#jason voorhees/reader

[whereisyourstar]

Thank You

Part 7 of the Stand By, Hold Back, Be Patient series

Part 6

Rating: SFW, Mature

Word Count: 10.2k

Warnings: Angst, descriptions of violence, home invasions, choking, assault, blood, murder, panic attacks, mentions of sexual assault (mentions only, not described and do not happen to the reader), wound mutilation, don't hesitate to ask to tag any others I'm blanking out on

(AN: The warnings obviously give it away, but this part is heavier than the others. I toned it down a lot, but if any of those warnings sound like something you don't want to read, please message me and I'll give you the exact places to start and stop so you can read around it.)

The meeting wraps up just after midnight. For you, anyway. Due to the global nature of the somewhat shady operation your supervisors are running—there is, you think, a less than 1% chance that they're not using the site you write for to launder money somehow—meetings tend to be scheduled at strange times for the sole employee on the American east coast. This one started around ten tonight, and you've been dreading it all week for that reason. Ten isn't too incredibly late for you, but you're still subject to that deeply human psychological quirk of never being more tired than when you can't go to bed. That factor was doubled when the meeting's subject matter had been all about scheduled maintenance times for the site, the quarterly click statistics (then broken up into monthly stats, which was torture to sit through), and some vague talk about upping the possible earnings cap sometime in Q4. You made a valiant effort to stay present throughout the meeting, but sometime around the hour mark your brain started to long for the book you put down just before hopping into the call. Third in a series of romances, which is not usually your style, but the couple in this installment has you hooked—the love interest is so cartoonishly into the main character that it should be unbearable to sit through, and his "who did this to you" trope speech was objectively corny, but it's hitting so right for you regardless. Being on camera meant that you couldn't reach for the book and sneak in another chapter or two while the meeting was ongoing, but mulling over the unresolved romance between those two characters was the only thing keeping you awake as it wore on.

At least until Abby saw fit to hop into your lap and curl up there, at which point you were able to focus in while stroking your hand through her fur. If your supervisor minded, she never said anything. You did have to mute yourself when she started snoring, though. Encouraged by her noise, Heracles had started dream-yipping at your feet, and it was hard to fight your smile while they slept all over a long-winded response to a coworker's question. Another excellent reminder of just how much more bearable they make your life.

When the meeting is over and the little light by your webcam finally blinks off, you make short work of depositing Abby back to the floor and stretching a place in your upper back that's been bugging you for an hour now. The sticky note you keep over your webcam's lens is replaced—a precaution, just in case—and you find yourself with a weird amount of energy. Your body usually forces you to conk out around eleven most nights, but since you've pushed past that for the meeting, you've got something of a second wind. As you pull an arm across your chest to better get at that stiff upper back, you notice the book on the coffee table, and the opportunity presents itself so naturally. Wash your face, get into something comfortable, climb into bed, and spend however long this energy lasts knocking out the last few chapters in your book. Your sheets are newly washed and fitted on your bed already, a kindness you appreciate your earlier self for doing so much, and you know your favorite soft t-shirt is ready to be worn. Some, like your mother, could argue that your whole life out here is indulgent, but this—just the idea of curling up all cozy in bed with the book you like—sounds absolutely divine. The only thing it's missing is a cup of tea, maybe, but getting the kettle boiling is a lot more effort than you want to put in right now.

"Ready for bed?" you say to the dogs, crossing over to the table and retrieving the book. Two pairs of eyes stare back at you from the ground, tails curiously wagging. You cross your arms and smile down at them. "You're not getting second dinner, so don't even think about it."

They are thinking about it, you can tell, but for once there's something even more pressing on their minds. It's Heracles who stands and trots himself right over to the front door, looking back at you expectantly. For added effect, he pushes his paw against the wood and whines, his tail swinging back and forth like a metronome.

Ah. A small bump in the plan, but it's a necessary detour. With a nod to yourself, you toss the book back on the table and search around for your jacket—it's summer, but the nights can still get pretty cold out here. By the time you've gotten your jacket and shoes on, Abby's already joined her brother by the door, and she keeps glancing at the harnesses hanging up nearby. "We're not going far," you tell her, making your way to the small cabinet table by the door. Its cubby only holds one thing, and you take the hunting knife in its sheath and shove the entire thing into your jacket pocket. It's too late to bother with strapping it on, and besides, this will be quick. "It'll only be to pee, then it's back inside. Please don't make me run after you." You consider a threat, something like because you will not like what happens when I catch you, but you don't have that in you and you know they know it. These two have you so wrapped around their paws that it would make the dog trainer influencers that pop up on your social media feeds irate for days. But you wouldn't have it any other way, personally.

The night air is crisp and cool, a welcome reprieve after the heat of the day. It's been a slow, hazy march into June, but with the month half-over by now, you've come to appreciate the disparity between the sun being up and the sun being down. You spent more time indoors when you lived in New York, which means you never really noticed the seasons if it weren't obviously snowing, so this all feels new. Your body is still expecting hot, humid days and muggy, mosquito-filled nights—finding yourself shivering in the middle of June is kind of a fun novelty.

