cami040405

[cami040405]

which version of Carrie White do you write for?

I write for the 1976 Carrie, but I can write for the 2013 version too.

[cami040405]

This one is solely because of a video I seen but whatever

Bo reacting to his s/o, who knows nothing abbot cars, convincing him to do her oil change but when he checks there’s just… like no oil and she’s like “I keep my car CLEAN >:)” as if he’s not horrified

Oneshot: No Oil, No Problem - Bo Sinclair x Reader

Summary: When Bo checks your car for an oil change, he finds the engine bone-dry—and learns you “cleaned out the dirty oil” to keep things tidy. Horrified, Bo launches into a dramatic, sarcastic lecture on how engines actually work and somehow still ends up holding you close while questioning all his life choices.

A/N: I loved this request, I confess that it took me a while to write it because I also had to take some private lessons about cars (With my father who, not ironically, is very similar to Bo explaining things). But I loved writing this oneshot, I hope you like it.

You'd always admired Bo’s hands.

Grease-stained, scarred, a little calloused — the kind of hands that could rebuild an engine or snap a neck with equal ease. Maybe that’s why you asked him to check your car’s oil. Not because you thought anything was wrong, exactly. But because watching him work always did things to you.

And Bo? Well, he always got a little smirk when you asked for help. Grumbling like you were inconveniencing him, but already reaching for his rag and heading outside like some backwoods grease god with a martyr complex.

“Could you do my oil change, babe?”

That was how it started.

“You just got it done a couple months ago,” he muttered as he walked toward your car, swiping his cap off to run a hand through his hair. “Ain’t no reason it’d be—”

The moment the hood clicked open, he cut himself off.

You leaned beside him, smiling proudly, as if you were about to be knighted for vehicular responsibility. Bo pulled the dipstick out, stared at it. Eyebrows drew low. He wiped it clean, stuck it back in, pulled it out again.

Still nothing.

“…The fuck?” he muttered.

You tilted your head, chewing your lip in what you hoped was a cute way. “Is that bad?”

He looked at you like you’d asked if gas was optional.

“Bad?” Bo’s voice dropped low, dangerous, with a hint of what-the-hell-am-I-dealing-with rasp. “There ain’t a drop of oil in this goddamn thing.”

You beamed like you’d passed a test. “Right?! I noticed that too.”

Bo froze.

Slowly, painfully, like someone in a horror movie realizing the monster was already in the house.

“…You noticed?”

“Yeah!” you said, nodding confidently. “I saw it was all dark and sticky, and it didn’t smell good, so I cleaned it.”

Bo blinked. “You… cleaned it.”

“Mhm,” you said, holding your hands up like you were revealing a magic trick. “I keep my car clean.”

There was a long, long pause.

You watched Bo take a slow step back from the car, eyes wide, nostrils flaring like a bull about to charge. His mouth opened—then closed. Then opened again.

“…You cleaned out the oil.”

“Yes.”

“With what.”

“I dunno. Paper towels, I think? And I used some soap around the edges—”

“Jesus CHRIST—”

Bo’s voice cracked mid-word, hands flying up like he couldn’t decide whether to strangle you or hug you out of sheer disbelief. He pointed a shaking finger at the engine.

“You can’t—you don’t just CLEAN the oil out, baby. That ain’t how cars work!”

“But it was gross!”

“IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE GROSS! It’s engine oil! Not perfume! It don’t gotta smell like goddamn lavender, it’s there to keep the whole damn engine from seizin’ up!”

You blinked. “…Is that what the loud knocking noise was last week?”

Bo’s whole body jerked like someone just threw cold water on him.

“Oh my fucking— YES. That’s your engine begging for mercy. Screamin’ to God, hopin’ someone with sense would check on it!”

“But I asked you to!” you defended, pouting. “So technically I did do the right thing.”

Bo stared at you, jaw slack.

“Oh, sure,” he drawled, voice laced with biting sarcasm. “Sure, you’re a real damn hero, sugar. Maybe next time you’ll ‘clean’ the brake fluid out too. Or flush the transmission with lemonade. Just polish it all up till the car dies sparkly and stupid.”

“…Would lemonade work?”

Bo looked like he aged ten years on the spot.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. He looked so betrayed, but also weirdly impressed that someone as pretty as you had this much chaotic energy rattling around in your skull. You leaned against the car, eyes bright.

“I was just trying to be proactive!”

“Proactive?! You’re gonna be walkin’ if you keep bein’ proactive like that.”

You reached over and poked his bicep. “C’mon, you love fixing stuff.”

“I love fixin’ machines, not acts of sabotage disguised as maintenance.”

Still, he was already pulling his ratty oil jug from the garage, grumbling the whole way.

“This thing’s lucky it didn’t throw a rod. You’re lucky I love you more’n I love sanity.”

You grinned, eyes glittering. “Aww. Bo Sinclair, protector of dumbasses.”

“Damn right,” he muttered, pouring in the oil with a practiced hand. “But next time? You even think about goin’ near an engine with a paper towel, I’m takin’ your keys and lockin’ you in the damn shed.”

“Hot,” you said casually.

He gave you a look. “You’re hopeless.”

You kissed his cheek, leaving a little smudge of lip gloss behind.

“And you’re stuck with me.”

He sighed.

Yeah. He was.

But God help your car. 

It took Bo all of five minutes to change your oil. Not because it was an easy job — oh no — but because he was fueled entirely by rage, disbelief, and the desperate urge to make sure you never, ever did something that stupid again.

By the time he’d slammed the hood down, wiped his hands, and kicked the oil jug back toward the garage, he had That Look on his face. The one that usually came before a lecture, a storm, or him throwing a wrench across the room.

And sure enough, he crossed his arms, stared you down, and said:

“Sit your ass down.”

“…What?”

He pointed to the old wooden stool next to his workbench. “Sit.”

You blinked. “Are you… are you giving me a car lesson?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Damn straight I am.”

“But—”

“You lost the right to argue when you windexed your dipstick, baby.”

You snorted. “I didn’t Windex it.”

“You cleaned it with a Lysol wipe. Don’t split hairs with me.”

With a dramatic sigh and a secretly thrilled little flutter in your chest, you plopped down on the stool. Bo stood behind the bench, rummaging through some old paperwork, muttering to himself until he found what he was looking for: a stained, half-torn page from some ancient car manual, and — God help you — a pen.

“Lesson one,” he grunted, slapping the page onto the bench. “This’s your engine. It’s got moving parts. Fast ones. Metal on metal. Friction. Heat. That’s why you need—say it with me—oil.”

You blinked. “…O…il?”

“Goddamn genius,” he muttered.

He uncapped the pen like a teacher about to ruin someone’s Saturday morning, and started sketching a lopsided engine block, complete with dramatic arrows and what you thought were pistons, though one looked suspiciously like a hot dog.

“This,” he said, stabbing the paper, “is where the oil goes. It keeps all them little parts movin’ smooth. Without it, they grind together. Get too hot. Snap. Crack. Boom.”

He leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

“That knockin’ sound you heard? That was your car knockin’ on death’s door.”

“…But it’s fine now, right?”

“It’s fine ‘cause I fixed it.”

You shrugged. “That’s why I asked you.”

Bo’s hands dropped to the bench with a loud thud, and he let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a full-body exorcism.

“Woman, you got one brain cell, and it’s takin’ a nap!”

“But a very clean nap.”

Bo squinted at you like he was mentally bracing for your funeral.

Then he pointed the pen at you, slowly, like a knife.

“You are banned from opening that hood. Ever again. Matter fact, I’m tapin’ it shut. Supergluin’ it. Don’t even look at it. If the check engine light comes on, you tell me. If it makes a funny noise, you tell me. If a single fluid drips, squeaks, smells weird, or explodes, you tell me. You do not clean it. You do not guess. You do not touch anything that requires more than windshield wiper fluid.”

You raised a finger. “Can I clean that?”

He looked at you for a long moment. Then sighed and muttered, “God help me, yeah. Just… supervised.”

You smirked. “Yes, Mr. Sinclair.”

That earned you a glare and a finger wag. “I ain’t kiddin’. You scared the shit outta me. You keep runnin’ a dry engine and I’ll be buryin’ you with the damn thing when it dies.”

You stood up, stretching with a satisfied little smile, walking around the workbench to wrap your arms around his neck. He tensed, still bristling with mechanical fury, but his hands automatically settled at your hips.

“But you do love me,” you said sweetly.

“I love a challenge,” he growled.

You kissed the corner of his jaw. “I’m your favorite headache.”

“You’re my whole migraine.” But his grip tightened a little, and his voice softened just enough to betray him. “Don’t mean I want you stranded on the highway ‘cause you wanted to play house with your oil filter.”

You grinned. “So… when’s lesson two?”

He huffed. “Lesson two is me takin’ your keys for a week.”

“Rude.”

“I’ll give ‘em back when I stop havin’ nightmares about you puttin’ bath bombs in your radiator.”

“…Oh my God that’s such a good idea—”

“SIT DOWN AGAIN.”

.

[cami040405]

Loved your birthday imagine!!! Would love to see the opposite for the same characters - them celebrating reader

Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair & Billy Loomis Celebrating Their S/O's Birthday (SEPARATE)

Summary: On your birthday, Michael shows quiet love with small, meaningful gestures. Bo surprises you with a cozy, handmade celebration and southern charm. Billy turns it into a playful, emotional day with gifts and music — each showing, in their own way, how much you mean to them. This is a version of this post here.

Warnings: Yandere behavior, possessiveness, emotional intensity, horror character dynamics and +18 adult NSFW content.

A/N: I really loved writing this version, thanks for the request and I hope you like it. I put a little NSFW in the Bo and Billy parts, hope you don't mind!

Michael Myers

Your birthday starts off… strange. The house is too quiet. No birds outside, no creaking floorboards, not even the faint hum of the old fridge. You sit up slowly, your heart already thudding in anticipation. You know he’s nearby — you always do. Michael doesn’t exactly sleep in a bed or cuddle up for morning coffee. He exists like a silent guardian, always on the edge of your vision, always watching. But this morning? It feels… different.

You step into the living room — and stop dead in your tracks.

The normally bare room has been changed. Subtly, but unmistakably.

A small arrangement of your favorite flowers — wild, imperfect, hand-picked — sits in an old, chipped mug on the coffee table. They’re a little crushed, a little uneven… but somehow perfect. A flickering candle burns beside it, casting warm shadows along the walls. The air smells faintly sweet — like vanilla and sugar.

On the table, wrapped in paper that looks like it was ripped from old books and tied with fraying twine, is a box. It’s not fancy. Not even clean. But it’s wrapped with care. There’s deliberation in the way the string was tied. You recognize it — Michael’s kind of careful.

Inside the box? A gift you didn’t expect.

It’s something small — a worn trinket, a charm, or maybe an item that’s uniquely you (a pressed leaf you once stopped to admire, a photo he took of you when you weren’t looking, or a tiny figure resembling you carved out of wood). It’s not random. It’s something you mentioned once, maybe just in passing — and somehow, he remembered.

Your chest tightens. It’s not about the gift. It’s about what it means — that beneath that mask, behind that silence and the violence the world sees, there is someone who listens. Who notices you. Who cared enough to do this.

You whisper into the empty room, voice cracking, “Michael… did you do this for me?”

There’s no answer. But then you feel it — a shift in the air. You don’t need to turn around to know he’s there. You feel his presence like a shadow at your back, a storm kept just barely at bay. When you do turn, he’s standing near the hallway, still, unmoving, like a statue carved from silence.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.

He takes a step closer, then another. Slowly. Cautiously. Like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be part of this moment.

But you step forward first. You close the gap. And when you reach him, you place your hand — soft, warm — on his chest. Right over his heart.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He stands like that for a long time. Unmoving. Just letting your hand rest there. Then, finally, he lifts his gloved hand and gently — so gently — places it over yours.

No words. Just the heavy stillness of a man who has never known affection… trying to give it.

That night, he doesn’t disappear like he usually does. When you go to bed, you feel the mattress shift behind you. He doesn’t touch you. But he lies there. Beside you. Mask and all. Silent. Present. Real.

Your birthday gift from Michael isn’t flashy. It isn’t loud. But it’s the loudest thing he’s ever said without speaking a single word:

“I see you. I remember you. You matter to me.”

The room is dim. The candlelight from earlier has burned down to a soft ember on the bedside table, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Outside, the wind brushes against the house, gentle and low — like the world itself is hushed for the night.

Michael doesn’t move much. He lies there next to you, a massive presence in the bed, still masked, still clothed, as if unsure if he’s allowed to be here. As if sharing space — this close — is something dangerous in itself. And for him, it probably is.

But for you? It’s comforting.

You lie on your side, facing him, watching his chest rise and fall under the cover of his jumpsuit. His breathing is deep, controlled — not the erratic, heavy breathing others know him for. With you, he’s quieter. Grounded. Human.

You reach out slowly and place your fingers on his arm, brushing over the fabric. It’s a light touch, a silent “I’m here, too.” You expect him to pull away, or at least flinch.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, after a few long seconds, his hand shifts. Carefully, gloved fingers move toward yours — hesitant, uncertain — and then they wrap around your hand. It’s not tight. Not possessive. Just… steady.

Your thumb brushes over the knuckles of the glove, and your voice comes out softer than a whisper.

“You remembered everything,” you murmured. “The flowers, the gift… You were watching me all this time.”

His head tilts slightly, the way it does when he’s trying to understand something deeper — as if your words are code, and he’s deciphering their meaning.

“Do you know how special that makes me feel?” you ask, voice trembling slightly. “That you remembered. That you tried.”

The silence between you is heavy, but not empty. It’s full of emotion neither of you quite knows how to express.

And then, slowly — so slowly it nearly stops your heart — he lifts his free hand to his mask. Pauses. Then pulls it up, just a little.

Not off. But just enough for you to see his mouth.

It’s a small gesture, but from him? It’s earth-shattering. A quiet invitation. A symbol of trust.

You lean forward, heart pounding, and press a soft kiss to the corner of his lips. His breath catches. Not because of surprise — but because you didn’t recoil. You didn’t fear him. You loved him, even like this.

When you pull back, his hand comes up again — ungloved now — and rests lightly against your cheek. The calluses are rough. His touch is careful. Almost reverent.

Michael doesn’t say a word.

But when he draws you in close, letting you curl against him in a way no one else has ever been allowed to… you know exactly what he’s telling you.

That you’re his.

That he’ll protect you.

That, in a world full of violence, you are the only softness he allows himself.

And tonight, for the first time in his entire existence… he lets himself rest.

With you.

The night deepens.

You’re nestled against Michael’s chest now, his arms slowly, carefully wrapped around you. The warmth of him seeps through his jumpsuit — a heat you didn’t expect, comforting and real. His hand rests lightly at the curve of your back, not demanding, not possessive. Just... there. Steady. Present.

For a long while, neither of you speaks. You listen to the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. It’s fast. Faster than you’ve ever heard it before. Not the rhythm of adrenaline or rage — but nerves. Tenderness.

You smile softly and whisper, “You can let go a little, you know.”

He doesn't respond, but you feel the smallest shift in his posture — his grip on you relaxing, just slightly, as if he’s forcing himself to believe it’s safe. With you.

You tilt your head up to look at him again. He’s watching you. Mask still lifted just enough to see his lips, his jawline. There’s tension there — not from anger, but from restraint. You can tell he’s holding something in. Not violence. Not fear.

Emotion.

You reach up and brush a strand of his hair back. “You don’t have to be silent tonight,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

There’s a pause. A long, fragile moment.

And then — he moves.

His gloved hand gently touches your jaw, angling your face upward. And he leans in.

The kiss is tentative. Barely a brush. His lips are warm, firm, uncertain — as if he’s never done this before. Or if he has, it’s never meant this. You breathe into it, letting him feel your softness, your patience, the utter trust in your body. You’re not rushing. You’re not asking for anything more than this connection.

And that’s what unlocks him.

He deepens the kiss.

Still careful, still silent, but with the weight of years — decades — of loneliness behind it. You can feel how much it costs him to be this gentle. How he fights against every instinct that tells him he doesn’t deserve this. That he shouldn’t want you. That he could ruin it if he gets too close.

But you pull him closer anyway.

Your fingers slip into his curls, tugging softly. You feel his hand press a little firmer at your back, pulling your bodies flush. The kiss grows bolder — still slow, but more certain. Like he’s finally letting himself feel. Letting himself be felt.

When you finally part, you’re both breathing harder than before. His forehead rests against yours, mask shifted enough now that you can see more of him — the vulnerability in his eyes. The weight of everything he can’t say.

You whisper, “This was the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

Michael’s eyes flicker. His breathing slows. And then, with one slow, deliberate movement, he pulls you fully into his arms, tucks you against his chest, and wraps both arms around you like a shield.

Not to trap you.

To protect you.

Tonight, he sleeps beside you. No knife. No distance. Just the quiet, haunted heart of a man who has never let himself have something good — and now holds it like it’s the only thing keeping him human.

And in the soft darkness of your room, with his arms around you and your heart steady against his, you feel it too:

He loves you.

In his own silent, terrifying, broken way — he loves you.

.

Bo Sinclair

You’d almost convinced yourself Bo had forgotten.

The day had been weirdly normal. No mention of your birthday, no teasing remarks, not even a casual “happy birthday, sweetheart.” He’d spent most of the morning fiddling with something in the garage, waving you off with that cocky smirk of his. “Go on, I’m busy.”

You were disappointed — not that you expected balloons and a party, but… something.

Then, as the sun started to set, he called you down to the main house. “Come down here a sec, baby.”

You opened the door… and froze.

The whole room was transformed. Candles flickered on every surface, casting soft golden light over the space. Red and gold streamers (your favorite colors) were draped around the ceiling, and there was a handmade birthday banner hung crookedly over the table — painted in Bo’s messy handwriting: 

“Happy Birthday, Darlin’.”

The table was set with mismatched plates and silverware, but it looked perfect. He’d cooked dinner — not something microwaved or slapped together, but a full southern-style meal, the kind he said he only made on “special damn occasions.” Fried chicken, roasted veggies, sweet cornbread, and even a pie (burnt a little on one edge, but definitely homemade).

“Bo…” you breathed, eyes wide.

He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, trying to play it cool — but you saw that little twitch in his lips, the one he gets when he’s proud but won’t say it. “Told ya I could clean up alright.”

You turned to him, and he stepped closer, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Didn’t think I’d let your birthday go by without makin’ a little noise, did ya?” His voice was low, that Southern drawl melting into warmth. “You matter to me, sugar. More than you know.”

Then he kissed you slow — one of those rare, honest kisses that made the room spin.

After dinner, he brought out a small box. “Ain’t much,” he muttered, handing it over.

Inside was a handmade necklace — a bullet casing he’d smoothed and polished, fitted with a thin leather cord, your initials carved into the metal with surprising care. It was simple. Raw. Real. So Bo.

You teared up, and he saw it.

“Aww hell, don’t start cryin’,” he muttered, pulling you into his chest. “I’m already tryin’ not to turn into a damn sap over here.”

That night, he danced with you in the candlelight — slow, steady steps, even humming a bit under his breath. When you went to bed, he curled around you like a shield, whispering, “Happy birthday, baby,” against your neck.

And in that quiet moment, you realized: no one had ever made you feel more loved.

The house was quiet, the only sound the gentle crackle of candlelight and the soft creak of the floorboards as Bo led you to the bedroom — his hand warm and rough around yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles with a tenderness that contradicted his calloused palms.

“You sure you’re real?” he murmured, pulling you close as you reached the bed. His eyes, usually full of fire and sharp edges, looked soft in the flickering light — almost vulnerable. “Can’t believe someone like you ended up with a bastard like me.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, grounding him. “You're not a bastard, Bo. Not to me.”

That made something in him crack open.

He didn’t answer — just kissed you, slow and deep, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the way his lips moved over yours. It wasn’t rushed. Tonight wasn’t about lust — it was about you. Every touch, every press of his mouth to your skin, was deliberate. Worshipful.

He laid you back against the worn mattress, pulling off your clothes one piece at a time, like unwrapping a present he didn’t feel worthy to open. His mouth followed each reveal — a kiss to your collarbone, a slow drag of his tongue across your hip, the ghost of his breath down your stomach. He wasn’t in any hurry.

“You look so damn beautiful tonight,” he murmured against your thigh, voice thick with emotion. “Always do, but… tonight? You’re mine.”

Bo took his time. His hands were everywhere — gripping, teasing, comforting. His mouth left a trail of heat along your skin, and when he finally sank into you, it wasn’t just physical. It was everything. His forehead pressed to yours, breath uneven, hands gripping your hips like you were something he needed to survive.

“Happy birthday, sugar,” he whispered in your ear as he rocked into you slow and deep, “Gonna make sure you feel it.”

And you did. Again. And again.

By the time the candles burned low, you lay tangled in the sheets, his arms wrapped tightly around you. He kissed your bare shoulder softly, tracing lazy patterns on your back with his fingers.

“Hope I did alright,” he mumbled sleepily. “Ain’t used to all this… celebration stuff. But for you? I’d do it every damn year.”

You smiled, burying your face into his chest.

You didn’t need a fancy party. You had Bo — raw, real, and entirely yours. And that was the best gift of all.

.

Billy Loomis (GhostFace)

Billy acts cold. He doesn't mention your birthday. Barely acknowledges the date. His eyes flicker when the topic comes up, but his mouth stays shut. He’s been short with you all week, brooding, distant — and you try not to take it personally. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he just doesn’t care.

But what you don’t know is this:

Billy’s been planning this for weeks.

He’s not the kind of guy who walks into a mall and picks out a card and flowers. No. He stays up until 3 a.m. pacing the floor, overthinking everything — tearing up one love letter just to write another, rifling through every shop that carries even a hint of horror memorabilia or alternative gifts you’d like. He even drives two towns over for that imported candy you once mentioned liking in passing. And every move he makes is laced with something rare in him:

Vulnerability.

This isn’t just a birthday. It’s a confession. His way of saying, “I love you. I need you. And I don’t know how to say that out loud without it sounding like a threat.”

You wake to music echoing through the apartment. Loud. Unapologetic. Your favorite songs — the ones that get you dancing barefoot in the kitchen, the ones you sing when you think no one’s listening. Songs Billy rolls his eyes at… except he added a few to the playlist. Ones with lyrics that hit deep:

“You’re the chaos I crave, the calm I never had.”

You rub your eyes and find something new on the mirror.

In red marker — his signature chaos — he’s scrawled:

“Happy f*ckin’ birthday, beautiful.” – The Ghost with a heart (don’t tell anyone).”

There's a blood-drip doodle under it, and next to it? Your favorite black hoodie, washed, folded, and still warm.

You smile. A little suspicious. He didn’t forget.

A folded note taped to the mirror reads:

“Scavenger hunt. Don’t roll your eyes. You always said no one ever made you feel special. Well, that’s over now. I’m taking over. Start in the kitchen. Love you. Shut up.”

In the kitchen, there’s a small basket on the table. Inside:

Your favorite snacks — even the weird obscure ones. A new horror-themed hoodie in your size (Ghostface, naturally). A mixtape (yes, a real one) labeled “Songs that don’t suck (that remind me of you)” in his handwriting. A tiny envelope labeled: “Play this last.”

Next stop: the couch, where your favorite blanket is draped over it, still warm from the dryer, and another note: “You’re home. That’s what this is. You make this place mine.”

You’re already crying. Just a little.

