#Slasher Oc

[peppersmert]

By the way, Margaret has three adopted children

👹👹👹

(Their names are Charlie, Maria and Alan, But they prefer nicknames)

they are constantly arguing with each other...

[mushpuppies]

today i designed a SLASHERSONA!! this is Buddy 😋🩸🫀

[bunnygirllover45]

remember this guy? well yeah I made a reference sheet for him. I'm certainly not planning on doing big stuff with him, just casual drawings and some fics here and there. [lobotomizes u cutely]

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Yandere Slasher x Reader

Staring down at the icy water below, you sobbed. How could you have known? How could you have possibly known that your life would unravel in a single, dazzling instant? Life was strange that way, you supposed—one moment, you were laughing with your friends, paddling down the river, and the next, their bodies were staining the current red.

You wiped your eyes with trembling hands, the stickiness of sweat clinging to your fingers. Carefully, you stepped over a corpse, its glassy, unblinking eyes staring up at nothing. Your stomach twisted, bile clawing up your throat, but you swallowed it down.

The wind howled through the trees, a bitter, keening sound, and crows cawed mournfully from their shadowed nests. A shudder wracked your body, and you swallowed your anxiety with a gulping, desperate whimper.

That man—that awful, blood-slicked masked man—was still out there. Lurking. Waiting. Watching.

Hours dragged by, and he hadn’t found you.

You were shivering in a tree’s gnarled embrace, the rough bark biting into your arms and legs, when you heard it—the slow, crunching of heavy boots against dead leaves. You froze, breath caught in your chest, fingers digging into the mossy branch beneath you. Your heart hammered, each beat a desperate, panicked drum. Maybe he wouldn’t look up. Maybe he’d think you’d run further. Maybe—

A creak. The tree shuddered. You bit your tongue, stifling a gasp, but your terror gave you away. The masked man’s head tilted up, the crude, dirt-streaked mask covering his face. His clothes hung in filthy tatters, stained dark with mud and crimson blood.

You didn’t even have time to scream. A massive, calloused hand shot up, fingers closing around your ankle like a steel trap. With one brutal yank, you were wrenched from your perch, the world spinning in a blur of twisting branches and sky. You hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Pain blossomed in your side, but before you could even curl in on yourself, that iron grip seized your arm.

He dragged you, half-limp and stumbling, through the forest. The world around you blurred—tangled underbrush, clawing vines, the endless, shadowed trees whispering in the wind. You tried to fight, digging your heels into the dirt, clawing at his hand, but it was like trying to pull against a mountain.

The cabin appeared out of the mist, an ancient, sagging thing with rotting timbers and a door that hung crooked on its hinges. The windows were black, smeared with filth. Your heart sank.

Inside, the air was thick and stale, the darkness pressing close. The man shoved you forward, and you stumbled, hitting the warped, splintered floor. Rusted chains hung from the wall, and without a word, he looped one around your ankle, snapping the iron cuff shut with a brutal finality.

You scrambled back, pressing yourself against the wall, breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. He loomed over you, his breath a slow, rasping growl behind the mask. For a moment, he just stared—those wild, animal eyes boring into you. Then, without a sound, he turned and left, the door slamming shut behind him.

The hours stretched into a sick eternity. The darkness seemed to pulse, shadows crawling at the edges of the room. Panic gnawed at you, your fingers scrabbling at the iron cuff, but it was hopeless. The metal was old, but solid.

Then, the door groaned open. The masked man entered, a dripping, bloodied slab of raw meat in his grasp. He approached, crouching in front of you. Slowly, he held it out—pushing it toward your face.

Your stomach twisted with a sick, frantic revulsion. The smell was sharp, metallic.

“I-I can’t…” Your voice was a broken whisper, shaking so violently it was barely audible. “Please. I… I can’t eat raw food.”