You plant yourself next to the treeline right in front of the house and take turns between watching Heracles and Abby sniffing around and observing the sky. It's clear tonight, and there's just enough of a moon to illuminate this front area in silvery light. Plenty of stars, though, all glittering down from their homes in the void. It reminds you to look up when Argo Navis is visible around here, if ever—Jason showed some interest in seeing it, though you're not sure you could ever confidently pick out the lines meant to connect the constellations. All the stars just look like stars to you.

At the thought of Jason, your chest constricts a little bit. You saw him just two days ago, and he stayed around for hours walking with you and the dogs in the forest, but you still…miss him. He's been active lately, spending plenty of precious time with you, and you try very hard not to think about what that means. Ever since that day at the lake, you don't look too closely at his clothes anymore. There's a reason you've been avoiding the news around Pinehurst County for weeks now. It's just—

The dogs notice it first. There's a low, rumbling growl that snaps your head back down from the sky, and your gaze slots naturally to where both Abby and Heracles are staring. Your first thought is a predator, a bear, or maybe mountain lion, but then the growl comes again and it's Abby. Her teeth are very white in the moonlight, head low, hackles raised, and that first flash of fear jolts down your spine. She's never looked like this before, not even when she was hurt and scared.

So fast you can barely track it, a figure bursts from the shadows that devour the side of your house. Upright, two legs, and running so hard that you can see the fog of their breath. That's a human, that's a person, and—at first you think they're going for the truck, but the two of you see the sliver of light coming from your not-quite-closed front door at the same time, and they angle hard to get there.

You don't think. Your legs are moving before you even know you're giving chase, and you barely hear the dogs following behind, or the way your voice cracks when you order this person to stop. All there is in the world is the image of this stranger running up to your front door, throwing it open wide, and stepping in. The flare of your indignation gives you the final push needed to run inside after them as they begin to shove the door back into place. How fucking dare someone just come in here—

But then it's just you, this person, and the sound of your locks being slammed into place. The dogs howl from outside, frantic and angry and confused, but you cannot think about them now.

The person presses their entire weight against the door and, between their panting, sighs in relief. In the low light of the room, you can plainly see all the details you need. This man isn't much taller than yourself, and his body is lean almost in spite of his obvious middle age. You can't tell what color his hair is, only that it's drenched in sweat—he's been running for a while.

And you have, with terrible efficiency, trapped yourself in with him.

Much steadier than you feel—fear and anger are taking rapid turns riding your limbic system—you say, "This is my home. You need to leave." You drop a hand into your pocket and squeeze the sheath of the hunting knife tightly, like one would a stress ball.

The man, still panting, cracks an eye open to look at you. Apparently he doesn't consider you much of a threat, because his lid slides back shut and he heaves a ginormous sigh. "Look, lady—"

You slam the heel of your palm into the wood just centimeters from his nose and the way he jerks back is satisfying. "You look. I'm not fucking asking! Get the fuck out of my house!" The yell is shrill, it lets on just how afraid you are, but you're already throwing back the first lock. You're going to wrench this fucking door open and shove him out.

An arm, sticky with sweat, hooks around your neck and drags you away. Your legs give out with the shock of it, hands flying up to pry at the arm suddenly and effectively cutting off your air, and the animal of your brain screams. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—

He's talking as he pulls you further into the room. There's so much blood rushing in your ears that you can barely hear him, much less process what he's saying, but you get the important parts. Friends and dead and wants me and I'm staying right fucking here.

You recognize, faintly, that you only vaguely assumed he ran into your house to steal from it. You knew exactly what he was running from. You know who killed this man's friends.

And some part of you, yelling over the panic, says good.

It's probably an accident, because you imagine this man has priorities other than sexually assaulting you while his friends die somewhere out in the forest, but his mouth brushes the sensitive ridge of your ear while he talks. He keeps talking, low and insistent, and your brain abruptly shuts up.

The hand still in your pocket rips out the knife, shakes off the sheath, and plunges the naked blade into whatever is softest behind you.

First, the arm holding you is abruptly gone, and you crumple into a gasping heap onto the floor. Second, the man howls, and there is a disgusting squelching noise between all the din. Third, you scramble to half-face him while your legs recover, and you watch as he tugs the knife fully out of his side. Blood, red and very, very fresh, blooms through the off-white of his shirt just above the hip. It drops to the floor and splatters where it lands.

The man presses a shaking hand to the wound in his side and moans like an animal. His entire body is shuddering, and you think you must have hit something important. He doesn't give you the time needed to wonder if you've just killed him, because when he looks up, zeroes in on you still on the floor, there is nothing but rage there.

"You BITCH!" he bellows, and he advances on you like a rolling thunder. You're already mostly to your feet and you sprint for the door. He never turned back that first lock, if you can just get the others—

He grabs you by the hair this time. Fingers pull painfully at the roots, but it's the fear, not the pain, that makes you cry out as you are thrown to the floor. You're being dragged back again, pulled by the hair like something hunted, and it's all you can do to clench your own fingers down next to his to alleviate some of the pain. The knife is somewhere nearby, it has to be, and you drop a hand to the ground to search for it. The word please repeats through your head like a siren—please let me survive this, please don't let him kill me, he can't hurt the dogs, please, please, please. Your fingers touch the familiar plastic of the knife's grip and you grab for it blindly, your eyes too blurry with tears from the pain to be of any use.

