i-heart-slashers

[i-heart-slashers]

𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖋𝖔𝖗… @bunnoxy

𝕴 𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍…Bubba Sawyer!

You and Bubba are the ultimate comfort-chaos duo. Your bubbly, giggly, slightly inappropriate humor bounces off his shy, anxious energy in the most unexpectedly wholesome way. He never judges your interests. You're his sunshine and safe space in a cruel world that’s always misunderstood him, just like people often misunderstand you.

ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔰

He hums when he’s happy and cuddling you. You’ve started recognizing which hums mean “I love you,” which mean “I’m shy,” and which mean “Please don’t go.”

He gets really nervous when you cry — not because he’s uncomfortable, but because he doesn’t know how to fix it. So he just sits beside you, gently pats your head, and offers you things he thinks might help… like meat… or bones…

He lets you paint his nails. He doesn’t get it, but if it makes you smile and giggle, he’s sitting down and holding still (even if his giant hands are hard to work with).

He carries you like a princess whenever you say your legs hurt or when you're too lazy to move. Sometimes even when you're not lazy — just because he likes it.

You call him "babyface" — he doesn’t understand it at first, but once he realizes it’s affectionate, he starts leaning in whenever you say it. The others in the Sawyer family HATE it, but it only makes you use it more.

He hoards your gifts. Every drawing, plushie, broken nail, or snack you give him? It goes into a special hidden box under his bed, like treasure. He doesn't need to say "I love you" — it’s all in there.

ℑ𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔔𝔲𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰

You: I’m not saying I’m horny 24/7, but if you were a dentist, I’d let you fill all my cavities 😉 Leatherface: *shuts off chainsaw mid-battle and stares in silent confusion*

You: We’re the perfect pair. I’m soft and annoying. You’re soft and murdery. Leatherface: *soft grunt of agreement*

𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℌ𝔢 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔄𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔜𝔬𝔲

Your acceptance and affection. He’s always been treated like a monster. You’re the first person who makes him feel human — not because you deny his darkness, but because you love the messy, sensitive, weird parts of him. You don't flinch. You make him laugh, you cuddle up to him after his worst days, and you see him. That’s everything.

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤

You’re So Creepy – Ghost Town (Perfect for your horror obsession and his unsettling energy. This track captures your playful, chaotic love and how wrong it feels — but also how right it is.)

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

Only Soft for You – He'll butcher others, but turns to mush when you're around.

Found Family – You found warmth and acceptance in the weirdest, bloodiest of places.

Horny x Confused – You're the one dropping spicy jokes while he's just standing there with his head tilted, blushing behind the mask.

𝔓𝔩𝔬𝔱 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

Accidental Kidnapping → Slow Burn – He meant to scare you… but now he won’t let you leave because you keep making him laugh and painting his nails.

Healing the Beast – You're the balm on his decades of trauma. Every cuddle is therapy.

You Fell First, He Fell Harder – You flirted first. He didn’t get it. Now he’d kill for you without blinking.

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔞𝔤𝔢

Acts of Service + Physical Touch. He shows love by doing things: fixing your favorite plush, cooking your meals, carrying you around when you're tired, and holding you like you’ll float away. Words aren’t his strong suit, but hugs? Chainsaw revs of joy? Soft head pats? That’s his way of saying “I love you.”

[i-heart-slashers]

I absolutely loved your Paul x reader, Get Your Girl, and I absolutely loved that you did it for the rest of the boys. And I’m very much enjoyed that Dwayne got a part two. I would absolutely love if you did a part two for the rest of the boys, however I do understand that is a very large request. So I was wondering if you would do a part two for one of the other boys. I like them all so much so I’m not very particular about which one so it could be your choice. Please and Thank you!

Hi all the "get your girl" varients are getting their own part two. I'm not sure when but it will definitely be written! 🖤

[i-heart-slashers]

Hi! (This is hunny, I'm asking from a different account I've made recently)

I've been working on a bunch of wips inspired by your work and the fixation thoughts rn, and I particularly love the poly lost boys because we get the whole dynamic with them as a group and that's so fun n cute to me 💯

Especially loved the one you did where they crash readers apartment, raid the fridge, and sign the death warrant of a particular few tourists who've been bothering them! A continuation of that would be interesting 👀 they seem the type to carry out their vengeance with fun

Hi! I'm glad that my work has inspired you to write your own! Thank you for reading and enjoying what I write it means a lot to me 🖤

[i-heart-slashers]

For the birthday prompts can you do for Stu in scream? Suggestive if possible. Lipstick, Velvet and Smirk? Thanks!

ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ: stu macher

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: suggestive

ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: lipstick, velvet, smirk

You shouldn't be here.

The party's over, the house is half-dark, and the music has long stopped pulsing through the walls. The house is now a horror show, and you survived.

But you're still here. Alone. With him.

Stu leans in the doorway; his face, hands, and clothes are bloody. You had thought he was dead, but here he was. His eyes rake over you, pausing at your lips.

"Red lipstick," he drawls with a grin like he knew he had gotten away with murder, literally. "Hot. Looks like blood."

You lick your lips out of habit. His gaze doesn't move.

"You know," he says, pushing off the doorframe, "most girls leave when the screaming starts."

You try to laugh nervously as he closes the distance between you and the counter. The velvet choker around your neck feels too tight suddenly. You wonder if he noticed it earlier and if that's why he keeps looking at your throat like it's something delicious.

"I liked your little screams," he whispers, fingers ghosting over your jaw. "Pretty."

"Is this… a bit?" you ask, half-serious. "You still playing psycho for the thrill?"

He chuckles—too low, too smooth. "Sweetheart, I don't play."

Your back hits the counter. Stu cages you in without touching, tall and loose-limbed and radiating chaos. His fingers finally drag down your arm, slow, like he's tasting the idea of you with his skin.

You should leave, you should run. Instead, you ask, "So what happens now?"

His smirk is slow and sharp. "Now," he murmurs, "you find out how scary I can really be."

His mouth crashes into yours, hot and rough, lipstick smearing between your lips and his teeth. He groans like he's been waiting to ruin you all night. His hands slide under your skirt with no patience, gripping your thighs like a promise.

The knife is still in his pocket. You feel the press of the handle as he lifts you onto the counter as if you weigh nothing.

"Good girls don't stay," he whispers, lips brushing your ear. "But I like that you did. You're my good girl for staying."

The cold countertop hits your back as he spreads your legs. His mouth trails heat along your throat, tongue teasing your pulse point. The choker snaps under his fingers.

"Oops," he grins, fake innocence dripping from every word.

You let him tear it off. You want to be scared, but all you feel is heat.

[i-heart-slashers]

Thought I'd just drop a little ask saying how much I love your lost boys work! 💞💞 I've been obsessively reading over them all for the past few days, you've captured their personalities so well, and the way you write makes me want to read more! ^∆^ I have you to blame for my sudden lost boys hyper fixation now /j 🤣

You have no idea how happy this makes me! Blame me all you want I'll just keep feeding you TLB content 🤣 But seriously thank you so much for reading my work and taking the time to message me, also if there's anything you'd like to see me write for them just drop an ask 🖤

[i-heart-slashers]

𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖋𝖔𝖗… @canigotosleep--plz

𝕴 𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍… Billy Loomis.