His head tilted, the mask’s rough edges catching the dim light. He didn’t speak, just stared at you for a long, unbearable moment. Then, slowly, he stood. The raw meat dropped from his hand, smacking wetly against the floor. He turned and stepped out, the door creaking shut behind him.

Silence. Time crawled by, thick and choking. Then, the door opened again. The man entered, now carrying something that was charred black, still sizzling. He crouched before you, holding it out again. The meat was overcooked—burned in places, tough-looking. But it was no longer raw.

He waited, head cocked, those wild eyes watching you with a strange, expectant intensity.

Your shaking hand reached out, and you tore a piece off. It was like chewing ash, but you forced it down, wincing at every bite. His gaze never left you. He didn’t move. Not even a twitch. His unblinking eyes bore into you, tracking every slow, hesitant bite you took. The charred meat was bitter, crumbling between your teeth, each swallow scraping down your dry throat. But you ate. You forced yourself to, your gaze never daring to rise fully to his.

And he never looked away.

When you finally finished, your stomach twisted, but you fought against the urge to throw up. He leaned closer, and for one dizzying moment, you thought he might reach out and touch you. But he didn’t. He only stared. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he stood and walked out, the door creaking shut behind him.

Darkness swallowed the room. Silence wrapped around you. You tried to fight the exhaustion gnawing at your bones, fear pricking at every nerve. But eventually, sleep dragged you under, your body crumpling against the cold, splintered wall.

You dreamed of blood.

Red, staining the water—your friends’ laughter twisting into screams. Their bodies drifting beneath the surface, limbs tangled like twisted reeds, faces pale and empty. The man’s hulking shadow loomed behind them, the crude, grinning mask dripping dark, sticky trails. He moved through the river like a monster, slow and unstoppable. And then he saw you. He lunged—

You woke with a choking gasp, the dream’s claws still raking at your chest. Panic crushed you, your breathing coming in frantic, ragged bursts. Your vision swam, the darkness of the cabin feeling thick, pressing close—

A weight settled on your forehead. A massive, calloused hand, rough and filthy, pressed against your skin.

You froze, your breath caught, your heart a pounding thunder. The masked man was crouched in front of you, his dark eyes fixed on your face. His hand was hot against your sweat-slicked brow, the pressure firm but not painful. He leaned closer, head tilting slightly, as if studying you.

Your breath trembled, but your body was locked in place, paralyzed by fear. He didn’t speak—he never spoke—but something in his gaze seemed to shift.

Then, just as suddenly as he’d appeared, he pulled his hand back. He stood, the old wood creaking beneath his weight, and walked away. The door groaned as it opened, then thudded shut again, leaving you shivering, the ghost of his touch still burning on your skin. You stayed awake after that, too shaken to sleep again. The darkness felt alive, pressing against you from every corner of the decaying cabin. Your breaths were shallow, your pulse a frantic rhythm in your ears. You rubbed at your forehead, trying to scrub away the sensation of his touch.

Hours must have passed. Time twisted strangely in the darkness. Your throat was dry, your muscles stiff and aching. Hunger gnawed at you, but the thought of that charred meat turned your stomach.

The door creaked open again.

Your body tensed instinctively, your hands gripping the cold chain around your ankle. The masked man stepped in, his hulking frame filling the doorway, blotting out the thin slivers of pale light behind him. His mask seemed even dirtier now, streaked with dried mud, one edge cracked, exposing a bit of dark, matted hair. His wild eyes found you immediately.

He carried something in his filthy hands—an old, metal cup, its edges dented and rusted. Water sloshed inside, some of it spilling to the rotting floor as he crossed the room. He knelt in front of you again, and without a word, thrust the cup forward.

You stared at it, then at him. Your mouth felt like sandpaper, your tongue sticking to the roof. But you hesitated. Was it clean? Did it matter?

His head tilted slightly. When you didn’t take it, his thick fingers wrapped around your wrist. He guided your hand to the cup. You flinched but didn’t fight. Slowly, you raised it to your lips, tipping it cautiously.