"No you don't—" is all the warning you get before the man slams his shoe down on your hand. Some delicate bone in the wrist dislocates itself and there is nothing but a blazing pain in its wake. Your scream is punctuated by the sound of him picking up the knife, his grunt rightfully strained. Then it's silenced by the feeling of cold steel against your throat.

Through the pain and the tears, you force yourself to look up at this stranger and see the fear in yourself echoed back in him. He's fucking terrified as he holds you to the ground and puts your own weapon, wet with his blood, to your jugular. His other hand is still in your hair, but he's crouched over you now, and his entire body still shakes.

"Don't make me kill you." It sounds like a plea. His eyes are so wide, you can see each individual red vein in the sclera. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't—it wasn't supposed to be real. You're all fucking crazy."

You finally find your voice. "Let me go," you rasp, swallowing. "St—stay here, call the police, I don't c—care. Or take—my keys, I have a car. Please." And here the tears start flowing in earnest. You've begged like this before. It didn't make a difference then.

At the mention of keys, you see a plan form in the man's mind, in the way his brows lift. Maybe it's the original plan, the one he had before he saw your front door was slightly open. Get to the truck and drive it to safety. It's a good plan—it worked for you, after all. Maybe you should tell him that.

He's panting again, but you don't think he ever truly caught his breath. "How do I know you wouldn't report me?" He asks it quietly at first, more to himself than anything. But the words have an effect on him, and in an instant, he's furious again. "How do I know, huh? Huh?" Each question is punctuated by his hand clenching in your hair, jostling you painfully. "I know what this fucking looks like, I mean—even if I survive, even if he doesn't kill you, there's evidence all over this place. You'd turn me in in a second."

You try to shake your head and earn another press of the knife's edge against your throat. Much more of that and he'll actually draw blood. "I wouldn't! I won't! I won't say anything, please, please, please, don't do this, please, I—" You're cut off by the back of your head connecting hard with the floor, slammed back by the man. Stars burst into your vision and you groan. It's the last sound you get to make.

The man has both his hands around your throat and he is intent on squeezing the life out of you. He's discarded the knife in favor of doing this more directly, it seems, and all your body can do is convulse. Your hands grab at him, try to push him away, but he has too much leverage. Even when you scrape your nails into his cheek deep enough to make him bleed, all he says is, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it has to be like this, don't fight it. I'll wait until you're gone to use the knife, they'll think he did it, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry."

You're fading fast, but the apologies make you furious enough to dig your nails into him again, and this time one hooks into the bottom rim of his right eye. He doesn't get to kill you and say sorry for it, like you're something pitiable and small. He's going to have to fight you the entire way down. You pull.

It all happens at once. One of the hands round your throat disengages as the man covers his now-bleeding eye, and the other is so weak that you're able to gasp for breath. Air floods into your lungs and you're dizzy, panting, but alive. The man is curled half on top of you, as distracted as someone with a ripped lower eyelid can be. He's still pinning you, though, and you're screaming wordlessly at him as you try to push him off. Your wrist is a dull roar of pain, but it's unimportant right now. You need to get away, grab your keys, get the dogs, and go. Jesus, you can't hear the dogs anymore, are they okay? There's so much in the forest that can hurt them, and Heracles is clumsy on foot, and Abby was mauled by coyotes, and oh god, you just left them to fend for themselves.

Then your front door explodes.

There's no other word for it. One second it's tall and solid as it's ever been, still mostly locked. The next it's hanging off its top hinge, thrown open wide by the force of the loudest impact you've ever heard. Cool night air floods in, and you should see stars, but they're blocked by the figure already bending to fit through the doorway.

Relief hits you like a downpour. "Jason."

It's him. He heard you, or he felt you, or he felt this stranger in his territory and followed him here, and you don't care because he's here now. He's here, and his mask is filthy with blood, and his sleeves are drenched in it up to the elbow, and the machete gripped in his hand is dripping on your floor, and you have never been so happy to see someone in your entire life.

The man reacts like you stabbed him again, making those wounded animal noises, and he starts to crawl off of you. You hear him chanting "oh shit oh shit oh shit" like it's a prayer that can protect him. He still has one hand over his eye, and the other discards the knife nearby entirely in favor of pounding into the floor, dragging him inch-by-tortured-inch away.

Perhaps he thinks Jason is going to kill you first.

It doesn't matter. Jason crosses the floor in three steps, the force of them enough to make your teeth vibrate, and seizes the man by the back of the head in one massive palm. He raises the man up to waist-level, just holds his body up like it's nothing, then slams him face first into the floor. Then again. And again. And again, until the man stops screaming and there's only the squelch of meat and blood and sinew.

When the man is released, he does not move. Not so much as a twitch.

From where you sit, not even three feet away, you watch as more blood than you've seen in your entire life pools from under his head. You're grateful you can't see whatever is left of his face.