Billy needs to be understood, to be adored, and you’re a master of giving people just enough of what they crave. You’d make him feel seen, powerful, special — and in return, he’d spiral into obsession, desperate to stay on your good side. He’s controlling, yes, but the kind that breaks for the right girl, the kind that would do anything to keep you from slipping through his fingers. You want someone who’ll handle your messes? He’ll make them disappear — permanently. And when you flash your smile at others, he’ll be watching, simmering, always ready to remind everyone that you’re his.

ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔰

You use your charm to cover his tracks. While Billy handles the messier side of things, you’re the perfect distraction — smiling, innocent, always there to mislead or manipulate the curious away from the truth.

You’re the only one who can talk him down from a violent mood. A touch, a soft word, a look — you can stop his rage mid-spiral.

You both share a twisted creativity. You write stories that sound suspiciously real, he acts them out in the dark — and no one knows they’re autobiographical but you two.

You use him as your personal attack dog. Someone insults you? Billy’s already planning something. You don’t even have to ask.

Late-night horror movie marathons — but you end up psychoanalyzing the killers while he just stares at you like you’re the most dangerous thing in the room.

He gets jealous. Even over harmless attention. Your friendly nature drives him crazy, and he gets possessive, hands on your waist, lips at your ear, reminding everyone you’re his.

ℑ𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔔𝔲𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰

You: If I were to kill someone, I’d make it look like an accident. Billy: Amateur. You: …What. Billy: What?

Billy: "You're the only person I don't want to stab." You: "Aw, that's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."

𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℌ𝔢 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔄𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔜𝔬𝔲

Your duality. That sugar-sweet smile masking a manipulative streak he can recognize and respect. You know how to play innocent for the world, but you choose to be real with him. He loves that you can charm a room and poison a person in the same breath. You’re not scared of his chaos — you dance in it.

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤

Control – Halsey (This song screams mutual obsession, a little danger, and the beautiful mess between you both.)

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

Only Nice to You – You smile for others, but only love for him, your brightness softens his darkness.

Found Family – You’re the only one he truly cares about; everyone else is just background noise.

Power Switch – You let him lead when he needs to, but sometimes you’re the one pulling him back from the edge.

𝔓𝔩𝔬𝔱 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

Partners in Crime – Writing murder stories… with real-life "research."

Obsessive Devotion – He doesn’t love you. He worships you.

"I’d Kill for You" Is Not a Metaphor – Ever.

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔞𝔤𝔢

Acts of Service, in the most extreme way possible. Billy’s way of saying “I love you” is making sure the person who upset you isn’t around anymore. It’s twisted, but you know he’s not faking it — when Billy loves, he loves violently.

[i-heart-slashers]

Fur and Fangs

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: The Lost Boys x FelineShifter!Reader

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: You followed them for the thrill, a silent stray with secrets stitched into your fur—but when your truth is revealed, you become more than their pet; you become their heart.

Now, the cave is yours as much as theirs. You move between worlds—whiskers and skin, purrs and promises—and they let you. Because you didn’t just find them.

You chose them.

And they’ll never let you go.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 1.2k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: mild language. implied sexual/intimate tension.

It began on a humid Santa Carla night, the boardwalk alive with neon and screams, the air thick with the scent of salt and sweat. A Ragdoll cat with fur like pale moonlight and smoky dusk, slipped through the chaos unnoticed. Eyes blue like sharp sea glass, tracked the world from alleys and rooftops.

Then there they were.

The Lost Boys. Four vampires cloaked in leather and rebellion, their laughter sharp as shattered glass. They moved like predators, all swagger and hunger, their presence a magnet for trouble.

You'd always been drawn to chaos, and they were its living pulse. So with small paws padding against the floor you followed, silent as a whisper, into the sunken cave they called home.

The cave was a cathedral of decay—stalactites dripping like wax, fairy lights strung through the gloom, and the faint hum of the ocean beyond. You sauntered in just before dawn, weaving between scuffed boots and trailing coats, your tail a proud banner. Marko spotted you first, crouched near a pile of salvaged junk, his curls catching the firelight.

"Yo, check it—a cat?" His voice was half-laugh, half-awe like he'd stumbled on a treasure. He reached out, then froze when you hopped onto a jagged stone seat, claiming it like a throne.

Paul sprawled on a couch, flicked his hair back, and squinted. "No way a stray looks that good. Bet she's someone's pampered princess."

You ignored him, locking eyes with David.

He sat at the cave's heart, cigarette smoldering between gloved fingers, his platinum hair glowing under the dim light. Those icy eyes studied you, unreadable but intrigued. You didn't flinch, didn't blink—just leaped into his lap with liquid grace, curling into the folds of his coat. His hand hovered, then settled between your ears, stroking with a confidence that bordered on possession.

"She's got taste," he said, voice low, a smirk ghosting his lips.

That was the beginning.

You became their shadow, their constant. The cave wasn't complete without your soft paws padding across stone or your purring weight in someone's lap. They didn't question where you came from—strays were common in Santa Carla, even ones as flawless as you. To them, you were a mystery they didn't need to unravel. You were simply theirs.

Marko, the wildest of them, took to you like a kid with a new toy. He'd slip you scraps of rare steak, grinning as you nibbled with dainty precision. "No eating animals, got it?" he declared one night, pointing at the others like a general. "Noodle is crew now. No one touches her." The rule stuck, a rare thread of mercy in their blood-soaked world.

Dwayne persistantly quiet, became your sanctuary. At dawn, when the others grew restless, he'd sit with you on a ledge overlooking the sea, his leather jacket warm under your fur. He'd read from tattered novels—Poe, Shelley, Stoker—his voice a low rumble as you dozed on his chest. He called you Luna, a name whispered like a secret.

Paul, ever the showman, dubbed you Sugarfluff with a theatrical wink, snapping his fingers as you passed. "Look at you, stealing hearts like a pro," he'd tease, tossing you a lazy salute. You'd flick your tail, unimpressed, but his laughter was infectious.

David never named you. He didn't need to. His lap was your domain, his gloved hand your summons. You'd leap up without hesitation, claiming the space as if it had always been yours. He'd stroke your fur in silence, his touch both command and invitation. In those moments, you were his anchor, the one thing in his endless nights that didn't demand blood.

You weren't just a cat. You were their center, their unspoken vow. They didn't know you were listening, watching, choosing them as much as they chose you.

But secrets don't stay buried in a cave full of vampires.

It was a rare early return from the boardwalk, the boys bursting in with the scent of blood and salt on their coats. You thought you'd have hours alone, time to stretch into your true self. So you'd shifted, letting your feline form melt away. Human again, you lounged in David's chair, legs draped over the arm, the firelight casting shadows across your bare skin. One of their long coats—Marko's, by the smell of paint and leather—hung loosely over your shoulders, a makeshift robe.

The cave door swung open, and they stopped dead.

Four pairs of eyes—gold-flecked, predatory—locked onto you. The air thickened, heavy with shock and something darker.

Paul broke the silence with a nervous laugh. "Holy shit, Sugarfluff? You're—you're a babe?"

Marko's mouth hung open, his hand still clutching a half-eaten burger. "I fed you steak."

Dwayne's gaze was steady, assessing, but not hostile. "A shifter," he said, voice soft but certain, like he'd pieced it together in seconds. He'd heard about them in the native stories back when he was young.

