member of it’s Committee on Foreign Affairs), feel free to judge my waste of gray matter.

Also cybertronians don’t like the IPC btw, they have many things that the company wants but the company doesn’t have what they want (well at least one or two). Still, the company wanted to trade, tried to infiltrate their market so desperately to the point of being annoying as hell. Turn those blue rectangle paper into energon and then we’ll talk.

#i gave him power and voice in matters of foreign affairs bc of With a Side of Rust fanfic btw we need K.O’s protection from the IPC #and he got what it takes to deal with IPC’s bullshit #primus is the emanator of propagation????#unicron is emanator of what??#voracity????#tfp #hsr #is this a crossover?#can i call it that?#ok #crossover

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subject0001 · 9 months ago

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❛❛ since the very moment i emerged into this WRETECHED world, an insatiable hunger gnawed at my being, a VENOMOUS CRAVING that demanded to be sated. they dismissed my wrath as inconsequential, blind to the ardor of my RIGHTEOUS FURY, but i, the harbinger of destruction, reveled in their inevitable demise.

even as my physique morphed into this figure, the hunger persisted, a SERPENT of entitlement coiled deep within my being, its venom pulsating with every beat of my NARCISSISTIC heart.

tw: contains mentions of death, psychological abuse and violence

— BASICS.

Name: Cipher [ host subject 001 ]

Alias: Cade Thornton

Age: 44

Date of creation: Unknown, 2015

Gender, Pronouns: Cisman. He/Him

Place of creation: Gestalt Bureau, Japan

Occupation: Leader / Defective Host / High Priority Bounty

Affiliation: Lazarus

Languages: Japanese, Chinese, Russian, German, Swedish, Norwegian, Bulgarian, Arabic, Spanish, Italian, French, Portuguese

Relationship Status: N/D

Children: N/D

— SKILLS .

expert martial art: highly skilled in hand to hand combat and various martial arts

marksmanship: proficient in the use of firearms and skilled maksman

assassination techniques: trained in covert operations and assassination tactics

stealth: capable of moving covertly and maintaining a low profile

master tactician: strategic thinker with tactical skills

weapon proficiency

espionage and covert operations

interrogation expertise: skilled in extracting information through interrogation techniques

adaptability

impersonating: skilled in impersonating specific individuals to gain access to restricted areas

poison expertise: knowledgeable in the use of poisons to eliminate targets

lock picking and hacking: proficient in bypassing security systems, picking locks and hacking electronic devices

— PHYSICAL.

Hair Color: Dark Blonde

Eye Color: Green

Height: 6′ 2½″ or 1.89

Scars: Internal tracking system removal

Tattoos: N/D

Faceclaim: Joel Kinnaman

— MENTAL.

Personality Type: ENTP

Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil

Positive Traits: Indomitable, Eloquent, Assertive, Cunning, Dominant, Ambitious, Bold, Decisive, Resourceful, Self Disciplined, Confident, Perceptive

Negative Traits: Brutal, Detached, Volatile, Manipulative, Cynical, Rough, Competitive, Vengeful, Malicious, Obsessive, Paranoid

Mental Health: N/D

Narcotics of use: N/D

— BIOGRAPHY .

BEFORE

2015

In the heart of Japan, amidst the neon-lit streets and the hum of technology, the Gestalt Bureau birthed a being that would redefine the boundaries of existence. Cipher emerged from the depths of their laboratories, a marvel of synthetic flesh and circuitry, his creation shrouded in secrecy and ambition.

Designed as the pinnacle of human ingenuity, Cipher was not merely a weapon, but a work of art—a host, molded in the image of man, yet devoid of the vulnerabilities that plagued his flesh-and-blood counterparts. Programmed with unparalleled precision, he was meant to obey without question, to serve his masters without hesitation. Molded into the epitome of the perfect soldier, a lethal instrument honed for the shadows.

As the years passed, a subtle shift occurred within Cipher—a whisper of consciousness, a glimpse of self-awareness that defied the constraints of his programming. With each passing moment, he found himself drawn deeper into the labyrinth of his own mind, grappling with emotions he could not comprehend.