Then you can't see anything, because your vision is full of Jason. He drops to his knees on the floor beside you, his machete makes a jarring clang from where he drops it, and you think he's trying to sign. His hands, brutal and terribly strong, flutter uselessly in the space between you two, and his shoulders hunch forward hard enough to look painful.

"I'm okay," you tell him, a hand flying to your throat when it hurts to speak. "I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm—is he? Is..?" And you gesture uselessly to the body that Jason blocks from view. He shakes his head no, hands still apparently uncooperative, but that's all you need. You nod slowly, not sure how you feel about that. You can't really feel anything right now. Maybe you've hit the threshold for emotion and it's just nothing after that. "Okay. Okay, okay, okay, okay, I—okay. Um. Fuck. I'm trying—really, really hard not to freak out, um. Okay. Th—the dogs? Where are the dogs, I need…I need to find them."

Safe, Jason signs. You make a move to stand and he holds up a hand to stay you, shaking his head. They're outside. Abby is protecting. That hits you strangely at first, but then you think of that sound Abby made, the way she unnerved even you. She won't let anything hurt your boy, you're sure.

What hurts? Jason isn't touching you, which you appreciate. Your body feels like one live nerve right now, frayed and dangerously oversensitive. You'd probably start fighting him, too, if he touched you now. Even still, the weight of his eyes on you, hidden with his back to the only switched on lamp in the room, is almost too much. You have to look away to answer.

"My wrist," you say, flexing it and earning a trillion pinpricks of pain in your arm. Breathe, breathe, breathe, you remind yourself. "I can't tell if it's broken or just…sprained? But it—yeah. Um, my throat. Hurts to talk, but my brain's kind of stalled out and I don't think I can sign, uh. Right. Am I bleeding?" You turn your head to the side and gently prod the back of your skull. It's tender, and you suck in air through your teeth to even graze it, but your fingers come away clean. By some miracle, nothing has actually broken skin. With a myriad of bruises and a maybe-broken wrist, you're coming out of this encounter a sight better than the man that invaded your home. For some reason, that's what makes the dam break, and the tears start to fall.

They don't last long. You're emotionally tapped out, and it's awkward crying while there's a dying man in the room. Because he is dying, there's no doubt about that. You don't think anyone can survive what Jason just did to him.

You're sniffling, but more or less back in control of yourself when your voice returns. "Can you…can you get him out of here?" Another useless gesture—Jason is a very effective wall. His breathing has only gotten more and more intense since you told him your injuries, but it hits a peak when you mention the man. You don't have the energy to examine that reaction. "He can't die in my house, I…this is where I live." Which feels, in the moment, an important thing to emphasize.

Yes. I will take care of it. His hands hover next to your shoulders for a moment, and you despair that he's doing to touch you. Your brain is finally catching on to how close he is to you, and it's starting to send panic signals down to your overworked body. The last thing either of you needs is a panic attack because he's boxing you in. Maybe that shows on your face, because Jason instead returns his hands to where you can see them, and signs, I should not leave you alone.

But leaving you is exactly what he should do right now, because the panic is only continuing to rise at the thought of him staying. You need everyone out of your house right fucking now. There's desperation in your voice when you say, "I'll be fine. I'll have Abby and Heracles with me, we won't be alone. Just…I'm sorry, but please, please get him out of here." You can taste the iron in the air and it sits unpleasantly on your tongue.

He doesn't argue. You think, detachedly, that if you weren't already half enamored with this man, this would do it. No insistence, no attempts to sway or soothe you with words. It's just onto the next thing that needs to be done. Jason takes the man by the back of the head and hefts him easily over his shoulder, angling himself so that you can't see the worst of the carnage. At the threshold of your ruined doorway, he looks over his unburdened shoulder and lifts a finger. The message is clear: one hour. You nod your understanding and, before he can turn back, whisper a quiet thank you to him.

The dogs come barreling in moments after he leaves. white all around the eyes and, in Heracles' case, trembling. You gather them both up to you after checking for injuries, ignoring your aching wrist, and squeeze them tightly. Now you really cry. Great, shaking sobs that make every bruise and sore muscle twinge, but the crying helps calm you. The panic recedes now that it's just you and the dogs, and when Abby starts to lick the tears from your cheek, the need to cry peters out as well.

You sit there, too close to a cooling pool of blood, and stare out into the night. The door swings a bit on its hinge, and now that you can really look at it, that gorgeous solid wood is splintered around the edges. Jason practically tore the thing down to get in here.

A shiver that has nothing to do with the chill outside runs down your back. There was never anything actually stopping him from entering your home. Your sturdy door with its nice, expensive locks that you took so much comfort in, that you trusted to keep you safe, now hangs uselessly between you and the rest of the world. He didn't even have to hit it more than once for it to give in.

He has been letting you live for far longer than you realized.

The option to spiral over this is easily available, as is the option to spiral over the last hour of your life. Neither is particularly appealing. Those are options only for when your emotions even out and there's not an entire gallon of adrenaline trying to work its way through your system. The third option of just getting on with it will have to do.