David didn't move. His cigarette burned, forgotten in his hand, ash drifting to the floor. His eyes, cold and piercing, held yours—not with anger, but with something deeper, sharper. Ownership.

You rose slowly and deliberately, the coat slipping slightly to reveal the curve of your collarbone. "I've been around longer than you think," you said, voice smooth as velvet, carrying the same confidence you wore in fur. "I chose this place. Chose you."

The silence stretched, taut as a wire.

Then David stepped forward, closing the distance in three measured strides. His gloved hand brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering at your jaw. "You've been ours this whole time," he said, not a question but a claim, his voice low and final.

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze without flinching. "And you've been mine."

Marko let out a whoop, breaking the tension, his arm slung around your shoulders like you were already family. "Hell yeah, she stays! Shifter or not, she's one of us."

Paul grinned, leaning against the wall with a mock swoon. "A hot chick that's a cat? I'm in love. Sugarfluff's still my girl."

Dwayne's lips curved, a rare smile softening his edges. "You kept our secrets. You're family."

David's hand settled on your waist, his grip firm but not forceful. His eyes searched yours, and in them, you saw the weight of his decision—not just to let you stay but to bind you closer. "You're not going anywhere," he murmured, and the words were a promise, a chain, a vow.

Now, the cave feels alive in a new way. You shift freely, one moment a Ragdoll curling atop David's throne, the next a woman laughing in Paul's arms or trading quiet words with Dwayne by the fire. They still hunt and still revel in their immortal chaos, but they come back to you. Always to you.

You are their secret, their heart, their queen in fur and flesh. And in the shadowed depths of the cave, where the ocean whispers and the fire burns low, you know one truth above all:

No one will ever take you from them.

[i-heart-slashers]

Hope this is okay for the birthday thing? Can I have Jennifer from Jennifer's body? cherry, silk, dare and it be suggestive?

ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ: Jennifer Check

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: suggestive

ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: cherry, silk, dare

It started with a cherry.

One slow pull of the stem between Jennifer’s plush lips, tongue curling around the fruit like it was something sacred — or sinful. You weren’t sure which. Her eyes met yours, half-lidded and wicked like she knew the effect she was having. She always knew.

“You keep staring like that,” she murmured, voice dipped in honey and blood, “I might think you want a taste.”

You swallowed hard. “Maybe I do.”

That earned you a smirk, sharp and sweet all at once. The cherry vanished into her mouth with a pop. When she leaned forward, the silk of her low-cut camisole shifted like liquid across her skin. You could swear the room got darker — or maybe hotter. The party outside faded, all noise and lights and people dissolving into nothing but the gravity between you and her.

Jennifer was sitting on the edge of her bed now, legs crossed, head tilted. Predatory and poised.

“I dare you,” she said, slow and sultry. “Come here and take what you want.”

You didn’t need another invitation.

Crossing the space between you felt like falling under a spell. Maybe you were. Your hands found the soft silk at her waist; hers tangled in your hair like it was made for her fingers. Her lips met yours in a kiss that wasn’t gentle — it was claiming. Hungry. She tasted like cherries and something darker. Copper, maybe, or perhaps just danger.

When she pulled back, there was a smear of your lipstick on her mouth and an echo of your moan still vibrating between you.

“You really shouldn’t play with monsters,” she whispered against your neck. “But it’s so cute when you try.”

You gasped when her teeth grazed your skin, not quite biting — not yet.

Maybe it was the thrill, the heat, or just her. But as she pushed you back onto the bed, laughter like a growl in her throat, you knew one thing for sure:

You’d never say no to another dare.

[i-heart-slashers]

𝗦𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝗕𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗹𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗪𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗜𝗻𝗰𝗹𝘂𝗱𝗲 ⤷ Michael Myers, Billy Loomis & Stu Macher (poly), Brahms Heelshire, Bo Sinclair, Thomas Hewitt, Tiffany Valentine, Jennifer Check, Baby Firefly.

𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪 𝟭𝟴+

🇲​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ 🔪​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ II

𝔪𝔦𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔢𝔩 𝔪𝔶𝔢𝔯𝔰

Michael doesn’t sleep like normal people. He lies still, eyes half-lidded, breathing silent—you’re never quite sure if he’s actually asleep.

You’re usually the one to initiate contact, curling into his side. He lets you.

If you shift too much in your sleep, his hand will come to rest heavy on your hip, stilling you with silent command.

He runs hot—his body temperature always a few degrees above normal. You end up half-naked most nights from the heat.

Sometimes, if the mask is off and he’s really wound up from a night out… he’ll wordlessly drag you underneath him and fuck the breath out of you. Slow, silent, dominant. No speaking—just panting and stares that feel like he’s seeing inside you.

Afterward, he doesn’t cuddle. But his hand stays clenched in your hair as you fall asleep on his chest.

𝔅𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔶 𝔏𝔬𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔰 & 𝔰𝔱𝔲 𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔯 (𝔭𝔬𝔩𝔶)

Sharing a bed with them is chaos. No room, too many limbs, someone’s always hard.

Billy sleeps on his side with an arm possessively thrown over your waist, chin in your hair. Stu spoons you from behind head in the crook of your neck. You’re the plushy center of a slasher sandwich.

They’re ridiculously handsy. Stu’s hands wander in his sleep. Billy pretends to be asleep and slips his fingers between your thighs just to feel you squirm.

You’ve woken up to them already touching you and making bets against each other.

Lazy morning sex happens all the time. Billy’s all teeth and muffled groans in your ear, while Stu laughs breathlessly as he holds your legs open.

Post-rounds, they wrap you up in blankets like a burrito and bicker over who gets to hold you while you sleep. Sometimes it’s both. You're not escaping.

𝔅𝔯𝔞𝔥𝔪𝔰 ℌ𝔢𝔢𝔩𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔯𝔢

Brahms can’t sleep without holding you. Full-body cling. His arms lock around your waist and his face stays buried in your neck.

He hums when he’s content, little vibrations against your skin. It’s weirdly comforting.

If you ever leave the bed without telling him, he throws a tantrum. Like—breaking things and screaming tantrum.

He needs lullabies or soft praise whispered in his ear to fall asleep. “Good boy,” you murmur, and he melts.

Sex before bed? He insists on it. It’s his reassurance. Slow, possessive, needy—he keeps murmuring “mine” over and over.

He won’t fall asleep until you do. If your breathing isn’t even, he nudges you, pouting until you relax in his arms again.

𝔅𝔬 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔯

Bo’s mattress is old, half-broken, and always smells like motor oil and sweat. He doesn’t care—he just wants you in it.

He sleeps half-naked, cigarettes and sweat clinging to his skin. You always end up tangled in his legs by morning.

He loves the feeling of your bare chest against his back when you spoon him. But he’ll never admit that out loud.

His favorite thing? Lazy oral before bed. You between his legs, or him between yours, one hand cupping your thigh while the other holds your hips down.

He snores. Loudly. But if you complain, he grins and offers to shut you up with something else.

Post-sex, he pulls you close and strokes your thigh idly, occasionally murmuring dirty promises in your ear as you fall asleep.

𝔗𝔥𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔰 ℌ𝔢𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔱

He’s gentle. You expected roughness, but Thomas treats you like spun sugar when it’s time for bed.