In the bedroom, a final box sits on your pillow. Inside:

A silver ring — engraved on the inside with one word: “Alive.”

You had once told him that you didn’t think you’d live to see 30. That you used to count the years like borrowed time. Billy never forgot.

There’s a Polaroid photo inside, too — him holding up a piece of paper that reads,

“You’re the only thing I believe in.”

And a final letter in his scrawled, imperfect handwriting:

“I don’t know how to do this. You know that. I’m not good. I’m not safe. But you… you make me want to be something better. You make me feel like I’m not just some monster with a pretty face and blood on his hands. I don’t care how messed up I am — you’re mine. Happy birthday, baby.”

That night, you find Billy in the living room, slouched on the couch, remote in hand.

“I was gonna make dinner,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes, “but I burned the pasta. Don’t ask. So… Chinese okay?”

You laugh. He’s already ordered your favorite.

When the food arrives, you sit cross-legged on the floor with him, lights low, a horror movie you’ve both seen a hundred times playing in the background — but neither of you’s watching it. He keeps looking at you. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“I meant what I wrote,” he finally says, voice low. “Every word.”

You move to sit between his legs, leaning back against his chest. He wraps his arms around you — tightly, like he’s anchoring himself.

“You make me feel like I exist,” he whispers, so soft you almost miss it.

And when the movie ends, and the lights are off, he lays you down slowly, reverently, and kisses you like he’s never going to get another chance.

You’re curled against his chest on the couch, his arms wrapped tightly around you, fingers tracing patterns over your skin beneath your shirt. Not urgent — just slow, steady, intentional. Like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you.

Your heart’s still fluttering from everything — the scavenger hunt, the ring, the words he wrote.

You tilt your face up to meet his.

“Billy… that was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

He doesn’t smile — not really — but his eyes soften. The kind of softness that he only ever shows you. He leans in, his lips brushing your cheek, then your jaw, then just under your ear.

“I meant it,” he murmurs, voice husky. “All of it.”

You twist around to face him fully, straddling his lap, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt. You feel the tension in him — held in his shoulders, in the way his hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You’re mine,” he whispers. “You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“You’re the only thing I’ve got that feels real.”

Then his lips crash into yours.

It’s not gentle. Not at first. It’s the kind of kiss that’s hungry — desperate — like he’s starving for you. Like you’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. His hands slip under your shirt, fingers trailing fire over your skin, gripping your hips, your back, pulling you impossibly close.

He lifts you without a word, carrying you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing — like letting go isn’t an option.

He lays you down like you’re breakable, like the world could shatter if he touches you wrong. But the second you reach for him, drag him down with you, he breaks. The control slips.

Billy kisses you like he’s drowning — open-mouthed, breathless, tasting every sigh that escapes your lips. His hands are everywhere. Rough palms against soft skin, teeth grazing the side of your neck until you're whimpering beneath him.

“Look at you,” he growls against your skin, voice thick and low. “So fucking perfect. You don’t even see what you do to me.”

Your clothes come off slowly, like he wants to unwrap you like a gift — his gift — piece by piece, until there’s nothing between you but breath and heat and tension. His shirt hits the floor. Then yours. Then everything else.

And when he finally presses into you, slow and deep, eyes locked on yours the whole time — it’s not just sex. It’s a claim.

“You feel that?” he whispers, barely holding back. “That’s mine. You’re mine.”

He sets a rhythm — deep, powerful — his hands gripping your thighs, your hips, pinning you down as he thrusts into you like he can’t get close enough. His name falls from your lips in a broken moan, and he loses it.

“Say it,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours. “Say you’re mine. Say it, baby—”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, Billy.”

And he groans — head thrown back, control slipping — before he grabs your hand and laces your fingers with his, pushing them into the mattress beside your head.

“God, I love you.”

He doesn’t mean to say it — not yet — but it rips out of him like a confession. Raw. Bare. Terrified.

You blink up at him, breathless, wide-eyed, vulnerable in every way — and you whisper it back:

“I love you too.”

That’s it. He falls apart with you — deep inside you, mouth on yours, heart pounding like a war drum between your ribs. When it ends, you're tangled up in sheets and limbs and soft kisses, your name still on his lips in reverent whispers.

He doesn’t say much afterward. Just holds you tight, his arm across your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck. But you feel it in the way he pulls the blanket over you, in the way his hand doesn’t leave yours, even in sleep.

You don’t need candles or a party or confetti.

Just him. Just this.

And maybe — just maybe — that was the best birthday you’ve ever had.

.

[cami040405]

Sis, have you ever seen the masked girl? If you haven't, it's basically a thriller k drama where this woman is considered having an ugly face. But she wants to be a celebrity, so she has this mask on whenever she does her online streaming, after an incident happened, this gurl did plastic surgery for many reasons that I won't get into spoiler territory about. Either way, I want you to make headcanons about the slashers knowing Y/n as a kid, then when meeting her again, she is this killer with a new beautiful appearance. But also has trauma issues since she's now preggers. It's like she desperately went to her boys for help.

Slashers Reunited with Childhood Friend Who’s Pregnant

Summary: As a child, you formed deep bonds with infamous slashers—Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Charles Lee Ray, Tiffany Valentine, and Thomas Hewitt — each seeing something pure and fearless in you. Years later, you return to them as a beautiful yet broken woman, now a killer yourself, hiding trauma and carrying the weight of an unexpected pregnancy. 

Includes: Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Charles Lee Ray (Chucky), Tiffany Valentine & Thomas Hewitt (SEPARATE)

A/N: I need to watch this movie, it looks really interesting, I've already added it to my list. About your request, thank you for sending it, I was happy to imagine and write what this reunion would be like, I hope you like it!

Vincent Sinclair

“You were the only one who ever looked me in the eyes… now you’re back. And I will never let anyone hurt you again.”

Vincent Sinclair had always lived in the silence between wax and shadow.

Most people avoided Ambrose. Tourists might drive by, but the town was quiet, eerie, forgotten. That is, until you arrived.

You were a strange little kid—curious, wild-eyed, and drawn to the macabre like a moth to flame. You wandered into the wax museum without fear, only fascination. The first time you saw Vincent, towering, masked, silent… you didn’t scream. You didn’t cry.

You stared at him, tilted your head, and said,

“Your face is cool. Like a living statue.”

Vincent froze. No one had ever said that before. Not even Bo.

You kept coming back. You’d bring your sketchbook and sit beside him as he carved wax figures, asking questions no one ever dared ask:

“Do they feel real to you?”“Why do you make them so perfect?”“Do you ever get lonely?”

And though Vincent never answered aloud, he listened. He started carving differently—softer details, more emotion in the wax faces. You brought something into his world: light. Innocence. Understanding.

But one day… you just stopped coming. Bo told him your family had moved away. Vincent had simply turned back to his wax, but that ache in his chest never fully went away.

.

Years later, a storm rolls in over Ambrose. It’s dark, the air heavy, the rain unrelenting. Vincent is working in his studio, surrounded by statues, his fingers dipped in red wax—when the old bell above the museum door rings.

He assumes it’s Bo. Or a curious deer. Until he hears the voice.

Soft. Raspy. Familiar.

“Vincent…?”

He turns.

And there you are.

But not the girl he remembers. You’re older now. A woman. A killer. He sees it in the way you move—stealthy, cautious, ready to strike. But more than that… you’re beautiful. Hauntingly so. But you’re not okay.

Your eyes are swollen from crying. Your clothes are torn. Your skin is bruised. And most of all—your hands rest protectively over your swollen belly.

You're pregnant.

His stomach drops.

You stare at him with trembling lips and whisper,

“I didn’t know where else to go… they’re trying to kill me. Please, help me. I didn’t know who else I could trust.”

You collapse into his arms before he can react.

Vincent carries you like you're made of porcelain. He lays you in the old bed behind the museum, where sunlight never touches. He cleans your wounds with gentle, trembling hands. He works in complete silence, except for the soft dripping of rain outside.

You stay asleep for nearly a day. When you wake, you find clean blankets, water, and a fresh white dress laid out for you. You touch the fabric with a shaking hand. It’s the softest thing you’ve felt in months.

Vincent watches you from the shadows, notebook in hand. He’s drawing you. He never stopped.

When you sit up and whisper his name again, he approaches, slowly, kneeling in front of you like a silent guardian. You start to cry. You tell him everything—in broken sobs.

That after your family moved, life only got darker.

That you fell in with the wrong people. That you killed to escape. That the man who hurt you was the father of your child—and he’s hunting you down. That you're scared of what you've become. That you still see Vincent’s face in your dreams.

He doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he places your hand gently over his heart and bows his head, telling you the only way he knows how that you’re safe now. That he never stopped thinking about you.

Vincent becomes your shield. Your caretaker. Your only peace.

He starts creating again—but it’s all you. Wax busts of your face. Paintings of your expression as you sleep. A sculpture of your pregnant form, arms cradling your belly like you’re a goddess from some forgotten temple.

He never lets you walk alone. He never lets you cry by yourself. And God help anyone who tries to come after you now.

Bo finds out eventually and raises hell—until he sees the fire in Vincent’s eyes. For the first time, Bo backs off.

“This one’s different, huh? You always were a sucker for her,” he mutters.

Vincent holds your hand for the first time one night when you wake from a nightmare, screaming, gripping your belly and sobbing that something will happen to your baby.

He sits beside you. Presses your hand against his cheek. Shakes his head slowly. Not on his watch. Never again.

Months pass. You feel your strength returning. You start to laugh again—just a little. You find one of your old drawings you’d left behind as a child, framed on the wall by Vincent’s bed.

It’s a sketch of him, mask and all, surrounded by flowers.

You never meant to become a killer.

But now you realize… you’re home.

And when you finally go into labor, when the pain rips through you and you cry out for him—

Vincent is right there.

Holding your hand.

Not speaking.

But everything in his eyes says:

“You saved me once. Let me save you now.”

And he does.

.

Bo Sinclair

You were just a kid when Bo first met you—a loud, stubborn brat who showed up in Ambrose on your bike, covered in dirt and full of questions. Most kids would've run screaming at the sight of a wax museum in a ghost town, but not you. You wandered right in, fearless. Bo found you poking around the gas station first, sipping a warm soda you’d helped yourself to, like you owned the place.

“You lost or just stupid?” he had snapped, narrowing his eyes.

“Neither. I'm exploring,” you’d answered smartly, chin held high.

He should’ve sent you packing, but something about you made him pause. You weren’t scared of the town, or him, or even Vincent. You came back. Again and again. Always with scraped knees and fire in your voice. You’d ask Vincent about his sculptures and Bo about the engines he fixed, always making yourself at home where you didn’t belong. He’d pretend to be annoyed, but secretly, he liked the sound of your laughter bouncing around the old Sinclair home.

Bo never admitted it, but you reminded him of something real—something before the lies, before the killing, before the town rotted into a wax graveyard.

Then one day… you were gone.

He told himself it was better that way. Kids didn’t belong in Ambrose.

.

It’s been years. Long enough that Bo’s pushed the memory of you into some dusty corner of his brain, labeled “gone.” The town’s just as dead, and the routine of blood, wax, and silence is all he knows now.

He’s just cleaned up a mess Vincent left behind—another poor soul who strayed too close—when the bell above the gas station door rings.

He doesn't look up right away. “Closed, sweetheart. Try the next town over,” he says, wiping his hands.

Then he hears it.

“Bo…”

His name. Your voice. Breathless. Frayed.

He looks up.

And time freezes.

You’re standing in the doorway, soaked from rain, hair tangled, dirt on your face. You’re older now—grown into your body in a way that makes his chest twist. Strong jaw. Wild eyes. Clothes torn and smeared with blood. But it's your belly that makes his heart skip.

You're pregnant.

Bo stares, jaw clenched, trying to process the storm that just walked back into his life.

“Y/N…?”

You nod. Then the dam breaks.

Tears spill over your cheeks as you take a step forward, voice cracking. “I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t know if you’d even remember me. I’ve done—bad things, Bo. And someone’s after me. I just—”

You stumble, and he’s on you before you hit the ground, catching you in strong arms. You tremble against him, and he feels how fragile you are now, even beneath the layers of blood and anger and fight. He feels your rounded belly press against his chest as you bury your face into him like he’s the only person left in the world.

And maybe he is.

Bo says nothing for a long moment, just holds you. His hand—rough, calloused, shaking a little—cups the back of your head.

“Jesus Christ, baby girl…” he mutters, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it.

He brings you inside the station, bolts the door, pulls down the shades. He lays you out on the cot in the back, takes a damp cloth and starts gently cleaning the dried blood off your skin. He doesn’t ask questions. Not yet. He sees the bruises. The cuts. The way your hands keep twitching like you’re ready to fight something that isn’t even here.

Only when you’re calmer—wrapped in an old blanket, sipping sweet tea with shaky hands—does he speak again.

“You look like hell, darlin’. But you made it back.” He pauses. “Who did this to you?”

You look away. “Someone I trusted.”

Bo’s blood boils.

He doesn’t press further. He doesn’t need to. The way your voice cracks tells him more than words ever could. He’s not the sentimental type, but watching you like this—worn down, scared, pregnant—something twists hard and ugly in his gut.

He wants to kill whoever did this. Wants to make them scream. But more than that… he wants to protect you.

Bo keeps you close.

He fixes up the old Sinclair house—repairs the fireplace, brings you blankets and food. Every time you flinch at a loud noise, his jaw tightens. Every time you reach for your stomach in fear, he mutters under his breath and starts cleaning his shotgun.

And he never, ever lets you go out alone.

“You wanna piss me off?” he snaps one night when you try to sneak out. “Then go ahead, keep wanderin’ off like nothin’s wrong. But don’t act surprised when someone else tries to hurt you. You came to me, remember?”

You bite your lip, holding back tears.

“I don’t want them to hurt the baby, Bo…”

His face softens. He kneels in front of you, resting a rough hand gently on your swollen belly.

“They won’t. Not while I’m still breathin’.”

There are quiet moments too. Dark, strange, tender ones.

Like when he catches you humming to yourself as you trace circles on your stomach. Or when he finds you curled up on the couch, crying into one of his old shirts, whispering you “don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Bo isn’t used to affection. But he’s getting used to you. The way you make the house feel less empty. The way your laugh sounds—even broken—as the fire crackles. The way you lean into him at night, your hand finding his under the blanket.

“Was I really that annoying when I was a kid?” you ask one night, lips trembling in a half-smile.

He grins crookedly. “You were a damn pain in the ass. But you were my pain in the ass.”

Bo never thought he’d feel anything close to tenderness again. But watching you grow into this fierce, haunted, beautiful woman—with blood on your hands and a baby in your belly—he realizes he’d burn the whole damn world down for you.

And when the time comes?

Whoever's hunting you?

They won’t make it out of Ambrose alive.

.

Charles Lee Ray (Chucky)

Charles met you when you were barely ten—maybe younger—outside the police tape of one of his crime scenes. Most kids ran when they saw blood. Not you. You stared. Eyes wide, fascinated. You watched the cops drag the bodies out like it was an art exhibit. He caught your eye and, instead of being creeped out, you smiled at him.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asked, crouching beside the yellow tape, amusement quirking at his lips.

You told him your name proudly and added, “I wanna be a monster like you someday.”

He laughed so hard he nearly doubled over. “Ain’t that somethin’? A little psycho in the making.”

From then on, he kept tabs on you, popping up at strange moments in your life. Birthday parties. School events. That time a bully wound up in the hospital after “falling” down a flight of stairs. You swore it wasn’t you—but Chucky knew better.

He gave you your first real knife for your 10th birthday. Engraved with your initials. “Happy Slashin’, sweetheart.”

You became like a little sibling to him, an apprentice even. He taught you things—how to dispose of evidence, how to manipulate a scene, how to lie through your teeth and make it sound like a love song. It was twisted. It was special.

Then one day, you vanished.

No word. No trace. Just... gone. For years.

.

He’s in the middle of gutting some scumbag in a dingy Chicago motel when he hears the knock. Annoyed, blade still dripping, he storms to the door, ready to kill whoever dared interrupt—

But he stops cold.

You’re standing there. Or more like barely standing.

Your clothes are torn, drenched with blood and dirt. There’s a deep gash over your eyebrow. You’re shaking. But your eyes? They’re the same ones from years ago.

And below your shaking hands—your swollen stomach.

“…Kid?” he croaks.

You whisper his name. Voice hoarse. Pleading. Like he’s the last lifeline in a sinking world. Then your knees give out.

Chucky catches you before you hit the floor.

He lays you out gently on the bed, hands twitching in uncertainty. It’s the first time in a long time he doesn’t know what the hell to do. He patches you up the best he can, muttering obscenities at whoever did this to you.

“Who was it?” he finally asks once you wake up. “Who hurt you?”

You cry—but it’s not soft. It’s guttural. Broken. Years of pain spilling out at once. You don’t say his name, just shake your head and whisper, “I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t think I’d make it.”

Charles listens—really listens.

You tell him about the man who claimed to love you, then locked you in a basement. How you escaped. How you killed people along the way, just to survive. How this baby growing inside you doesn’t feel like a gift—it feels like a curse. You love it. You hate it. You're scared. You don't know who you are anymore.

And Chucky? He’s silent. For once. And that says a lot.

He starts acting differently. Still his cocky, foul-mouthed self, but there’s a line he won’t cross with you. No sexual jokes. No teasing your body. None of that. He treats you like something precious.

Like family.

He starts calling you by your old nickname again—“Little Psycho”—but now it sounds more like a badge of honor.

When your nightmares start, he doesn’t say anything, just curls up beside you in bed, letting you cling to him like a lifeline. He even lets you fall asleep with his knife in your hand.

He starts leaving presents for you:

A locket with a switchblade hidden inside. A box of chocolates with cyanide in one. “For fun.” Baby clothes with little skulls printed on them.

And when you finally ask: “Are you mad that I came back?”

He snorts. “Mad? Baby, I’ve been bored as hell without you. And now look—you’re back, all grown up, crazy as ever, and carrying the spawn of Satan. You think I’d pass that up?”

If Someone Comes for You:

God help them.

Charles doesn’t just kill—he sends messages. A flayed body hung upside-down in front of your old abuser’s house. Your tormentor’s name carved into his own tongue. A finger sent in a baby bottle.

“You don’t touch what’s mine,” he growls. “Not ever again.”

He’s not soft. He’s not sweet. But he’s loyal. In his own demented, messed-up way, Chucky becomes the only constant in your chaotic life.

He doesn’t care if you’re broken. Hell, he likes it that way. He sees your trauma, your rage, your instability—and he celebrates it.

You’re not just the little psycho anymore. You’re his little psycho. And now, you’re family.

.

Tiffany Valentine

Tiffany hadn’t thought of you in years—not since you were that fierce little thing, all scuffed knees and glitter lip gloss, trailing after her in crime-ridden alleyways like a wannabe Bonnie to her Clyde. You were smart-mouthed and a little too curious for your own good, always asking how her knives stayed so sharp or how to tell if someone was playing dead.

She’d adored you.

Back then, you’d idolized her—not just the sexy femme fatale vibe, but the power. The way she walked into a room and men either melted or died. You wanted that. You wanted her.

And for all her jagged edges, Tiffany had tried to protect you from the worst of it. She showed you how to load a gun, how to hide your heartbeat when cornered, how to cry pretty if you had to—then how to stop crying altogether. She called you her “little shadow,” painted your nails blood red, and made you promise you'd never let anyone break you.

She never expected you to disappear without a word.

But now, years later, she’s in a cheap motel room lit by flickering neon, glass of red wine in one hand and a bloodied hairbrush in the other, when there’s a desperate knock at the door.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Tiffany rolls her eyes and sways toward the door in her silk robe, ready to snap. “Jesus, Chucky, I told you I was—”

She opens the door and freezes.

You're standing there—barely. Drenched in rain, clothes torn and crusted with blood, a heavy backpack slung over one shoulder. There’s a gun tucked into your waistband and a haunted look in your eyes. But most of all, it’s you. And you’re—

Pregnant.

Her gaze drops to your swollen belly. It’s impossible to ignore. And then it swings back to your face. You look like a kicked dog, like someone who’s been fighting alone for way too long. There's a split lip, a healing bruise near your collarbone, and the faint tremble of your knees.

“T-Tiff… I didn’t know where else to go,” you whisper, voice cracking.

Tiffany doesn’t hesitate.

She pulls you inside, slams the door, and locks it with one hand while the other wraps around you in a crushing embrace. You sink into her like you’re drowning and she’s air.

“Oh, baby girl…” she breathes, running her perfectly manicured fingers through your tangled hair. “What the hell happened to you?”

You try to answer, but the sob comes first. It breaks out of you raw and ugly. You hadn’t cried like this in years—maybe since you left her side. And it’s not just pain. It’s relief. You’re safe. You found her. Tiffany’s arms are warm and smell like perfume and gunpowder and too many memories.

She doesn’t push for answers. She holds you until the sobs stop shaking your spine.

When you finally manage to speak, your voice is hoarse. “I did bad things, Tiff… I killed a lot of people. And I think—I think someone’s coming for me. For the baby. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Tiffany steps back just enough to hold your face in both hands. Her lips twist into a dark smile.

“Sweetheart. You came to the right person.”

She draws you a hot bath. Rubs your back while you soak. Even hums an old 80s power ballad under her breath like it’s any other night. When she sees the bruises on your hips, her hands freeze. Then they clench.

She doesn’t ask questions she already knows the answers to. She’s been there.

Later, she lays out clean clothes—black lace maternity leggings, because of course she has them, and a dark red sweater that still smells faintly like her perfume. You slip them on, feeling the weight of exhaustion finally settle. When you lie back on the bed, Tiffany sits beside you and strokes your hair.

"You were always meant to be a killer, honey," she says softly, eyes glassy but burning with pride. “But no one said you had to do it alone.”

You turn your head. “What if it’s too late for me to be saved?”

Tiffany smiles—a slow, dangerous curl of her glossy lips. “You don’t need to be saved. You need a family. And lucky for you, I’ve got a wicked one.”

The next morning, she brings you black coffee, croissants, and three new knives.

“We’re going shopping,” she announces, already pulling on her leather jacket. “Guns, clothes, baby stuff, and C4. You pick the order.”

You laugh for the first time in months. It hurts, but it feels good.

In the following weeks, she becomes your everything. Best friend. Weapon supplier. Self-defense coach. Emotional support war goddess.

She tracks down the man who put those bruises on you. You don’t even ask her to. You just wake up one morning and she’s back with blood on her heels and glitter in her hair.

"All taken care of, baby."

She helps you plan your kills better. Cleaner. Quieter. Flashier, when needed. And when the trauma hits in waves—those moments when you can’t stop shaking, when you wake up screaming—she’s there. Holding your hand. Reminding you who you are.

And when the baby finally kicks under your skin one night, you flinch, then stare down in shock. Your hands tremble.

Tiffany notices and kneels in front of you, laying her hands gently over your stomach.

"You feel that?" she whispers, misty-eyed. “That’s power. That’s yours, sugar. No one gets to take it from you again.”

And from that moment on, she’s not just your friend.

She’s your protector. Your family. Your fury and your calm.

And she swears on her stilettos and switchblades:

“I’ll raise hell for anyone who tries to hurt you again.”

.

Thomas Hewitt

You met Thomas when you were just a little girl—a scrappy, curious thing who wandered too far off from a roadside rest stop and stumbled right into the Hewitt property.