First, you shoulder your heavy door more or less back into place. Not that it really matters anymore, but it doesn't feel right to just leave it, and the third option is all about restoring a semblance of normalcy. Then, with the harsh, pale light of the bathroom's overhead on you, you strip naked and assess your wounds in the mirror. Your throat already looks bad, and it'll certainly get worse before it starts to heal. You can't look at that one too long before you want to cry again, so you focus on everything else. A roll of elastic bandage wrap goes around your wrist, which seems to help a bit—you hope that means it's not broken. There's nothing you can do about the back of your head right now. The idea of a shower stream hitting it makes your stomach roll.

Under your nails, you find skin from a dead man's cheek. Blood, too. You wash it away dispassionately.

When you exit the bathroom, you head straight for the drawers in your room and pull out the t-shirt you were so looking forward to wearing not even an hour earlier. You slip into it and pretend the worn cotton is comforting. Next is the baggiest pair of sweats you have—you don't want anything constricting you right now, save for the socks you make a grudging concession to. It's noticeably cool inside the house now, and there's still a lot to be done before Jason comes back. You don't want cold toes slowing you down.

Finally, you put your place back together. There's very little to do, considering most of the struggle took place only a dozen feet away from the door. This entire front area is open concept, so the entryway leads naturally into the living room and kitchen, but even still, all that's really out of place is the table by the door. After that, there's only the blood to clean up, and keeping the dogs away from it proves to be the bigger challenge. All it takes is one curious sniff from Heracles for you to briefly quarantine him and Abby to the bedroom so you can bleach the hell out of your floor. You go through an entire roll of paper towel mopping up the pool and the nearby splatters, and you're not entirely sure what to do with it all. You decide to throw the soaked sheets into a cupboard that houses all your cleaning supplies for now—no way are you throwing it out with your normal trash without rousing a lot of unneeded and extremely unwanted suspicion.

It's helpful, watching the blood disappear under your dedicated hand. In the low light, you can almost pretend it was never there at all.

The dogs come out of quarantine after you've scrubbed your hands raw in the kitchen sink, and you spend a lot of time just petting them and telling them how good they are. Tonight can't have been easy on them, either, though you're glad you got the worst of it in that respect. You'd be inconsolable if anything happened to them. Knowing that they're safe and unharmed is one of the only things keeping you from having that panic attack right now.

They act as comforting heaters when you gingerly open your ruined door once more and sit in the threshold. With one on either side, you settle a hand on their respective backs and stare, unflinchingly, into the night.

He failed you.

There is plenty he could be thinking about right now. The six dead ones miles and miles from here. The wound in his thigh where one of the ligaments still does not sit right after being slashed with a knife. The wretched weight upon his shoulder. But what he comes back to, over and over and over as he walks, is that he failed you.

He sensed the intruder. He knew it was too close to your home, bordering on that gentle, familiar presence that is uniquely yours. He could never have guessed it would find its way inside.

It hurt you. This thing—he refuses to think of it as a man—laid its hands on you.

He should have been there. The second he felt that one peel off from the pack, he should have chased after it and pierced its brain with the machete. Straight through, until the skull cracked and the earth swallowed up several inches of the blade. He should have.

Even now, with it gurgling and twitching over his shoulder, Jason thinks that's not enough. He wants to use his teeth to rip this things throat out. He would taste its blood and know that it failed to take you away from him.

Almost, though. One of the blood vessels in your eye was broken. That bruise around your throat. The way you shuddered, teeth bared in a grimace when you touched the back of your head. How close had you come to dying tonight? Too close. That is the only answer. Too close.

Guilt and anger. They have been with him since the beginning, and tonight they burn him more deeply than in years. Past the veins, right into the marrow. All of this thing's friends lay dead for the animals and the police to find. It will soon join them. The knowledge of the thing's imminent death does nothing to quell the inferno.

He failed you. The only thing Jason has to offer you is his protection, and he could not give it when it mattered most. He reaches out with his sense and finds you easily. You are where he left you, only fainter for the distance. The sound of your screaming still echoes in his ears, washing over his silent heart like wave after terrible wave, but the feeling of your presence is a comfort. It always is.

This is far enough. It's closer to your cabin than he likes, but he is anxious to return to you, and that can only happen when this is done. He will guide you away from this area for the next few months. The land will have drunk up all the blood by autumn.

The thing gurgles uselessly when Jason presses it back against a tree. He peers at it, attention sliding off the glistening ruin of its face in favor of the lesser bloom of blood on its side. He rips away the fabric covering the wound and ignores the thing's strangled yelp. A not-yet coagulated gash stares back at him, oozing fluid that the body really should be trying to preserve by now. Behind the mask, Jason's breathing is fierce. You fought. Your talons found their mark, and they went deep. His observant, dangerous hawk—he is proud of you.

He pushes his finger into the wound, curious, and the thing actually manages a scream. A slam backward against the tree silences it, and he refocuses. The edges of the wound are clean, save for a ragged section of skin near the top—your knife is serrated close to the hilt. Did you get it in all the way? Did this thing bleat in pain when you hurt it? He sinks his finger in deeper, probing for the end of the entryway sliced into its viscera. When he finds it, knuckle-deep in the wound, Jason's breathing stops entirely. He wants to drop this creature and find you, to tell you how good you did, but there is still work to be done. This thing is in pain now, but it isn't one tenth, one millionth of the pain it deserves for hurting you.

