hi!! u can call me imelda or mel, i have extreme slasher brainrot (specifically doomhead from rob zombie's 31 <3)
feel free to submit any questions or thirsts, even if requests are closed! i'm totally fine with any nicknames or pet names, i love ppl being friendly with me <3
i'll write poly relationships (as long as no one is related) and crossover poly relationships with reader too! i also take platonic requests.
characters i'll write for include but are not limited to:
•Michael Myers (OG + 2018 Halloween)
•Corey Cunningham, Allyson Nelson (Halloween Ends)
•Art the Clown, Tara Heyes, Dawn Sissy, Sienna Shaw (Terrifier)
•Lucifer Morningstar, Chloe Decker, Daniel Espinoza, Mazikeen/Maze (Lucifer)
•Jerome Valeska, Ed Nygma (Gotham)
•Sebastian Castellanos, Joseph Oda, Juli Kidman, Ruvik Victoriano (The Evil Within)
•Leon Kennedy [RE2/RE4/RE6] Claire Redfield, Ada Wong, Luis Serra, Jill Valentine, Carlos Oliveira, Albert Wesker, Chris Redfield, Helena Harper, Piers Nivans, Sheva Alomar (Resident Evil)
•Kara, Connor, Markus (Detroit Become Human)
•Trickster (Dead by Daylight)
i'll also write for some ships ! these include (but i'll likely do any i know that you ask for!)
-Greta & Brahms
-Vincent, Lester or Bo & Carly
-Ben Miller & Zoey Davis (Escape Room)
-Chloe & Lucifer/Deckerstar (Lucifer)
Rules
i won't write : incest, pedophilia, rape, suicide etc. i will write yandere, dark fics & most kinks, just ask if you're not sure! i will write both dominant and submissive readers, just specify. i'll write headcanons, drabbles, full fics & series!
if you don't specify in a request, reader will be gender-neutral, but i will do other genders if you ask! i won't write about pregnancy or mentions of children, sorry.
it's ok to spam requests! i am only one person with a fairly busy life so requests may take up to about a week to be answered at most, usually, i appreciate the patience <3
pls don't request the exact same specific scenario word for word you've sent to other writers.
while i'm aware that i can't stop under 18s from reading or requesting, i would prefer if you didn't dm without your age in your bio or anywhere else that's visible!
commissions info
-commissions will begin once i've finished my cycle of regular requests, around december 2025 hopefully!
-still working on reasonable pricing, always open to feedback! currently, i'm thinking around £5 for 1k words, £10 for 2k etc. for anything 3k+ it'd be £15-20. if you'd like a lot of long headcanons instead of a fic they'd be around £5 too i think!
(Including: Michael Myers, Baby Firefly, Doomhead, Gabriel May)
Michael Myers
-Michael knows what it's like to have an unstoppable urge, a subdermal itch that will not be repressed or lessened. He might not quite get the concept of OCD behaviours until you explain, but he's far smarter than anyone ever gave him credit for and he's a fast learner.
-Michael's adept at redirection...although he's usually redirecting someone's head away from their body. He'll put your hands above your head and simply tilt his own when you glare at him, smugness radiating from the gesture.
-The Shape of Haddonfield relinquishes his knife for only one purpose: to give to you. He lets you twirl it around, twist it and turn it up to the light so it reflects. The handle fits strangely comfortably in your grip, and Michael rests easy knowing he's keeping you safe...even if it's from yourself.
Baby Firefly
-Baby's not too fussed about getting to know specific mental health terms or psychological breakdowns of your condition, she's just interested in making you feel better. She's got a collection of hairbands, headscarves, hair ties, anything that she's got is yours to use!
-If you tend to pull at your eyelashes or eyebrows, Baby's quick to take your hands into hers, trilling about doing your makeup, a clever way to get you to keep your hands to yourself. If you're insecure about any hair loss there, she'll fill in your eyebrows for you or fit you with false lashes at your request!
-Baby can get stressed to the point of harming herself (although it's rare that she turns her pain onto her own body) so she's not as unfamiliar with self-destructive behaviours as you may think at first glance. She's affectionate as always and quick to reassure you that you're absolutely beautiful and she's so proud of the progress you're making.