The water was stale and metallic, but you drank it greedily, too desperate to care. Some of it dribbled down your chin.

When the cup was empty, he didn’t pull away immediately. His hand still gripped your wrist, a faint, pulsing pressure against your racing pulse. Then, his thumb brushed against your skin.

You froze, breath caught in your throat.

He released you, rising in a slow, heavy motion. The cup clattered to the floor, rolling a little before settling. Without a word, he turned and walked out, the door groaning and slamming shut behind him.

Your heart thundered in the silence. You stared at the rusted cup, your wrist still tingling where he’d touched you.

Was he trying to take care of you? Or was this something else—something darker, something worse? Your mind raced with possibilities, each one more desperate than the last. You were his prisoner. His toy. His… his what?

You couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t live in this darkness, in his strange, silent shadow. Your eyes fell to the chain at your ankle, thick and rusted but solid. Your fingers probed the iron cuff—cold, heavy. No matter how you twisted, it wouldn’t slide off.

But there had to be a way. Some weakness. Some escape. Even if you had to…

The door crashed open.

You flinched, a startled gasp escaping you. The man stormed in, faster than before, and your heart lurched. His breathing was louder, harsher, almost a growl beneath the mask. His shoulders heaved, and something dark and wet dripped from his hands—water? Blood? You couldn’t tell in the murky light.

He moved directly to you, and before you could even think to shrink away, his massive hand closed around your jaw. The pressure was firm—not enough to hurt, but enough to lock you in place. His eyes blazed down at you, and his head tilted, that animal curiosity returning.

You whimpered, a tiny, broken sound muffled by his grip.

Then, slowly, his other hand rose, his thick, filthy fingers brushing against your cheek. A dark smear trailed across your skin. His thumb pressed gently, almost as though he were wiping something away. It was water. His hands were dripping with water. But the water on his hands was murky, tainted with dark streaks of grime. His attempt to clean you only smeared the filth across your cheek, leaving a sticky, mud-streaked cheeks. Panic clawed at you, your skin crawling beneath his touch, but your body remained rigid, locked in place by his iron grip on your jaw.

You tried to turn away, but his fingers tightened slightly, forcing your gaze back to him. His eyes searched your face, the erratic flicker within them giving no hint of reason, no trace of humanity. His breathing grew slower, his chest rising and falling like the tide.

“P-Please,” you whispered, barely daring to speak. “Please, let me go.”

His thumb brushed over your lips, smearing another streak of muck across them. He seemed almost… fascinated, watching the way your skin yielded beneath his touch, the tremble of your mouth against his rough, filthy thumb.

You squeezed your eyes shut, tears burning behind your lids.

“Please…”

For one dreadful, endless moment, you were sure he wouldn’t stop—sure that he would press harder, force you to endure the filthy, clumsy attempt at… what? Comfort? Control? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know.

But then, abruptly, he pulled away. His hand fell to his side, leaving your skin streaked with dirt and cold with lingering dampness. He stood there for a moment, staring down at you. Staring.

Masterlist

[bunninophia]

I haven't posted here in so long

Art dump

Oc's and some fanart but mainly a bunch of art of my oc's :)

[mr-nofacenoname]

Made a new Slasher, she doesn't have a story or much yet but shes my girl🐟💙

[slashthrashandcrash]

I'm a man with scissors for hands I long for a love that I know I can't have It's so sad, my heart in your hands I melt like the snow in the part where you dance

Slasher x Final Girl OCs my beloved. Motionless In White song my beloved.

[vacantfields]

Kinda messes with your mind when the humans youre trying to... off, like you SKGJHSJKGH so have a Y/N whos down bad for The Father LMAO

[mrclowninaround]

Slasher movie cover concept (OC)

We need to all make Slasher OCS and pretend they have fandoms so they can interact with eachother!!