Most kids would have screamed the second they saw him, but not you. You stared wide-eyed at the tall, masked man standing with a bloody apron, holding a severed arm. He had frozen in place, expecting shrieks and fleeing.

But you blinked up at him and said with a straight face:

"That guy was probably mean anyway."

Thomas was stunned. Silent. But you didn't run. Instead, you wandered into the porch, sat cross-legged, and started talking to him like you’d known him forever.

You came back after that—always carefully, always with treats or wildflowers you found. Sometimes you brought little trinkets, sometimes stories. You never asked to see under the mask. You never needed to. You looked right into his eyes and saw him.

You once said:

“You’re like Frankenstein. Big and scary to most people, but he was just misunderstood. I get that. You’re not a monster. You’re my friend.”

He never forgot it.

.

It had been years. He figured you were long gone. Dead maybe. Or worse—just like the rest of the world, cruel and careless.

So when he sees you again, stumbling across the overgrown dirt road leading to the Hewitt house, it doesn't even register at first. You're older now—a woman, strong and striking, though clearly weathered by pain. You’re dragging a bloodied bag behind you, clothes torn, bruised. And your hand cradles something protectively beneath your shirt—your belly.

You fall to your knees in the dirt, eyes locking onto his towering figure. Your voice is barely above a whisper:

"Tommy... I didn’t know where else to go."

He drops his chainsaw.

Not gently. It clatters, forgotten as he rushes to you. He’s shaking when he kneels in front of you, massive hands trembling as they hover over your body, unsure where to touch.

When you reach up and press his hand to your cheek, tears welling in your eyes, he lets out a soft, choked sound—like he’s in pain just seeing you like this.

You’re injured, exhausted, and pregnant. Your voice breaks as you say:

"They were going to kill me. And the baby. I didn’t know where else to run."

Thomas carries you inside like you weigh nothing, his arms wrapped around you like a human shield. He lays you in the old guest room and frantically fetches Luda Mae. The older woman gasps when she sees you, recognizing your face despite the blood and time.

“You’re the little girl who used to sneak him cookies…”

You pass out not long after.

Thomas doesn’t leave your side. He watches you sleep, his eyes haunted. You whimper in your dreams—trauma pulling at your mind like hooks—and he flinches every time.

He wants to kill whoever did this to you.

When you wake, disoriented, and whisper his name again, he gently takes your hand in both of his. 

You’re startled at first—but then you realize…

It’s the same gentleness he showed when you once gave him a daisy and told him it was for “a heart that just needed one.”

Thomas starts to change after your return. Not soften—but focus. He’s different with you.

He prepares your meals, helps you clean your wounds, and gives you his room while he sleeps on the floor beside your bed. Luda Mae helps care for you too, but it’s Thomas who stays up all night watching you breathe.

He begins building things for you again, like he did when you were a child.

A rocking chair for when the baby comes. A bassinet, hand-carved from wood. A cradle with hand-stitched cushions.

Each time, he leaves them outside your room like gifts.

No words. Just acts of devotion.

You catch him one night sanding down a handmade mobile with tiny stars and moons, and you break into tears—because no one has ever loved you like this. Quietly. Deeply. Fiercely.

You don’t talk much about the father.

You can’t. But your trembling voice and glassy stare tell Thomas enough. Whoever it was—he left you broken. Maybe he hurt you. Maybe he betrayed you.

But Thomas knows one thing: he’ll never touch you again.

He sharpens his chainsaw every night now. He watches the woods for signs of strangers. Anyone who gets too close disappears—without a trace.

The world thinks you’re lost. But you know you’ve finally been found.

One evening, you sit on the porch with him beside you, the sunset painting the sky. You place his massive hand on your swollen belly and whisper, almost like a secret:

“If it’s a boy… I want to name him Thomas.”

He jerks his head toward you, eyes wide. You just smile through tears, stroking his scarred knuckles.

For a moment, his breath catches. His chest tightens. He makes a soft, strangled sound—half-sob, half-laugh.

And in that silence, you both know:

He will protect you and your child with his life.

Because to Thomas Hewitt, you’re not just a visitor from the past. You’re the only person who ever saw the man behind the mask.

And now—he sees you too.

.

[cami040405]

hi I’m actually becoming obsessed w Brahms and u just write him so well so incoming Brahms x reader request!!!!

The loneliness actually gets to the reader to the point where talking to themselves or the doll isn’t working anymore - so they just say in the moment “i really want someone to talk to” or along the lines of that and Brahms appears a little while after the reader says that. Reader is shocked/scared on Brahms first appearance but quickly realized that maybe it wont be so bad having him around and over time embracing his presences

Love your writing sm I go back to reread it too much LOLL

please take your time and I hope the best for you <3

Oneshot: Somebody in the Silence - Brahms Heelshire x Reader

Summary: Alone in the vast and silent Heelshire mansion, you slowly succumb to deep loneliness. Talking to the porcelain doll, Brahms, no longer eases the emptiness—until one night, in a moment of desperation, you confess, “I really want someone to talk to.” 

A/N: I'm glad you like my writing, I hope I've met your expectations here. Thank you for the request and for your support.

The mansion was beautiful in the way that museums are: pristine, untouched, and filled with ghosts.

The Heelshire estate loomed at the edge of the English countryside, its silhouette carved against a sky perpetually overcast. When you first arrived, it was overwhelming—an expanse of stone corridors, stained glass windows, and an eerie hush that felt reverent. You told yourself it would be fine. Peaceful, even. A chance to escape your own noise. But as the days passed, the silence stopped being soothing. It started to gnaw.

You'd taken the job out of desperation, not curiosity. A temporary live-in nanny role, the old couple said. Just for their son. He couldn't go outside. He needed a routine, structure, someone to look after him while they were away. It wasn't until you'd arrived that you'd understood: their son was a doll.

Brahms.

A life-sized porcelain child with finely combed hair, glassy brown eyes, and clothes pressed so crisply you half-expected him to blink. You were given a strict schedule. Wake him up at 7. Breakfast at 8. Read to him at noon. Play music. Set his plate. Tuck him in at night. Always say good morning. Always say good night.

"He's shy," Mrs. Heelshire had whispered before leaving. Her eyes were too wide. Her hands trembled when they handed you the rules.

You played along.

At first, it was strange but harmless. You laughed to yourself, made jokes under your breath while spooning oatmeal into an empty bowl. You read aloud and nodded seriously as if the doll might comment on the story. It was like an extended theatre performance—a role you had to commit to.

But the performance didn’t end.

Day after day, the quiet thickened. The laughter faded. And what remained was routine.

Loneliness came creeping. At first a whisper, then a weight.

By the third week, you found yourself pausing in the middle of conversations that weren’t conversations.

“You know, Brahms, I don’t think I even remember what my own voice sounds like when I’m not talking to a doll,” you said one afternoon, sitting in the sunroom with a book in your lap, unread.

His blank eyes stared ahead.

You sighed. “Right. Of course.”

That night, you sat at the kitchen table long after dinner was cold. You didn’t have the energy to clean the plate. You didn’t turn on music. You didn’t pick up the book you’d half-finished. You just stared at the flickering candlelight on the wall and listened to the echo of your own breath.

“I really want someone to talk to,” you whispered. It wasn’t dramatic. Just quiet. Tired. Honest.

The wind rattled against the windows. Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed.

Then you went to bed.

You didn’t expect anything to change.

But it did.

.

The first thing you noticed was the scarf.

It had gone missing two days ago—a gift from your sister, deep red, soft wool. You’d turned the place upside down looking for it, even wondered if you’d thrown it away by accident.

That morning, it was folded neatly on the edge of your bed.

You froze. Touched it. Checked the room. No sign of anyone.

You tried to rationalize. Maybe you were more tired than you thought. Maybe you’d forgotten.

But then other things started happening.

The doll would be in a slightly different position than where you’d left him. The radio turned on by itself, playing soft music late at night. Your coffee brewed itself before you came down in the morning. Your painting supplies—left scattered—were now arranged by color, your brushes washed and drying on a towel.

Still, you said nothing.

Until one night—when the storm rolled in, wind howling like it wanted in—you saw him.

You were lying in bed, tossing beneath your blankets. The lightning cast flashes of silver across the room. That’s when you saw the shadow.

Tall. Lean. Still.

Standing in the corner.

Your breath hitched.

You sat up slowly, eyes locked on the figure. Another bolt of lightning. Gone.

The next day, there were muddy footprints in the hallway outside your door.

And that night, when you whispered, “I know you’re here,” something thumped softly behind the walls.

The third week, you stopped pretending.

You made two cups of tea. You placed a second blanket on the couch. You left notes: “You can sit beside me if you want.”

He didn’t respond in words. But the notes vanished. And in their place came responses: sometimes small sketches, or neatly folded napkins, or items you’d mentioned in passing—your favorite pen, a ribbon you’d forgotten you lost, a cracked tea saucer that had somehow been fixed.

Then, one night, you opened your eyes to find him standing in your doorway.

Not the doll.

Him.

The real Brahms.

He was taller than you imagined. Wearing an oversized sweater that hung off his bony frame. His hair was tangled, dark curls brushing against his jaw. He wore the porcelain mask, but something about his posture—uncertain, tense—told you he didn’t want to frighten you.

You sat up, heart thudding.

“Is it really you?”

He didn’t answer.

He stepped inside slowly, like a deer inching into a clearing.

You watched as he moved toward the fireplace, knelt to touch the cold ashes, and then—almost shyly—glanced at you.

You swallowed hard. “You’ve been here the whole time.”

A small nod.

“I should be scared.”

Another pause.

“But I’m not.”

He tilted his head. Not like the doll. Not mechanical. Like a man who’d forgotten what it meant to be looked at without fear.

You patted the bed beside you. He flinched, then shook his head and slowly backed out of the room.

But the next night, he returned.

And the next.

He never spoke. But Brahms had a language of his own.

He hummed sometimes—quiet, uneven notes under his breath. He made you tea with too much sugar and watched to see if you’d notice. He left little paper cranes around the house. You found a half-dozen tucked into your boots one morning.

When you read aloud now, you did it for him. He sat in the corner, arms around his knees, mask tilted slightly as he listened.

One day, you asked, “Would you show me your face?”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t leave either.

Later that evening, you found the mask resting on the table. A silent offering.

He sat across from you, eyes fixed on his lap. His face was scarred—burns around his temple, healed poorly. One side of his mouth curved differently, as if caught halfway through a frown. But his eyes were beautiful: brown and bright and filled with something fragile.

You reached out, slowly, letting your fingers brush his.

He jerked back at first—but didn’t leave.

“I see you,” you whispered.

That night, he stayed beside your bed.

.

Brahms began to open, in pieces.

He’d sit beside you during meals. He began to mimic your movements—tilting his head when you did, sipping when you sipped. He drew more. Pictures of the two of you walking in the garden, reading on the couch, sleeping beneath the same blanket.

He was learning you.

And you were learning him.

He liked the way your voice lilted when you said his name. He relaxed when you brushed his hair. Sometimes he leaned into your touch like he didn’t know what comfort was until now.

One night, while thunder rolled across the sky, you found him pacing the hallway outside your door.

“Do you want to sleep here?” you asked.

He nodded.

You made room.

He crawled into bed beside you like a child, curling into your side. His breath trembled against your shoulder. You held him.

“I’m not leaving,” you promised. “Not unless you want me to.”

He didn’t answer.

But his arms wrapped around your waist.

Weeks passed.

The mansion no longer felt like a tomb. It became a home—shared by two lonely hearts who had found one another in the quiet. You painted him without the mask. Showed him. He stared for a long time, then touched the canvas with trembling fingers.

“Beautiful,” you whispered.

He looked at you, eyes wide.

“You are,” you said.

He buried his face in your neck. And for the first time, you heard him cry.

Not loud. Not broken.

Just soft tears from someone who hadn’t been held in years.

You kissed his temple.

He stilled.

Then, slowly, he kissed your cheek.

And you stayed like that, together, as the rain fell.

.

[cami040405]

Heyyyy. I’m back. How ya doing? Hopefully wonderful. Anywaysss.

Can I pretty pls request Michael, Bo, and Billy reacting to their s/o going all out for their birthday? Like she bakes a cake, puts together a gift basket, handmade and store bought gifts, decorates the house, all that fun stuff just to celebrate them?

Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair and Billy Loomis with a S/O Who Celebrates Their Birthday (SEPARATE)

Summary: Imagine your thoughtful birthday surprise — cake, decorations, handmade gifts — deeply touches Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair, and Billy Loomis in different ways.

A/N: As always, your ideas are great, I loved writing this request. I thought it was cute that the reader cared about the slashers' birthday. Thanks for the request.

Michael Myers

It starts a few days before his birthday.

You know Michael's always watching — always near — even when you can't see him. And that makes planning anything a little more... complicated. But you don’t let that stop you. In fact, the thought of him observing you from the shadows while you prep everything makes you work harder. You want him to see. You want him to feel it.

Because for once in his life, Michael deserves to be celebrated.

You decorate the house in the way you think he’d like it: nothing too bright, nothing gaudy. Dark streamers, black and silver balloons, candles flickering softly throughout the living room. You craft a handmade banner, the words "Happy Birthday, Michael" painted carefully in blood-red ink with sharp, bold strokes — a message meant only for him.

The cake takes you hours. Chocolate, rich and dark, with a white frosting layer you carefully mold into the shape of his mask — smooth, blank, and eerie. You even carve small, lifeless eyes with the tip of a butter knife. You almost feel like he's standing behind you as you do it.

He probably is.

The gift basket is a mix of the practical and the personal. A freshly sharpened knife you found at a collector’s store and cleaned meticulously. A new pair of black gloves. A simple, matte-black hoodie you embroidered a tiny white “M” inside of — small enough that only he would ever know it’s there. But also a few... softer things.

A Polaroid of the two of you, standing in the woods on a rare afternoon when you convinced him to let you take it. You’re smiling. He’s behind you, masked as always, but his presence is calm. Protective. You slip that photo into a small frame.

And then — the most important gift — a leather-bound journal. Not for him to write in. But filled by you. Every page is a memory, a letter, or a sketch. You write about the first time you weren’t afraid of him. The time he sat beside you in silence for hours. The time he carried you to bed after you fell asleep on the couch. You even draw his mask — again and again — but somehow, you manage to make it feel... human.

You don’t expect him to say anything. He never does.

But the morning of his birthday, you feel it in the air: heavier, still. Charged.

He appears just after dusk. Silent as ever. His massive frame fills the doorway to the living room, where the lights are dimmed and soft music plays from a record you put on just for him — something atmospheric, eerie, almost meditative.

He doesn’t move at first. He just stands there. Staring.

His head tilts slightly at the sight of the decorations, the flickering candles. His gaze lingers on the cake, then the gift basket. And then... on you.

You’re nervous — not because you’re afraid, but because you care.

“Happy birthday, Michael,” you say softly, stepping toward him, journal in hand. “I know it probably doesn’t mean much. But... I wanted you to know you matter. At least to me.”

You hold the journal out. Slowly. Gently.

He walks forward, his boots thudding against the floor, but his movements are… restrained. Controlled. Like he doesn’t want to break anything. Like he’s trying to understand something he’s never felt before.

He takes the journal from your hands. Not rough. Not snatched. He just… takes it. Looks down at it. 

Flips it open.

You can’t see his face. But you can feel the shift in the air. His fingers pause on one of your drawings — the one where you sketched the two of you side by side. Him towering over you, but your hand reaching up to rest against his chest.

After what feels like a lifetime, he closes the journal and holds it close to his chest. He still hasn’t said a word.

But then he lifts a hand — slowly — and places it on your cheek.

It’s the softest thing he’s ever done.

You lean into his gloved palm, closing your eyes. His hand is warm through the material. Grounding. Steady.

No one’s ever done this for him before. No one’s ever celebrated the day of his birth — a day most people would rather forget. But you remembered. You embraced it.

And for the first time in decades, maybe longer, he feels something like peace.

He doesn’t leave your side for the rest of the night. He sits with you as you slice the cake, as you show him the little details in the gift basket. He doesn’t eat. But he watches. And when you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder, he stays perfectly still — a silent guardian in the dark.

When you wake the next morning, the journal is gone. But in its place on your nightstand is something simple:

One of his knives, cleaned and polished, and on its handle… the “M” you stitched into his hoodie, now carved into the wood.

His way of saying thank you.

His way of saying you matter, too.

.

Bo Sinclair

Bo never really cared for birthdays. To him, it was just a reminder of how long he’d been stuck in Ambrose — stuck in a loop of killing, lying, and pretending that the wax-covered corpses around him were anything like real company. His brothers didn’t bother. Hell, even he barely remembered the date until he saw it scrawled in pencil on an old calendar near the register in the gas station.

So when the morning started like any other — a half-assed breakfast, a cigarette between his teeth, and a bloodstain drying on his shirt from a nosy camper — he expected nothing. Least of all from you.

He should’ve known something was up when the house was quiet. Too quiet. No sound of you puttering in the kitchen, no sarcastic comment when he stepped in, boots muddy and shirt unbuttoned to his stomach.

“Babe?” he called out, eyes narrowing.

And then he noticed it.

The house was dimmed, lit only by flickering candles you’d arranged on shelves and ledges. Red and amber lights cast a warm glow across the room, making it feel strangely alive. Streamers — deep gold and black, slightly rustic like something from an old Southern carnival — dangled above the doorway. The air smelled like vanilla, cedar, and something else…

Cake.

He followed the scent into the kitchen. And there you were — standing beside a chocolate bourbon cake you had baked from scratch, icing smudged on your cheek, the faintest sheen of sweat on your forehead. You had decorated the cake with a little waxwork of his face (complete with a tiny scowl), and written across the top in careful red script:

"Happy Birthday, Bo."

His heart stopped.

He stared, expression unreadable. That classic cocky smirk? Gone. For the first time in a long while, Bo Sinclair was speechless.

“I know you said birthdays aren’t your thing,” you said softly, “but that’s only because no one’s ever made them feel special. So I wanted to.”

You motioned toward the living room. On the coffee table, a handcrafted gift basket sat, wrapped in cellophane and tied with a red satin ribbon. He stepped closer, mouth parted slightly.

Inside were things that meant something:

A small leather-bound notebook — the kind you noticed he liked sketching traps and blueprints in — with his initials burned into the front.

A new set of carving tools, engraved with subtle flame motifs.

A worn cassette tape labeled “For Bo”, filled with old Southern rock, blues, and even a few slower songs that reminded you of him.

A jar of homemade strawberry jam — his mama’s favorite, which he once told you about in a rare, nostalgic haze.

And finally… a framed Polaroid of the two of you, both mid-laugh, your face pressed against his sun-kissed cheek. You’d caught him in one of the few moments where his smile didn’t have teeth behind it.

He picked up the frame. Just held it. Silent.

“…Why’d you do all this?” he finally rasped, his voice hoarse — not from smoke this time, but from something heavy in his chest.

“Because you deserve it,” you answered. “Even if you don’t think so.”

His lips parted to respond, but nothing came out. Instead, he reached up and scratched the back of his neck — a nervous tick you’d seen only once before, the first time he let you touch the scar on his shoulder.

Then he chuckled. Low. Bitter. Almost like he was trying to suppress something deeper.

“Shit, sugar…” He stepped forward and pulled you into a sudden, tight hug. His arms wrapped around your waist with a desperate kind of force, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

His voice, buried in the crook of your neck, came out raw:

“Ain’t no one ever done nothin’ like this for me. Not in my whole damn life.”

You held him as long as he needed. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. Just let him feel it — the effort, the love, the fact that someone saw past the blood and the wax and the broken bravado.

And later, when you finally sat down to share the cake, Bo reached across the table, fingers lacing with yours. His smile was small, lopsided, but real.

“You keep doin’ shit like this,” he drawled, “and I’m gonna start thinkin’ I ain’t the monster everyone says I am.”

Then he leaned across and kissed you — slow, deep, no rush. A kiss that tasted like chocolate, bourbon, and all the emotion he’d tried to bury.

That night, long after the candles burned out, he stayed up holding the Polaroid against his chest, eyes wide open. Not sleeping. Just... processing.

For once, Bo Sinclair didn’t feel like a wax figure in someone else’s horror story. He felt alive.

And it was all because of you.

.

Billy Loomis (Ghostface)

Billy never really celebrated his birthday. Not since his mother left. Not since the world showed him it didn’t give a damn if he existed or not. Most years, it was just a date. A reminder. Of abandonment. Of what he lost. Of what he became.

He didn’t tell you when his birthday was. You found out on your own — through a dusty school file he left around, or maybe you coaxed it out of Stu when he wasn’t paying attention. Either way, you kept it quiet. Planned it all behind his back.

And when the day came, he woke up like any other — cold, guarded, sarcastic. He didn’t expect anything. Maybe a lazy kiss. Maybe a joint. But nothing more.

When he stepped into the apartment and saw the dim red lighting and horror-themed decorations — blood-spattered paper streamers, black balloons with Ghostface doodles, a table covered in slasher VHS tapes and vintage horror mags — he just stood in the doorway.

Frozen.

His brows knit together. His lips parted like he was about to say something — mock it, probably — but then his eyes landed on the cake. It was chocolate, his favorite. Dark frosting, red drip icing like blood. Candles shaped like knives. You even managed to write “Happy Fuckin’ Birthday, Billy” in that jagged font you knew he liked from horror movie posters.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then you came out from the kitchen, wearing one of his oversized flannel shirts over fishnets, eyeliner a little smudged, hair messy from running around all morning. You were beaming.

“Told you I was good at surprises,” you said with a grin.

He stared at you like you had just stabbed him. “What… is this?”

“It’s your birthday, idiot. You didn’t think I was gonna ignore it, did you?”

When he didn’t move, you took his hand and guided him to the living room. That’s when he saw the gift basket on the coffee table. At first, he looked annoyed — like you were trying too hard. But as he sat down and actually opened it, the sarcasm melted into something quieter.

Inside:

A rare VHS copy of the original Halloween, signed by an obscure cast member you hunted down online.

A handmade mixtape labeled "Songs That Make Me Think of You (In a Good Way)".

His favorite black cherry candies from the video store you two always hit.

A worn, secondhand horror trivia card game you said would be perfect for the nights you guys “terrorized the neighbors” with Stu.

A small framed photo of the two of you laughing, mid-pillow-fight, messy and real.

And at the bottom: a letter. Sealed with black wax.

He hesitated. Fingers hovered over the envelope like it was burning. But he opened it.

Your handwriting. Raw. Honest. You wrote about how much he meant to you. How you saw the rage and the pain and the chaos under his skin—but loved him anyway. You didn’t try to fix him. You just wanted to know him. Be there.

You ended the letter with:

“Happy birthday, Billy. You’re not broken to me. Just sharp. And I don’t mind getting cut.”

For a long time, Billy didn’t say a word. He just stared at the letter, jaw tight, eyes flicking back and forth as he reread it.

“…You’re insane,” he finally said, voice quiet, almost stunned. “You’re literally insane.”

Then he kissed you. Hard. Desperate. Like he was trying to shut you up before you felt how much this meant to him.

Afterward, he sat on the couch with you tucked under his arm, rereading the letter like it was some kind of incantation. Every so often, you’d feel his lips brush your temple — absent-minded, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

Later that night, when you fell asleep, he stayed up.

He traced the handwriting with his thumb. Studied the gifts. Looked at the decorations. Everything you did.

And in the silence of the room, for the first time in years… Billy let his guard down. Just for a second.