Doomhead
-He can be kind of an asshole about getting you to focus on something else: he's a real drill sergeant about it, barking at you to stop hurting yourself. It's his way of saying he cares about you, though.
-He'll take you out when he notices your mood dropping and your hair thinning, even if it's just to a shitty dive bar where he never takes off his sunglasses. It's an excuse to make sure you're eating okay and hold your hand under the table, preventing you from searching out and grasping at your hair (he'd lie through his teeth that he does this if anyone ever asked).
Gabriel May
-Gabriel knows what it's like to push his body to the point of pain. In a way, he is well-acquainted with the kind of behaviour indicative of OCD. He's also well aware of his looks, even though you tell him he's handsome, and he wouldn't dream of ever letting anyone judge you for yours. Bald spot? Everyone better mind their business about it or Gabriel will plan a visit. Missing lashes? You're stunning, he doesn't care.
-Gabriel's scarily smart, and will do his research on your condition. He's adept at calming you down, soothing you when you've had a bad day, and he just gets you like no one else does.
-A voice will crackle through the speakers of your phone when you're tugging at your hair, TV static will startle you out of your pulling, the radio will switch to your favourite song when you're upset...Gabriel will always let you know he's there for you.
Hello, I don't know if this has been requested or not but I was wondering if you could do a headcanon with doom head and a S/O who has bad anxiety?
Doom Head & Reader with bad anxiety (SFW)
-His usual method of self-soothing is kicking back with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other, as cliché as it is. He was raised by a father who imparted upon him the principle of having a stiff upper lip, so to speak, but you've given him a softer side.
-Although...he's never going to say no to you if you do reach for his whiskey or his pack of smokes. What can he say? Doomhead doesn't believe that you have to have healthy coping mechanisms all the time, or even any of the time if it's his life he's talking about - you're different. He wants you to take care of yourself.
-He likes playing with your hair if he's able to, twisting strands between his fingers and inspecting how they glint like jewels even in the barest hints of light his half-drawn bedroom curtain allows.
-He'll rub circles on your skin with his thumb, settling you down, grounding you. They're hesitant at first, the touch of a man not used to being gentle, the touch of a killer, but the more you open up to him about your anxiety and your struggles the more comfortable he becomes with providing respite for you.
-If you're socially anxious, Doomhead is happy to accompany you to anything you'd like, set up appointments for you if he's able, and handle situations that might make you nervous should you ask him to do so.
-If you get panicked quite easily, he's always there to get you whatever you need: a glass of water, a hug, or space if it's what's best for you. He's gruff about it, faux-complaining, but you can tell by the spark in his eyes that being your safe haven is a point of pride for the killer.
-He's so proud of you. He doesn't care whether you miss that doctor's appointment when you feel so anxious you became physically ill, or if you mess up and say the wrong thing in conversations with him, if you need to hold his hand or his jacket when you're out...he loves you. He doesn't give a shit. He's so proud of his baby.
-God help anyone that makes you nervous or pokes fun at you, because he'll rain down hellfire on them. He is the fucking hammer of judgement on your behalf, let it be known <3
I would literally die for a peter strahm x reader thigh riding fic
ASK AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE (500 business days later) 🙏
Peter Strahm x GN!Reader : Thigh Riding (NSFW)
You're hesitant to approach him about this. Peter's never denied you any of your heart's desires, no matter how depraved or pathetic you may feel they are, so you're not entirely sure why. Is it embarrassment? Reluctance to ask him for something you believe is selfish?
As a special agent, Peter Strahm is hardwired to keep his sharp eyes scanning for suspicious activity, and your recaltricance has not escaped his scrutiny.
The minute details of what you are hiding are frustratingly out of his grasp for now, but he's been in the FBI for long enough to know where and when to press a suspect. He's been with you long enough to know your weak points and what you'll spill your guts for.
And so he gets it out of you eventually.
His lower body is so muscled, you realise up close, so imperviously strong with an understated litheness. He's still clothed, you'd asked this of him, denlineating your fantasy as if confessing to a murder.