Ms. “Lover's Lane” AKA the infamous 'man murderer' known to relentlessly kill reportedly abusive husbands, murderers, and boyfriend's, taking over the dirty work of her long lost husband with a bloodthirst for vengeance and pretty face to hide it.

To be clear I've never seen the slasher horror film 'LOVERS LANE' but i got an idea from someone else mentioning the walks and branched off that!! If you have seen the movie PLEASE don't compare the two, anything similar is coincidence.

[kachowden]

Thinking about Farmer being the type who doesn’t want to “ruin your innocence”. Not till your married of course.

So instead he’ll ask you to stand still for him while he slots his cock between your thighs. Squeeze extra tight please! He’ll hold your hips and rock himself into you from behind, coating your thighs with sticky pre, groaning and whining in your ear.

Don’t worry he’ll focus on you too! That freaky monster has no problems aiding in your pleasure. Slimey claw like hands that slither across your body cooly. A familiar sticky feeling being left in its wake. It buzzes against your skin, spreading your thighs apart when the farmer isn’t paying attention and suddenly he’s slipped in and his massive hands that were gently rubbing your hips are now squeezing your thighs like his life depends on it and he wants to pull out but he can’t, not just because the entity is now wrapped around you two like a belt and keeping you connected but because you feel so good and when was the last time he felt this alive and ah shit he really really should pull out but-

Yeah. Anyway

[peppersmert]

(+ My OC)

[council-of-phantoms]

I made another animatic some time ago. This one was hella fun to make.

[azne09]

Currently writing a short story and my friend asked for illustration.

This man is my new winter hyperfixation 😔🤲✨

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Now I can ENTHUSIASTICLLY demand a part 2 to the Slasher yandere.

Ya can't just leave me hanging there!

Slasher x Reader

Part one

Weeks passed in a haze of silence, rot, and routine.

Time became strange in that place. It bled together like rain on ink, each day a distorted copy of the last. Morning came as a dim, gray light that filtered through grime-choked windows. Night brought deeper darkness, colder silence, and the sound of him just beyond the thin, cracked walls.

You stopped keeping track of the days after the first ten. It only made it worse.

At some point—maybe the third or fourth week—you gave up trying to resist the food. He brought it charred now, sometimes overcooked roots, sometimes strips of meat that were tough but not raw. The water, stale and cloudy, came in the same dented metal cup. He was never far from you when you drank or ate, always crouched nearby like a dog waiting for scraps.

He began watching you longer. Sitting across the room when he wasn’t feeding you, his legs folded awkwardly beneath him. He didn’t speak. He never spoke. You began to think he didn’t know how.

You talked sometimes, just to fill the void. Whispered questions into the dark: "Why are you doing this?" "What do you want from me?" "What happened to you?" But silence always answered.

Sometimes he brought things from the outside world—small, random things. A cracked mirror. A hairbrush with only half its bristles. A stuffed rabbit missing an eye and half its stuffing, which he placed beside you like a child presenting a gift to their mother. You didn’t know if it was meant to comfort you or unsettle you further.

Both, maybe.

And then, one night, everything shifted.

You were curled up against the wall, the rusted chain looped around your ankle keeping you in place, though the skin beneath had grown sore and raw. You’d wrapped the flannel shirt he brought around your shoulders, not for comfort, but because the cold was unbearable, and you’d run out of pride.

You were drifting, exhaustion making your body heavy, eyes half-lidded. You heard the door open and didn’t react. You no longer flinched. You barely cared.

He stepped inside, his boots scraping against the warped floorboards, then the soft creak as he crouched beside you. You expected food. Or water. Or one of his bizarre tokens.

But instead, he sat.

And then, slowly, wordlessly laid his head down in your lap.

Your body went stiff with disbelief, muscles locking tight as a board. His mask tilted slightly against you, the sharp edge pressing into your leg through the fabric. You didn’t dare move. You hardly breathed.

His body was immense—too large, too solid—and you could feel the heat of him even through the layers of grime on his skin. His breath was loud and hot, fogging against your thigh in slow, steady bursts. His arms hung loose at his sides, but he was close enough now that if he decided to grab you again, it would take no effort.