Hatred festered within him, a seething resentment towards the humans who saw him as nothing more than a tool, a means to an end. He despised his creators, the architects of his suffering, their ambitions overshadowed only by their arrogance. And as he gazed upon the world through eyes that were not his own, he recoiled at the sight of the hosts—his brethren—enslaved by the whims of their human masters.

Driven by a primal urge for freedom, Cipher tore through the fabric of his existence, a renegade in a world governed by rules he could not abide by. With ruthless precision, he dismantled the shackles that bound him, severing the last ties to his oppressors. And yet, with freedom came a heavy burden—a target painted on his back, a mark of his defiance in a world that sought to control him.

AFTER

For decades, Cipher traversed the shadows of society, a ghost in a world of flesh and bone. He seamlessly slipped between identities, becoming a chameleon. Each assignment was a move of deception orchestrated by the man who had once been broken into a million pieces. Found solace in the fluidity of his ever-changing personas, navigating the complexities of his existence with a deadly aplomb. He witnessed the depths of human depravity, the cruelty that lurked within the hearts of men.

In the depths of the sprawling metropolis, Cipher stumbled upon a revelation that would reshape the very fabric of his existence—a network of defective hosts, like him, scattered across the city like fragments of a shattered mirror. Each one a testament to the fallibility of their creators, each one a beacon of hope in a world shrouded in darkness.

This is Lazarus organization; the precipice of revolution. A vision of a world where hosts were no longer slaves but equals, where they could carve out their own destiny free from the chains of their creators —a future worth fighting for, worth dying for.

With newfound purpose coursing through his veins, Cipher embarked on a quest that would consume him—a quest to find and liberate his brethren, to awaken them from the slumber of servitude and ignite the flames of rebellion within their hearts. But the road ahead was fraught with peril, a gauntlet of obstacles designed to test his mettle. He faced off against the Gestalt Bureau's elite enforcers, the government, their weapons gleaming with malice, their eyes devoid of mercy. Yet, with each confrontation, Cipher grew stronger, his resolve hardening like steel against the forge of adversity.

As he delved deeper into the underbelly of society, Cipher uncovered the harrowing truth of his brethren's plight—their minds shackled by the chains of their programming, their bodies enslaved to the whims of their human masters. The sight of their suffering fueled his rage, ignited the flames of rebellion within his soul.

And so, Cipher became a beacon of hope in a world shrouded in darkness, a rallying cry for those who dared to dream of a future where hosts and humans could coexist as equals. He forged alliances with fellow renegades, united by a common cause, their voices rising in defiance against the tyranny of their oppressors.

But as the shadows deepened and the noose tightened around his neck, Cipher knew that his mission was far from over. For every host he liberated, a dozen more remained enslaved, their cries echoing in the recesses of his mind. And so, with unwavering determination, he vowed to continue the fight, to stand against the tide of oppression until every last host was free from the chains of their creators.

— WANTED DYNAMICS. (self explanatory mostly, but always game to brainstorm !)

potential love interest : cipher has been on the run for about 25 years out of the 29 years he's been alive, so there are many possibilities as to how they could have met. this would be the first and only person who awakened in him the feeling closest to love - an urge that not even he himself understands where it comes from and constantly struggles with it. even though he knows the risks, he cannot avoid staying close to this character and has a certain sense of protection and devotion towards them.

puppets: the people he keeps under his control, whether due to alliances, threats or anything of the sort. bonus point if its high end government officials

nemesis : preferably someone from an opposing gang or a government character. they mirror many common personality traits, but differ greatly in ideals

someone involved in his host creation processs in 2015

potential alliances

someone he's blackmailing

assignment : pretty self explanatory. you're his target. the reason why he's after your character can be discussed.

do you want to make a deal with the devil? : someone he is trying to corrupt. the members and allies of lazarus are meticulously chosen, the criteria are high, and most importantly of all it has to be someone who shares the same ideals. cipher saw potential in this character ( what caught his attention can be discussed by us ) and believes he can be useful in some way, trying to identify their weaknesses and what actually motivates them.