He whispered, “Thank you,” so softly even he almost didn’t hear it.

The next morning, he didn’t talk about it. Didn’t mention the party. But he kept the letter in his coat pocket like a talisman. And every time the world got too loud, too fake, too hollow—he reached for it.

.

[cami040405]

hiii!!! I hope you’re doing well :D

Could u write a Brahms x reader where the reader is bilingual? Like sometimes the reader would slip into speaking another language after smth inconvenient or just to tease Brahms lol - could u mix it w/ sfw and nsfw?

Take your time and i hope have a cold pillow tonight 💗

NSFW/SFW: Susurros Prohibidos - Brahms Heelshire X Bilingual S/O 

Summary: In the eerie quiet of the Heelshire manor, you tease Brahms by slipping into Spanish—just to rile him up. He grows obsessed with your bilingual whispers, especially when they get filthier with each passing moment.

A/N: First of all, I apologize for the delay in posting this request, there are several that I still need to answer and I have a terrible flu. I hope you like this oneshot and thank you very much for sending the request.

The manor is too quiet again. The kind of silence that buzzes in your ears and makes your skin feel too tight. You can feel it—the stare. Brahms is somewhere near. Watching. Waiting.

You're reading in the parlor, curled on the faded velvet settee, when you feel it again: the prickle at the base of your neck.

“¿Vas a seguir mirándome o piensas hacer algo al respecto?” you murmur, not looking up from the page.

There’s a beat of silence. Then a low chuckle.

“You keep doing that,” Brahms says from the shadowed doorway. “Slipping into your other tongue. Are you teasing me?”

You glance over your book with a smile. “¿Y si lo estoy? ¿Qué harías?”

He steps forward, his voice rasping like worn silk. “I’d make you say it again. Louder. Until I can understand it.”

The book falls shut in your lap as he stops in front of you. His head tilts slightly, curls brushing his cheek. There’s something unhinged in the hunger in his eyes—but familiar. Safe, in the strangest way.

“Say something else,” he says, crouching before you.

“¿Algo bonito o algo sucio?” you whisper.

He grins. “Surprise me.”

You lean in, close enough to brush your lips against his ear.

“Me pones tan mal,” you murmur. “No tienes idea de lo que me haces.”

A groan escapes his throat—half pleasure, half frustration. “No. I don’t. Not unless you show me.”

In a blur, you’re lifted into his arms, your book forgotten on the rug. He carries you with practiced ease, up the grand staircase, past the gaze of dust-covered portraits. Into his room.

The door closes with a soft click.

Brahms sets you down on his bed and doesn’t speak—he watches as you peel your sweater slowly over your head, revealing bare skin underneath. His fingers twitch at his sides.

“Touch me,” you whisper, your voice slipping into something soft and sweet. “Tócame, Brahms.”

He kneels onto the mattress like a beast stalking prey and lets his calloused hands drag along your thighs, your waist, your ribs.

“Tell me what that means,” he breathes, tugging at your waistband.

You smirk. “Figure it out.”

When he slides your pants down, you feel his breath falter. You’re soaked. His eyes flash with something primal.

“I know what this means,” he mutters, running a finger along your inner thigh. “This means you’ve been thinking about it.”

You gasp as he dips down, mouth hot against your core, tongue swirling slow, reverent circles. Your hand tangles in his curls.

“¡Dios mío…!” you moan.

He growls into you. “That one I know.”

His mouth is relentless. Every gasp, every twitch he pulls from you only fuels him. You barely recognize the mix of Spanish and English you start babbling—just fragments.

“Más… por favor, Brahms… no te detengas, por favor—”

He pulls away just long enough to look up at you, his lips slick and glistening.

“I like it when you beg in Spanish,” he says, voice thick with arousal. “But I want to hear it when I’m inside you.”

You reach for him, dragging him up by the collar of his shirt. “Entonces hazlo.”

He fumbles with his belt—desperate, impatient—and you help, both of you tangled in each other now. When he finally pushes inside you, there’s nothing left to say. Just the loud, breathy moan you let out as your body stretches around him.

“Así,” you whimper. “Just like that.”

His hips move slow at first, but soon his rhythm grows rougher. He buries his face in your neck, biting, sucking.

“You’re so tight,” he groans. “Fuck. You feel—God, I can’t—”

You pull his hair. Hard. “Harder, Brahms. Más fuerte, ahora.”

He obeys. Slams into you like he was made for this, for you. Every time you whisper something filthy in his ear, he loses rhythm. You’re unraveling him—one moan, one word at a time.

When your climax hits, it takes you both. You cry out—Spanish curses tumbling past your lips—and he follows, spilling into you with a long, broken groan.

You lie tangled together afterward, sweat-slick and trembling. His hand traces patterns across your stomach.

“…You never did tell me what ‘carajo’ means,” he says hoarsely.

You smile against his chest.

“Maybe I’ll teach you tomorrow.”

.

[cami040405]

hello!! I love how you wrote your reader x Brahms and was wondering if u could do more wholesome content of them? I seriously can’t get over your one shot “reach for me” DVSKSJWVW - I’ve been going back and rereading it a few times loll

Hope u have a wonderful day <3

Oneshot: The Warmth of Quiet Things - Brahms Heelshire x Reader

Summary: On a rainy morning at the Heelshire estate, you find Brahms quietly sitting by the fire, soothed by the storm outside. Wrapped in a blanket together, you share a warm, peaceful moment as Brahms offers you a cup of tea—his way of caring and connecting.

A/N: I'm very happy and flattered that you liked the way I wrote Brahms, I really like the character and I hoped that Greta would end up with him at the end of the movie. I hope you enjoy this little oneshot, feel free to ask for more whenever you want.

The rain had started in the early morning hours, tapping gently against the tall, arched windows of the Heelshire estate like a polite visitor asking to be let in. The manor, old and creaky in all the usual places, seemed to exhale a heavy sigh as it settled into another grey day.

You didn’t mind the rain. In fact, you kind of liked it now. Living in this strange, secluded house with Brahms had made you appreciate the slow hush of rainy days—the way time seemed to stretch and soften around the edges, like the world had pressed “pause.”

Wrapped in one of Brahms’s oversized knit sweaters (which you’d long since claimed as your own), you padded barefoot through the hallway, following the scent of cinnamon and faint traces of burning wood. The fire was already crackling in the sitting room hearth. You paused in the doorway, quietly smiling.

Brahms was there.

He sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, legs curled under him like a boy too big for his own body, hair still damp from a recent bath. He was dressed in one of his softer cardigans, something pale and worn and stretched at the sleeves from the way he tugged on them when nervous. And he looked peaceful—for once—not caught in that storm of silence or sharp-eyed suspicion.

He was watching the flames, shoulders slack, as if the fire was telling him a story only he could hear.

You stepped in gently, your presence carefully announced by the floorboard that always groaned no matter how light your step.

He turned to look at you, and his eyes softened immediately.

“Morning,” you said, settling down beside him. You were close enough that your knees brushed his.

“Too loud to sleep,” he mumbled. “The rain... it’s loud in the walls.”

“It is,” you agreed, reaching for the blanket folded nearby and draping it over both of you. “But it’s kind of nice too. Safe. Like the house is singing.”

Brahms tilted his head slightly, considering that.

“You like the rain,” he murmured, more a statement than a question.

“I do. It makes me want to stay inside with you and do nothing all day.”

At that, he smiled. A small one—but real. You were always surprised by how expressive his face could be, even with such subtle movements. Sometimes it felt like you were watching a sun rise over the ocean after a long, cold night.

“I made tea,” he said shyly, then leaned over to grab the mug he’d placed carefully on the rug.

It was your favorite kind—he remembered. Even though he didn’t drink tea himself.

He handed it to you with both hands like it was something fragile, like offering you something meant more than the tea itself.

“Thank you, Brahms,” you said, brushing your fingers against his as you took it. “You’re getting really good at this. Taking care of me.”

“I like doing it,” he replied quietly. “Makes me feel... normal. Not broken.”

Your heart clenched, tender and aching all at once.

“You’re not broken,” you said gently, resting your head on his shoulder. He stiffened at first—physical affection still took getting used to—but then he relaxed, even leaned a little into you.

“You’re not,” you repeated. “You’re just… different. And that’s okay.”

There was silence for a while. Just the fire snapping softly and the rain drumming gently on the roof.

“Will you stay?” he asked suddenly. The question came out rough, like it scraped against something inside him. “I mean… forever. Here. With me.”

You turned your face into his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him—lavender soap, old books, and the faintest trace of cinnamon from the tea.

“Yes, Brahms,” you whispered. “I’ll stay. I want to stay.”

He let out a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh, wasn’t quite a whimper. Just raw relief. And then he leaned his head against yours, fingers trembling as he reached out to hold your hand beneath the blanket.

Neither of you said anything else. You just watched the fire together, wrapped in warmth and quiet, while the rain sang its lullaby against the windows.

.

[cami040405]

Vincent Sinclair courting headcannons but the reader does not know asl and tries to, but it’s very hard for her to be interested in it? Maybe they text each other? You can choose the genre

Vincent Sinclair Courting Headcannons

Summary: Vincent Sinclair quietly courts you, you struggle to learn ASL despite wanting to communicate with him. Though frustrated by your slow progress, you continues to try, and you rely on texts, sketches, and small gestures to connect. 

A/N: I loved writing this request, imagining how Vincent Sinclair would communicate with the reader. I found this approach interesting because in my story, Between Art And Silence, Vincent speaks. If you want to check it out, the link is in the text.

When Vincent first starts to court you, he tries to communicate mostly through body language and gestures — soft touches on the arm, a hand held out to guide you somewhere, or leaving little sketches for you to find.

He doesn’t expect you to know ASL at all — in fact, he seems almost guilty or hesitant to use it in front of you, not wanting to make you uncomfortable.

Bo teases him, of course: “Tryin’ to woo someone who can’t even read your love notes, huh?” But Vincent shrugs it off, used to being misunderstood — until you try.

You suggest texting. Vincent doesn’t like technology much, but for you? He adapts.

He keeps his old, beat-up phone charged just so you two can have late-night text conversations. He’s not wordy, but his messages are always careful and intentional.

“Did you eat today?”“You looked sad. Want me to sit with you?”“The stars are out. Thought of you.”

You try. You really do. But ASL doesn’t come naturally to you — the grammar feels strange, and your hands just don’t move the way you want them to.

Sometimes you mess up signs badly enough that he chuckles silently and gently corrects you, guiding your hands with his own, warm fingers. It’s frustrating — not because he’s impatient (he never is), but because you want to understand him better. Still, it’s hard to stay interested when your brain just doesn’t click with it.

Vincent notices right away. He sees the tension in your shoulders, the way your eyes dart away in embarrassment after a failed attempt. He never pressures you. Instead, he starts drawing more — sketching out how he feels, what he wants to say, or what he notices about you. You have an entire drawer full of little drawings he’s made just for you.

Sometimes he’ll use one hand to sign something simple and the other to type it on his phone — a hybrid method that eases the burden for you.

Vincent expresses love in actions: brushing your hair behind your ear, fixing a squeaky cabinet in your room without asking, leaving your favorite tea beside your bed. He sometimes signs I love you slowly, just so you’ll recognize it. Even if you can't respond in ASL, you always press his hand to your cheek, showing that you know. One night, you sign something almost right — “You’re beautiful,” maybe — and he just stares at you like you hung the moon, his face flushing under his mask.

You might not become fluent in ASL, and that’s okay. Vincent never wanted perfection from you. He just wanted your effort — and you gave him your heart, one crooked sign and midnight text at a time.

.

You sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, a pit growing quietly in your stomach as you stared at the screen.

Your latest attempt at learning ASL had ended with a migraine and three nearly-broken fingers from accidentally jamming them trying to mimic a video. The app had long been closed. You were done for the night.

The silence in Ambrose was heavy, as always, broken only by the low hum of the cooling fan in Vincent’s workshop down the hall. He had texted you an hour ago:

“Working. Come by when you’re tired. Want you near.”

You had smiled when you saw it. He rarely typed that much.

Still, you couldn’t help but feel like a disappointment. It had been weeks, and you could barely manage the alphabet. Meanwhile, Vincent was patient — too patient — like he knew you’d give up eventually and was already forgiving you for it.

A soft knock on your door.

Not Bo. Too gentle.

You opened it to find Vincent, mask reflecting the faint glow of the hallway light, tall and silent. He held a sketchpad in one hand and his phone in the other. He tilted his head.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He nodded once, then tapped on his phone.

“Can I come in?”

You stepped aside and let him in. He smelled faintly of wax and pine, and the sleeves of his long shirt were pushed up, revealing pale arms marred with old scars and dried streaks of charcoal.

He sat on the floor, cross-legged like always, and you joined him.

You watched his hands carefully as he began to sign something — slow, deliberate. You caught maybe one word. “You…”

“Wait.” You reached for your phone and typed:

“I don’t know what you said. I’m sorry.”

He read it, then looked at you. There was no disappointment in his eyes, no hint of judgment — only that quiet depth he always carried, something heavy and old and kind.

He pulled his sketchpad into his lap and flipped it open.

The drawing was simple — the two of you sitting together, knees touching, your head leaned gently on his shoulder. Your face was wrong — lopsided, eyes too big — but you recognized the moment. It had been three days ago. He’d remembered.

You blinked back the sting in your eyes.

“I’m trying,” you whispered. “I just… it’s hard.”

He nodded. Then, slowly, he lifted his hands and signed something else.

You didn’t get it. Not all of it. Maybe “feel” or “you”. Something about safe. But you couldn’t be sure.

Your hands lifted without thinking. You fumbled to shape a sign you’d practiced — badly — one you hoped you wouldn’t screw up again.

You signed “beautiful”, aiming it toward him.

Vincent froze.

Not like he was offended. More like… stunned. Like he didn’t understand the word could ever apply to him.

He reached slowly and took your hand — large, warm fingers wrapping around yours, guiding them, correcting the shape gently.

You laughed nervously. “I messed it up, didn’t I?”

He shook his head. Then, he signed again — slowly, so you could follow.

“I love you.”

Three motions. You’d seen them before, sure, but never directed at you. Not like this. Not from him.

Your breath hitched.

You didn’t know how to sign it back.

So instead, you leaned forward and pressed his hand to your cheek, closing your eyes.

He held still.

He didn’t pull away.

And in the silence that followed, in the soft weight of his fingers against your skin, you realized that love wasn’t always spoken — not in words, or even in perfect signs.

Sometimes, it was drawn.

Sometimes, it was typed out awkwardly at midnight.

And sometimes, it was felt in the gentle way someone stayed, even when you didn’t know how to say “I love you” the right way.

.

[cami040405]

Can I request Brahms and any other slashers that you want but with a female reader who plays volleyball a lot likes to play in the garden or inside the house.

Slashers with a Female Reader who Plays Volleyball

Summary: You’re an energetic girl who loves playing volleyball, whether in the garden or inside the house — and each of these slashers has their own unique reaction to your playful spirit.

Includes: Brahms Heelshire, Charles Lee Ray, Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair & Pearl.

A/N: I loved writing this request, I don't watch much about volleyball but I used to play in school so it brought back good memories, I hope you like it!

Brahms Heelshire

The silence of the Heelshire estate was something you’d grown used to, though it still felt like the walls breathed when your back was turned. The house groaned with age, but never more than when you were alone—truly alone, or at least that’s what you told yourself.

To pass the time in the cavernous, echoing manor, you’d taken up your old habit again—volleyball. It started small: just tapping the ball against the high walls of the drawing room, bouncing it off your forearms, sending it back into the air over and over. The rhythm soothed your nerves. The thunk of the ball against stone echoed through the halls, reminding you there was still life here—your life.

But one morning, you decided to take it outside.

The garden behind the manor was wildly overgrown, vines twisting over stone benches and patches of white roses blooming wildly without supervision. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something older, something that didn’t quite belong. You stepped barefoot onto the grass, volleyball tucked under your arm, and tossed it into the air with a laugh. For once, the eerie silence didn’t feel suffocating.

You served the ball hard, watching it arch through the air and bounce off the trunk of an old tree. It rolled off into the rose bushes, and you sighed—then blinked. The ball... rolled back. Slowly, as if pushed by a hesitant hand.

You stood still, a shiver running down your spine. "Hello?"

No answer.

Not even the wind dared to whisper.

From then on, it kept happening. Every time the ball rolled too far, it was returned. Gently. Deliberately. And sometimes, when you weren’t looking, the ball would already be sitting at your feet again, as if someone anticipated your next move.

Eventually, you stopped pretending you were alone.

"Brahms," you said aloud one evening, glancing toward the ivy-covered wall that concealed the old window. “Is that you playing with me?”

The air was still. You turned away.

Thump.

You gasped and spun around. The ball was bouncing slightly where you’d left it on the bench — though no one was in sight.

From then on, it became a routine. In the garden, in the drawing room, in the upstairs corridor with the old wooden beams—you would serve and volley, and he would return the ball in his own quiet way. Sometimes he knocked it over from an unseen angle. Sometimes you’d hear soft footsteps just behind the wall. You started speaking to him as you played, your voice warm and playful.

“I’m getting better, you know. I bet you can’t block this one.”

Thunk — the ball came back faster than you expected, nearly smacking you in the face. You laughed breathlessly. “Okay, okay! You win that round!”

Then one day, he left you a gift.

It was a crudely drawn net, assembled with bits of string, bent curtain rods, and even a few toys from the attic. It stretched awkwardly across the garden path. The moment you saw it, your chest ached with unexpected affection. Brahms... he made this. For you. To play.

That evening, you served the ball over the makeshift net, and before it hit the ground, it was swatted back—hard. You stared.

He was there.

For the first time, Brahms stepped out of the shadows. The porcelain mask glinted in the twilight, his body tall and lean, covered in his familiar layered clothes. His breathing was shallow beneath the mask. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

You smiled. “Want to play with me for real now?”

A pause. Then... a slight nod.

So you played.

For nearly an hour, the manor grounds echoed with the sound of laughter and soft thuds. He never spoke, but his body language—careful, deliberate, almost childlike—told you enough. When you missed, he tilted his head, waiting for you to retrieve the ball. When you scored, he gave a tiny, frustrated stomp that made you giggle.

But the most surprising thing was how gentle he was. Despite his looming presence, he never hit the ball too hard. He watched you with obsessive, unblinking attention, like you were the only thing he could focus on. His shoulders tensed when you winced from a bad landing. And at the end, when you collapsed onto the grass in exhaustion, he walked slowly toward you.

He crouched beside you, the volleyball cradled in one hand.

You looked up at him through your sweat-damp hair. “You were really good.”

He tilted his head again. Then, he gently reached out — his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face.

No words. Just soft breathing behind porcelain. The ball rolled from his hand and bumped against your knee like a promise: Let’s play again tomorrow.

And somehow, in the middle of that lonely, haunting manor, you realized something strange.

You weren’t lonely anymore.

.

Charles Lee Ray (Chucky)

The ball bounces once, twice, then slams into the wall and rockets back toward you. You grunt softly, shifting your weight to spike it back with the heel of your palm. The old wooden floor of the abandoned house you and Charles had holed up in creaks beneath you with every jump. Dust dances in the afternoon sunlight pouring through a broken window. You’re sweaty, winded, and fully immersed in the rhythm of the game.

“Jesus, babe,” a raspy voice cuts through your focus, “you tryin’ to bring the whole damn house down?”

You glance to your right, just in time to see the small, redheaded figure perched on a crate — plastic legs swinging casually and a mischievous smirk plastered across his Good Guy doll face. Chucky.

You shoot him a grin. “You’re just mad I almost hit you last time.”

He snorts, hopping down with a little “thud” and dust cloud. “You wish. Your aim sucks. If I were human, I’d be filing for emotional damages.”

You chuckle, bouncing the ball once more and slamming it into the wall. It ricochets hard, missing Chucky by a foot.

He blinks. “Okay, now you’re doin’ it on purpose.”

You shrug playfully. “Maybe.”

The thing about Charles is: he acts like he couldn’t care less. But after a few days of watching you play, he can’t help himself. He starts tossing snide comments from the corner. Then he “accidentally” nudges the ball back when it rolls away. Finally, one afternoon, he stands in front of you, fists on his tiny hips.

“Alright, alright, fine. Let’s do this. Bet I could wipe the floor with you.”

You raise a brow, trying not to laugh. “You do realize you’re like... two feet tall, right?”

He bares his teeth in a grin. “Size ain’t everything, sweetheart.”

You grab the ball and gently toss it his way. He doesn’t even flinch — catches it expertly and launches it back with surprising force for a doll. It hits you right in the chest, making you stumble back a step.

“What the hell, Chucky!” you laugh.

He shrugs with feigned innocence. “Oops. Guess I am stronger than I look.”

It becomes a weird, chaotic game between the two of you. Chucky runs around the room like a rabid squirrel, sometimes using objects to bounce the ball in wild directions. At one point, he uses a chair to gain height and slam the ball like he’s playing dodgeball. You swear he’s enjoying it way more than he lets on.

“See?” he pants after a particularly intense rally, hair a mess and plastic limbs scuffed. “This is fun. I mean, it’s not murder, but it’s... y’know. Not bad.”

You’re sweating, collapsed on the floor with the ball under your arm. “Glad you approve.”

Chucky walks over — a little awkwardly, his tiny joints clicking — and sits beside you.

“You’re a freakin’ weirdo, ya know that?” he says after a long pause.

You glance at him. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

He smirks, then nudges your shoulder with his little plastic hand. “I mean it. Most people run from me. You? You just keep hittin’ balls off my face like I’m part of the furniture.”

“You’re my favorite decoration,” you tease, flicking his forehead.

He bats your hand away but doesn’t move from your side. In fact, he leans against your arm. It’s subtle. If you weren’t paying attention, you might think he was just tired.

But you feel the weight. The warmth. As strange as it is, he’s relaxing beside you. Like your chaotic little games give him something he didn’t know he craved.

Normalcy. Or at least something close to it.

“I guess you’re not so bad, doll,” you whisper after a beat.

Chucky scoffs — but you catch the way his head dips slightly.

“Yeah, well... don’t go soft on me, alright?” he mutters, eyes flicking to yours. “I still got a reputation to keep.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He leans back on his tiny arms, gazing up at the dusty ceiling with a soft grunt.

“Next time,” he says, voice low, “I’m building us a net. And I will win.”

You smile, watching him — the world’s most dangerous killer trapped in a child’s toy — plotting out your next volleyball match like it’s a war.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

.

Bo Sinclair

The sun beat down hard on the dusty back lot of Ambrose, heatwaves dancing above the cracked pavement. But that didn’t stop you. You stood barefoot on the dry grass patch near the old Sinclair house, volleyball in hand, the worn seams rough against your fingertips. You tossed it into the air, giving it a satisfying thwack as it soared up and down in your little game of keep-up.

Bo leaned against the porch railing, a cigarette pinched between his lips, hidden eyes watching you from behind his sunglasses. His expression was unreadable — mouth curled in a smirk, head tilted ever so slightly.

“Ya really playin’ that out here?” he called out eventually, voice dripping with amusement. “Ain’t exactly a beach, sweetheart.”

You caught the ball against your forearm and turned to face him, sweat clinging to your skin. “What, you afraid I’ll hit a window?”

He snorted. “Nah, more like afraid you’ll pull a muscle swingin’ around like that.”