Fire on ice as your blazingly hot thighs meet his - you liken to Peter's thighs to marble; smooth, cool and sculpted by the finest and most skilled of touches. Need against need: the special agent's near-pathological reliance on having control of the situation and your wanton, practically mindless pursuit of sensation.
Friction, friction that brings tears to your eyes, sensation after what feels like a year without touch, a crescendo of pleasure, nerves lighting up and keening at the fast pace he sets you on. He settles you in his lap (it's like magic, the way he knows where you'll be most comfortable) and it appears to unlock your voice.
You're sure you look ridiculously desperate as you pant at him, short phrases all you can manage. "Yes, please. Right there. Faster."
Fingers in impossibly soft, dark hair - Peter's guided your hand there, let you scratch at his scalp and tug him any way you'd like, allowing you to use him and set your own pace. You'd been clutching at his shirt originally, but this - this is so much better.
"You're doing so well, honey, does this feel good?" Peter croons in your direction, deviously dark eyes lighting up when you release a gasp that hits him like a slap in the face.
He's growing hard under you. Painfully hard. Peter ignores it, pins your hand down when you reach for the zipper of his pants. This is all about you. His needs are secondary, his wants irrelevant, priorities clear.
It's euphoric, how he worships you even as you succumb to self-gratification.
"Please, Peter, please, please, please," is the breathy whine that escapes your tangled mind, a litany of swears and calls of your lover's name following shortly after. You must look like an animal, like someone possessed, rutting against him with a vigour you weren't aware you could display.
With one last supplicatory flash of your eyes, so cervine and submissive now, Peter gives in - "Go on, honey, come for me."
His indulgent smile, his soft touch...it's all too much, too much and not enough, as your body goes taut and your orgasm finally crashes over you, ears ringing with the force of it.
You don't even hear his quiet chuckle of amusement, too caught up in the afterglow. The gentle kiss he presses to your forehead doesn't register, brain rewiring to force your hips to stop moving, shut down the instinctual chasing of pleasure.
That's okay. There's plenty more days like these to be had. There's plenty more kisses and crescendos that Peter will give you.
Slashers + kissing them in panic before they kill you (pt3)
[including rusty nail (joyride), stu macher, lester sinclair, vincent sinclair - implied sexual content under cut]
Rusty Nail (Joyride)
It wasn't you. You wish you could tell him that, but he's got your mouth taped up and his hand over that, so you try your best, knowing it's your life on the line, to communicate your innocence with your eyes alone. You weren't the one messing him around, calling him on the radio, playing him like a chess piece. You're tilting your head, gaze ever so slightly angled so you can look into his own cold, unforgiving eyes. There's nothing but death in those eyes. Nothing but a painful, prolonged death.
There is no mercy for those who cross the king of the highways.
He shushes you, chuckling in deep, rich baritone that would have given you butterflies in any other situation. If you'd met him at a bar, you think, you'd have hit it off. He'd buy you a drink, be a real gentleman until you went home together, where he'd show you how rough he could be when you asked nicely. It's this thoight that finally breaks your resolve - the idea that you and your murderer-to-be would have gotten along, if he'd known of your innocence. Tears don't spill down your checks but cascade, desperate, wrenching sobs leaving you involuntarily despite your pitiful attempts to get yourself under control. You can't stop torturing yourself with ideas of what he'll do with your trembling body, shivering violently even in the oppressive heat of his truck. It encapsulates the man who owns it so well - gradually increasing until it became overpowering, almost blisteringly hot; you're reminded of a frog in a slowly boiling pan.
Your thoughts are ripped away from you as the tape is similarly ripped off your mouth. His hand, in lieu of the tape, comes back, though.
Your thoughts don't.
It's chemically calm, sterile like a hospital in your mind, right up until he lifts a blade. Rusted iron will soon meet delicate flesh and it is no battle: your skin will break first. Something must give, and he won't.
You have to. You have to. You're not dying here even if surviving means you're plagued with nightmares of this very night, this very truck, this very man who's toying with the knife he's intending to use on you. You try to picture the bravery you're trying to summon like a hand coming to deflect a blow to the face. This is going to hurt, but it will hurt far less than the alternative.
