~Creepypasta x Reader (One shots)~ Completed

Bloody Painter Part Two (Lemon)

Cold. It was so cold.

You couldn't feel your extremities. You couldn't feel your bruised skin as it numbed against the chill. You couldn't feel the blood pulsing though your veins and dripping from the cut on your lip where your teeth had applied just that scant too much pressure. You couldn't feel the dull, rhythmic throb of your heart as it beat to keep you alive –something you weren't sure you wanted anymore. Could you even feel anything? No, no you weren't sure you could. Not in this cold, this freezing, ruthless cold.

The ice crackled as it frosted over your nervous system, threading through the delicate wires in an intricate tapestry that weaved through your essence. Your breath curled out before you in silver smoke, dancing gracefully before your wan (e/c) eyes as they stared into empty space. Hopelessness weighed through your limbs like lead, metallic and heavy as it infiltrated your being and left you with little energy to even pick yourself from where he had left you.

The mere thought of him had a shiver slither down your spine and bile collect and singe the inflamed walls of your throat. Terror slipped like ice into the hollow pit of your stomach, the sensation vividly clear as the metallic stench of it permeated your nasal cavities. What do you know, turns out you were wrong. You could feel –feel animalistic fear that had your body curl in on itself in self preservation and limbs tremble like a leaf in vulnerable trepidation for the monster that reduced to this mess. The monster that left you on the very brink of sanity: dancing in limbo between reality and fantasy.

The chill you felt had less to do with the temperature of the room –which was below freezing nonetheless –but rather the crippling horror that flooded you manifesting itself physically in the form of arctic frost. It was bitterly wintry like his eyes –his startling sapphire blue eyes that pierced you like unnaturally jagged icicles, which showed not the scantest bit of remorse in their empty, cruel gaze. You recalled how his expression remained as hard as glass when he tossed you in this freezing room as punishment for disobeying him, unheeding of your bloodcurdling screams as you quickly realized you weren't at all alone in that space.

Pressing your chin to your knees and gingerly rocking back and forth in an attempt to ward off the frost, your (e/c) eyes flickered to the silhouette just before you, hanging from a meat hook inversely with its ankles bound by rope. At first, you had thought he had thrown you into a meat locker of all places, like those in a butchery, to freeze among slabs of dripping meat. However, it didn't take long for your eyes to adjust to the fluorescent lighting flickering erratically through the room, throwing the misshapen shadows into sharp relief as your air passages clogged with bated breath, just before it burst through your mouth in a shrill shriek of absolute horror.

These weren't slabs of meat, of ham, beef, mutton or other products: these were human bodies. Skin translucent and almost blue from the prolonged exposure to the cold, the male before you hung lifelessly as did all those around him: his bleached blonde hair falling listlessly away from a drawn, lined face with lips chapped from time. His eyes were glassy and unseeing, his face stained with rivulets of scarlet from the downpour of blood that had gushed from him when he was alive –courtesy of the carved slit across his throat to sever major arteries and have him bleed out like a pig as he slowly suffocated in his own blood.

But, naturally, too waste such precious liquid would be sinful. So, a plastic bucket stood beneath the body, filled to the brim with thick blood, ready for collecting to be made into another morbid masterpiece.

They didn't call him Bloody Painter for nothing afterall.

Speak of the Devil and he appears, so they say, and that was indeed what occurred as the door swung open and in stormed the bane of your existence himself. He looked as he always did: lean and lithe with the fluid grace of a dancer as he moved with speed and agility tapered to his slender frame, dressed in his ritual attire of a dark blue hoodie stained in places to black where his 'special paint' had spilt, paired with dark jeans over his long legs and narrow hips and simple sneakers. His tousled black hair framed his narrow face, disguised by his infamous snow white mask, designed with complete black eyes and the dripping crimson curve of a bloody smile.