But you knew Bo. Beneath the teasing, his gaze lingered a bit too long on the curve of your waist, the way your shorts hugged your hips, the smooth line of your thighs flexing when you leapt to catch the ball again. He’d always act too cool to care, but that fire behind his smirk said otherwise.

“You can either come play or keep staring like a creep,” you teased, bouncing the ball off your knee before catching it again.

Bo chuckled low in his throat and flicked the cigarette into the dirt. “Fine. But when I win, you’re makin’ dinner tonight.”

“Oh, you think you’re gonna win?” You raised a brow, tossing him the ball.

He caught it easily, rolling it from one hand to the other before stepping onto your makeshift court. The two of you didn't have a net — just a line marked in the dirt with a stick, like kids inventing their own game. But it was enough.

The first serve came hard. You were faster. You dove, kicking up dust, and sent it flying back. Bo cursed, not expecting your reflexes.

“You didn’t say you were tryin’ out for the damn Olympics,” he muttered, laughing breathlessly as the game began to pick up heat. You darted around the court, giggling when he fumbled a save. He groaned dramatically, wiping sweat from his brow with a swaggering flair.

“Need a break already, old man?” you called.

“Old man, my ass,” he growled, lunging after the ball. You barely avoided his tackle, stumbling backward — and that’s when it happened.

Bo didn’t accidentally fall. He caught your waist and pulled you down with him, the two of you tumbling into the grass in a heap of limbs and laughter.

The ball rolled off toward the porch, forgotten for the moment. Bo pinned you beneath him, hands planted beside your head, breath warm on your cheek. His sunglasses had fallen off in the scuffle, revealing the full force of those piercing blue eyes. His grin softened, something more raw flickering behind the cocky attitude.

“You always this competitive, darlin’?” he asked, voice low, teasing.

You smiled up at him, brushing your hair from your face. “Only when the prize is worth it.”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then slowly lifted back to your eyes. “Oh yeah? What exactly’s the prize?”

You didn’t need to answer. The air between you was already electric. Bo’s hand slid up your thigh, slow and deliberate, the game long forgotten. His smile curved wickedly.

“Maybe we should play more often,” he muttered, lips brushing against yours.

From the porch, Vincent opened the door just enough to scowl at the noise.

“Shut up, Vin!” Bo shouted without looking, before lowering his voice to a murmur only you could hear:

“Let him pout. We’re busy.”

And in that moment, tangled together in the golden heat and wild grass, laughter fading into quiet, you realized:

For all his gruff edges and crude humor, Bo Sinclair would meet you halfway — even if it meant playing your game.

.

Vincent Sinclair

There was something almost sacred in the way your laughter echoed through the quiet halls of the House of Wax. Amid the scent of aged timber, melting wax, and silence, you brought with you a rhythm Vincent hadn’t heard in years — the thud of a volleyball against old plaster walls, your footsteps light and quick, the occasional sound of your amused exclamation when it hit something it shouldn't have.

At first, Vincent watched from the shadows.

He had stumbled upon you by accident — barefoot, in a soft tank top and shorts, hitting a scuffed volleyball back and forth against the wall of an abandoned side room near the wax museum. The light poured in through the broken glass above, catching on the sweat at your temple, turning you into something ethereal. He was mesmerized. Not just by your movement, but your joy. You were playing alone, but it didn’t feel lonely. It felt like you were inviting the house to come alive with you.

Every hit of the ball was like a heartbeat in the stillness. Every time you smiled, it made his chest tighten.

He didn’t approach right away. Instead, he retreated to his studio, but your presence kept creeping in. That night, instead of sculpting, he stared at a blank wax head, his mind full of you — your laughter, the bounce of your hair, the delicate arch of your back as you reached for a ball midair. His fingers itched to carve it, but he didn’t. Not yet.

The next day, you found a net.

A crude thing, fashioned from old rope and what looked like wax-dipped wood poles, strung up between two doorframes in one of the larger open spaces. You paused, eyebrows raised in surprise. It hadn’t been there before. At first you thought it might be Bo’s weird way of teasing you — until you noticed the craftsmanship. The way the cords had been wrapped, the symmetry, the precision.

This was Vincent.

A shy smile touched your lips. “You want to play, don’t you?” you whispered to no one, holding the ball close.

From then on, you returned to that room daily. Sometimes you practiced alone, sometimes you'd "talk" to the room, your voice teasing the silent watcher you knew was there. “I bet you’re watching me again, huh?” you’d say playfully, spinning the ball in your hands. “You could at least come out and join me. I promise not to hit you in the face.”

One day, he did.

You turned and nearly dropped the ball when you saw him — tall, still, his face half hidden by his long black hair and mask, gloved hands hovering near his sides. He didn’t speak. He never did. But you didn’t need words.

You smiled softly, offering him the ball. “Wanna serve?”

Vincent stepped forward with hesitation, as though afraid to scare you, and took the ball. His hands were surprisingly gentle despite their size. He tossed it up clumsily and hit it — not hard, but enough that it cleared the net and bounced at your feet.

You giggled, catching it. “Not bad.”

That became your thing.

You played together in the dusty open rooms of Ambrose, your laughter balancing the silence he’d once taken comfort in. Vincent moved awkwardly at first, more used to crafting beauty with his hands than catching or batting a ball. But over time, he learned your rhythm — learned how to step forward just enough, how to push the ball back with his palms without hurting it or you.

He rarely looked you in the eyes, but he always watched you. Your joy became a quiet obsession for him. You reminded him of what life might have been if it weren’t coated in wax and blood.

And on the days you stumbled — scraping your knee on a broken tile or collapsing to the floor, flushed and laughing — Vincent was there. Immediately. Kneeling beside you, his gloved hands brushing your skin gently, eyes wide with concern. He didn’t like seeing you hurt.

One day, after a long session of play, you flopped down on the floor with a sigh, arms spread wide. 

“You’re a surprisingly good partner, you know that?” you said to him, voice breathless. “You don’t talk much, but I always know when you’re listening.”

Vincent knelt nearby, his gaze fixed on your face, unmoving.

Then, slowly — painfully slowly — he reached forward and brushed a lock of hair away from your cheek. His hand lingered a second longer than it should have. Then he pulled back, as if ashamed of himself.

You didn’t flinch. You reached up and took his hand.

“I don’t mind the silence,” you whispered, looking into the slits of his mask. “I hear you anyway.”

Vincent’s hand trembled slightly in yours.

He still didn’t speak. But after that moment, he never hid again. He waited for you every morning by the net, volleyball in hand, and you knew — with every serve, every shared breath, every lingering glance — that he was falling in love with you the only way he knew how:

Through quiet devotion…

Through the rhythm of a game…

And through the echo of your joy.

.

Pearl

The sun hung low over the cornfields, dipping the old farmhouse in a soft golden glow. The only sounds were the whispering breeze, the chirp of crickets, and the rhythmic, satisfying thump of a volleyball striking the ground.

You’d been playing for nearly half an hour, sending the ball against the weathered barn wall and bouncing it back with practiced reflexes. The open yard became your makeshift court, with hay bales and an old wooden crate marking your boundaries. You were barefoot, your hair tied loosely, dressed in a light blouse and shorts that already had dust on the hems. Out here, no one cared about appearances.

Or so you thought.

From the porch, Pearl watched.

Her pale hands clutched the rail, her thin shoulders stiff with something between fascination and envy. You knew she’d been watching you for days now — quietly, like a ghost behind curtains or through the screen door. But she never approached. Until today.

You caught her eyes just as you set the ball for another spike. Her cheeks flushed like roses under candlelight. Caught, she stood slowly and took cautious steps toward the yard, her floral dress fluttering in the wind like the fragile wings of a dying butterfly.

“I used to dance,” she said out of nowhere, her voice soft, almost apologetic. “Long ago. Before everything got... harder.”

You smiled, walking toward her with the ball in hand. “You still move like a dancer,” you said sincerely. “Want to try playing?”

Pearl blinked, surprised. “Me? Oh, no... I’m much too old for that.”

“You’re not,” you replied gently, offering the ball. “It’s not about age. It’s about joy.”

She stared at it like it might crumble in her hands. But slowly — hesitantly — she reached out and took it. The ball felt foreign, rubbery and light, nothing like the velvet and lace she once knew. Still, she held it like it mattered.

The first serve was clumsy. The ball rolled along the ground and bumped your foot. She gasped and covered her mouth like she’d offended you. But you laughed, genuine and full, and she relaxed a little.

“Let’s try again,” you said, resetting.

It took a few tries, but Pearl began to giggle — awkward at first, then with genuine delight. Her cheeks glowed, and her laughter sounded like music trapped in a box for years, now finally let out into the summer air.

You volleyed back and forth, not worrying about form or rules. Just play. Pearl twirled once as she moved to the ball, then caught herself, embarrassed.

“Old habits,” she mumbled, brushing hair behind her ear.

“I love it,” you told her. “You look beautiful when you dance.”

Her breath hitched. No one had called her beautiful in a long, long time. Not since before Howard, before the war, before life grew dull and quiet.

You moved closer, gently taking the ball from her hands and setting it down. “Pearl,” you said, “you don’t have to be someone else to be worth something. Just being here with you — it’s... it’s enough.”

She looked like she might cry. Not in the dramatic, angry way you sometimes feared — but in that soft, aching way of someone who had never been told they were enough.

And then, she leaned in.

It was cautious, trembling — like the kiss of a girl long denied touch, long denied affection. Your lips met hers under the fading sun, warm and fragile, the air filled with the scent of dry grass and hope.

When you pulled away, Pearl’s hands remained tangled in your shirt.

“I’ve never had anyone want to stay,” she whispered. “They always want to leave.”

“I’m not leaving,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to hers. “Not tonight. Not if you want me here.”

She smiled, small and soft. “I want to play again... tomorrow.”

“Then we will.”

And as the sun dipped below the fields, you played once more — not to win, not for practice, but to make the world feel just a little lighter, a little warmer, for a woman who’d nearly forgotten what it meant to be seen.

.

[cami040405]

Just saw that one gif of the couple in a haunted house where the guy pushes the girl in front of the “killer” and runs away, so said killer gives the girl his knife and she chases after her man. Could you write a similar scenario. Whether the killer hands reader their weapon, reader asks for it or just takes it, I just think it’s kinda funny. Reader’s boyfriend shoves her in front of the killer and books it so reader ends up with the slasher’s weapon and goes after her boyfriend herself. I’d like Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees please but if you wanna add anyone I certainly won’t stop you.

Slashers' Reaction when they See the Reader being Offered as Bait by Her Own Boyfriend.

Summary: When your cowardly boyfriend shoves you into the path of infamous slashers to save himself, you don’t scream—you get even. Each killer watches you take their weapon and chase down your backstabbing boyfriend with rage, sarcasm and style. Turns out, the real horror isn’t the killer... it’s dating a man with no spine.

Includes: Michael Myers, Jason Voorhes, Bo Sinclair, Charles Lee Ray, Billy Loomis & Stu Macher

A/N: I found this request very interesting, I certainly wouldn't let it go if it were me. Thank you for sending the request, I loved writing it and imagining the scene.

Michael Myers

You should’ve known something was off the second your boyfriend suggested the two of you “go for a walk through Haddonfield” at night.

“It’s Halloween,” you said.

“Exactly,” he replied, smug. “Let’s live a little.”

So you ended up strolling near Lampkin Lane, where the houses were quiet, the wind was sharp, and something was watching you. You turn the corner near the old, abandoned Myers house—the one that’s still cordoned off with faded “No Trespassing” signs and urban legends as thick as fog. The porch creaks in the distance. Somewhere, a swing sways on rusted chains, though there’s no breeze.

Your boyfriend chuckles nervously beside you.

“This is kinda spooky, huh?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, eyeing the dark windows. “I told you this wasn’t a good idea.”

Suddenly, something shifts in the shadows. A figure steps into the orange glow of a flickering streetlamp at the end of the block.

Tall. Silent. White mask. Mechanic’s suit. Michael. Myers.

You freeze.

He’s far away—but not far enough.

Then your boyfriend, in a move so quick and selfish it would impress Olympic sprinters, screams like a banshee and SHOVES you toward the street—toward him.

“OH MY GOD! TAKE HER!” he shrieks. “TAKE HER, NOT ME!”

You stumble into the road, landing on your hands and knees.

“Are you KIDDING ME?!” you shout, spinning around to watch him full-on sprint in the opposite direction.

You can’t believe it. Your boyfriend just offered you to Michael freaking Myers like a sacrifice in sneakers.

You turn back.

Michael is still there. Watching. Still as a statue. His head tilts.

You meet his dark, unreadable eyes behind the mask.

“…I’m not with him anymore,” you mutter.

He slowly approaches. No words. Just the rhythmic sound of his boots crunching on leaves. He stops in front of you, towering and ominous, the chef’s knife in his gloved hand glinting under the moonlight.

You brace for the worst.

Then… Michael raises the knife—slowly—and flips it.

He holds it out to you. Handle first.

You blink. “Wait—are you… giving this to me?”

The silence is deafening.

You glance over your shoulder. You can still hear your ex-boyfriend screaming in the distance, fumbling with a chain-link fence and tripping like he’s in a bad horror movie.

You look back at Michael. His hand doesn’t waver.

“…Hell yes,” you mutter, and take the knife.

You get up. Your shoulders square. You’re no longer the girl who got shoved into danger.

You’re the danger.

“Thanks, Mikey,” you say, not expecting a response. But you swear—swear—his head tilts just a bit more. Like amusement. Then you take off, knife in hand, stalking your way through Haddonfield.

“HEY, JAMES!” you yell into the night. “I’M GONNA CARVE OUT THE WORD ‘COWARD’ ON YOUR BACK!”

From down the road, your ex screams. “WHY ARE YOU SIDING WITH THE KILLER?!”

You shout, “BECAUSE THE KILLER HAS MORE INTEGRITY THAN YOU!”

Michael watches from the shadows, the slightest movement betraying what might almost be a nod of approval.

For tonight, Haddonfield’s boogeyman takes a break.

You’ve got vengeance covered.

.

Jason Voorhees

You weren’t thrilled about this trip to Camp Crystal Lake in the first place. Your boyfriend had sold it as a “fun, spooky weekend getaway”—just you two, nature, and some “light ghost hunting” for his vlog.

You hadn’t signed up to get eaten alive by mosquitoes, much less the thought of possibly running into Jason freaking Voorhees. Still, you tried to enjoy it. The lake was beautiful in that eerie, mist-covered way. You even held his hand while walking the trails after sundown, lantern swinging in your grip, nerves humming with unease.

That’s when you heard it—a twig snapping, somewhere off the trail.

Your boyfriend froze, eyes wide. “D-did you hear that?”

You sighed, half-annoyed. “It’s probably a deer or—”

Crunch.

Another step. Heavy. Deliberate. Slow.

You both turned.

And there he was.

Jason Voorhees.

Towering. Silent. Mask glinting pale in the moonlight. A blood-stained machete gripped in his hand like an extension of his soul. You took a shocked step back. You weren’t even sure if you screamed. But your boyfriend?

He screamed louder than you’ve ever heard a grown man scream. Full panic mode. Then, without warning—

HE SHOVES YOU FORWARD.

“TAKE HER!” he shrieks, dead serious, and takes off running like a cartoon character on fast-forward.

You stumble, barely catching yourself before hitting the forest floor. Heart racing, hands trembling—you look up, expecting death.

Jason hasn’t moved.

He just stares at you. 

You look back in the direction your boyfriend fled, the underbrush still shaking from his cowardice.

Then you turn back to Jason. And it clicks.

“...Did he seriously throw me to you like I’m a Scooby-Doo extra?”

Jason doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. But somehow, you know he gets it. The way his mask tilts slightly, just enough to read like confusion and maybe even a little pity—it’s almost comical.

You wipe some dirt off your pants. “You know what? Screw it. You’re not the scariest guy out here tonight.”

Jason just stands there. Then, slowly, he flips the machete in his hand and holds it out to you.

Handle first. No sound. No words. Just… an offer.

You stare at it.

Then, slowly, grin.

“Oh... Oh, you’re my new best friend.”

You take it. It’s heavy—really heavy—but you’re running on pure adrenaline and RAGE now.

“Thank you, Mr. Voorhees,” you say, sincerely. “I’ll bring it back with blood on it.”

You spin around and stalk into the woods, machete dragging across the dirt, screaming your boyfriend’s name into the trees:

“YOU THREW ME TO JASON VORHEES, YOU SPINELESS TOAD?! YOU’D BETTER HOPE HE KILLS YOU FIRST!”

Somewhere in the distance, you hear a terrified voice yell, “OH GOD SHE HAS A MACHETE—JASON, STOP HER!”

Jason doesn’t move. He watches you vanish into the trees, his massive shoulders rising and falling once with what might—might—have been the ghost of a laugh.

He doesn’t need to lift a finger tonight.

You’ve got it covered.

.

Bo Sinclair

Ambrose wasn’t even supposed to be on the way. You’d both taken the detour after your boyfriend swore up and down it would be a "fun, spooky, abandoned town Instagram thing." Classic him. Anything for the views, right?

But now?

You’re standing in the middle of Main Street—surrounded by wax figures, everything dead silent—and you’re glaring at your boyfriend, who’s just realized the garage isn’t as empty as it looks.

Bo Sinclair steps out of the shadows, wiping his hands with a rag, eyes landing on you both like a lion sighting fresh meat.

"Well, well," he says, slow Southern drawl curling around his smirk. "Y’all lost or just dumb?"

You don’t even get a chance to answer.

Your boyfriend screams—like, actual scream—and grabs you by the shoulders.

“TAKE HER!” he shouts, shoving you toward Bo with both hands. You stumble, trip, and land at Bo’s feet.

Then the bastard runs. Full sprint. Down the road. No looking back.

You lie there for a second, stunned, blinking up at the sky.

Bo just blinks down at you, his expression blank for a beat.

Then his lips twitch.

Then he bursts out laughing.

“Oh, goddamn," he wheezes, clutching his stomach. "You see that? He tossed you like a sack o' potatoes!”

“Yeah,” you mutter, standing up and brushing off your clothes. “Believe me, I felt it.”

Bo whistles, still grinning. “Girl, he didn’t just throw you under the bus, he started the engine and reversed over you twice.”

You’re still glaring after your fleeing boyfriend’s back. The rage is setting in. Humiliation burning behind your eyes.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter. “He really left me to die.”

Bo wipes his eyes, watching you with interest now. “So what’re you gonna do, sweetheart? Scream? Cry? Run after ‘im?”

You inhale sharply, glance over at the tool bench behind Bo… and then look at the wrench in his hand. Your eyes narrow. Bo watches you eye it. Then, with the ease of someone offering a gift, he flips it around and holds it out handle-first.

“Tell ya what," he says with a grin. "You wanna clock him one? I won’t stop ya. Hell, I’ll even give you a five-minute head start before I come collect what’s left.”

You take the wrench.

It's heavy. Cold. Satisfying.

You grin wickedly. “I’m not gonna kill him.”

Bo lifts a brow. “No?”

“Just gonna remind him that if he’s gonna throw me to the wolves, he better hope they’re hungrier than I am.”

Bo gives a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Damn, girl.”

You start marching in the direction your boyfriend ran, full murder in your stride.

As you pass a wax figure of a man mid-scream, you mutter, “Better start running faster, Jason. I’ve got a wrench and no sense of mercy right now.”

Bo watches you go, still smiling, his arms folded.

“Gotta admit,” he says under his breath, “I kinda wanna see how that turns out.”

.

Charles Lee Ray (Chucky)

“Babe, this is not funny anymore,” you hiss, clutching your coat tighter against the biting wind. “We were supposed to be in Little Italy. Where the hell are we?”

Your boyfriend glances over his shoulder, jumping at every shadow. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he mutters. “Let’s just keep walking. There’s gotta be a main street nearby.”

A garbage can rattles.

You both freeze.

Then comes the sound of tiny footsteps… fast. Too fast.

And then you see it.

A doll. A little red-haired Good Guy doll. Just standing at the end of the alley.

“What the f—” you begin.

And then it moves. Fast, like a blur, and suddenly that high-pitched, gravelly voice cuts through the silence.

“Hi, I’m Chucky. Wanna die?”

The doll leaps toward you both.

Your boyfriend screams like a child at Chuck E. Cheese and, without a moment’s hesitation, grabs you by the arm and throws you in front of him like a ragdoll.

“TAKE HER!” he yells, already bolting down the alley like his soul’s on fire.

You land hard on your hip, scraping your palm against the concrete. “You son of a—!”

Chucky skids to a stop, blinking down at you as you sit there on the ground, stunned and seething.

“…Damn,” Chucky mutters, cocking his plastic head. “That guy really tossed you like yesterday’s trash. That’s cold.”

You slowly push yourself up, wiping blood off your palm. “You think?”

Chucky shrugs, then straightens up, switching the bloody knife in his tiny hand to a reverse grip. “Normally, this is the part where I stab you and laugh about it, but…”

He glances down the alley, where your boyfriend’s distant scream echoes into the night. “I think I just found someone I’d rather gut.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

There’s a pause. Then you step forward.

“…Let me see that.”

Chucky eyes you. “You wanna borrow my knife?”

“I insist.”

He grins wide, teeth sharp behind the plastic sheen of his face. “You’ve got style, sweetheart.”

He hands it over, hilt first. You feel the weight of it—smaller than you expected, but razor sharp and warm. You give it a test twirl, then glance down the alley where your dear boyfriend disappeared.

You take a deep breath, grit your teeth, and start walking.

“YOU CHOSE ME TO DIE, YOU LITTLE COWARD?” you bellow into the dark. “YOU USED ME AS A HUMAN SHIELD FOR A DOLL?!”

You break into a sprint, blade gleaming.

Behind you, Chucky watches with absolute delight.

“Y’know,” he says to no one in particular, lighting a cigarette, “I think I’m in love.”

Then he casually strolls after you, whistling.

.

Billy Loomis (Ghostface)

The old Macher house had been abandoned since Stu's party. Of course it had—the murders, the blood, the urban legends whispered through Woodsboro’s halls made sure of that. But your boyfriend had dared you to break in with him anyway.

"It’s just an old house," he said. "Nothing’s gonna happen."

You should’ve known something was off the moment the door creaked open by itself.

You wandered the trashed kitchen, cobwebs stringing across cabinets like decaying tinsel. Somewhere down the hallway, something thumped. You froze. He grabbed your arm.

Then the phone rang.

Not a cell phone. A landline. On the counter. Plugged into nothing.

You blinked. Your boyfriend picked it up, smirking like a frat boy on Halloween.

“Hello?” A pause. Then a voice, low, amused, just slightly familiar.

“Do you like scary movies?”

His face went white. “Wh—What? Who is this?”

Your stomach dropped.

“Nope,” he said, slamming the receiver down. “Nope nope nope nope—”

But it was too late. From the hallway, Ghostface stepped out.

Not a replica. Not a costume.

The Ghostface.

He held the knife low, that signature gliding gait stalking slowly forward.

Your boyfriend’s survival instincts kicked in—and unfortunately for you, those instincts said sacrifice your girlfriend.

“TAKE HER!” he shrieked, physically shoving you forward into Ghostface’s path, then booking it full-speed out the back door, limbs flailing like a Scooby-Doo reject.

You hit the ground with a grunt. Time froze. The killer stared down at you. His knife gleamed. But then—he tilted his head, like you were more interesting than expected.

The mask came off.

You gasped.