You shut your eyes and press a kiss to his hand, then his...ring finger, perhaps? You can't tell, your eyes are firmly closed and staying that way, almost as though in sleep or death. You intend on neither, tonight.
Rich laughter again, this time carrying a note of genuine surprise.
"You're not the first to try that."
You hear the smile in his voice rather than see it as he speaks to you.
"But you're certainly the prettiest."
Your eyes open as if his voice has hypnotised you. You see his smile fully now as he removes his hand and leans down, intent on replacing it with his mouth.
"I've been needing some company."
Stu Macher (Scream)
There's always some stupid fucking reason to go into the creepy basement/garage/cellar/attic/cave (list non-inclusive), isn't there?
You feel like such a cliche as you stomp down Stu Macher's stairs, internally lamenting the stupid fucking configuration of this massive house. Your internal monologue is basically one big stream of complaints right now, cursing Stu and his parents and everyone at the party and your boyfriend who hadn't bothered to show up to the party you didn't even want to go to in the first place! Thoughts of his pure audacity prevent you from being fully aware of your situation. That's cliche, too.
(Stu certainly thinks so as he watches you curse under your breath. He'd intended on Billy doing this one, loathe to be absent from the party for so long, fearful of raising suspicion, but there was something about you...it had to be done personally.)
The bleating terror of a sheep with a wolf at its throat has never been more understandable when a masked figure catches you by the waist, still bent over retrieving the beer from the fridge, the business end of a knife pressing into your back as much a promise as a threat.
How embarrassing. A horror fan like you being victim to some low-rate, teenager killer with a fucking Spirit Halloween looking mask?
Oh my god, did the fifty cent masked fucker just laugh - oh, shit, you actually said that.
To his low budget face.
Desperate to appease him somehow when, with shocking strength and speed, he pulls you up from your position and backs you against the wall - the blade at your sternum now - you abandon all rational thought, and act on instinct.
What would temper the anger of a vicious killer, one who'd only left brutalised corpses in their wake?
"I- I like your mask," you say as quickly as you can. That mask shifts as the man - woman? (could be either, but with the build you felt as he pulled you up, your bet is on male) - tilts his head to look at you in an expression that almost reads "Oh, really?".
You swallow nervously, something this figure doesn't miss. The ghostly, pale white visage is hauntingly bright in the dimness of the garage, the light from the fridge the only thing illuminating it...and you. It's like some twisted love at first sight; you two are the only people that seem to exist in the universe together.
And you don't even know his name.
"Can I call you something? Even if you're going to kill me."
He seems to consider this, knife turning and twisting against you, almost like an anxious first date fiddling with napkins at dinner. Is it sick that you're comparing him to such a figure of romance?
Eventually, you get a nod.
For the first time, Ghostface is christened. Maybe not the most creative of you, but you'll have time for ingenuity if you make it out alive. You have to play this very, very carefully.
You wonder if Stu's noticed your absence yet, or Randy, or Tatum, or Sidney. Buying time is all you can think to do. "You- you know my name?"
An easy nod this time. God, what do people in those wildlife shows do? It's as if you're facing a predator, strong and sleek with animal instinct driving it to rip, kill, maim, tear.
No. You're asking the wrong question. What do people in horror movies do?
They die screaming in fear, their deaths played for laughs or tragedy, but they die either way.
Or, they fight back. There's always one that lives to tell the tale. And for a killer that appears to revel in their infamy...
"You could be a legend one day," you whisper, pressing yourself further into that knife. The sting is nothing compared to the pain of betraying yourself. "This town will never forget you."
"But if you spare me now..."
You continue your ascent, and shakily turn both of you around - facing a mirror in the garage, your back against his front. Cracked and splintered, it's enough to get the job done. To convince him, to convince you?
The image that appears to you, the future that could be, is not just exhilarating but intoxicatingly powerful.
The Visage of Death and his Lovely Muse.
You're both so still it could be a painting; the knife is done, his hands have replaced it on your waist. You turn around one last time, and hope he doesn't notice how your hands shake as you take the mask in your hands, gently remove it and kiss him on the forehead.