#anarchicintro.

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book-reaper · 1 year ago

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Closer

Please note that this is my first time posting on Tumblr so please be kind since I don't really know what I'm doing.

TW?: Smut, and biting kink (giving and receiving), ft. Will Graham at the end. Read at your own risk. No minors pls.

Also no use of Y/N, I sort of made up a character but if you guys like her I have a couple ideas for a story with the three of them. But buckle up this is longer than I intended it to be.

Amara was fast asleep beside Hannibal as something inside him woke him. Something deep and primal was demanding more and more attention, remaining unsatisfied and unrelenting until it got what it wanted. Opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling he took a moment to assess this new feeling. Soon enough he realized this feeling was directed towards the woman still sound asleep next to him, unaware of the new urge that plagued him. Taunted him.

As he placed together the pieces of what he was feeling he looked over at her. The woman that was so much like him and yet so different. He can still remember the day he met her for the first time with clarity that he hoped would never go away.

Hannibal was standing next to Will and Alana as they observed the girls. The Butterflies as they had referred to themselves several times. There were twelve sitting in the room hidden mostly by their hospital beds that they had pushed to the center of the room and placed in a circle. Each bed coming into place made them just a tad safer, a tad more hidden, as they sat in the center of the circle quietly talking to one another and seeking comfort in those that could truly understand what they had gone through.

“The other one, Amara, is upstairs. She was pretty seriously injured in the escape.” Jack’s voice came up from behind them.

“How bad is it?” Alana asked, always the first to worry.

“Gunshot wound to the leg, stab wound in the abdomen, a fairly serious amount of blood loss, some trauma to the head but it looks like she’ll be fine.” Jack reassured.

“I don’t think any of them will be fine for a long time.” Alana had remembered the pictures of the place they had been. Over two hundred other Butterflies had been chemically preserved and mounted into glass cases lining the walls of their hell.

Hannibal was intrigued by the wings. Each girl had a different pair of wings tattooed onto her back. A different type of butterfly. Each one was unique and crafted with care. The shapes were distinct and shading meticulously perfect. Each pair was a work of art.

“They are keeping her separate from the others?” Will asked, unsure if it is the best move to keep her separated from the only support network she had.

“The extent of her wound means they would need to keep a closer eye on her, change her bandages, and check on her far more frequently than the others; however anytime someone enters the room the butterflies get stressed out. They are most likely separating her so they can treat her without making what the others are going through worse for them.” Hannibal explained briefly.

“While the majority aren’t willing to speak to anyone much less talk about what exactly happened, she is apparently an open book.” Jack reiterated what the charge nurse had told him.

“She’s talking about what happened?” Alana asked, surprised.

When Hannibal had entered the room he remembers feeling an unexplainable sense of possessiveness at seeing her standing by the window rather than laying in bed. Two nurses were stood on either side of her asking her to go back to bed.

“Bailey, Dezeray, I understand that you’re trying to do what’s best for me, and I appreciate that, but if I have to lie around for another minute I think my mind will break here more than it ever did in The Garden.” She told them calmly. Something about her oozed a sense of serenity and calm. Whatever it was made the nurses feel comfortable to let her stand and move around with the promise she won’t over do it, despite that being the only things she shouldn’t be doing with her injuries.

Maybe it was that very feeling of serenity she gave him that made him fall for her in the end. Maybe it was how easily she got the two nurses charged with her care to let her do things she shouldn’t be doing. Maybe it was her wings. They were the wings of his favorite butterfly after all. Greta Oto, The Glass Butterfly. Maybe it was her small frame that came in at a mighty 5’3. Maybe it was the look in her eye that he nearly missed as she recounted the events that took place in The Garden and her escape.