“Billy?”

Billy Loomis smirked down at you, all smugness and shadowed cheekbones.

"Hi, sweetheart."

You scrambled to your feet. “Are you KIDDING ME?!”

He nodded toward the door your boyfriend had just sprinted through like the coward he was.

“He really just did that,” Billy mused. “Didn’t even hesitate. Just… ‘here, kill my girlfriend, I gotta run.’” He mimicked your boyfriend’s scream with a chuckle. “Classic.”

You glared, chest heaving. “I’m going to kill him.”

Billy raised a brow. “You sure you need me to do it?”

There was a pause. A tense, burning one.

Then you lifted your hand, palm open.

Billy blinked.

“…Can I borrow the knife?”

Billy looked down at the weapon in his hand. Then at you. Then back to the hallway.

“You know what?” he said, almost tenderly. “You’ve earned this.”

He flipped the knife and offered it to you, handle-first. Your fingers curled around it. It was still warm from his grip.

“Thanks,” you growled, eyes blazing. “I’ll bring it back with blood.”

“You better,” he replied, stepping back and watching like a proud director. “Make it messy.”

You threw open the back door and stormed into the night, yelling after your now-regretful boyfriend:

“YOU LEFT ME TO DIE, YOU CHEAP-SHOE-WEARING, NO-LOYALTY-HAVING DOLLAR STORE SCREAM QUEEN!”

Somewhere in the trees, your boyfriend screamed again.

Billy leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms as he watched the carnage unfold in the distance.

He gave a small, satisfied smile.

“Damn,” he murmured. “I think I’m in love.”

.

Stu Macher (Ghostface)

It was supposed to be a fun night.

The local horror maze downtown had been canceled last minute, so your boyfriend had the brilliant idea to “break into the old abandoned farmhouse on the edge of Woodsboro,” which in hindsight was like asking to die in the first ten minutes of a horror movie.

“C’mon, babe,” he’d said, “It’s totally safe. We’ll be in and out. No psycho killers, promise.”

You’d rolled your eyes but agreed—because hey, what could go wrong?

The house creaked like it wanted to collapse on you. Dust curled off the stairs. Every door groaned like a warning. You were maybe two steps inside when a TV flickered to life in the corner of the room, showing a grainy VHS of old horror movie clips—then cut suddenly to live footage of you two standing right there in the house.

“What the hell—” you whispered.

That's when you heard it. The low, distorted voice from behind:

“Wanna play a game?”

You turned just in time to see Ghostface—tall, lanky, and looming—emerge from the hallway with a gleaming knife in hand.

And your boyfriend?

Your loving, caring, chivalrous boyfriend?

He screamed at a pitch only dogs could hear, shoved you toward the killer like a sandbag, and ran.

Not a glance back. Not a “run!” Just: “YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN, BABE!”

You hit the floor hard, wind knocked out of you, staring after him.

Ghostface froze. There was a pause… and then a very familiar wheezy laugh behind the mask.

“Oh my god,” the killer wheezed, pulling the mask off with a flourish. “Did that dude just yeet you at me?!”

You blinked.

“Stu?!”

“Sup!” he said, waving with the knife still in hand. “Didn’t know it was you, swear. Thought I was doing the old ‘boo and stab’ tonight. But wow, your man just offered you up like a Happy Meal.”

You sat up, groaning. “He shoved me so hard I almost blacked out.”

Stu held his stomach, doubled over in laughter. “I can’t—I can’t breathe—he was like ‘TAKE HER, OH MIGHTY KNIFE DEMON, SHE’S THE SACRIFICE.’”

You rubbed your temple. “I should stab him.”

He froze, then lit up. “Wait. Wait. You should! Here—” he spun the knife in his hand and offered it, handle-first. “Go get him, tiger.”

You hesitated.

Stu leaned in, grinning. “You know you want to.”

“…You know what? Screw it.”

You snatched the knife, stood, and dusted yourself off.

“I’m gonna murder him. With my words. Maybe the knife. TBD.”

Stu made an exaggerated swoon motion. “Oh my god. You’re so hot right now.”

You stormed out the front door with purpose, knife in hand. “I SEE YOU HIDING BEHIND THE TRASHCAN, JEREMY! DON’T THINK I WON’T DUMP YOU WITH A KNIFE IN MY HAND!”

From behind, Stu followed casually with the Ghostface mask hanging off one hand and a big grin on his face.

“If you stab him, I’m definitely taking you to prom.”

.

[cami040405]

Pleeeeeeeeeease 🙏, a oneshot of fem reader going with her friends and stops for gas, our girl is on her period, but it ain't the usual one. It hurts a lot, and there's no paracetamol to ease the pain cause Luda sells none. When Thomas comes to hunt them down, he finds her delirious from the sunlight and pain to the point she doesn't even run. So when he's about to haul her over his shoulder, she accidentally grips onto him, and Thomas ends up carrying her in bridal style. She clings and snuggles him for comfort, which makes Tommy second guess himself, in the end, he decided to keep her cause he liked the feeling of her needing him for comfort and protection.

Oneshot: Crimson Sun - Thomas Hewitt x Future S/O with Intense Period Pain

Summary: While on a road trip with friends, you struck with intense period pain and heat exhaustion during a stop at a remote Texas gas station. As your friends mysteriously vanish, you're too weak to run when Thomas Hewitt appears.

Texas heat had a way of swallowing the air whole. Thick. Suffocating. The kind of heat that crawled under your skin and sat heavy on your chest. It made the world feel slower, like the hands of time had melted alongside the asphalt.

You could barely keep your eyes open as the station wagon rumbled along the gravel path toward a rusted-out old gas station. Dust clouds rose in the rearview mirror like smoke, blurring the fading stretch of road behind you.

In the passenger seat, Bree was flipping through a dog-eared map with the kind of irritated energy only someone lost in Nowhere, Texas, could conjure. The other two girls were bickering softly in the front about a weird turn back at the last fork in the road.

You weren’t listening. You were curled up in the backseat like a dying thing, legs pulled tight to your chest, arms wrapped around your midsection. Sweat dotted your forehead, sticking strands of hair to your skin. Each heartbeat sent a pulse of sharp, relentless pain straight through your abdomen like a blade twisting inside you.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t your normal, anyway.

You were on your period—sure—but this wasn’t the dull, manageable ache you were used to. This was something else. A tidal wave of pain that left you breathless and shivering despite the triple-digit weather. Your limbs ached, your spine throbbed, and your thighs trembled from the effort of not crying in front of your friends.

When the car rolled to a stop outside the gas station, you didn’t even lift your head.

“I’m gonna ask if they have pain meds,” Bree said, swinging open the door with a groan. “You look like hell.”

You meant to mumble something back. Maybe a thank you, maybe a half-hearted insult. But the words didn’t come. Your jaw clenched as another cramp seized your body, curling your toes in your boots.

God, make it stop.

The metal roof of the station shimmered under the sun. The place looked like it had been abandoned for years, except for the faint movement inside—a shape behind dusty windows. No signage, no air conditioning humming. Just a screen door swaying in the breeze and a few cracked gas pumps that looked like they hadn’t seen real fuel since the seventies.

The minutes passed in a blur. Bree came back empty-handed, muttering curses under her breath.

“The woman inside—some old hag with a cigarette—said they don’t stock anything like that. No pills. No vending machine. Just homemade soap and pickled vegetables. What kind of gas station is this?”

You swallowed thickly. “A cursed one.”

“Seriously. I don’t even think she had a register.”

The car grew hotter. The windows trapped the sunlight like a greenhouse, and your skin started to prickle from the heat. Your lips were chapped. Your vision, spotty. Distant voices became muffled—like hearing underwater.

You caught fragments of a conversation.

“The tire’s low.”

“Go check the back.”

“…something’s off here.”

But your ears were ringing now. Your body was a traitor. You couldn’t sit up. Couldn’t focus. Every breath was effort. You slid sideways onto the seat, lying down, the cracked upholstery sticking to the sweat along your back. You barely noticed when the first scream split the silence.

It was high-pitched, frantic, and short-lived.

You blinked. Was that—?

Then came another. This time deeper, masculine. A grunt. A thud. A wet sound. You blinked again, sluggish and confused. The door beside you opened.

“…Bree?” you croaked.

No answer.

You saw a shadow move across the gravel. A shape—wrong, too broad for anyone you knew. The edges of your vision pulsed red, swimming in heat and nausea. You tried to sit up, panic threading through your chest like wire.

Something was wrong. Something was really wrong.

Then you saw him.

At first, he was just legs—thick, trunk-like legs wrapped in filthy jeans and caked boots. Then the apron. The stained, leather apron. Your gaze drifted upward, inch by inch, past heavy arms to a massive chest, rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Then the face.

Or the mask.

It was patchwork—skin and leather, stitched and fused over a large, square jaw. One eye visible through the hole. The other hidden in shadows. Dead, dull, silent.

Thomas Hewitt.

You didn’t know his name. Not yet. But the moment your eyes met his, your body knew.

Death.

You should have screamed. Should have run. Should have fought, clawed, anything—

But your limbs were jelly. You were so tired. So hot. The pain in your stomach flared violently, and your mouth fell open in a silent cry.

He reached for you.

You tried to push away, but it was like moving through concrete. Your hand slipped on the door. Your knees buckled as you stumbled onto the dirt. 

Thomas loomed over you. Tall as a tree. Silent as a grave. The chainsaw wasn’t in his hand. Not yet. Instead, he crouched beside you, giant palm reaching down to haul you up like a sack of meat.

“No—wait,” you whimpered, but it came out as a breathless rasp.

His rough hand closed around your upper arm, lifting—

Your hand shot out, instinctively. It grabbed a fistful of his shirt. Not to fight.

To cling.

Your body betrayed your mind. Some part of your subconscious—swimming in pain and heatstroke—recognized something in him. Not safety. Not really.

But strength. Warmth. Your cheek fell against his chest. And then—you snuggled.

Thomas froze.

Completely.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t sob. Just held on, weak and shivering, face pressed into the fabric of his apron, nuzzling blindly for comfort like a sick kitten.

A soft sound escaped you. A tiny, pitiful sigh.

“…please…”

Thomas blinked. He looked down at you, dazed, stunned. He’d lifted hundreds of people in this spot. Dragged them kicking and screaming. The usual routine. And yet here you were, curled up in his arms like he was the only stable thing left in your spinning world. For the first time in years, Thomas hesitated. He could feel your fevered skin through his gloves. The way your body trembled in his grip—not from terror, but from weakness. Your breathing was shallow. Your legs were trembling.

You needed help.

Not to die.

His jaw clenched under the mask. Slowly, gingerly, he adjusted his grip—one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back. He picked you up, not like prey, not like cargo—but like something fragile.

You didn’t fight it.

Your arms wrapped around his thick shoulders, half-conscious, and your head lolled against his collarbone. You mumbled something soft, incoherent. Words soaked in fever and confusion.

He held you tighter. 

And then he walked.

He didn’t toss you over his shoulder.

He didn’t carve you open.

He carried you—through the brush, past the dirt path where your friends had fallen, their blood soaking into the cracked earth.

You didn’t see them. And maybe that was for the best.

When you woke, the light had changed. Dim. Orange. The inside of a house. Warm, but not from the sun—from low lamps and old wooden walls.

The room smelled like herbs and must and something cooked long ago.

You were lying on something soft. A cot, maybe. There was a wet rag on your forehead, and a heavy quilt wrapped around your lower half. You groaned softly, shifting.

Pain still lingered in your gut—but dulled now. Fading.

Your eyes fluttered open.

And you saw him.

Thomas.

Sitting on a chair in the far corner of the room. Looming, unmoving. A beast in the shadows.

But he was watching you.

Not with hunger.

With something… almost tender.

Cautious.

Afraid to move and scare you.

You licked your dry lips. “...where am I?”

No answer. Just the sound of his breathing.

You blinked. “You… didn’t kill me.”

A slow nod.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, wincing. “Why?”

Thomas’s hands clenched on his knees. He looked away. There were no words. Not really.

But there was the memory of you clinging to him in the sun. The way you nuzzled against him like you’d known him for years. The way his chest had ached after, missing the warmth of you curled there.

You were still sick. Still soft. Still needful. And maybe… maybe Thomas had never been needed like that before.

He didn’t understand it.

But he liked it.

And that was enough.

.

[cami040405]

Since you have officially become my like, number one slasher writer for my manzs Michael and Bo:

Could you pretty pls do Michael, Bo, and whoever you would like to write for with a fem!s/o that looks and acts like a ‘sweetheart’ in a (non republican lol) 50’s housewife type of way but cusses constantlyyy if that makes sense? Like, think Bree from Desperate Housewives with Gordon Ramsay’s profanity, so really sweet but just aggressive about it (I’m sorry if it doesn’t really make sense and feel free to not do it :))

Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair & Charles Lee Ray with a S/O who's a Sweetheart but Swears a Lot

Summary: Imagine Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair & Charles Lee Ray with a S/O who’s very cute and a sweetheart, but has an explosive temper and swears a lot.

A/N: As always your ideas are great, sorry for the delay in responding to requests, this week has been crazy, thank you for always sending requests, I'm always happy to write them.

Michael Myers

“Oh sugar, could you hand me that fuckin’ chainsaw?”

You were a contradiction wrapped in satin gloves.

The first time Michael saw you, you were standing outside your little retro house at the end of a quiet suburban street. The morning sun hit your lemon-yellow dress like a halo, and your lipstick was cherry red — perfect, untouched. You were watering your garden, hips swaying to some old doo-wop song playing faintly from a vintage radio inside.

You looked like you belonged on the front of a Betty Crocker box.

Until you dropped the hose, stepped in the mud, and muttered loud enough for God and the birds to hear:

“Goddamn motherfucker, not these heels again, Christ on a fuckin’ cracker—”

And then, sweet as pie, you looked up and waved at your neighbor with a sunny:

“Good morning, Mr. Owens! Hope your prostate’s treatin’ ya better today!”

Michael stood there in the bushes, frozen. Not stalking you — yet — just... watching. Bewildered. You were both doll-like and chaotic. Sugar-laced thunder.

He kept watching. Days turned into weeks. You vacuumed in heels. You baked cupcakes with little fondant pumpkins on top and left them on porches. You told the paperboy to “be careful on that shitty-ass bike or I’ll be scraping your spleen off the sidewalk,” with the voice of a lullaby. He was obsessed.

You didn’t even flinch the first time you saw him up close.

You came home from grocery shopping to find a six-foot-tall man in a boiler suit and mask standing in your hallway. Most people would scream. You? You just exhaled like you were annoyed and dropped your bag of produce.

“Jesus tapdancin’ Christ, you scared the goddamn soul outta me. You one of them freaks from next door? If you’re gonna kill me, do it fast, I’ve got a roast in the oven and it’ll burn to hell if I don’t baste it in the next twenty minutes.”

He didn’t kill you.

You made him dinner instead.

From that point on, you just… accepted him.

You’d hum old love songs in the kitchen, apron tied tight around your waist, pearl necklace shining against your throat, muttering about the broken mixer like:

“Piece of shit sounds like it’s possessed by a meth head raccoon…”

And Michael? He just loomed in the doorway, silent as a shadow, following the scent of cinnamon and soap and that one perfume you always wore — something old-fashioned and soft. You never demanded anything from him. You didn’t cry, you didn’t run, you didn’t try to “fix” him.

But you did talk to him constantly.

“I made your favorite today, sugar. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes. The potatoes are fluffier than Satan’s ass cheeks, swear to God.”

“I put some more knives in the drawer for you. Good ones. Japanese steel, sharp as hell. Don’t say I don’t treat you right, you giant homicidal marshmallow.”

“If that little bitch Laurie peeks over my hedge one more time, I’m gonna march my ass over there and shove my spatula up her perky little nose.”

Michael never responded. But he stayed. That was his answer.

You weren’t scared of the mask. You even joked about it.

One day you got up in his face while adjusting his collar and whispered,

“You ever wanna try a pastel pink one, baby? I could match it to my oven mitts.”

And then you cackled like it was the funniest thing in the world while he just… stared.

And yet, somehow, your softness reached him. The way you’d gently rub circles on his hand when he sat at the kitchen table. The way you left him little notes like

“Gone to the market. Don’t kill anyone in the living room. ”

You swore like a sailor, but loved like the 1950s housewife you dressed as. Tender, thoughtful, present.

You patched up his wounds without hesitation, gently dabbing antiseptic and muttering,

“Jesus Christ, who put a fuckin’ meat hook through your shoulder? I’m gonna find that bastard and slap ‘em so hard they piss alphabet soup.”

Your touch was gentle even when your words were vicious.

The day he killed someone for you, it was the neighbor who kicked your cat.

You weren’t mad. You just sighed and kissed his jaw, eyes bright with a kind of knowing warmth as you said,

“Aw, baby… you didn’t have to. But hell, that guy was a dick. You want lemon bars?”

And he nodded.

In the end, you became the calm in his storm — even if you swore like the thunder itself. Michael never needed words, and you didn’t need answers. You just needed someone who let you be exactly who you were:

A loving, doting, cupcake-baking, vintage-dressed, profanity-flinging badass with a heart of absolute gold.

And he needed someone who didn’t flinch when he got blood on the floor — someone who just sighed and muttered,

“That better not fuckin’ stain. I just mopped.”

.

Bo Sinclair

When Bo Sinclair first laid eyes on you, he thought he was hallucinating.

You were standing outside your charming little home just outside Ambrose — watering the flowerbeds, your pastel yellow sundress cinched at the waist, matching heels digging into the gravel as you shifted your weight. A vintage kerchief held back your curls, and a string of pearls hugged your neck. A picture-perfect 1950s vision — you even had a cherry pie cooling in the window.

He was halfway through imagining how to flirt with you when you turned, looked him dead in the eye, and called:

“You just gonna stand there like a goddamn creeper or you got somethin' to say, sugar?”

His jaw damn near hit the dirt.

You smiled so sweetly it gave him cavities. The kind of smile that made men forget what day it was. But the voice? You had a tone like a shotgun — all honey and gravel.

Bo didn’t know whether he wanted to date you or put you on a leash.

Bo, being a man of his own… colorful vocabulary, finds your style hilarious and magnetic.

You’ll bake him biscuits, hummin’ along to old vinyls in the kitchen, your frilly apron hugging your curves — and then you burn the second batch and shout:

“MotherFUCKER, I knew I set that damn oven too high, son of a BITCH!”

Bo leans in the doorway and just watches you — beer in hand, shit-eating grin on his face.

“You kiss me with that mouth, darlin’?”

“Damn right I do, sugarplum. You love this fuckin’ mouth.”

He does.

He likes to walk into rooms just to hear what’ll come out of your mouth next. It’s like a sport to him — poke the bear and see what kind of filthy poetry you’ll spit.

You’ll talk about needing to clean the curtains and insult Lester’s entire lineage in the same breath. You’ll lovingly rub Bo’s shoulders while telling him he’s your “big, sexy bastard,” then flip off a tourist from the porch with a fresh batch of lemonade in hand.

You don’t let Bo get away with being a temperamental shit. And that’s what really draws him to you — you challenge him, but in that sexy, playful, Southern-goth way.

“Bo, if you slam that fuckin’ door again, I swear on my mama’s ashes I’ll superglue your dick to a car battery.”

“You gonna wear that sleeveless shit in front of company, darlin’? Or are you tryin’ to start rumors?”

“Boy, I love you more than pie, but if you touch my ironing again, I will throw hands.”

Bo isn’t used to that. He’s used to people being scared of him, tiptoeing around his moods. You? You threaten to shove a wrench up his ass and then kiss his cheek and ask if he wants sweet tea or whiskey.

And what’s worse? It works. He actually listens to you. (Sometimes.)

You're fiercely loyal, despite your loud-ass mouth. If anyone — anyone — says anything sideways about Bo, they’re gonna have a whole lot more than tooth decay to worry about.

You’ve absolutely cornered some poor soul before like:

“Say one more fuckin’ word about my man’s scars and I swear to God I’ll take that spork and carve my name into your eyeball.”

Bo just stands there, arms crossed, biting back a proud smirk while you defend him like a rabid chihuahua in heels.

You're not just sass — you're his protector in your own unhinged, mother-hen way. You patch him up after fights, rub his shoulders when he’s tense, and kiss his jaw like it’s sacred. You tell him he’s handsome even when he’s covered in motor oil or blood.

“You look good, baby. All sweaty like that. Like a filthy mechanic Calvin Klein ad.”

“You need Jesus, sweetheart.”

“What I need is you to bend me over the fuckin’ sink after dinner.”

He chokes on his beer often thanks to you.

Living in Ambrose with you is chaos in pearls.

You clean up the Sinclair house — which Bo doesn’t even realize is possible — in floral gloves and heels, all while calling the dead bodies “inconvenient little fuckers” and the flies “Satan’s tiny bastards.”

You paint the walls pastel and cuss out the wiring.

You host a tea party for yourself, Bo, and Vincent once — complete with scones and the most aggressive table manners known to man:

“Vincent, sweetheart, pass the cream — and Bo, if you scratch your balls at the fuckin’ table again I will knife you in your sleep.”

Bo’s never laughed harder. Vincent hasn’t stopped blinking.

Bo never knew he needed a woman like you — sweet enough to charm anyone, but savage enough to start a war. You keep him grounded, even when you're threatening to “gut-punch God himself if the washing machine breaks again.” He thinks you’re the hottest thing in heels, and no one — no one — gets to talk shit about you without losing a tooth or two.

Bo loves you because you’re wild, loyal, gorgeous, and completely yours.

And when he sees you fixing your lipstick in the mirror, muttering about “those damn tourists ruining your front lawn with their crusty-ass footprints,” he leans in, smirks, and says:

“You’re somethin’ else, sugar.”

“Damn right I am, baby.”

.

Charles Lee Ray

From the second Charles laid eyes on you, he was in love — or as close to love as a scumbag soul trapped in a plastic body could get. There you were, standing in your sunlit kitchen with checkered curtains, a powder-pink apron cinched over your dress, red lipstick perfectly applied, and a frilly headband keeping your victory rolls in place.

It would’ve been a Leave-It-To-Beaver wet dream if it weren’t for the fact you were scrubbing blood off your floor with a mop and muttering:

“Fuckin’ hell, I just waxed this floor yesterday. Asshole couldn’t have died somewhere useful, huh? Like the goddamn backyard?”

And then, as if the universe wanted to seduce Charles specifically, you turned around, smiled at him sweet as peach pie and said:

“Well hey there, sweetheart! You want lemonade, or are you just here to stare at me like a constipated jackrabbit?”

He burst out laughing. Loud, genuine, amused-as-all-hell laughter.

You didn’t flinch. You even giggled, because you knew what you were — a contradiction wrapped in satin gloves and peppermint-scented rage. Charles was used to blood and chaos. What he wasn’t used to was someone matching his energy while wearing kitten heels and pearls.

You were affectionate, sweet, doting — calling him things like “darlin’,” “my little firecracker,” and “handsome devil” while simultaneously using language that would get you banned from network TV. You’d make him a sandwich and say:

“Here ya go, baby. Don’t eat it too fast or you’ll choke like a goddamn dumbass. Love you.”

He adored you. Couldn’t get enough. He never knew whether you were going to kiss him or insult his life choices, and honestly? That was his favorite part.