"The world would never forget us, Stu."
Vincent Sinclair
You like museums as much as the next person, but you never expected to end up as an art piece.
All your pleading, your screaming and running has done you no good. It's done worse to your friend - you catch their eyes, forever wide and unblinking behind the wax. Stuck in a mask of terror forever.
The artist stands above you; you're strapped down firmly on the table, but you see a watchful eye pass over you anyways. The moment that eye leaves, it's a death sentence, isn't it?
"Please...Vincent," you rasp out, throat hoarse and dry. "I don't want to die. I don't have to die."
No response. You're not talking to Vincent; you're talking to the artist of Ambrose.
"You're a monster," you whisper, not quite brave enough to say it loudly. Like your friend did.
Before they died in horrible pain.
You don't know if he hears it, but there's no response. He's working on something pretty close to you, you can see his tools spread out on the table next to you. You have to keep trying. It's your only chance.
"You don't have to kill me...I can help you."
Seemingly tired of your words, he slams whatever he's tinkering with down on the table and marches over to you. It's a small blade he grasps onto like a lifeline: it's big enough to do the job, though. Big enough to make your pulse skyrocket, your head spin - it's a wonder he can't hear your heartbeat as it tries to escape your chest, escape this terrible fate you've met with.
He goes from above you to nearly touching you, long hair tickling your cheek. You think he's intent on telling you to hush, threatening you with a blade so clean you can see him in it.
So clean you can see the shock in that one blue eye as you tug on a lock of his hair to meet the mask's lips with yours.
The table straps weren't as secure as he thought.
You'll help him do better, next time.
Lester Sinclair
You've never met anyone quite like Lester.
At first, you thought that was a good thing.
He was chatty, cheerful and charming, politely making small talk as he drove you around Ambrose. For being such an obviously lonely person, he was incredibly well-mannered and engaging in conversation. He told you about his roadkill decorations, watching as you delicately ran your hand over the bleached white and tawny bones. You thought you saw a kindred spirit in him - another person who wasn't afraid of the macabre.
Now, knowing this could be the only thing that saves your life...well, prolongs it. With his brothers hunting you down, you had no place to go but right into Lester's waiting arms, and in the relative safety of his arms you'll remain, if you're careful and clever enough to pull this off.
"Lester, Mr. Sinclair, please don't kill me," your begging has a serious effect on him - his arms tighten around you and god, clearly he's never been called that before because you feel him getting hard against you. "Please, didn't we connect? I liked you, I had a crush on you-"
The grip becomes painful.
"Have, I-I have a crush on you, I thought-"
You cut yourself off.
If this Lester is still the one you got to know for a brief time, he'll appreciate actions over words.
You press a long kiss to his cheek; you're just staying the executioner's sword. Your words won't sway him from cutting your head off, but this might...
Your shaking hands travel from his face to his waist. They become steadier. Mirroring his grip of iron on you.
You don't know it, but you've been safe anyways. He never had any intention of letting you go.
He'll tell you that later, though, once you're done worshipping him, Lester thinks as you unbuckle his belt.
Slashers + kissing them in panic before they kill you (pt3)
[including rusty nail (joyride), stu macher, lester sinclair, vincent sinclair - implied sexual content under cut]
Rusty Nail (Joyride)
It wasn't you. You wish you could tell him that, but he's got your mouth taped up and his hand over that, so you try your best, knowing it's your life on the line, to communicate your innocence with your eyes alone. You weren't the one messing him around, calling him on the radio, playing him like a chess piece. You're tilting your head, gaze ever so slightly angled so you can look into his own cold, unforgiving eyes. There's nothing but death in those eyes. Nothing but a painful, prolonged death.
There is no mercy for those who cross the king of the highways.