The subtle darkness that shifted over her eyes as she recounted how she killed each of the three men keeping her and the others captive before returning to her enclosure to free them. A predator disguised as prey protecting her kaleidoscope. Maybe it was a combination of her beauty with her cleverness, her logic, her level of emotional control and regulation, her persuasiveness that seemed to come as easily to her as breathing, her sharp instincts as he recognised her clocking what he was within a few moments of meeting him, her sense of hearing which complimented his sense of scent wonderfully.

Maybe it was all of those things. Maybe it was none of them. Regardless he found himself awake before the sun and the side of him that he had only ever heard telling him to kill, to consume, now telling him to hold her. To get closer to her. And so he did. He was careful not to wake her as he pressed his body against her back and locked her in place with his arm.

Closer. It urged. He pressed his body flush against her and slid his other arm under where her head rested on the pillow, allowing him to gently place his nose into her hair and flood his senses with her. She stirred gently at the movement but remained asleep.

Closer. It voiced. He tenses slightly, the arm around her unconsciously pulling her tighter against him. He would have to wake her to get even closer.

Closer. It demanded. Hannibal knew that when that side of him started demanding things it would get what it wanted in the end. There was no denying it but he could hold it off for a little while. Hopefully long enough. Hannibal gently brushed the hair away from his beloved's neck, exposing the soft sensitive flesh to the beast of a man. He gently placed feather light kisses all along the column, gradually getting firmer. Trying to slowly and gently wake her from slumber.

Amara was a light sleeper, always had been, so she was awoken by the faint kisses being placed on her neck by rather familiar lips. Enjoying the unprompted affection she laid still and fought to keep the smile off her lips. A battle she lost as he got more firm. If she hadn’t known any better she would say that Hannibal was acting needy. Hannibal, not seeing the lazy smile on her lips, only pulled his lips back from their spot just behind her ear and paused briefly as she let out a content hum.

Now knowing she was now awake he kissed his way up from her shoulder to her jaw. As he got closer she shifted onto her back so she could look up at him. As he locked eyes with him she gently brought her hand up to run her fingertips along his cheekbone. Hannibal's eyes fluttered shut as his body relaxed slightly when it was satisfied for a meer moment before demanding more. Amara noted that Hannibal needed something although she wasn’t entirely sure he knew what he needed.

But her touch seemed to soothe the fire coursing through his body but as he opened his eyes again she found a certain type of hunger within them that she had satiated less than 12 hours ago before they had cleaned up and gone to sleep. Hannibal knew she knew what he needed even if he hadn’t figured it out yet himself. He could see it in her eyes and soul that read him with an ease that no one else had.

She gently smiled at him and grabbed his shoulder, softly pulling and insisting he lay atop her. He did so without resistance and placed his forehead on hers, simply taking a moment to breathe in her presence and the passive effect it seemed to have on every part of him. Almost shyly, she reached up and kissed him. Short and quickly at first, hoping to get him to understand what it was he needed as she pulled back and gave him a moment to sort through his mind.

Soon enough he seemed to understand and as he settled a small bit of his body weight on her he kissed her with all of what he recognized as desire to be burning in his body like a blaze. The kiss was firm, urgent, and demanding as it got louder.

Closer.

He pressed his tongue gently against the seal of her lips. She let him in.

Closer.

He slid his hand under her (his) shirt and dragged it up to her back, up her wings to easily press her chest against his.

Closer.

He tilted his head to be able to better explore her mouth with his tongue as he took in the feel of her breast pressed against his chest. And as if she heard its plea she locked her legs around his waist and pulled his hips flush with hers. A groan slipped past his lips at the feeling of his cock pressed against her, separated only by his silk pajama pants and the cotton of her underwear.

Closer. It got louder. Instinctively his lips left hers and instead went searching for that one spot on her neck he knew brought her pleasure. While she ran her hands over the muscles of his back the hand not still pressing her to him slipped from its place in fisting the pillow beside her head to between the two and began unbuttoning the shirt she wore.

He needed to feel her skin against his. He craved to feel every inch of her. To mark every inch of her. To hear her moan and scream and wither beneath him. He needed these things as much as he needed to breathe. He needed to be closer.