You had this voice — soft, airy, almost sing-song — and everything that came out of it was horrendously explicit. You’d read cookbooks aloud while replacing every measurement with swear words:

“Two goddamn cups of that floury bullshit… half a fuckin’ teaspoon of baking soda — NOT powder, unless you want it to explode like my ex’s tiny-ass ego…”

Charles would just be there on the counter in doll form, cackling, kicking his little feet while watching you flounce around like a pissed-off Stepford Wife.

You and Charles were murder soulmates. You looked like the type who’d faint at the sight of blood, but no — you were the one snapping the guy’s wrist while Charles stabbed him in the neck.

And every time, without fail, you'd pause mid-murder to scold someone:

“You absolute dickweed — who the hell tries to run in heels? You're making me chase you in my good apron, and I swear to Christ if you get blood on my fuckin' blouse I’m gonna give your corpse a goddamn makeover and parade it around like a prize hog at the county fair.”

It was poetry. It was obscene. Charles would be doubled over laughing while also violently stabbing someone. It was romantic, really.

You kept your home pristine. Pink appliances, floral curtains, vintage everything. But the second something went wrong — toaster didn’t pop, radio signal cut — the cussing started.

“This stupid, limp-dick, crusty-ass bread ruiner of a toaster is testing my goddamn patience!”

Chucky: “I love you so fucking much.”

You once threatened to strangle a Jehovah’s Witness with your phone cord because he insulted your dress length. Another time, you told a nosy neighbor:

“Oh honey, if you spent half as much time worrying about your own pussy as you do about mine, you wouldn’t be getting cheated on every weekend. Want some brownies?”

Chucky was so proud he cried. Actual tears (okay, blood, but still).

What stunned Charles most was that underneath all the murder and swearing, you were incredibly level-headed. You kept him grounded. You could disembowel a guy and still remind Charles to take his medicine or brush blood out of his hair before bed.

You kissed his scars. You never judged the way he looked — even as a doll, you’d sit him on your lap, stroke his fiery red hair, and say:

“You’re my cute little bastard. Don’t care if you’re plastic or not. You still get me wetter than a hurricane, baby.”

He blushed. Chucky actually blushed.

You helped stitch him back together after a fight with Tiffany (who lowkey respected you but also wanted to fight you for being too hot and fun). You two would get drunk together and throw knives at moving targets, taking turns insulting each other:

You: “You throw like your dick’s on backwards.” Chucky: “You flirt like a grandma with dementia.”You: “Still sucked you off better than she did.” Chucky: “...Okay, fair.”

Charles never expected to be happy — truly happy — until you. He was chaos incarnate, a murderer, a soul in a broken doll. But you? You were delightfully unhinged, dressed like a Disney character but cussing out reality like it owed you rent.

And the weirdest thing?

You made him feel safe.

You didn't just tolerate his psychotic tendencies — you embraced them, matched them, outpaced them, all while baking cherry pies and yelling about flaky crust like it was a war crime.

He never stood a chance.

.

[cami040405]

Headcanons of Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, and Carrie White with their s/o telling, or rather asking them for a baby. They have been married for a while, and their s/o have thought about it for a really long time, but it wasn't until one day out of nowhere that they asked them for it. Perhaps even begged for it since not only has baby fever gotten to them, but they always wanted children. Their own little family.

Slashers' Reaction When Their S/O Asks For A Baby

Summary: Imagine the reaction of Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair & Carrie White reacting to you asking them for a baby.

Includes: Jason Voorhees, Thomas Hewitt, Vincent Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, Lester Sinclair & Carrie White

A/N: I was really excited about this request, I loved writing it and I thought it was really cute too, thank you for sending the request and supporting me in writing!

Jason Voorhees

It wasn’t something you planned to say out loud. Not yet. The idea had lived quietly in your heart for a long time, tucked away like a delicate flower pressed between the pages of an old book. You and Jason had been married for years. You had a rhythm, a quiet life in the heart of the woods. Safety. Love. Peace.

But lately, you’d felt it stronger than ever—that aching, cloying pull in your chest every time you saw a baby blanket in town, or watched birds build a nest. A deep-rooted longing. A need for something more. For someone that was both you and Jason. A new life. Your family.

You’d tried to ignore it.

Until tonight.

The moon hung low over the lake, casting soft light over the clearing where Jason was stacking firewood. You watched him for a moment—his massive frame moving with slow care, the same man who once was seen only as a monster. But to you? He was gentleness. Loyalty. Home.

You approached slowly, heart pounding: “Jason… can we talk?”

He turned immediately, his attention fully on you like it always was. He tilted his head slightly, sensing the tension in your voice. He dropped the wood from his arms and walked over, towering over you, but never imposing.

You took his hand. His gloved fingers curled instinctively around yours.

“I’ve been thinking about something for a long time. And I—I didn’t know when the right time would be to say it. But I… I can’t hold it in anymore.”

Jason stilled.

“I want… I want a baby.”

Your voice cracked at the end, but you pushed through, your fingers clutching at his vest. “With you. I want our child. Someone we made together. I want to raise them here. I want to build a family with you, Jason.”

The clearing fell silent.

Jason didn’t move. Not at first.

Then—very slowly—he sank to his knees in front of you. The giant, the boogeyman of Crystal Lake, on his knees like a man who just had his soul cracked open. His head pressed against your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist as he held you like you might float away if he didn’t. You felt the tremor in his chest. Silent, invisible sobs. His body shaking.

Your fingers slid into the curls behind his mask.

“I know it’s scary. I know the world never gave you anything but pain. But this… this would be ours. No one can take this from us.”

He pulled back slightly and looked up at you.

Then, very slowly, Jason took your hand and pressed it against his chest—where his heart would be, beating strong. The masked gaze locked with yours, full of emotion even behind the scratched old hockey mask.

Yes.

It was silent, but loud in his language. That simple gesture said everything. Yes. I want that too.

Yes, I want a child with you. Yes, I want a family.

From that night on, Jason changed.

He started building things. Cribs. Tiny carved animals from wood. He began clearing out the spare room in the cabin. Every time you showed a sign of fatigue or discomfort, he’d lift you without hesitation and carry you somewhere to rest. He became your silent guardian all over again—but now, for something he couldn't even see yet.

He watched your body with awe, almost reverence, when you began trying. You could feel it in the way he held you afterward—strong but delicate, like you were glass and fire all at once.

When he thought you were asleep one night, you felt his hand on your belly. Not lustful. Just… hopeful. Like he was already saying hello to a future he never dared dream of.

And if that child ever comes to be?

Jason will protect them like he protects you—with everything he is. Because they’ll be a part of you. And to Jason, you’re the whole world.

.

You’d known for a few days now. Maybe longer.

The nausea. The strange flutter in your lower belly. The deep fatigue that no nap could fix. You knew your body better than anyone, and this time—something was different. Real. You took one of the few pregnancy tests you’d stored in the cabin’s small bathroom, your hands shaking so badly you almost dropped it.

When the positive line appeared, bold and undeniable, you stared at it like it was a dream. You sat on the edge of the tub for what felt like hours, cradling your stomach, whispering, “You’re real…”

Tears slid down your cheeks. But this time, they were from joy.

Now came the hardest part—telling him.

Not because Jason wouldn’t want it. You knew he did. But because Jason Voorhees, this mountain of strength and silence, had never truly believed he could have something like this. Not really. It would be your child, and his, and his heart—already so wounded—might not know how to hold something that sacred.

You found him outside by the lake, sitting near the dock with his feet in the water. The sun was setting behind him, painting the sky with oranges and pinks. You stepped carefully down the slope, heart racing, the test hidden in your palm.

He heard you coming—he always did—and turned slightly. You saw that tilt of the head again, his version of a question.

You sat beside him, pressing your shoulder to his.

“Jason… I have something to tell you. Something… important.”

He immediately gave you his full attention. Still. Waiting.

Your hands shook. You took his larger hand and placed it on your lower stomach, covering it with both of yours.

You stared into the lake for a long second, then whispered:

“You’re going to be a father.”

The air seemed to stop moving. Jason didn’t move. His breath stilled. The hand under yours began to tremble faintly.

You turned to look at him, eyes already glassy with tears. “I’m pregnant. With your baby. It’s really happening.”

He jerked back just slightly—not away from you, but like he’d been struck by lightning. His hand lifted and hovered uncertainly over your belly, before he gently pressed his palm against you again, slower this time. Reverently.

You nodded, voice cracking. “You did this. We did. You made a life, Jason…”

And then, for the first time in a long time, Jason’s shoulders broke.

He hunched forward, pressing his masked face into your lap, into your belly, as his huge arms wrapped around you protectively, almost desperately. His entire body trembled, and you felt the smallest sound escape him—a choked, muffled sob.

He held you like you were his anchor, like the world was spinning too fast and you were the only thing keeping him grounded. His fingers slid under your shirt to feel bare skin, not with lust, but in disbelief and awe.

When he finally looked up, he reached to lift his mask just enough for you to see his mouth—lips trembling, jaw tight, the ghost of a smile pulling at the corners, something he never let anyone else see.

He placed the gentlest kiss on your belly, and you felt it shake slightly with his breath.

A promise.

“Mine,” his voice rasped out—quiet, raw, and barely a whisper. The first word he’s said in months.

You broke then, sobbing as you held him. He didn’t move from that spot for hours, just resting his head against your belly, listening like he might already hear something.

That night, when you both finally went inside, you found the small wooden cradle he’d made long ago. It had been gathering dust in the back room, quietly waiting.

He brought it into the bedroom.

He was ready.

.

Thomas Hewitt

You’d been thinking about it for a long time—years, really. You and Thomas had made a life together after everything calmed down. The chaos had quieted. The house wasn’t filled with the screams of strangers anymore—just laughter, soft music from the radio, and the occasional hiss of a skillet on the stove. You had love, safety, a roof over your heads. But one thing was missing: your own family. A child.

The thought had built up slowly at first… but now it was loud. Persistent. You wanted to hold a little one that had his eyes. You wanted to see Thomas cradling someone so tiny in those enormous hands. You dreamed of baby giggles echoing down the halls of the Hewitt farmhouse. And today, something in you snapped.

He was in the kitchen, apron on, humming quietly to himself as he cut vegetables. His brow was furrowed in concentration, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth. You watched him for a long time, your heart full, your chest tight.

Then you blurted it out.

“Tommy… I want a baby. With you.”

He froze.

The knife paused mid-slice. His whole body tensed, like a string pulled taut. He didn’t turn to you right away, didn’t make a sound. His fingers trembled slightly. You stepped closer, voice softening.

“I mean it, sweetheart. I’ve been thinking about it for so long. I want to have a family. Our family. I want a little one that we can raise together. I want them to feel safe, to feel love like we do. And—”

Your voice cracked. His shoulders slumped the moment he heard it. He turned to you, mask still on but eyes wide and glassy with tears. You didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath.

He set the knife down and walked toward you slowly, as if making sure you were real. As if scared you might disappear.

And then he dropped to his knees in front of you, arms wrapping around your waist tightly. His forehead rested on your stomach, a choked, emotional sound escaping his throat. He didn't speak, but his body did all the talking. He trembled. He clung. He understood.

You whispered against his hair:

“I want our baby, Tommy. Please. I need this... I’ve never wanted anything more.”

He looked up at you with glistening eyes, nodding so hard it seemed like his whole body moved with it. A soft grunt escaped him as he gently pressed a kiss—through his mask—against your abdomen.

That night, he was the most tender he had ever been. Every touch was full of meaning. He worshiped you. His hands were careful, slow, reverent. As if helping you conceive was something holy.

Something shifted in Thomas after that. He changed.

He began to prepare. Quietly at first.

You caught him staring at a broken crib out in the barn—something Hoyt had probably scavenged and forgotten about. A few days later, it was gone from the scrap pile. He’d fixed it. Painted it. Lined it with soft fabric.

He began carving things. A mobile with woodland animals. Teething toys. Rocking horses. You didn’t ask—he just did it, pouring all of his love and nervous energy into creation.

He also started fussing over you. If you so much as sighed, he’d be at your side with a worried look, checking if you needed water, a blanket, anything.

Luda Mae knew something was up the moment she saw how Thomas hovered around you. She gave you a knowing smile one morning and handed you a baby book she kept from when she was younger.

“Just in case,” she said softly, with warmth in her eyes.

Thomas had never seen himself as someone worthy of love—let alone worthy of fatherhood. But you, with your soft words, your unwavering love, your plea for a future—you changed that. You made him believe it was possible.

In the quiet hours of the night, when you were asleep in his arms, he’d gently rest a hand on your belly and imagine it growing round and full. He’d imagine holding your child, swaying them gently in the rocking chair, singing lullabies in his muffled humming way.

He feared passing down pain, but your voice echoed in his mind:

“They’ll be safe, because they’ll have you.”

That gave him strength.

.

It had started with little signs. A missed period. A wave of nausea that came on stronger each morning. Your body, once still and silent, now felt different. Alive. Shifting. It scared you… but mostly? It thrilled you.

You bought a small test in secret—something you had to lie to Hoyt about when he caught you coming back from town. You clutched it like a lifeline, palms sweating.

And when the second line appeared?

You sat on the bathroom floor in stunned silence, hand trembling over your mouth.

It was real. It was finally happening. You were carrying Thomas Hewitt’s baby.

You waited until the timing felt right. He’d had a hard day, out butchering meat in the sweltering Texas heat. Now, back inside, he was scrubbing his hands in the sink while Luda Mae quietly stirred stew behind him. The house buzzed with its usual rural stillness.

You stepped up behind him and tugged gently at the hem of his shirt. He turned, already melting a little when he saw your shy smile.

Then you pulled a tiny handkerchief from your pocket. Folded in it was something small and white. You pressed it into his palm and closed his fingers around it.

He opened it slowly, unsure. When he saw what was inside—the positive pregnancy test—he stared at it, silent. Frozen.

At first, you panicked.

“Thomas...? I—I thought maybe I should wait, but I couldn’t. I had to tell you. You’re going to be a daddy.”

“I’m really… I’m really pregnant, Tommy.”

His hands began to shake.

He looked from the test to you, then back again. Then his entire body just collapsed to his knees before you like someone who had been shot through the chest with emotion.

His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, squeezing—not roughly, but needing. Desperate. His mask bumped against your belly, muffled sobs escaping from behind the leather. His body shook as he cried into you.

You’d never seen him cry like this.

Tears soaked through your shirt as he looked up at you with eyes red and raw, one hand gently—gently—spreading over your belly.

“Tommy,” you whispered, brushing his hair back. “You’re going to be such a good dad.”

He nodded hard, over and over again, hand still on your stomach like he was afraid to let go—as if it would disappear if he blinked. Then he stood up, towering over you, still trembling. He reached for your hands, placed them on his chest, and grunted something deep and full of gratitude.

He was saying, Thank you. I love you. I’ll protect you both with my life.

You found him sitting on the floor by the crib he had fixed months ago—just staring at it.

He’d placed a single baby blanket in it already. His hands were resting on the side rail, his thumb slowly brushing over the edge. He looked lost in thought, a little overwhelmed.

You came up behind him and sat beside him, taking his hand.

He looked at you, eyes still red but softer now. At peace.

He lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles gently before resting his head against your shoulder.

The two of you sat there in the quiet for a long time.

The stars were bright that night. The wind outside was soft. And in that stillness, Thomas imagined the sound of tiny footsteps in the hallway, the weight of a small body resting against his chest, the lullabies he would hum while rocking them to sleep.

And he realized:

He had never felt more complete than he did right now.

.

Vincent Sinclair

The wax studio is filled with that familiar scent of warm paraffin, the soft scratch of tools working against clay, and the creak of old floorboards under your feet. You’ve been sitting on the couch in the corner of the room, quietly watching Vincent sculpt for the past hour. He hadn’t asked you to leave—he never does—but you can tell by the way he glances at you every few minutes that he’s aware of your presence.

There’s something about watching him work that fills your chest with warmth. The way he loses himself in his craft, how focused his hands become, how even his breathing slows to match each movement of his blade. And maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s just the weight of time finally building up to this moment... but you suddenly can’t hold it in anymore.

You walk over quietly and place a hand on his shoulder. He pauses but doesn’t turn. Just leans slightly into your touch.

“Vincent…” Your voice is soft—barely more than a breath. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

He tilts his head a little, curious.

“I want a baby. Your baby. I want our own little family.”

He freezes.

Not dramatically. Just... stillness, like all the air left the room. The kind of stillness that only Vincent can embody—deafening, heavy, deliberate.

You keep going, even though your heart is pounding. “I know it’s sudden, and maybe it’s scary, but I’ve wanted this for so long. I want to wake up in the morning to the sound of little feet running through the house. I want them to have your eyes… your soul.”

He sets his sculpting tool down slowly. You can see his hand tremble ever so slightly. He still won’t look at you.

You step in front of him, crouching down until you’re eye-level. Carefully, you reach up and brush your fingers along the edge of his mask. He lets you lift it—he always does. He’s learned that with you, he’s safe. He doesn’t have to hide.

His one visible eye is glossy, a storm of emotions warring behind it—disbelief, wonder, fear, yearning.

“I’m not asking for a perfect life, Vincent. Just ours. And maybe I sound selfish, but I want to carry a piece of you. Something beautiful from the both of us.”

He exhales hard—almost like a sob—and cups your face with his hands. You lean into him, feeling the quiet quiver of his fingers.

Then, wordlessly, he leans in and kisses you. It’s slow and aching, as if pouring all the emotions he doesn’t have words for into that moment. His kiss tells you yes a thousand times.

In the weeks that follow Vincent becomes obsessed with the idea of fatherhood. Not in a loud, boastful way—he simply begins channeling it through his art. You notice subtle changes in his work. He begins sculpting infants in wax, cherubic and serene, tucked gently in the arms of faceless figures that feel suspiciously like you.

One night, you catch him sketching by candlelight. The paper shows a child—half-drawn, soft features, long lashes, the faint trace of a scar over the lip. A blend of your features and his own. When you gently ask him what it is, he lowers the paper shyly but allows you to see. You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I think they’re beautiful.” He doesn’t reply, but he clutches the sketchbook to his chest after you leave.

When you bring up trying again, maybe even beg for it—his response is immediate. He carries you to bed, his touch reverent, treating your body like something sacred. He’s gentle but determined. His way of saying, I want this as much as you do. That night, there are no masks, no silence between you. Only shared breath, whispered words of hope, and a love so thick it feels like candle wax—heavy, slow, warm, and everlasting.

Afterward, he keeps his hand on your stomach for a long time, as if hoping he can will life into existence just by touching you.

Vincent doesn’t speak much—but when he holds you tighter than usual, when he builds a cradle from reclaimed wood and lines it with soft wax, when he starts making space in the house for someone small—you know he’s saying:

“Yes. I want this too.”

.

The house is quiet—almost too quiet.

Even the wax figures seem more still than usual, as if the entire world is holding its breath.

You’ve been walking around in a daze all morning, one hand unconsciously brushing over your belly again and again. You keep replaying the moment the test turned positive—how the lines darkened slowly, almost shyly, like even it was in awe of the possibility.

You haven’t told him yet. Not because you’re scared—well, maybe a little—but because you want the moment to feel right. Sacred. Private.

You find him in his studio.

He’s sculpting, lost in the trance-like rhythm he always falls into. Wax shavings gather at his feet, his shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing his strong, veined forearms. You hesitate in the doorway, watching him work.

And then, in a voice trembling with everything you’ve tried to hold back, you say softly:

“Vincent... I have to tell you something.”

He pauses. His body stills in that signature way, but his head turns to you almost immediately. His hair falls over the edge of his mask.

You take a slow breath, trying to keep your hands from shaking. One hand rests gently on your stomach again.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Not the kind that fills the room awkwardly—but the kind that means something has shifted.He blinks. Once. Twice. His hand drops the sculpting tool. It hits the floor with a dull clatter, but he doesn’t notice.

You smile, a little nervously. “You—you’re going to be a father, Vincent.”

He stares at you, unmoving. His eye glistens. And then, slowly, carefully, he crosses the room like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

He kneels in front of you. Both his hands reach out hesitantly, almost shaking, and hover just above your belly. He doesn’t touch at first. He looks up at you for permission. You nod, tears already slipping down your cheeks.

His hands press lightly against your stomach. It’s still flat, but he touches it like it’s full of stars. And then he leans in, resting his forehead against your belly, trembling. His mask presses gently against your shirt as he holds you with all the reverence in the world. No words, just the soft sound of his breathing—hitched, overwhelmed, and so full of emotion.

You thread your fingers through his hair and whisper:

“They’re going to have your eyes... your hands... your heart.”

He pulls back, just enough to look up at you. His one eye is red-rimmed, wet, raw. His hand gently cups the side of your face. There’s no mask between you now.

He lifts you into his arms without a word and carries you to your shared bed. Not to make love—not tonight. Tonight, he just wants to hold you.

He wraps his arms around your back, one hand splayed over your stomach all night, refusing to move. He doesn’t sleep. He watches you, protectively, like he’s guarding the beginning of everything he never thought he’d have.

A family.

His family.

.

Bo Sinclair

You hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that.

It started as a quiet moment in the kitchen. You were sitting on the counter while Bo fixed something under the sink, his shirt halfway unbuttoned, grease on his cheek, muttering curse words at the rusty pipe. The sun was bleeding through the windows, catching the gold in his eyes, and you were suddenly struck by this aching need. That familiar pang had been growing inside you for months now—quiet, tender, powerful.

And before you could stop yourself, you said it.

"I want to have your baby."

Bo froze mid-motion. His wrench clattered to the floor with a dull metallic thud.

He stared at you like you’d just spoken in tongues. “...Come again?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Bo. I mean it. I want... I want us to have a baby. I want a family.”

He gave a short, disbelieving laugh—nervous, deflective. “Aw, darlin’, you’re just sayin’ that ‘cause Lottie next door just popped out another one. Baby fever’s catchy as hell, huh?”

But when he looked up and saw your eyes—glassy, trembling with sincerity—his heart sank.

You weren’t joking. Not even close.

Bo Sinclair, for all his bravado, had never let himself picture something so vulnerable, so pure. Not for real.

Not for him.

He’d always known how to charm, how to seduce, how to play the part of the smooth-talking man with the confident grin. But being a father? That terrified him in a way nothing else could.

Because deep down, he didn’t believe he was cut out for it.

Not after the way he was raised. Not after what his father did to him. Not after the screaming, the belt, the bruises hidden behind long sleeves. Not after watching his mother choose silence over protection. Not after years of telling himself that he was just too damaged, too broken, too much like him to ever risk repeating the cycle.

But then you looked at him—really looked at him—and everything cracked.

"Please, Bo..." you whispered, voice raw and trembling now. "I’ve thought about it for so long. I want a baby. I want your baby. I want them to look like you... talk like you... I want to build something good with you. I know what kind of man you are. You’re not him. You’re better.”

And just like that, Bo Sinclair—the cocky mechanic, the wolf in sheep’s clothing—felt small. Felt seen.

He didn’t answer right away. He stood up, wiped his hands on an old rag, and walked over to you slowly, as if approaching something holy. Then he cupped your face in his calloused hands, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks. He stared into your eyes with a softness you rarely saw—vulnerable, bare, aching.

“Why... why the hell would you wanna have a baby with someone like me?” he asked, voice almost breaking. “You could pick anyone. Anyone cleaner. Safer.”

You grabbed his wrists, tears welling in your eyes. “Because I love you. Because no one would fight harder to protect their family than you. And because if we made a baby together… I know they’d grow up with love. And strength. And someone who would burn the world down for them if they had to.”