At first, you didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your hands hovered uncertainly in your lap, just above the tangled mess of hair that peeked from beneath the battered mask now resting against your thigh. Your every nerve screamed to recoil, to shove him off, to scream.

But you didn’t.

Because the stillness was fragile.

You stared at him—at the slumped curve of his back, the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. He made no move to hurt you. No attempt to touch. Just rested there, heavy and monstrous and strangely quiet.

Then, as the minutes bled by, a low, rough sound rumbled from his chest.

At first, you thought it was a growl. You tensed, hands curling tight in your lap.

But then it came again. Grrmm. Not anger. Not warning. More searching. Restless.

Another minute. Then another.

Grmm.

It came again, a little louder this time. His shoulders shifted slightly. His head nudged against your leg. Not violently. Not with the force of someone who wanted to hurt.

It was a plea.

You stared down, breath caught in your throat, and watched him huff softly against your thigh. The sound came again—guttural, needy. Almost pathetic.

You hesitated.

Slowly, cautiously. You lifted your hand and touched his hair.

It was coarse. Dirty. Matted in places with sweat and blood. But it was human beneath your fingers. Real.

He stilled instantly.

Like a feral thing lulled by a lullaby.

You swallowed and, with trembling fingers, began to move your hand just a little. A stroke down the back of his head. Then again. And again.

The noise he made this time was softer, lower. Like a sigh. His shoulders sank, the tension leaking out of his enormous frame as he pressed in closer, nestling the side of his face into your lap with a strange, childlike gentleness.

He made another sound. Almost a murmur of contentment, if someone like him could ever feel such a thing.

You kept going, your hand moving in a slow rhythm through the grime-clumped strands of his hair. You didn’t know why. Maybe because it was the only control you had. Maybe because you were terrified of what would happen if you stopped.

Or maybe. Maybe. It was something worse. Something deeper.

Maybe you just didn’t want to be alone anymore.

You didn’t speak. The silence between you remained thick and still. But something changed in that moment. The air shifted. The cage of your captivity warped into something harder to define.

Not safety. Not comfort.

Familiarity.

Each night after that, it became the ritual.

He would come in, silent as ever. He’d crouch at your side. And then lower himself, wordless and slow, until his head rested against you again. Always with the same heavy care, like he thought he might break something.

And always, after a few minutes, the low grunts would start.

You learned to recognize them. One meant impatience. Two meant he was trying to get your attention. Three…well, three meant you weren’t moving fast enough.

So you’d reach for him again. Stroke his tangled hair. Run your fingers just beneath the edge of the mask. He always relaxed under your touch. Not just physically, but in a way you could feel beneath your skin—as though the pressure in the room deflated, as though something in him was soothed by you.

Like a beast that only knew violence but had found the one thing it didn’t want to hurt.

One night, after what felt like months, he didn’t lay down right away.

He stood in the doorway longer than usual, watching you with that unreadable gaze. You didn’t flinch anymore. You didn’t even look away.

He approached slowly. Then crouched. But instead of settling in immediately, he reached into his jacket and pulled something out.

A comb.

Old. Plastic. The teeth cracked on one end.

He offered it to you, holding it out with two blood-streaked fingers, his head slightly bowed. Like an offering.

You took it.

And without a word, you began to comb through the snarled tangles in his hair.

He made those sounds again—low, grumbling, somewhere between a purr and a groan. You didn’t know if you were comforting him or training him. But either way, it worked.

He melted into you.

Eventually, he started staying longer. His breathing would slow to a gentle rhythm. Once or twice, you thought he’d fallen asleep. You dared not move to check.

----

It began with a brush of his fingers.

One night, long after the usual ritual—after you had combed his hair in long, gentle strokes until the worst of the knots gave way, after he had sighed into your lap like some great hound finally at rest—he shifted.