He wraps both arms around you and tucks your head beneath his chin. You feel like a teddy bear in his arms.

Sleepy sex happens often—slow, grinding, needy. He whimpers into your ear, warm breath fanning your cheek.

Afterward, he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His massive hand never leaves your hip or lower belly.

He doesn’t sleep much. He just watches you, trailing his fingers softly over your skin until you drift off.

Occasionally, he’ll whimper your name in his sleep. It makes your chest ache—in the best way.

𝔗𝔦𝔣𝔣𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔙𝔞𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔢

She demands to be the little spoon—but don’t be surprised when she rolls you over and straddles your hips instead.

Her lingerie never comes off. She sleeps in lace and silk, always looking like she’s posing for a pin-up magazine.

Night sex is guaranteed. She teases you until you're begging, then rides you until you're both breathless and panting.

Post-orgasm, she wants cuddles and compliments. Lots of them. “Tell me how hot I looked riding you.”

She talks in her sleep. Sometimes it’s sweet, sometimes it’s dark confessions from her past whispered into your chest.

You’re not allowed to fall asleep before she finishes painting her nails or finishing a face mask. “Beauty takes time, baby.”

𝔧𝔢𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔣𝔢𝔯 𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔠𝔎

You don’t share a bed with Jennifer—she lets you in hers. Huge difference.

She’s a total pillow princess, but if she wakes up horny, she’ll roll over and sit on your face without warning.

Her body is always cool. If you snuggle up to her, she hums appreciatively and strokes your hair like you’re a pet.

She loves to tease you under the covers, whispering about how much she wants you—then falling asleep before acting on it.

When she’s tired, she just lies naked on top of you like a luxurious cat. Her full weight presses you down into the mattress.

If you’re ever too cold, she’ll smirk and say, “I could always warm you up… if you beg.”

𝔅𝔞𝔟𝔶 𝔉𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔣𝔩𝔶

Baby is insatiable. Sharing a bed with her means at least one or two quickies per night, usually with her laughing breathlessly the entire time.

She doesn’t sleep under the blankets—just sprawled out on top of you like a wild animal, usually naked.

She’ll tell you the goriest murder stories in a singsong voice while running her nails down your back.

She likes biting. Playful nibbles on your shoulder or neck while you’re drifting off. If you moan, she just bites harder.

Sometimes she wakes you up at 3 a.m. with lipstick kisses and a wicked grin. “Wanna play a little before we go back to sleep, sugar?”

You always fall asleep tangled up, her legs wrapped around you like a vine, hair in your mouth, scratches down your chest.

[i-heart-slashers]

Are the ships still open? Sorry Im little bit dumb /genq

Yes they are :)

[i-heart-slashers]

For Our Girl

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Poly!Lost Boys x Female!Reader

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: You never meant to get tangled up with the Lost Boys, but a wrong turn in the woods led you to them—four vampires with glowing eyes and dangerous smiles. Now, weeks later, you’re theirs. Surrounded by their cold skin and sharp promises, you’re not just safe—you’re wanted, desired, and maybe too far gone to care what they are.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 1.7k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: suggestive themes. sexual tension. possessiveness.

The boardwalk hums with life, the carousel’s tinny music clashing with the roar of motorbikes and the screams from the roller coaster. You weave through the crowd, the salty ocean breeze tugging at your hair, your waitress apron still tied loosely around your waist from a double shift at the diner. Your feet ache, your head’s foggy, and all you want is to collapse into bed.

But the weight of their eyes on you, always watching, always there, makes your skin prickle with something that’s not quite fear anymore.

It started that night in the woods. A stupid shortcut after a late shift, your flashlight flickering, and then those glowing eyes. Four of them stepped out of the shadows like they owned the night. Paul, with his wild grin and a joint dangling from his lips. Marko, all sharp edges and sharper laughter. Dwayne, silent, his dark eyes pinning you in place. And David, cold and commanding, like he was sizing you up for dinner.

You should’ve screamed. Run. Done something. Instead, you snapped at David to get out of your way, or you’d make him. The words had tumbled out before you could stop them, fueled by exhaustion and defiance.

Paul had howled with laughter, Marko’s eyes had glinted with something dangerous, and even Dwayne’s stoic mask cracked into a faint smirk. David, though—he’d just stared, his lips curling into a slow, predatory smile.

“Feisty,” he’d said, voice like gravel and smoke. “I like that.”

You thought that was the end of it. A weird encounter with some punks who hung out in the wrong part of town. But then they started showing up everywhere.

Paul slipping a mixtape labeled “For Our Girl” onto your windowsill, filled with Mötley Crüe and The Cure. Marko ambushing you at the pier, dragging you to a secluded stretch of beach to watch the stars his arm brushing yours. Dwayne wordlessly showing up at your rundown apartment to fix the lock after you mentioned it was busted, his hands steady and sure, his gaze lingering too long on your throat.

And David. David, who one night draped his leather coat over your shoulders when the wind off the ocean turned sharp, his gloved fingers grazing your jaw as he tilted your face up to meet his icy blue eyes. “Anyone messes with you,” he said, voice low and deadly, “they answer to us.”

Now, weeks later, you’re unsure what you are to them. Not a victim—they’ve made that clear. Not just a friend, either. There’s a heat in the way they watch you, a hunger that’s equal parts thrilling and terrifying. You’re theirs, they say, and the word carries a weight you’re only starting to understand.

Tonight, you feel it more than ever. You’re halfway across the boardwalk when Paul’s voice cuts through the noise, lazy and teasing. “Yo, babe, where you runnin’ off to?”

You turn, and there they are, lounging against the railing like they own the place. Paul’s sprawled out, one leg kicked up, his blond hair a mess from the wind. Marko’s next to him, twirling a switchblade between his fingers, his patchwork jacket catching the neon glow. Dwayne leans back, arms crossed, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he watches you with that quiet intensity that makes your pulse race. And David—David stands at the center, his cigarette glowing red in the dark, his smirk promising trouble.

“Home,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “Some of us have jobs, you know.”

Paul laughs, loud and bright, hopping off the railing to sling an arm around your shoulders. “Jobs are overrated. Come hang with us. We’ve got plans.”

“Plans?” You raise an eyebrow, glancing at the others. Marko’s grin is all teeth, and Dwayne’s expression doesn’t shift, but you catch the faintest tilt of his head like he’s daring you to say yes. David just exhales a plume of smoke, watching you through half-lidded eyes.

“Something… fun,” David says, and the word drips with suggestion, his voice curling around you like a promise.

Your stomach flips. You know what they are. You’ve seen how their eyes glow in the dark, and their teeth glint a little too sharp. You’ve noticed the bloodstains on Marko’s jacket that he laughs off and the way Dwayne’s hands are always cold when they brush your skin. Vampires. The word sits heavy in your mind, but instead of running, you’re still here, caught in their orbit.

“Fun,” you repeat, crossing your arms. “Last time you said that, Marko tried to teach me to surf at three a.m. I nearly drowned.”

Marko snickers, flipping the switchblade closed. “You loved it, admit it. Looked hot in that wetsuit, too.”

“Keep dreaming,” you shoot back, but a smile tugs at your lips, and Marko’s eyes light up with mischief.