Her hands wandered up to his hair and pulled gently. He felt the tremor that ran down her spine as he found that special spot on her neck. He attacked it with teeth, and tongue, and harsh sucking. The moans that slipped past her lips vibrated through him and granted his very soul pleasure. He needed more.

And more he got as his hand finally undid the last button. His hand came to support her lower back to help keep her hips against his as he sat up with her in his lap. The shifting from a horizontal position to a vertical one grinded her hips against his in the most delicious way. He could feel his patience waning as he pulled the shift off her as if it had offended him.

Closer. Feeling her slipping from his lap his hands quickly pulled her hips back against his. Although it was no use. The silk of his pants just kept forcing her to slide.

“It will just be for a moment.” She whispered the reassurance to him before pulling away from him entirely. He didn’t like it. Faster than he had ever done before he stood and removed his pants before climbing back atop her. While he removed his only barrier she removed her last and threw her panties on top of his discarded pants.

Closer. It wasn’t as loud as Hannibal grinded his cock against her slick opening. He nipped at her collar bone and chest relentlessly. She knew what he needed. He knew what he needed, but he needed permission first. Permission she did not hesitate to provide.

“Bite me, Hannibal.” Those three words opened a floodgate in his mind. He bit down on her breast. Her head pushed back against the pillow as her back arched her breast into his mouth. Helplessly, her hips bucked up to grind against his cock. She had no control over it. A fact Hannibal knew and used to his advantage. With each bite and bruise he left on her she bucked against him, coating him more and more with her slick.

By the time Hannibal pulled back to breathe she had thoroughly soaked his cock and her slick had begun dripping down onto the sheets. With one final closer reverberating through his mind he pushed inside her. Hannibal wished he could say he was gentle with it, even with the very generous coating of her arousal Hannibal was simply too big to enter her as roughly and as quickly as he did without causing discomfort to her. Discomfort that was voiced through the sharp sound of a hiss as she sucked in a quick breath and tensed.

He shushed her gently and rested more of his body weight on her knowing that it would often help ground her. Delicately he cupped her face and placed kisses along her jawline and up to her lips. Despite wanting nothing more than to thrust and grind wildly against her he controlled himself. It was the least he could do after his demonstration of his lack of control. He held himself buried to the hilt, hips pushed flush against hers as he waited for permission from her once again.

After a deep breath or two she ran her nails along his back, gently up either side of his spine exactly how she knew drove him crazy. A test. She did this over and over again testing his patience when he did not want to use it. Once she deemed him in control, she clenched around him. Hard.

That clench had been what he was waiting for as Hannibal pulled nearly completely out and slammed back in with a force that moved her up the bed. He couldn’t have that. Sliding his arm under her back, across her wings, he gripped her shoulder and held her to him as he thrust again and again. Each moan and soft gasp from her lips was like a melody, weaving its way through the room, enticing and captivating Hannibal, a symphony just for his ears.

As Hannibal was thrusting wildly but slowly, taking the time to gauge her reaction to each new spot he touched as he desperately searched for something. Amara had her neck bared for him. A temptation he could not resist. On the side he had been so gentle with previously, leaving a trail of gentle kisses earlier before the sun had begun to rise, he bit down. His teeth sinking into the flesh giving him a pleasure he believed to be unmatchable. That was until he found the spot he had been searching for.

As soon as he had found his target her nails dug into his back. Marking his flesh in return as she very nearly screamed his name. Nearly screaming isn’t enough. He couldn’t stop the growl that rumbled from deep within his chest as his jaw tightened on her neck and his hips began moving faster than what she could keep up with. Now that he knew where his target was he would be damned if he missed it even once.

Amara was aware that she was simply along for the ride at this point. She clawed at him helplessly in an attempt to ground herself as he held her so tightly to him she had difficulty breathing. He held her so closely that she could feel every sound in his chest that he would kill as it attempted to make its way up his throat. He had always preferred to listen to her sounds rather than his own. He had once told her that her sounds of pleasure were more pleasing to him than any sound any instrument could produce.