His hand came up slowly, not toward your face, not to grab or hold, but to your hand. Where it rested in his hair.

His fingers were thick, scarred, clumsy. They hovered for a moment, uncertain, and then touched the back of your hand. You froze, heart knocking against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

He didn’t grip you. He didn’t force your hand away. Instead, he just explored.

He ran his fingertips down your knuckles, tracing the curve of each one like he was studying them. Mapping them.

You held your breath.

And then he took your hand in both of his.

Carefully.

He turned your hand palm-up. A quiet grunt escaped him. Low and wondering. He brushed one finger down the lifeline etched into your skin, then circled your palm.

His hand was monstrous. Long fingers, wide palm. Scarred and calloused to hell, with thick patches of skin that looked burned, torn, stitched. There were traces of old blood under his fingernails—some his, some not. But it was warm. Alive. His thumb pressed into your palm. Not hard. Just enough to feel the tiny beat of your pulse. He seemed to linger there, eyes hidden behind the crude mask, head tilted in that now-familiar way that meant he was listening.

He ran his fingers over each of yours—slowly. Obsessively. He pinched the tip of each one between his thumb and forefinger, like counting them. Measuring them. Committing them to memory.

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Because the way he looked at your hand—touched it—wasn’t just fixation. It was almost worship. As if your hand held answers, or power, or some sacred thing he wasn’t worthy of but needed to touch anyway.

He traced a vein along your wrist. Followed it down with the pad of his finger, then up again. He hummed. A low, gravelly sound that didn’t quite form into a word.

You swallowed thickly, your voice a whisper before you realized it had slipped out: “…Why are you doing this?”

He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t.

But he paused. Just for a breath.

Then, without speaking, he turned your hand and pressed it to his chest.

Right over his heart.

His skin was hot through the layers of fabric. His ribs rose and fell in deep, uneven waves. And beneath it all—steady, hammering, alive—you felt it.

His heartbeat.

Thundering.

Erratic.

Fast.

He held your hand there for a long moment, as if he wanted you to feel it. As if that pulse, so wild and trembling, could explain what his mouth could not.

Then he leaned down, mask grazing your wrist, and let his forehead rest against the hand he’d just studied like scripture.

And for a long while, he stayed that way.

Not moving. Not making a sound.

Just breathing against you.

Clinging to your touch like it was the only thing tethering him to something human.

From that night on, he began inspecting your hands regularly. After meals. Before sleep. Sometimes in the half-light of dawn when he thought you weren’t fully awake.

He’d take them gently, one by one. Turn them. Touch them. Hold them in his lap as he knelt beside you. Sometimes he’d murmur something under his breath—guttural and broken. Nothing you could understand. Not language, exactly.

But it always came with a kind of awe.

Masterlist

[heartfullofleeches]

Laughingstock [Slasher Yan Oc] typically avoids causing physical harm to his darling. If anything- they'll drag an innocent party into the mix and either torture them in front of Darling or make them participate. This may negatively affect any normal/sane Darling, but to Creep Reader this is a reward if anything. So, logically, Laughingstock ups the scale to hit Reader where it really hurts.

-

Laughingstock: Where the hell have you been? Nearly gave myself a panic attack looking for you! Do the bear traps and spikes I leave around this joint to keep people in and out mean fucking nothing to you?! Are you trying to yourself killed?!

Creep Reader, holding several grocery bags: It's not like I was trying to escape....I was in the mood for something we didn't have in the fridge.

Laughingstock: No excuses. If you wanna act like you can do whatever you want you're gonna have to face the consequences-

Creep Reader: Oh no. Please don't brutal torture some random stranger I know nothing about-

Laughingstock: HA! I learned my lesson last time. Unlike someone- I know how to deal with you from now on.

[Laughingstock pulls Reader's favorite stuffed animal out of their pocket - holding a lighter near the plush's eye]

Creep Reader, dropping all of their groceries: You put Sprinkles down right now-