He shushes you, chuckling in deep, rich baritone that would have given you butterflies in any other situation. If you'd met him at a bar, you think, you'd have hit it off. He'd buy you a drink, be a real gentleman until you went home together, where he'd show you how rough he could be when you asked nicely. It's this thoight that finally breaks your resolve - the idea that you and your murderer-to-be would have gotten along, if he'd known of your innocence. Tears don't spill down your checks but cascade, desperate, wrenching sobs leaving you involuntarily despite your pitiful attempts to get yourself under control. You can't stop torturing yourself with ideas of what he'll do with your trembling body, shivering violently even in the oppressive heat of his truck. It encapsulates the man who owns it so well - gradually increasing until it became overpowering, almost blisteringly hot; you're reminded of a frog in a slowly boiling pan.
Your thoughts are ripped away from you as the tape is similarly ripped off your mouth. His hand, in lieu of the tape, comes back, though.
Your thoughts don't.
It's chemically calm, sterile like a hospital in your mind, right up until he lifts a blade. Rusted iron will soon meet delicate flesh and it is no battle: your skin will break first. Something must give, and he won't.
You have to. You have to. You're not dying here even if surviving means you're plagued with nightmares of this very night, this very truck, this very man who's toying with the knife he's intending to use on you. You try to picture the bravery you're trying to summon like a hand coming to deflect a blow to the face. This is going to hurt, but it will hurt far less than the alternative.
You shut your eyes and press a kiss to his hand, then his...ring finger, perhaps? You can't tell, your eyes are firmly closed and staying that way, almost as though in sleep or death. You intend on neither, tonight.
Rich laughter again, this time carrying a note of genuine surprise.
"You're not the first to try that."
You hear the smile in his voice rather than see it as he speaks to you.
"But you're certainly the prettiest."
Your eyes open as if his voice has hypnotised you. You see his smile fully now as he removes his hand and leans down, intent on replacing it with his mouth.
"I've been needing some company."
Stu Macher (Scream)
There's always some stupid fucking reason to go into the creepy basement/garage/cellar/attic/cave (list non-inclusive), isn't there?
You feel like such a cliche as you stomp down Stu Macher's stairs, internally lamenting the stupid fucking configuration of this massive house. Your internal monologue is basically one big stream of complaints right now, cursing Stu and his parents and everyone at the party and your boyfriend who hadn't bothered to show up to the party you didn't even want to go to in the first place! Thoughts of his pure audacity prevent you from being fully aware of your situation. That's cliche, too.
(Stu certainly thinks so as he watches you curse under your breath. He'd intended on Billy doing this one, loathe to be absent from the party for so long, fearful of raising suspicion, but there was something about you...it had to be done personally.)
The bleating terror of a sheep with a wolf at its throat has never been more understandable when a masked figure catches you by the waist, still bent over retrieving the beer from the fridge, the business end of a knife pressing into your back as much a promise as a threat.
How embarrassing. A horror fan like you being victim to some low-rate, teenager killer with a fucking Spirit Halloween looking mask?
Oh my god, did the fifty cent masked fucker just laugh - oh, shit, you actually said that.
To his low budget face.
Desperate to appease him somehow when, with shocking strength and speed, he pulls you up from your position and backs you against the wall - the blade at your sternum now - you abandon all rational thought, and act on instinct.
What would temper the anger of a vicious killer, one who'd only left brutalised corpses in their wake?
"I- I like your mask," you say as quickly as you can. That mask shifts as the man - woman? (could be either, but with the build you felt as he pulled you up, your bet is on male) - tilts his head to look at you in an expression that almost reads "Oh, really?".
You swallow nervously, something this figure doesn't miss. The ghostly, pale white visage is hauntingly bright in the dimness of the garage, the light from the fridge the only thing illuminating it...and you. It's like some twisted love at first sight; you two are the only people that seem to exist in the universe together.
And you don't even know his name.
"Can I call you something? Even if you're going to kill me."
He seems to consider this, knife turning and twisting against you, almost like an anxious first date fiddling with napkins at dinner. Is it sick that you're comparing him to such a figure of romance?
Eventually, you get a nod.
For the first time, Ghostface is christened. Maybe not the most creative of you, but you'll have time for ingenuity if you make it out alive. You have to play this very, very carefully.
You wonder if Stu's noticed your absence yet, or Randy, or Tatum, or Sidney. Buying time is all you can think to do. "You- you know my name?"