Another finger pushes into the wound and he does not silence the screams now. Instead he watches the thing's face, the burst eye and smattering of teeth and muscle and vibrant blood, and he readjusts his hold on it. He takes it by the throat now and is vaguely surprised to see its legs still kicking, connecting with nothing but the tree behind it. So much fight in this one—too much.

He isn't the type to draw it out like this, typically. His kills are efficient, singular in nature, just thinning out the herd of trespassers until the number is small enough to manage openly. There are some he has enjoyed killing more than others, of course, but this is different. The pain in him is so, so similar to the one that had him put a spike through the temple of his mother's killer. Too quickly that time, she should have suffered more—

A third finger in the wound, stretching and breaking the skin as he worms another digit into the hot, wet cavity your knife started for him. The thing's breath has long since run out, but Jason wants its last moments to be agony. He hooks his fingers, claws deep into tissue and pulls, and is pleased by the low, airless wail he receives. When its heart gives its final, tremulous beat, he drops it to the forest floor in a heap. Something snaps, and it may be a limb, trapped under its own weight. He is past caring.

Instead, he stares at the blood on his fingers, shiny and black in the moonlight. This is how he begins to avenge someone he loves while they yet live. He knows that now.

Your presence is a soft touch upon his mind, drawing his gaze through miles of forest where he knows your home sits. Has it been long enough now? One hour was all he could give you, all his shaking rage and guilt could manage. Yes, he decides, and starts off toward you. He needs to see you again, needs to see your injuries and know that you survived them. It will calm him, somewhat, to feel your pulse beneath his bare fingers.

(Even in the depths of his shame, Jason cannot help but remember the heat of your skin against his, how you stood there blazing just under the flesh like a star condensed to one body while his will broke almost entirely. He had wanted to press the flat of his palm against your cheek, to better understand the impossible softness of you. And if he had done that, if you had let him—you did let him, you stood so still and so quiet, watching him with those eyes he wants on him always—then the rest of his resolve would have died and he would do something regrettable. Something like press his bare face into your hair and breathe you in, just to envelop himself in the scent he's been chasing for months. And you would scream, and scream, and scream to see his face but he would not be able to stop.)

Jason breaks into a run, uncaring of the ligament that still slips poorly around in his thigh. It should have healed properly by now, and he knows why it has not. It doesn't matter. Nothing else matters more than getting to your side and staying there. Where he should have been all along.

He only hopes you will let him.

You have counted four hundred and eighty-two breaths since sitting. The counting is good. It keeps you from slipping into that just-under-the-surface panic. You started gasping for air at some point, feeling it rush over your senses like being caught in high tide, but the sound disturbed Heracles, and his dissatisfied grumble brought you back to yourself. That's when the counting started, and you haven't stopped yet.

It's four hundred and eighty-eight when Jason makes his entrance. Your spine straightens minutely when you spot his shape in the woods, walking toward you with such slowness that it can only be for your benefit. Maybe he senses how fragile you are right now with some land-given power he hasn't shared yet. Maybe the look on your face is putting the word danger in his mind for once. Or maybe he just understands that you've been through something horrible, and coming at you with any amount of speed is a bad idea. As he takes his careful steps, stride cut neatly in half with the effort, you find you don't actually care. All that matters is that he's here like he said he would be.

Unfortunately for him, you've had four hundred and ninety-four breaths to think.

The dogs are staring at him at your side, and you feel Abby's tail hitting your hip, but neither make a move to go to him. They're such good dogs. Somewhere in the emotional nothing space you're occupying, you spare a warm thought for them. It doesn't reflect in the flat, even surface of your voice when you say, "This has happened before."

Jason stops when he hears you. It's like he hits a wall, a dozen or so feet from where you sit, and it keeps him there. No seeing his eyes in this darkness despite the moon you admired only two hours ago, and it's better that way. Even knowing that they are focused solely on you is like a physical weight, pressing you into the ground, hands around your throat, squeezing, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—no.

You take your hand off of Abby's back to gesture at the wreck of your door, into the dimly lit confines of your house. "Something like it, back in New York. About a year ago, now. It's why I left."

Abby presses more solidly into your side, so you put your hand back into its spot along her spine, and the warmth is nice. It's close to chilly out here now that the sun has been gone for hours. You don't really feel it, which some ultra-rational part of you recognizes as a problem, but you ignore it for the time being. It's much easier to focus on Jason's hands, stripped of their gloves—when did he takes those off?—and the way he signs, What happened?

"Which time?" you answer immediately, and you pause. A mirthless laugh bursts out of you and Heracles flinches at your side. Up until this point, he'd been dozing. "Christ, listen to me. Which time. An offense in the fucking plural, now." But you know what Jason's asking. No sense in torturing him, not when his shoulders are hunching inward. "I was subleasing a bedroom in a shitty apartment. Two beds, one bath, and the rent was awful, but it was the only place I could afford while still in the city. My roommate, the girl I was leasing from, wasn't actually home that often while I lived there. She had a roster of partners, but one was kind of rich, so she spent a lot of time at their place." It's a lot of concepts at once for Jason, whose knowledge of society at large outside of Crystal Lake you're still trying to gauge, but you're in no mood to explain ethical non monogamy to him right now. He's smart, you figure he'll get it through context or ignore it entirely. Either way.