Paul tightens his arm around you, pulling you closer. “C’mon, babe. Live a little. Or, y’know… unlive a little.” He winks, and you roll your eyes, but the heat of his body against yours sends a shiver down your spine.

Dwayne finally moves, stepping forward until he’s close enough that you can smell the leather of his jacket and the faint tang of salt and iron that clings to him. “You’re tired,” he says, voice low, almost gentle. “Let us take you home.”

It’s not a question, but there’s no threat in it either. Just a quiet certainty, like he already knows you’ll say yes. You glance at David, who’s still watching you, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers. There’s something in his gaze—possessive but not cruel. Like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do.

“Fine,” you say, exhaling like you’re annoyed, but your heart’s pounding. “But I’m not riding on the back of anyone’s bike. Last time, Paul nearly crashed us into a dumpster.”

“Lies!” Paul gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “I’m an artist on that bike.”

“An artist at chaos,” you mutter, and Marko laughs, sharp and delighted.

David flicks his cigarette away, stepping closer until he’s right in front of you, his presence overwhelming. “You’ll ride with me,” he says, and it’s not a request. His gloved hand brushes your cheek, lingering just long enough to catch your breath. “Unless you’re scared.”

You scoff, meeting his eyes. “Of you? Please.”

His smirk widens, and for a second, you think he’s going to kiss you right there in front of everyone. Instead, he steps back, jerking his head toward the bikes parked nearby. “Let’s go.”

The ride to your apartment is a blur of wind and adrenaline, David’s bike roaring beneath you as you cling to his waist, the leather of his coat cool against your cheek. The others follow their laughter and whoops cutting through the night.

When you reach your place, you expect them to drop you off and peel out, but they don’t. They follow you inside, sprawling across your tiny living room like they own it—Paul kicking off his boots, Marko raiding your fridge, Dwayne leaning against the wall, watching you with that unreadable stare.

David doesn’t sit. He prowls, circling you like a predator as you untie your apron and toss it onto the counter. “You’re tense,” he says, voice low, almost a purr. “Rough night?”

“You could say that,” you reply, leaning against the counter, trying to ignore how your skin tingles under his gaze. “Some creeps at the diner wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

The air shifts. Paul’s head snaps up from where he’s sprawled on the couch, his grin gone. Marko freezes a bottle of soda halfway to his lips. Dwayne’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. David stops moving, his gaze locking onto yours, sharp and dangerous.

“Who?” David asks, and the single word is a blade.

You shrug, trying to play it off. “Just some drunk tourists. I handled it.”

“You handled it,” Marko repeats, setting the bottle down with a thud. “What’d they do?”

“Nothing worth mentioning,” you say, but your voice wavers and you curse yourself for it. “Just… got too close. Said some shit. My boss kicked them out.”

Dwayne pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “They touch you?” His voice is quiet, but there’s a lethal edge to it that makes your heart skip.

“No,” you say quickly. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Paul growls, sitting up. “Point ‘em out next time. We’ll handle it.”

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “What, you gonna beat up every jerk who looks at me wrong?”

“Yes,” Marko says, dead serious, and the intensity in his eyes makes your stomach flip.

David’s gloved hand cups your chin, tilting your face to meet his gaze. His touch is firm but not painful, and the heat of his stare makes your breath hitch. “No one touches what’s ours,” he says, voice low and deliberate. “No one bothers you. Ever.”

The possessiveness in his words should scare you, but it doesn’t. Instead, it sends a thrill through you, dangerous and electric. You’re not sure when you stopped being afraid of them—when their sharp edges and glowing eyes started feeling like safety instead of a threat.

“I can take care of myself,” you say, but your voice is softer now, your defiance melting under the weight of their attention.

“We know,” Dwayne says, his voice a low rumble as he steps closer, his hand brushing your arm. “But you don’t have to.”

Paul’s on his feet now, crowding in, his grin back but sharper, hungrier. “You’re ours, babe. Means we’ve got your back. Always.”

Marko’s behind you, closer than you realized, his breath cool against your neck as he murmurs, “And we don’t share.”

Your pulse races, the air thick with tension—sexual, dangerous, intoxicating. You’re surrounded, their bodies close enough that you can feel the unnatural chill of their skin, the promise of something more in every lingering touch. David’s thumb brushes your lower lip, and you swallow hard, caught in the pull of his gaze.

“Get some rest,” he says finally, stepping back and breaking the spell. “We’ll be around.”

They leave as silently as they came, the roar of their bikes fading into the night. But the weight of their promise lingers, heavy and warm, and as you crawl into bed, you know there’s no going back. You’re theirs—and you’re not sure you’d want it any other way.

[i-heart-slashers]

𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖋𝖔𝖗...@babulejka

𝕴 𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍… Thomas Hewitt.

Because beneath the brutal horror of Texas Chainsaw Massacre’s Leatherface lies something tragic and strangely tender. A misunderstood, emotionally stunted man whose violence is learned and directed, not born. And you — with your maternal energy, deep empathy for the broken and forgotten, and your uncanny mix of elegance and eeriness are exactly the person who would see him not as a monster, but as a wounded creature in need of love, ritual, and protection.

ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔰

He treats your dolls like they’re alive. He once accidentally stepped on one, and you saw him sit for three hours trying to fix it. Now he keeps a little shelf in his room just for the dolls you’ve made, and he dusts them like relics.

He brings you roadkill like it’s flowers. He doesn’t mean to scare you; it’s his way of saying, “I saw something and thought of you.” You actually don’t mind — you clean bones for art anyway.

You taught him how to waltz. On rainy nights, you play soft violin music and guide him through slow, careful steps in the living room. He’s clumsy but devoted.

He’s obsessed with your scent. The combination of herbs, wildflowers, and old paper you always smell like drives him wild in the most primal way. He buries his face in your clothes when you’re not around.

He builds you strange, beautiful things. Furniture carved with hidden animal motifs, a mirror frame made of bones and vines, a violin case that’s somehow also a tiny coffin. You treasure all of it.

You make him flower crowns. At first, he tore them off, confused and embarrassed. Now he lets you place them gently on his head. Once, he wore one into the kitchen and the rest of the family froze. No one said anything. They knew better.

ℑ𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔔𝔲𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰

Hoyt: “What’s wrong with your girl?” Thomas: shrugs You: “I’m in my whimsical, unhinged, mother-of-crows era, Charlton. Shut up.”

You: “Darling, let’s summon a demon.” Thomas: [nonverbal but enthusiastic nod] You: “You always say yes. This is why I love you.”

𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℌ𝔢 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔄𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔜𝔬𝔲

Thomas loves your unshakable calm. He is a being of chaos and violence but you, with your slow words, delicate hands, and gaze that never flinches, you make him feel seen, not feared. You treat his silence like a language, not a flaw. No one's ever offered him that kind of reverence before like he’s not just human, but holy in your eyes. It undoes him.

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤

House of Metal – Chelsea Wolfe (Thomas slowly realizing: you don’t fear him — you revere him. And he doesn’t have to run or hide anymore.)

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

Soft for One Person – He’s brutal with everyone else, but gentle when it comes to you. You’re the only person who can touch his face without fear.

Macabre Soulmates – You make him bone jewelry. He saves teeth for you because he knows you’ll find a use. That’s love.