His mouth parted. He wanted to argue. Wanted to keep building that wall between him and the future. But he couldn’t. Not when your faith in him burned brighter than all his doubts.

So instead of arguing, he leaned in and kissed you—slow, reverent, his hands trembling against your skin.

He didn’t say “yes” in so many words. He just started acting like a man who wanted it too.

You caught him, a week later, quietly fixing up the empty guest room—patching holes in the walls, redoing the paint. He grumbled something about “just makin’ it less of a dump,” but you knew what he was doing.

One morning, he tossed a catalog onto the kitchen table—circled a page that showed old-fashioned wooden cribs. He started touching your stomach when he thought you were asleep. Pressing his warm palm over your belly like he could already feel something there. Like he was already trying to protect something that hadn’t even existed yet.

And the first time you begged—half-laughing, half-crying, curling against him in bed and whispering, “Please, Bo... I want your baby... I want you to give them to me...”—he growled softly and melted into you.

He whispered in your ear, “Alright, baby... let’s give you what you want. Let’s make us a little Sinclair.”

And he meant every single word.

.

It had been a strange few weeks.

You were tired all the time. Your appetite shifted—suddenly craving fried pickles at 2AM and hating the scent of Bo’s aftershave, which had never bothered you before. You brushed it off at first—maybe it was stress, or the heat, or maybe your body just felt off.

But then… one morning, as you stood in the dim yellow light of the Sinclair house’s bathroom, staring at a stick on the counter that screamed “PREGNANT”, your heart climbed into your throat.

It was happening.

It was real.

You were carrying Bo’s child. You laughed, cried, sat on the floor in shock. And then you just sat there, pressing your hand gently to your stomach, whispering, “Hey there, baby… guess it’s time to tell your dad.”

Bo was in the garage, as usual—shirtless, grease-stained, humming something low under his breath as he tinkered under the hood of a rusted-out car. You stood in the doorway, hands curled tightly around your back pocket where the test was hidden, heart pounding like a drum. You watched him for a second, just… absorbing the moment.

He always looked so wild and put together at once. So much fire in his bones, and yet there he was, gently tightening bolts, the curve of his back strong and steady, a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

He glanced up and grinned when he saw you. “Hey, baby. You look flushed. You alright?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Then walked forward slowly, your voice soft. “Bo… I need to tell you something.”

He blinked, straightened up, wiped his hands with a rag. “You okay?”

You nodded. Your voice trembled. “I… I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

A slow second passed.

Bo just stared at you. His expression didn’t move. His fingers clenched the rag tighter, the grease soaking into his palms.

“...What?”

“I took a test. A few. They're all positive. I’m… I’m gonna have your baby, Bo.”

He stepped back like the words physically hit him. Like they echoed straight into the deepest part of his soul.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice low, gravelly, hoarse.

You nodded again, smiling through tears. “We did it. You did it. We’re gonna have a baby.”

For a moment, he was utterly still. You thought—maybe he’d panic. Maybe he’d shut down. Maybe he'd break into that cocky sarcasm he used when emotions got too big for him to handle.

But then—

Bo dropped the rag.

He walked over to you like a man in a dream, rough fingers trembling as he reached for your stomach, barely touching it like it was made of glass. His hands splayed wide, cupping the soft curve that wasn’t even showing yet.

And then his eyes—his goddamn eyes—got glassy. Red at the edges. Shining like he’d been punched straight in the heart.

“You’re serious?” he whispered. “There’s really... there’s really a little piece of me in there?”

You reached for his hand and pressed it flat against you. “Yeah, Bo. There is.”

He made a sound—half laugh, half sob—and suddenly crushed you to his chest. He held you like you were the last precious thing on earth. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, the other resting protectively over your belly. And for the first time in a long time, Bo Sinclair shook—not with rage, not with fear—but with love.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ try,” he whispered, over and over. “I swear to God, I’m gonna try. I’m gonna be better than he ever was. I ain’t gonna let this kid grow up the way we did. I swear it, baby.”

You buried your face in his chest, tears soaking his skin.

“I know you will,” you whispered back. “You already are.”

After that Bo becomes fiercely protective—almost feral about it. You so much as slip on a step, and he’s cursing the stairs and demanding to carry you everywhere. He finishes the nursery he had started months ago, painting stars on the ceiling and carving the baby’s name into a wooden cradle he made himself (once you pick one).

He becomes unusually quiet sometimes, just lying beside you with his hand on your stomach, whispering promises to the baby. But he’s also proud—in his Bo way. Smirking and bragging to Lester, “Yeah, well, I knocked up the hottest damn thing this side of the county. My kid’s gonna be a fuckin’ legend.”

When you feel the first kick, he cries. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just silent tears slipping down his face as he holds your belly like a sacred thing.

He never thought he’d get this.

But now that he does?

Bo Sinclair will fight the world to protect the family he never thought he deserved—but somehow found anyway.

.

Lester Sinclair

You never expected it to come out the way it did.

The words had been brewing for months—maybe even years. Each time you saw a baby in a movie or passed a family with a stroller, a pang pulled at your chest. You and Lester had been married for a while now. The wild chaos of Ambrose had quieted around you, and life with him had settled into a strange, beautiful routine. The two of you made your own kind of peace—your own kind of love.

So when you blurted it out—“Lester, I want a baby. Our baby. Please…”—it came out in a shaky whisper, almost like a prayer.

Lester froze. His boot scuffed against the dirt, hands still sticky from whatever roadkill he'd just finished hauling. He blinked like he hadn’t heard you right.

“A... a what now?” he asked, half-laughing, half-nervous.

You stepped closer, your eyes wide and vulnerable. “I mean it. I’ve thought about this for a long time. I want a family with you, Les. I want our child. I want to raise them right, with love. With you.”

The smile dropped off his face.

There was a long, soul-splitting silence as he looked at you. Really looked. You could almost see the gears turning in his head—the pain behind his eyes, the memories he never talked about. Growing up with abuse. With neglect. Feeling like the forgotten Sinclair, the one shoved into the back seat while his brothers got all the attention (in their own twisted ways).

You’d seen glimpses of the man beneath the dirt-streaked cheeks and lopsided grin. The man who brought you wildflowers every week. Who patched up your clothes by hand. Who kissed your forehead every morning like it was holy.

Now, that man looked like he was on the verge of breaking.

“You really think...” he murmured, his voice barely a rasp, “...that I could be someone’s dad?”

You didn’t hesitate. “You’d be the best damn father I could imagine.”

His face crumpled. Not all at once—just slowly, like a dam giving way. His knees buckled, and he sat right there in the grass, running a hand over his face, smearing a bit of grime as he laughed bitterly through tears.

“I always thought… if I ever had a kid, they’d end up hating me. Thought I’d mess ’em up. Thought they’d deserve better than me.”

You dropped down beside him, grabbing his hand. “They’d have love, Lester. That’s what they’d have. And you’d protect them like you protect me. You’d show them what survival means. What being real means.”

Lester stared at your joined hands. For a while, he didn’t speak—just gripped your fingers like they were the only thing anchoring him to earth.

Finally, he whispered, “Alright… we’ll try. If you really want this, darlin’... we’ll try.”

After that night, something in Lester shifted.

He started coming home earlier. He’d disappear into the shed, whittling tiny animals out of wood, then bashfully present them to you with a crooked smile and red cheeks. You’d find him sitting in the truck, staring at your picture with his hand resting on your side of the seat, lost in thought.

He cleaned up more. Tried to quit smoking (even if he cursed every step of the way). Bought books on parenting from a thrift store—even though he’d never admit it.  And when you came to him again, a few weeks later, breathless and desperate from sheer baby fever, begging for it, nearly trembling with longing—he didn’t hesitate this time.

He kissed you so softly you thought your heart might crack.

That night, under a sky full of stars, he made love to you like he was giving you every piece of his soul. Slow. Gentle. Reverent.

He whispered into your skin, “I hope they got your smile… but maybe my laugh. And eyes like yours. The kind that see everything.”

He’d do it all for you.For the child you’d bring into this world. For the future he never thought he deserved—until you gave it to him.

.

It starts small.

You wake up nauseous for the fourth morning in a row. Your chest is sore. You’re tired in a way that’s not just fatigue—it’s different. You know your body, and this feels… like something new is blooming inside you.

You wait until the test confirms it. Two pink lines. Bold. Undeniable.

Your hands shake. Your heart thunders. You sit there in the bathroom with the little test in your hand, whispering, “Oh my god… I’m pregnant…”

Your first instinct is to tell him. But a flicker of fear sneaks in. You know how Lester is—emotional, insecure, vulnerable beneath his carefree shell. What if he panics? What if he doesn’t believe it? What if he thinks he’ll mess it up?

But then you remember how he held you when you first asked. The look in his eyes when he whispered “We’ll try.”

So you plan it carefully. You make his favorite meal—fried catfish, cornbread, and that weird butterscotch pie he always swears he doesn’t like but devours anyway. You light a candle. You even set the table.

When he walks in, he knows something’s up. He squints suspiciously at you, grinning. “Alright, darlin’, what’s all this? Did I forget an anniversary or somethin’?”

You shake your head and slide a tiny box across the table.

He opens it.

Inside: a simple, hand-painted pacifier. And a tiny note that reads:

“Coming soon... Baby Sinclair. ETA: 9 months.”

He stares at it.

Silence.

Then his hands start shaking.

He looks up at you, and for a second—just a split second—you swear you see the little boy he once was. The one who never thought he’d get a happy ending. The one who slept in the barn sometimes because the house didn’t feel safe. The one who never imagined anyone would want to build a family with him.

“…You’re serious?” he whispers, his voice cracking.

You nod, tears in your eyes. “I’m pregnant, Lester. You’re gonna be a dad.”

He lets out a shaky breath—half laugh, half sob—and stumbles back into his chair, hands over his face.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, over and over, as if trying to convince himself it’s real. “Holy shit, we did it. We really did it.”

Then he’s on you, arms wrapping around your waist, face pressed into your stomach like he’s already trying to hear the baby. His tears soak into your shirt.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he says, fiercely, desperately. “Both of you. I swear to God, I’ll work harder, I’ll keep ya safe, I’ll… I’ll be better. I’ll be good.”

You cradle his head, running your fingers through his messy hair.

“You already are.”

.

Carrie White

It’s a quiet evening when you finally gather the courage to say it.

Carrie is sitting at the edge of the bed, brushing out her strawberry-blonde hair with soft, methodical strokes, humming a lullaby that echoes faintly from some forgotten childhood. The lamp casts a golden halo around her, and in that moment, she looks so gentle, so peaceful, that the words well up and spill from your lips before you can stop them.

"Carrie… I’ve been thinking about something for a long time. I want to have a baby. With you."

The brush falls from her hand, clattering against the hardwood floor.

Her body goes rigid. She turns her head slowly, her wide, delicate eyes shining with something unreadable—shock, fear, hope—all blending into one.

"A… a baby?" she whispers, as if afraid the very word might shatter something inside her.

You nod, moving to sit beside her. You reach for her hands, and she lets you take them, though they’re trembling. Her eyes are locked on yours, searching, desperately trying to believe what you’re saying is real.

"With me? You’d want… a baby with someone like me?"

The weight in her voice stabs at your heart. You know what she’s thinking—what she’s been taught to believe all her life. That she’s cursed. That she’s unnatural. That someone like her shouldn’t be a wife, much less a mother.

You cup her cheeks and bring your forehead to hers. “Yes, you. Only you. I want to see your eyes in our baby. I want to hold something we made together. A family, Carrie. Our family.”

And with that, something inside her breaks—not painfully, but like a floodgate. She collapses into your arms, sobbing softly into your chest, as if releasing a lifetime of fear, shame, and loneliness.

Later that night, she speaks in the dark while you're holding each other in bed.

"I used to dream about it, sometimes. A little girl… with freckles. I’d braid her hair and teach her songs. But I thought that dream had to die with everything else..."

You kiss her hair and whisper, “That dream’s still alive. You’re allowed to want this, Carrie.”

Over the following days, something changes in her—subtle at first. She begins to touch her stomach absentmindedly when she's daydreaming. She visits the old nursery aisle at the general store and stares at the soft toys and onesies, barely breathing.

She starts sewing. Simple things at first—little booties, a blanket. She tells you it’s “just for fun,” but you catch her levitating the needle with her powers, stitching the shape of a tiny heart into the fabric. It glows faintly when she thinks you're not looking.

And then one night, your desire for it spills out of you, raw and aching.

"Carrie… I need this. I want to carry your baby. I want to give it your light, your heart. I want you to be someone’s mother. Please…” Your voice trembles. You didn’t mean to beg, but now that you have, you can’t stop.

She’s stunned silent at first, staring at you as tears run freely down your cheeks. You barely notice the soft shimmer of telekinetic energy that hums in the air around you—floating dust particles caught mid-air like stars frozen in time.

Then she presses her lips to yours, tender and reverent, her body warm and trembling.

"Okay," she whispers, barely a breath. "Let’s try. Let’s make our little miracle."

After that, every moment is sacred to her. She holds you like glass, kisses you with a reverence that makes your heart ache. When you finally begin trying, it’s nothing short of ethereal—the room filled with flickering candlelight, her powers humming faintly like a lullaby beneath your skin. Her touch is slow, patient, like she’s carving the moment into her soul.

She whispers your name like a prayer, over and over, as you make love. Tells you she believes. That she finally sees a future not written in fire or blood—but in soft blankets, warm bottles, lullabies, and love.

Carrie White doesn’t just agree to become a mother. She becomes a vessel for every ounce of hope she thought she lost—and for the first time in her life, she chooses her future.

And she chooses it with you.

.

Carrie White is pregnant.

It starts subtly.

Carrie is quieter than usual. She stays curled up in your shared bed a little longer each morning. Her appetite changes—foods she used to love now make her nauseous, and she craves the strangest combinations. You catch her staring into space, one hand absently over her belly, her expression unreadable.

At first, you chalk it up to nerves. Trying can be emotionally taxing, after all. But one night, she doesn’t come to bed right away.

You find her in the bathroom, the light low, her knees tucked under her in front of the sink. Her nightgown is wrinkled and damp with tears, and she’s holding something in her hands.

A small stick.

Your breath catches.

Her hands are shaking when she turns to look at you, eyes glossy, terrified and hopeful all at once.

“I… I think it’s positive.”

She says it like a confession. Like the words might make the floor collapse under her if she says them too loud. But she holds the test out to you, and the double lines are clear. Undeniable. Real.

You kneel in front of her slowly, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

“Carrie…” you whisper, the words catching in your throat. “You’re pregnant?”

She nods, lip trembling. Her powers stir faintly in the air—curling around her like a warm breeze. The water in the pipes hums. The lights flicker once, like even the world is holding its breath.

“We’re gonna have a baby?” you ask again, your voice trembling with disbelief and awe.

This time, she manages a smile—watery, fragile, but radiant.

“Yes… we are.”

You don’t remember moving, but suddenly your arms are around her, both of you crying and laughing at once. You kiss her face over and over, your hands cradling her stomach like it’s already holding the future.

You whisper against her hair:

“You did it… we did it. You’re going to be a mom. My god, Carrie… we’re going to have our baby.”

Carrie breaks down, sobbing into your chest—not from fear, but from overwhelming emotion. For the first time in her life, she is wanted, and now she’s the start of something even more: a life that you both made.

You carry her to bed like she’s precious, tucking her in and lying beside her with your hand over her belly. She falls asleep in your arms, the tiniest smile on her lips.

From that day on, everything changes.

You start collecting books on pregnancy and baby names. Carrie reads them slowly, sometimes out loud to the bump as if the baby can already hear her. You watch her body change with awe and tenderness—her face glowing, her hands always resting on her growing belly protectively.

She talks to the baby every day. Tells them stories. Hums lullabies. And sometimes, in the quiet moments, her powers pulse softly—wrapping her, and you, and the baby in a faint golden shimmer that almost feels like a blessing.

Carrie was once told she could never have something good.

But now, with your love, her strength, and a little life growing between you, she knows:

This is good. This is hers. This is real.

.

[cami040405]

Idk if you know about H2o just add water, but since you did a werewolf fic, I figured you maybe can do something like this? Can you do a Y/n who's a mermaid and stumbled upon Ambrose with her friends who didn't know about her secret? Nobody does, actually. And Bo just happens to take interest in her beauty like he usually does with some women. He somehow finds out about her secret after she touches water. You decide how the story pans out, whether he hunts after her or she gets wet by accident. I just want to see this type of fanfic.

Oneshot: Saltwater Secrets - Bo Sinclair x Mermaid S/O

Summary: While on a road trip with friends ,you stumble upon the eerie town of Ambrose. No one knows your secret—until you accidentally touches spilled water and begins to transform.

The air around Ambrose was still—too still. You felt it the moment you and your friends pulled up to the eerie, too-perfect wax town in your beat-up van. They laughed, took pictures, tossed snacks at each other. But your heart was unsettled.

It always was when you were too far from the ocean.

You never told anyone your secret—not the girls who shared dorms with you back in college, not your friends who now begged you to join them on random road trips through backwoods America. How could you? You were a freak, a myth. A mermaid.

And worst of all? Water was your enemy… and your origin.

You couldn’t even touch it without changing. One drop, and your legs would vanish—replaced with your shimmering, aquatic tail.

So you stayed dry. Always.

Until Ambrose.

The group had split up—some wandering toward the church, others toward the wax museum. You were drawn, oddly enough, toward the mechanic’s garage. The sound of a wrench clattering on cement made you pause.

Then you saw him.

Bo Sinclair.

He looked like someone pulled out of a Southern gothic horror story—oil-streaked jeans, sun-worn boots, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show his chest. His dark eyes caught yours immediately.

“You lost, sweetheart?” he asked, voice smooth, charming with a lazy Southern drawl.

You swallowed. “Just… looking.”

He smirked, wiping grease from his hands on a rag. “Well, you came to the right place.”

You turned to leave, but he added, “You from around the coast? You’ve got that kind of look.”

You froze. He was watching you—really watching you. Like he’d seen something familiar. Something impossible.

“I’m not,” you lied quickly. “We’re just passing through.”

You should’ve left. But Bo kept talking. Kept pulling you in.

You wandered into the museum with him. Alone. Something about the way he looked at you, talked to you—like he already knew you were different. Like he liked it.

There was almost something… respectful in the way he didn’t make a move. Just watched you, like a predator circling a mystery it couldn’t quite solve.

“You’ve got an unnatural beauty,” he said as he stood behind you near a wax display of a drowned woman. “Like you don’t belong here.”

“I don’t,” you whispered.

Then came the moment.

One of your friends called for help outside. Someone had tripped and knocked over a cooler. Bottled water spilled—some of it splashing across the floor.

You turned too fast. Slipped.

Your hand went down—into a puddle.

Oh no.

Your heart raced. Your skin tingled with the familiar, horrifying sensation. You backed into a shadowed corner, breathing hard.

“I—I need to go,” you said, voice shaking. “I—I’ll meet you guys back in the van.”

But Bo was already staring.

“Why’re you shakin’, darlin’?”

His voice dropped. He stepped closer. “Why’re you wet?”

Your legs buckled. You couldn’t hide it anymore. The transformation was coming too fast—flesh shimmering, scaling, shifting.

Bo stared.

You thought he’d scream.

Instead…

He smiled.

“Well I’ll be damned.”

You shrank against the wall, half your body transformed. Your tail curled beneath you, glistening in hues of sapphire and seafoam.

“You’re… not scared?” you asked.

Bo knelt beside you, dark fascination in his eyes. “Scared? Hell no. I think you might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You flinched. “I’m not—this isn’t normal—”

“No, it sure ain’t,” he whispered. “But I like rare things. Special things.”

His hand reached out. Not to grab you. Just to touch a strand of your hair, now slightly wet and clinging to your neck.

“I ain’t gonna tell no one,” he murmured. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

You looked at him. Really looked at him. His twisted town, his secrets, his darkness—and now… yours.

“Why would you help me?” you whispered.

Bo gave a dark little smile. “Because I’ve done some terrible things, sweetheart. But none of them compare to what someone else might do to a girl like you.”

He stood, glanced toward the door.

“I’ll keep ‘em away. I’ll keep you safe. But you gotta trust me.”

You didn’t know if you should.

But as his hand reached out again—not forcefully, just a silent offer—you took it.

And for the first time in your life…

You weren’t afraid of someone seeing you.

You were afraid of what you might feel if he stayed.

.

[cami040405]

Scream (1996) dir. Wes Craven

[cami040405]

MASTERLIST: Oneshots and Requested

Greetings my spooky friends, I hope you're all doing well. Since the number of requests is increasing I decided to make a separate post to list everything I have written so far. And also for new people who are just arriving in case they want to binge-watch my content.

And I also wanted to show my gratitude for all the support you're giving me in my writing, I'm very flattered and happy about that.

Oneshots

Thomas Hewitt x (Future) S/O – Watching the Stars

Vincent Sinclair x S/O finally have some time alone after a long day.

Under Watchful Eyes: Thomas Hewitt Meeting Reader’s Family

Blood and Bone, Moon and Memory - Werewolf Thomas Hewitt X Pregnant S/O

Reach for Me - Brahms Heelshire X Short Female Reader

Oneshot: Saltwater Secrets - Bo Sinclair x Mermaid S/O

Oneshot: Crimson Sun - Thomas Hewitt x Future S/O with Intense Period Pain

Vincent Sinclair Courting Headcannons

Oneshot: The Warmth of Quiet Things - Brahms Heelshire x Reader

Oneshot: Somebody in the Silence - Brahms Heelshire x Reader

Oneshot: No Oil, No Problem - Bo Sinclair x Reader

Multiple Slashers

Slashers with a S/O who is a Grim Reaper

Grim Reaper S/O Carrying the Slashers HCs

Michael and Jason discovering that their S/O is a werewolf.

Slashers with a S/O Who is a Cheshire Cat

Bo Sinclair, Thomas Hewitt & Michael Myers with a Super Stereotypically Feminine S/O (SEPARATE)

Vincent Sinclair & Charles Lee Ray X Reader with a Relationship Dynamic like Gomez and Morticia (SEPARATE)

Bo Sinclair, Michael Myers & Brahms Heelshire reacting to their S/O being flirted with by a random guy

Slashers with a S/O Who is Their Opposite

Bo Sinclair, Thomas Hewitt & Brahms Heelshire with a S/O Who Loves Valentine’s Day

Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair and Brahms Heelshire with a Talkative S/O (SEPARATE)

Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair & Charles Lee Ray with a S/O who's a Sweetheart but Swears a Lot

Slashers' Reaction When Their S/O Asks For A Baby

Slashers' Reaction when they See the Reader being Offered as Bait by Her Own Boyfriend.

Slashers with a Female Reader who Plays Volleyball

Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair and Billy Loomis with a S/O Who Celebrates Their Birthday (SEPARATE)

Slashers Reunited with Childhood Friend Who’s Pregnant

Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair & Billy Loomis Celebrating Their S/O's Birthday (SEPARATE)

NSFW (+18)

NSFW: Vincent Sinclair & Charles Lee Ray X Reader with a Relationship Dynamic like Gomez and Morticia (SEPARATE)

NSFW: Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair & Thomas Hewitt X Reader with a Relationship Dynamic like Gomez and Morticia (SEPARATE)

NSFW/SFW: Susurros Prohibidos - Brahms Heelshire X Bilingual S/O