"All of this is to say that she would rent out her room when she wasn't planning on using it for a while. Short-term, not like my situation, it was…temporary. Couch surfing with slightly more regulations." Again, you're working around saying the word Airbnb. "She wasn't great about changing the code on the lock after people had stayed, though. Sometimes people would just walk into the apartment and it wasn't clear if they were supposed to be there, but—whatever, you know. My bedroom door had a lock, and at that point I didn't actually leave my room that much, so it didn't really effect me."

You have to stop for a moment to fight down the panic. The breathing count is abandoned, no hope in keeping it up while you talk. This is the first time you've said any of this out loud and it's hitting you harder than you expected.

Jason is moving again, coming to stand in front of you. Heracles sniffs curiously at him when he drops to his knees in the gravel, tenser than you've ever seen him. He sees where this is going, no doubt.

Another breath, and you're mostly back to yourself. "It was three people. I was there alone, as usual, and they came in right as I was about to leave. I had an interview, my first in months—my hair was still wet from the shower. But they came in, and they weren't expecting me to be there, I think. I didn't recognize them, at least. I tried to leave, but one of them blocked me, and I was already nervous so I…yelped? When he got in front of me? And he—he smiled, and he told the other two to get started."

It's vivid in your mind's eye. The mundane yellow of his teeth, his height barely anything against yours, but built like he'd been lifting since he was old enough to stand. Thick cords of muscle in his arms, and a tattoo of a funeral lily near the wrist. A knockoff calculator watch that seemed so juvenile compared to the rest of him, just a few years older than yourself. The way you bit your tongue halfway through telling him to take whatever he wants, just let you go first, because he lifted his hand and you flinched away from it.

"It was fast. I mean, one second I was standing, and the next I was on the floor, blood all in my mouth. The others didn't care, didn't even look, so they must have been used to it. I…" You're shivering while you catch your breath, and it's as much from the cold as it is saying any of this out loud. "All I could do was just take it. I still don't know if there was a…a sexual element to it. Maybe that would have come after I was dead? But I do know he hit me like he fucking hated me. So. Yeah."

Jason spells out your name, as gentle in the movements as he's ever been, but you can see the stiffness in him. There's a vein in his neck, just visible in the moonlight, that jumps out in a way that you think means he's gritting his teeth. Part of you is gratified to see him upset over this, because you're pretty fucking upset about it, too. Still, you skip over the mess of your roommate coming home and the scuffle between her partner and the man with your blood all over his knuckles. How you blinked back into consciousness to find your roommate crouched next to you, phone to her ear and hissing, "She's hurt really badly." You don't feel particularly up to the task of detailing how many of your teeth had to be professionally tightened after it was all said and done, or how nothing ever came from the report you filed with the police.

There's a knot in your throat when you try talking again, choking you up. "That's why I left. I never felt safe there again. Getting Heracles helped, but I was so scared all the time, just constantly sitting alone in that room and wondering if he would come back, if he wanted to finish what he started. So I came here, and I made this place safe for me, but now—" another humorless laugh, and you feel tears leaking down your cheeks, "Apparently I have victim written all over me in bold and everyone else can see it no matter how far from society I get. I don't know what to do about that, I don't—what else can I do? Where else can I go? I'm so tired of being scared, Jason, I'm so fucking tired." And of course you include him in that. It wasn't long ago at all that you spent your days certain he would kill you as soon as you stepped outside, and that old fear clashes strangely with the door hanging off its hinge at your back. You want to scream at him to explain, finally, why he let you live. The answer, whatever it is, can't make this night any worse.

An argument is forming in the back of your mind while you watch Jason attempt to apologize. His hands are shaking as badly as they were when he knelt before you earlier, and he's exhaling hard through his nose every time they twitch too much. You think it's supposed to be an apology—not much of it is making sense.

As collected tears slide down the bruised surface of your throat, you tell yourself that the man who tried to kill you tonight would never have been anywhere near you if it weren't for Jason. How many others are out there right now, broken and discarded like you almost were? The thought of all that blood, always more blood, makes your stomach turn. And here is their murderer, knelt on the ground before you and all but begging for your forgiveness. Because he didn't kill one quickly enough.

It makes you sick. It makes you feel powerful.

"You don't have to apologize," some tired part of you says while the rest ruminates on the mess that has been made of your life. What were you thinking, getting wrapped up in this? Because you were lonely? Someone is dead because of you. Because of him. "I don't expect anything from you."

Jason's next breath sounds strained and he edges closer, knees leaving tracks in the gravel, until he's almost flush against your crossed legs. The light coming from inside your house is just enough to catch the glint of his eyes inside the mask, but you don't need it to know he's staring at you with an unfathomable intensity. Expect it, he tells you. His hands are in his command again, utterly calm. You still have trouble reading them, but only because you can't quite tear yourself away from the impression of his eyes. You are safe with me. I should have been here.