Found Family in a Murder House – Against all odds, you create domesticity inside horror. Tea brewed in a bloodstained kettle. Knitting while someone screams in the basement.

𝔓𝔩𝔬𝔱 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

Dark Forest Fairytale – You meet him in the woods. People call him a monster. You call him sweetheart.

Healer x Destroyer – You stitch wounds; he tears through enemies. Together, you create a paradox.

The Monster Falls First – He was drawn to you from the start. You were kind. You smiled. He didn’t know what to do with that.

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔞𝔤𝔢

Acts of Service. He doesn’t speak, but he shows. He’ll build something for you. Hunt something for you. Fix what’s broken. Clear a path in the woods. You’ll find a jar of pickled mushrooms with your name carved into the lid, or a gutted deer placed respectfully on your doorstep like a morbid bouquet.

[i-heart-slashers]

You’re Mine | chapter five

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | A peaceful town in Indiana turns into a bloodbath when a deadly threat haunts the town. The resident teenagers are terrorized by a masked killer, which begins to tear at the fabric of an otherwise-peaceful community ending in bloody pieces of innocent lives scattered around the small town of Hawkins.

Kimberly and her friends have to navigate their lives while trying to survive the murderous Ghostface killer who seems intent on killing them all but is the killer someone they already know?…

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | character death(s), harassment, violence, murder, stalking, slasher killer, killing spree.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 1.7k

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | mentions of character death, violence, mentions of violent acts and murder, swearing, threats.

​🇵​​🇷​​🇪​​��​​🇮​​🇴​​🇺​​🇸​ ​🇨​​🇭​​🇦​​🇵​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷 🔪​ ​🇳​​🇪​​🇽​​🇹​ ​🇨​​🇭​​🇦​​🇵​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​

Kimberly places her school bag on the floor by the door in her bedroom, then drops onto the bed and picks up the photo frame from her bedside table.

It's of her and Chrissy.

The brunette sniffles, looking at the sweet picture; it was of them at one of their usual sleepovers, her mom having captured the two of them sitting together. Big smiles as they have their arms wrapped around each other.

An insane amount of guilt ran through her; even if Jason wasn't the killer - her best friend was still dead. She'd never see the blonde again, never live out any of their plans.

Going to college together, moving away from Indiana, being each other's maid of honor, and having kids at the same time so they'll be best friends, too. All just gone in the blink of an eye.

Laying in her bed softly looking at the picture, she sighs as her eyes close slowly...

Walking around the dark area, she frowns as she notices it looks like it is rotting, vines and blackness everywhere. Kimberly gasps as thunder cracks and red lightning lights up the sky above her.

As she looked around, she let out a sigh of relief, seeing a familiar figure in her cheer uniform running over; Kimberly could almost cry at the sight of the girl.

Only when the girl turns does Kimberly stop herself as she falls back against the ground with a terrified gasp. Chrissy's bones were twisted and snapped, eyes missing, jaw hanging, but her hand reached for Kimberly almost in pleading as a ringing noise began to sound out.

"Chrissy!"

Kimberly's woken by the phone ringing; she screams, gasping for breath as she looks around before realizing she'd been dreaming. Placing the frame back on her dresser, she looks out at the now-dark sky as she answers the phone. "Hello?"

"Kimberly, Hi." The fake, cheerful voice comes from the receiver, making the brunette frown as she hears it.

"Jason? What do you want?" Kimberly frowns, holding the phone to her ear, hearing his voice; he's never called her before. "Wait, how did you get my number?"

"That doesn't matter. I just wanted to talk to you." The jock says with a huff, "Listen, I know you said the Freak was with you last night, but if he's getting you to cover for him, you know you can tell me, right? I can help you."

"Help me? You're the one who needs help, you know. Just stay away from me, Jason." Kimberly says in a tired tone; after the way he spoke to her today and her own suspicions, she didn't want him anywhere near her.

Jason pauses before his tone comes back aggressively. "Listen to me bitch-"

"No! you listen to me." The petite teen hisses, having enough of his narcissistic ass. "I'm sorry that I talked her into dumping you, but Chrissy deserved more than you and more than what she got. She's been wanting to leave your ass for years. You're lucky she was a lot nicer than I would have been."

The call goes quiet for a beat.

"You talked her into leaving me?" His tone was incredulous, sort of like he'd been slapped. "You know I told you to watch your back, Caligari? Now I actually mean it."

Kimberly cursed herself for being so hot-headed. Now Jason knows it was her who set off the catalyst of their break up. It was the tone of his voice that sent chills down Kimberly's spine.

Quickly packing a bag together, Kimberly had a plan to stay with her friends until her dad got home. She had a feeling Jason's threat was more than real.

The phone rings again, scaring her; she's more jumpy now after that threat. Her house had been lonely since the death of her mom, but now, without her dad here and with Chrissy's death, it was unbearable.

"Hello?" She whispered warily, hoping that it wasn't Jason calling back to yell at her or to tell her that he was coming over.

"Woah, hey. Are you okay?" Robin's husky tone comes through the phone as the brunette sighs with relief, relaxing a little at the sound of her friend's voice.

"Yeah, I'm okay, just... jumpy." She didn't tell Robin about Jason's call or threat. She didn't want her to worry. Plus, Robin would just tell Steve, and that would be a whole new problem.

"Well, I was calling to see if you wanted to come over tonight?" Robin asks, sounding like she's eating, probably the Twizzlers on the counter at the video store. "Steve said you might be more comfortable with me than third wheeling with Wheeler and Byers."

Breathing as she looks out of her window, she sees nothing but darkness looming back at her. Kimberly nods, though Robin can't see that from over the phone. "Actually, that sounds great."

"Oh- great. That was easy. You're usually more stubborn. Any way I can get Steve to come by your house after we close to pick you up? I can rent a movie before I leave, and I'll get some snacks. We can talk about Vickie – Oh god, she did the cutest thing today..."

Kimberly listened patiently as her friend rambled on. She didn't mind; she never does. Robin needs to rant, and Kimberly's a great listener.

"Okay, Steve, geez." Robin huffs, clearly being told off by their male friend for ranting on, "We'll see you soon, okay?" Kimberly hadn't even gotten a goodbye before the call ended.

Smiling to herself softly, the brunette puts the phone back in the holder as she starts picking clothes, pajamas, and things needed for this sleepover at Robin's.

Kimberly goes down the stairs, her arms carrying a change of clothes, toothbrush, make-up. She opens the hall closet and pulls a small overnight bag from the top shelf and carefully puts all her things into the bag before moving into the living room, plopping down on the sofa, and hitting the TV remote.

A news reporter fades in, just another generic person sitting in a studio as they read from a teleprompter.

"The entire nation was shocked today by the teen murder in Hawkins, Indiana..."

The brunette quickly switches channels, but this is something she can't escape when almost every channel is reporting the same story.

"The State Bureau of Investigation has joined forces with local authorities to help catch what the Governor has called the most heinous..."

The clock on the end table reads 7:15 PM. Kimberly is fast asleep on the couch. The phone rings again, but this time, Kimberly is calmer, assuming it's Robin or Steve calling. "Robin?" she mumbles, rubbing her eyes.

"Hello, Kimberly."