An easy nod this time. God, what do people in those wildlife shows do? It's as if you're facing a predator, strong and sleek with animal instinct driving it to rip, kill, maim, tear.
No. You're asking the wrong question. What do people in horror movies do?
They die screaming in fear, their deaths played for laughs or tragedy, but they die either way.
Or, they fight back. There's always one that lives to tell the tale. And for a killer that appears to revel in their infamy...
"You could be a legend one day," you whisper, pressing yourself further into that knife. The sting is nothing compared to the pain of betraying yourself. "This town will never forget you."
"But if you spare me now..."
You continue your ascent, and shakily turn both of you around - facing a mirror in the garage, your back against his front. Cracked and splintered, it's enough to get the job done. To convince him, to convince you?
The image that appears to you, the future that could be, is not just exhilarating but intoxicatingly powerful.
The Visage of Death and his Lovely Muse.
You're both so still it could be a painting; the knife is done, his hands have replaced it on your waist. You turn around one last time, and hope he doesn't notice how your hands shake as you take the mask in your hands, gently remove it and kiss him on the forehead.
"The world would never forget us, Stu."
Vincent Sinclair
You like museums as much as the next person, but you never expected to end up as an art piece.
All your pleading, your screaming and running has done you no good. It's done worse to your friend - you catch their eyes, forever wide and unblinking behind the wax. Stuck in a mask of terror forever.
The artist stands above you; you're strapped down firmly on the table, but you see a watchful eye pass over you anyways. The moment that eye leaves, it's a death sentence, isn't it?
"Please...Vincent," you rasp out, throat hoarse and dry. "I don't want to die. I don't have to die."
No response. You're not talking to Vincent; you're talking to the artist of Ambrose.
"You're a monster," you whisper, not quite brave enough to say it loudly. Like your friend did.
Before they died in horrible pain.
You don't know if he hears it, but there's no response. He's working on something pretty close to you, you can see his tools spread out on the table next to you. You have to keep trying. It's your only chance.
"You don't have to kill me...I can help you."
Seemingly tired of your words, he slams whatever he's tinkering with down on the table and marches over to you. It's a small blade he grasps onto like a lifeline: it's big enough to do the job, though. Big enough to make your pulse skyrocket, your head spin - it's a wonder he can't hear your heartbeat as it tries to escape your chest, escape this terrible fate you've met with.
He goes from above you to nearly touching you, long hair tickling your cheek. You think he's intent on telling you to hush, threatening you with a blade so clean you can see him in it.
So clean you can see the shock in that one blue eye as you tug on a lock of his hair to meet the mask's lips with yours.
The table straps weren't as secure as he thought.
You'll help him do better, next time.
Lester Sinclair
You've never met anyone quite like Lester.
At first, you thought that was a good thing.
He was chatty, cheerful and charming, politely making small talk as he drove you around Ambrose. For being such an obviously lonely person, he was incredibly well-mannered and engaging in conversation. He told you about his roadkill decorations, watching as you delicately ran your hand over the bleached white and tawny bones. You thought you saw a kindred spirit in him - another person who wasn't afraid of the macabre.
Now, knowing this could be the only thing that saves your life...well, prolongs it. With his brothers hunting you down, you had no place to go but right into Lester's waiting arms, and in the relative safety of his arms you'll remain, if you're careful and clever enough to pull this off.
"Lester, Mr. Sinclair, please don't kill me," your begging has a serious effect on him - his arms tighten around you and god, clearly he's never been called that before because you feel him getting hard against you. "Please, didn't we connect? I liked you, I had a crush on you-"
The grip becomes painful.
"Have, I-I have a crush on you, I thought-"
You cut yourself off.
If this Lester is still the one you got to know for a brief time, he'll appreciate actions over words.
You press a long kiss to his cheek; you're just staying the executioner's sword. Your words won't sway him from cutting your head off, but this might...
Your shaking hands travel from his face to his waist. They become steadier. Mirroring his grip of iron on you.
You don't know it, but you've been safe anyways. He never had any intention of letting you go.
He'll tell you that later, though, once you're done worshipping him, Lester thinks as you unbuckle his belt.