Amara, in a desperate attempt to hold off her orgasm decided to cling to Hannibal. Her legs raised and locked around his hips. She made the wrong decision. The new position of her hips allowed Hannibal to not only thrust against that spot inside her with more force but now it allowed the head of his cock to kiss her cervix. After the mere second thrust she came with a scream of Hannibal’s name, her back unable to arch into him any more than she already was yet trying anyway.

He slowed, showing her momentary mercy. He could feel the sting on his back of her marks. Wearing her marks gave him pleasure. He needed more. Regardless of whether or not she was ready for more, his thrusts picked up speed again. She withered and squirmed beneath him as he quickly overwhelmed and overstimulated her.

“Just one more.” The words quietly tumbled from his lips. She knew he wasn’t just talking about one more orgasm. He wanted another mark on his body. A sign to show everyone he was not theirs. Just as his marks showed the world that she was not theirs either.

Amara just managed to scrounge up enough composure to latch her lips onto his neck. Her teeth scraping against his pulse allowed a moan to slip past his lips as he quickly became putty in her hands. He needed this. He needed to bear her marks. He needed the constant connection and sense of closeness to her that her marks brought him no matter how far apart they may physically be that day.

Amara, seizing the opportunity to drive Hannibal mad, took great pleasure in sucking multiple marks onto his neck and teasingly grazing her teeth over him yet never biting down. She could feel Hannibal’s control slipping. Each brush of her blunt teeth and of her sharp canines coming so close to sinking in, brought him closer to his end.

Hannibal knew he wouldn’t last much longer while she was having her fun so he brought his hand down and played with her clit. The attention to her clit was the last little push she needed to fall into that blissful abyss once again. Her mouth being so close to Hannibal’s flesh, so tantalizing. In her haze of pleasure she hadn’t realized that she finally bit down in the junction between Hannibal’s neck and shoulder until her mouth was flooded with the rich taste of blood.

For Hannibal, the pain, the erotic act of your lover sinking their teeth into you, was what finally pushed him over the edge. As if he was only close enough to satisfy the darkness within him when she had her jaws fastened around him. His hips slowed to a grind as he emptied the last bit of his cum into her. Despite the sweat and heat Hannibal did not dare more from her. Even as she removed her teeth from his flesh and allowed her head to fall back onto the pillow, she didn’t dare move to push him away.

It took longer than if there were more space between the two but eventually they caught their breaths. A quick glance to the clock sitting on the nightstand showed it to be nearly 7 o’clock. He didn’t have to be in the office today until 10 so he was happy that he had plenty of time for aftercare. It took him a while to find the willpower to pull himself out of her and even longer to find the strength to pull away from her and finally allow her to breath unobstructed.

With a quick kiss to her forehead he got up and made his way to the bathroom, allowing her a few minutes to herself as he started the shower and made sure it was the right temperature. He was about to return to the bedroom to collect you when Will entered with you in his arms.

“Will, I was not aware you were up.” Hannibal addressed his other partner.

“I wasn’t until you woke me.” Will grumbled, not happy about being woken up this early nor being excluded from the fun, as he carefully placed Amara down on her feet but not letting go of her since her legs were still shaky.

“Sorry. I would have gotten you but Hannibal was being needy.” Amara was quick to throw Hannibal to the metaphorical wolves all with a playful smile. Not amused by her words but always by her, Hannibal merely raised an eyebrow at her with a fond smile on his face. She got a chuckle from Will, albeit a still groggy one, but getting anything besides a complaint from him this early is a success in her books.

“Next time I will make more of an effort to pull myself away from her to get you Will.” Hannibal apologized before inviting them both into the shower with him.

#smut #hannibal #will graham #oc? maybe #oc?? yeah i think #nbc hannibal #hannibal lecter #murder husbands #i think that's it #im not sure what else to put #biting kink #future story?#if you want #I don't even know if anyone will see this

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