Kimberly frowns, sitting up as she listens to the gravelly, distorted-sounding voice, but it is clearly suave and charismatic, even with its off-tone quality. "Uh, hi? Who is this?"

The distorted voice chuckled; it was as if someone was purposely trying to falsify their voice so she couldn't figure out who was talking to her. "Who do you think I am?"

"Steve? Your jokes need work. How long are you and Robin gonna be? It's already late." The petite teen sighs, pulling back the drapes to gaze out of the window.

"Guess again. Scary night, isn't it? A lonely girl was murdered last night, and now you're home all alone tonight. You might need to watch your back." His words freeze her instantly. She can hear the mocking tone the person has taken on.

"Jason? Fuck you, you fucking creep." She hisses at him, angry that not only did he threaten her, but now he's pulling this creepy shit.

"Oh, that's not nice of you. Especially when I've come all this way to see you." The voice drawls almost as if they were fighting a grin over the phone.

Kimberly jumped up from the couch, her eyes trailing everywhere. Trying to figure out if they were serious, "You can see me, huh? Where am I right now?"

The voice huffs with a low, annoyed tone, "You should worry less about where you are and more about where I am. In fact, you need to figure out which door I'm at."

Kimberly glanced between the two doors in her home, the front door and then towards the back door, as her breath caught in her throat. Suddenly, she remembered locking the door behind her when she came home.

Quietly dropping the phone on the couch, she makes a rush for the front door. If they were at the unlocked back door, then running through the front door was the best thing.

Just as she was rushing to the door, the closet sprang open. Kimberly screams, seeing a dark figure with a white mask pops out, wrapping an arm around her waist.

They both fall to the floor as the figure tackles her. Kimberly begins fighting with everything she has; pushing her feet into their stomach, she kicks them back into the wall.

Quickly getting back to her feet, she makes a move to unlock the door when the killer is back up, too. Forgoing the door with frustration, she turns to run again, but the figure catches her once more.

They scuffle, but Kimberly manages to get free; she runs upstairs and locks her door. The ghostfaced figure starts banging on the door. Kimberly dials 911 and tells them the killer is in her house as she sobs.

The teen realizes the banging has stopped, and she turns to quietly take a few steps to the door when the Ghostface comes through the joined bathroom door.

Throwing open her bedroom door and screaming, she rushes out as the killer tries to grab her but only manages to tear her hoodie off.

Slamming the door in his face, she runs downstairs, opening the door and letting out a terrified when she comes face to face with someone unexpected.

Kimberly screams as she crushes herself into Billy's chest, sobbing, "It's him! He's in my house."

Billy steels his expression almost as if readying himself for a fight as he pushes past Kimberly to get into the house. "Billy, no!"

[i-heart-slashers]

I forgot if I asked you this, but I like asking for different opinions. Do you think Vincent can talk or is unable to talk? How does he communicate with someone who doesn’t know sign language even though like they try to learn, but they have no interest.

Canonically, Vincent is nonverbal, but some think he's physically unable to speak due to the trauma from surgery that left him with his facial deformity and permanent wax mask.

Others think it's psychological — that he could speak, but chooses not to, either from trauma, extreme introversion, or learned silence from a lifetime of being treated as “the quiet one.”

I think that Vincent can make sounds (grunts, soft noises), but doesn’t speak — not because he can’t, but because he chooses not to. It’s partially trauma, partially preference. He communicates with body language, touch, and sometimes written notes when needed.

[i-heart-slashers]

𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖋𝖔𝖗... @stygianoir

𝕴 𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍… Vincent Sinclair.

You and Vincent Sinclair would make a beautifully haunting match — a quiet bond formed not through words, but through shared silences, emotional depth, and mutual understanding. Where others might misunderstand your sensitivity, Vincent would respect it, drawn to the way you observe the world with quiet intensity, just like he does. Your empathy would see beyond his scars and silence, while his patience and gentleness would give you the space to open up at your own pace. In a world that often overwhelms you both, you'd find rare peace in each other — two misunderstood souls creating comfort in stillness, creativity, and trust.

ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔰

Shared Quiet Time – You and Vincent often sit in the same room, doing your own things—he sculpts while you read or play Sims/Genshin with your headphones in. No words are needed; the silence is comforting.

He Builds You a Safe Space – Vincent creates a soundproof corner of his workroom just for you: bookshelves, cozy lighting, candles, and cat figurines. It's your sensory-friendly sanctuary.

Unspoken Understanding – He learns your emotional cues over time, even when your tone or expression doesn't match. He's incredibly observant, and his patience helps you feel seen without needing to explain.

Gifts Made by Hand – His version of gift-giving is making beautiful, detailed items for you—mini wax sculptures, custom decor, or personalized little charms he leaves around for you to find.

Movie Dates – On rare trips to the town, you drag him to the old-school cinema, Bo lets him use the old movie reels. He doesn’t love the noise, but he loves watching you light up.

Empathy Burnout Buddy – When you're too emotionally drained to care about people, he's a safe, nonjudgmental presence who doesn’t expect you to perform or be soft. He quietly brings you snacks and lets you recharge.

ℑ𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔔𝔲𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰

You: “I don’t want to talk to anyone today.” Vincent: (nods, turns off the lights, builds a pillow fort) You: “You’re the only one allowed to talk to me, ever again.”

You: “I have social anxiety. I can't go out there.” Vincent: (shrugs, gestures for you to hide behind him) You: “You’re gonna handle my small talk?” Vincent: (nods, then stares at his brothers until they go away)

𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℌ𝔢 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔄𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔜𝔬𝔲

Vincent loves that you see him — not as a monster, not as someone broken, but as someone quiet and kind with pain beneath the surface. He’s drawn to how you move through the world with empathy despite how overwhelming it is for you. You don’t ask him to speak or change — you let him be, and in return, he finds himself slowly changing for you. He’s especially touched by your patience, curiosity, and the emotional safety you offer without even trying.

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤

The Only Thing – Sufjan Stevens (It's survival, love as a reason to live, a quiet devotion.)

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

“Touch-Starved & Touch-Averse” Romance – You both don’t like being touched, but when you trust each other… it means everything.

“Soft for You” – Vincent is a menace to strangers, but would melt just to see you smile.

“Emotionally Guarded Duo” – Neither of you shows your feelings easily, but there’s an intense bond behind every quiet glance.

𝔓𝔩𝔬𝔱 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

Silent Protector” – Vincent becomes fiercely protective when anyone tries to hurt or manipulate you.

The Artist & the Muse – You inspire his best work, even if he never says it. He sculpts the way you smile from memory.

The Quietest Love Story – No dramatic confessions. Just shared glances, soft gifts, and knowing you’re home.

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔞𝔤𝔢

Acts of Service, hands down. He’s not verbal, but he communicates love through building, fixing, protecting, and creating things just for you. He might also express Quality Time, since simply being near you is how he bonds. Physical touch comes later — once trust is deep — and when it happens, it's rare, intentional, and sacred.

[i-heart-slashers]

I just wanna let you know that I loved my ship! Thanks ❤️

You are so welcome, I'm glad you liked it!

Ship requests are open!

[i-heart-slashers]

You're Mine and I'm Yours.

Here is part two as promised, David and Marko's sequels coming up soon.

