➥ he likes it rough / catching you trying to escape / playing with your pussy / helping you after walking in on you using your toy / ghostface x2 / spanking your cute ass~ / cutting your panties off / partners in crime / red lights / fucking your thighs
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷... ➥ PATRICK BATEMAN:
➥ helping him out at work / certified munch / filming you / drilling you deep / (dat ass doe) / watching you in the mirror / using you like a toy / spanking you raw / doggy ft. your plushies / choking you
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷... ➥ HANNIBAL LECTOR:
➥ waking up together / hanging you up / fingering your pretty pussy / using his belt / eye contact + eating you out / maneuvering you like a doll / tying your hands behind your back / riding his foot / pussy spanking / clothed
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷... ➥ BUBBA SAWYER:
➥ teasing his cock / belly bulge / his eager hips / breeding you over and over / maaajor mating press / throat-fucking / fucking you from underneath / he's so strong~ / tits = oral fixation / chased you down in the woods
Slashers+ Herbert West slapping your ass ranked by the most painful to the least:
𖹭 Micheal. He likes as you squeak in pain, rubbing the spot he slapped. It amuses him to no end.
𖹭 Thomas. He'll do it just to try, since you do that to him a lot. His intentions are playful but his strength is not. He will make sure you know he's sorry.
𖹭Asa Emory. For him it's more of a disciplinary thing. He's mean about it too, but only if you don't behave like the perfect pet he knows you can be.
𖹭 Vincent. This man is strong as fuck. I don't picture him doing it out of malice or if you don't specifically ask for it. But still... Your ass would be sore.
𖹭Jesse Cromeans. What? He's just appreciating your ass in the clothes he bought you, nothing wrong with that. He likes being an ass so he'll make it sting just to hear you go "Jesse! It hurt!"
𖹭Bo. At any chest he gets, your ass is never really safe. Doing chores around the house? He will walk behind you, slapping your ass only to walk away like nothing happened, wearing that insufferably handsome smug face of his.
𖹭Billy Lenz. He slaps your ass for the love of the game, multiple times. What he doesn't know is that you're ready to slap his ass back. He likes it.
𖹭 Herbert West. Will gently slap your ass while asking you to move away from his work station, or to move in general. He doesn't need hands to tease you, his smartass voice does enough.
synopsis: The usual reactions Art the Clown received ranged from full blown crying to murderous anger, but never had he kidnapped someone and had them be nonchalant.
The chair creaked every time you shifted, ropes biting into your wrists and ankles. One of your friends lay in pieces not even five feet away, guts curling from their open torso like some sick ribbons on a birthday gift. The Clown stood in the center of it all, blood painted across his teeth in a grin that stretched too wide. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe, it seemed. Just stared at you, waiting.
“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, slumping against the chair. “You’re very scary. Top marks. Can we speed this along?”
Art cocked his head so violently it made his spine pop. Slowly, he shuffled toward you, black garbage bag slung over one shoulder. He dropped it with a wet thud, crouched, and began fishing around inside. The first thing he pulled out was a rusted hacksaw. He waved it in your face with a flourish. His mime act screamed: Does this scare you? Hm?
“You actually keep that thing in there? Impressive. Innovative use of space. You’ve got a whole Home Depot in that bag, don’t you?”
Art froze mid swipe, eyes narrowing. He jabbed the saw toward your chest, close enough to nick your shirt. He waited for the panic, for the begging. You only looked down at the blade and sighed.
“You should oil it. It’s gonna lock up on you one of these days. Can’t have that, right? Bad for business.”
The clown’s grin faltered. He blinked rapidly, looked at the saw, then back at you. He tossed it aside and dove back into the bag with an angry huff. This time, he pulled out a length of chain, rattling it in the air like some phantom jailer. He wrapped it around his fists and slammed it against the ground, sparks flying.
“Yeah, sparks are cool,” you said, unimpressed. “But honestly? You’ve got a lot of style points already. You don’t need to oversell it.”
Art stomped his foot, silent tantrum. He mimed an exaggerated gasp, then pointed both hands at you in a what the fuck is wrong with you gesture.
“Nothing’s wrong,” you said with a shrug. “I’m just bored. My friends are dead. You’ll kill me too. Whatever. It’s not like I had a date tonight.”
Art stared. For the first time, his expression slipped. His grin twitched, uncertain. He leaned down close, his painted face inches from yours. He sniffed, long and deliberate, like he could smell your lack of fear.
“Smell good? Better than the guts on the floor, I bet.”
Art actually choked out a silent laugh, shoulders shaking. He pulled back, shaking his head in disbelief. Then, with a showy wave, he pulled a scalpel from his bag and pressed it gently to your throat.
“If you’re gonna do it, do it. If not, quit wasting my time.”
Silence.
Art slid the scalpel back into the bag. Then, with a theatrical bow, he untied the ropes at your wrists and ankles. “Thanks.” Standing, you stretched, joints popping. The clown pointed dramatically at the door, his gesture clear: Go. You’re free.
You didn’t move. Instead, you walked over to the gore-smeared wall and leaned against it, arms crossed. “Nah. I’ll stay. You’re entertaining.”
Art went still. Then, suddenly, he doubled over in a fit of silent, hysterical laughter. He slapped his knee, stamped his foot, and twirled in a circle. When he finally turned back to you, his painted face was lit up with something new. Interest.