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Dwayne (Lost Boys) x Female Reader

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: You find yourself irresistibly drawn to Dwayne after meeting him. He claims you as his in an intimate encounter within the shadowy depths of the cave.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 1.5k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: 18+ Explicit sexual content, smut, possessiveness, and cursing.

Part One.

As you walk with Dwayne, the neon lights grow dimmer, the crowd’s noise softening into a distant hum. The air is cooler here, near the edge where the planks meet the sand, and the ocean’s rhythm feels like a heartbeat under your feet.

Dwayne’s presence beside you is steady, grounding, yet electric—a paradox that makes your skin tingle. His hand brushes yours again, deliberate this time, and you feel the warmth of his touch linger, sparking something deep in your chest.

“You’re quiet,” you say, glancing at him, trying to break the tension that’s building like a storm. His dark eyes flick to yours, and there’s something raw in them, something that makes your breath hitch. He doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s holding back.

“Got a lot on my mind,” he says, voice low, gravelly, like he’s choosing each word with care. His gaze lingers on you, tracing the curve of your jaw and how your hair catches the moonlight. You feel exposed and seen in a way that’s thrilling and terrifying all at once.

You stop walking, turning to face him near a weathered railing that overlooks the beach. The wind tugs at your clothes, and you’re hyper-aware of how close he is, the leather of his jacket creaking as he shifts his weight. “Like what?” you ask, bolder than you feel, your heart pounding.

He steps closer, close enough that you can smell the faint musk of leather and something darker, wilder, that makes your pulse race. “You,” he says simply, and the word lands like a spark on dry tinder. His hand lifts, slow, deliberate, and he brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingers grazing your cheek. The touch is light but tingles, and you lean into it without thinking.

“Ever been out to the cliffs?” he asks, his voice low, rough, like he’s choosing each word with care. He’s leading you toward the quieter end of the boardwalk, where the crowds thin and the ocean’s rhythm grows louder.

You shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Not really. I’m more of a boardwalk-and-bonfires kind of girl.”

He nods a faint curve to his lips—almost a smile, but not quite. “C’mon. I know a place.”

You follow him, curiosity outweighing the slight prickle of caution. Your friends are probably still giggling by the stage but feel a world away.

Dwayne moves with purpose, his strides long but unhurried, and you step beside him, the night air cool against your skin. He leads you past the boardwalk, down a winding path toward the cliffs, where the sound of waves crashing against rock drowns out the distant carnival noise. The path dips, leading to a jagged opening in the earth—a cave hidden in the shadows of the bluff.

“Trust me?” he asks, pausing at the entrance, his eyes searching yours. There’s something vulnerable in his gaze, a crack in his otherwise stoic demeanor.

You nod, heart thudding. “Yeah.”

He takes your hand, his grip firm but gentle, and leads you inside. The cave is vast, its walls draped in shadows, lit by flickering candles and strung-up lanterns that cast a warm, golden glow.

It’s strangely beautiful, a mix of natural rock and scavenged relics—tattered curtains, old furniture, a record player spinning something soft and haunting in the corner.

You realize this is his home, or at least a piece of it, and the intimacy of being here sends a thrill through you.

Dwayne lets go of your hand, watching you take it all in. “Not what you expected?” he asks a hint of amusement in his tone.

“It’s… incredible,” you say, turning to meet his gaze. “You live here?”

“With my brothers,” he says, stepping closer carrying you down into the main cave before putting you on your feet when steady. “But tonight, it’s just us.” Your breath catches at the implication, the air between you thickening.

He’s close now, close enough that you can smell the leather of his jacket, the faint musk of something wilder beneath it. His eyes are locked on yours, and there’s a hunger there, but it’s tempered by something softer that makes your chest ache.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “This… pull.”

You swallow, nodding, because you do. It’s like a current, tugging you toward him, making your skin hum with something you can’t name. “What is it?” you ask, your voice trembling slightly.

He steps closer, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering. “You’re mine,” he says simply like it’s a fact carved in stone. “And I’m yours.”

The words hit you like a wave, and before you can process them, he’s leaning in, his lips brushing yours in a gentle and searing kiss. You melt into it, your hands finding his chest, fingers curling into the leather of his jacket.

The kiss deepens, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as if he can’t bear any distance between you. You’re dizzy with it, with him, the world narrowing to the heat of his mouth, the press of his body against yours.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with want but still holding that quiet control. “Tell me you want this,” he says, voice rough but steady. “Tell me you want me.”

“I do,” you breathe, the words spilling out before you can overthink them. “I want you.”

That’s all he needs. He kisses you again, harder this time, and guides you backward until you’re against a pile of blankets and cushions in the corner of the cave, a makeshift bed that smells faintly of him.

He’s careful and deliberate, his hands roaming your sides, slipping under your shirt to trace the curve of your waist. Every touch is reverent, like he’s memorizing you, and you’re lost in the sensation, your hands tugging at his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders.

He shrugs it off, letting it fall, and you’re struck by the sight of him—lean muscle, the bracelet still on his wrist, his chest rising and falling as he watches you.

You pull your shirt over your head, tossing it aside, and his eyes darken, a low sound rumbling in his throat. He’s on you again, kissing your neck, your collarbone, his lips warm against your skin. You arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair, and he groans softly, the sound vibrating through you.

“Dwayne,” you whisper, and he pauses, looking up at you with awe.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, his hand sliding up your thigh, fingers brushing the edge of your shorts.

“Dwayne,” you repeat, and he kisses you, deep and hungry, as he works the button of your shorts free, sliding them down with a gentleness that makes your heart race. You’re bare before him, vulnerable, but there’s no fear—only want, only the certainty that this is right, that he’s right.

He sheds his own clothes, and you take in the sight of him, the planes of his body lit by the flickering light. He’s beautiful, otherworldly, and when he settles over you, his weight grounding you, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

His hand slides between your thighs, teasing, exploring, and you gasp, hips lifting to meet his touch. He’s slow and deliberate, watching your every reaction, and when his fingers find the spot that makes you moan, he smiles, a rare, genuine smile that makes your chest tighten.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, his lips brushing your ear as he positions himself, his body warm and solid against yours. “Made for me.”

You nod, breathless, and when he presses into you, slow and careful, you feel that pull again, that bond snapping into place. It’s overwhelming, the fullness, the heat, the way he moves like he’s savoring every second. You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, and he groans, low and deep, his rhythm steady but building, each thrust sending sparks through you.

The cave fades, the world fades, and it’s just you and him, your gasps mingling with his, your bodies moving together like they were always meant to.

He’s gentle but firm, his hands gripping your hips and your thighs, guiding you as you meet him, the pleasure building until it’s almost too much. You’re trembling, on the edge, and he senses it, his lips finding yours as he pushes you over, your release crashing through you like a tide. He follows a low growl in his throat, his body tensing as he finds his own.

For a moment, you’re both still, breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours. The cave is quiet except for the distant drip of water, the flicker of candlelight casting shadows across his face. He brushes a kiss against your temple, his hand stroking your side, and you feel it again—that connection, deeper now, unbreakable.

“You’re mine,” he says again, softer this time, and you smile as your fingers trace the bracelet on his wrist.

“And you’re mine,” you whisper back, somehow knowing it’s true.