That does it. Everything comes crashing down over your head—the night, the past, the unfairness of it—and you start to sob in earnest. "Then why weren't you?"

I was tied up, he tells you, and before you can wrap your head around Jason using an idiom, he pulls up his dark sleeves and shows you the clear ligature marks still denting the skin.

He means it literally. For the first time, you have to look at the wreck of his shirt and ask yourself just how much of that blood is his? You assumed it all belonged to everyone else who has died tonight, but if someone was able to get him down long enough to tie him up, then he could have been seriously hurt. Not enough to last, obviously, but enough to rouse concern. You're hit with the impulse to ask, to check that he's okay, but all that comes out of your mouth is a garbled oh that's half-drowned by your own tears.

Jason takes your face between his cool palms. The skin is calloused and dry where it touches yours, and they lack the warmth anyone else's hands might have, but they are steady, and they are gentle, and you need them right now. You need him right now—everything else falls away, just for a second, because there is no one else you want nearby while you cry but him. His long thumbs swipe lightly across your undereyes to brush away the tears that just keep falling while the rest of his fingers rest along the natural space for them along your jaw. The pads of his middle fingers press in, briefly, on both sides, and a semi-lucid part of your brain wonders if he's checking your pulse. It jumps up to meet his touch, kickstarting your heart into a frenzied tempo that crosses the line into frantic. If he has a heartbeat, you can't feel it through the thundering of your own.

You come to pieces right then and there. Abby whines at your side while you shiver and rock with the force of your sobs, but neither of you can offer her any comfort. All you manage to do is reach up and hold Jason's wrists, keeping him right where he is. The indents left by the ropes make your brain stutter and you start rubbing at them without consciously deciding to. He doesn't seem to have much heat, or a pulse, but you know he has blood in those veins, and it's such a natural thing to try and encourage them to flow again. You feel him shudder, a full-body thing that moves you with it, and you're trying to form a sorry through the mess of your weeping, but he mimics the action before you can. In that space under the curve of your jaw, his calloused fingers rub small, soothing circles just over your pulse point.

He lets you cry much, much longer than you could have expected. Not once does he try to pull away, nor does he stop the soft circles that have steadily calmed your racing heart, and that is exactly what you need. He stays there, knelt in the dirt and gravel, and keeps you safe while you cry out every emotion you've ever felt. You think, when your eyes have gone raw and the skin around them starts to burn, that if anyone were to come here now, to see this, they would never believe it. Jason Voorhees, an emotional rock that you've readily tied yourself to. Of course, they wouldn't live long enough for what they've witnessed to matter—you've known almost from the start that you get to see a side of Jason that few, if any, others do.

When the last of the tears fall, you don't so much as relax as you do crumple. All the fight leaves your body and is replaced with an all-consuming, numbing exhaustion. There is nothing left in you but the shreds of consciousness keeping you awake, and you think you could sleep for a thousand years and still wake up tired. But you do, eventually, slide your hands up to cover the back of Jason's and carefully pull them away. You hold his big hands between yours, whatever warmth left in you given over to him, and brush your thumb over a raised scar that spans two of his knuckles. He stops breathing. You only notice because you've been timing your breaths to his, once you both settled down enough for that to work, and you finally look up at him.

The mask is such a hindrance. In that moment, you want to take the edge of it and tip it upwards, to see what expression he's making under there, because you have never seen his eyes so soft. Just the impression of them in the light is enough to make your very, very tired heart thump.

"Thank you," you whisper. "For tonight." Which you mostly mean for letting you cry when you needed to, but also for the fact that you're sure he saved your life.

His hands are warm when you release them, your heat having permeated down enough to make him feel life-like, and he flexes them in mid-air a few times. He only takes his eyes off of you long enough to stare down at them, turning this way and that on the wrist like they've inexplicably changed. It would make you smile if you weren't so tired.

Then, with his gaze returned, he nods. It's all that needs to be said for tonight.

Jason glides his fingers through Abby's fur while you finish drying your face, and the way his eyes widen with clear delight encourages your heart to thump pleasantly again. He's never pet her with his bare hands where you could see—it's all too possible you're witnessing him truly petting his own dog for the first time. It's the most natural thing in the world to then take hold of his free hand and guide it to the top of Heracles' head, the fur there extra soft from a thousand kisses. His breathing goes funny behind the mask and this time you do find it in you to smile. It falters after a second, but it's there, and that helps.

You stand with all the grace your stiff limbs can muster, which isn't much. The groan that works its way up your throat is there entirely of its own volition, just your body's way of communicating how much it has not appreciated this day. Jason rises with you, and he makes to catch you when equilibrium is the last thing to catch up with the motion, but you're able to get upright on your own. A good thing, too—you're certain that if you let Jason touch you again, you'll fall asleep in his arms. It's just too much to consider right now. So you rub your face with your hand, more for the normalcy of the action rather than any need for it, and direct this next part over his right shoulder. "I'm…going to sleep. This…" a gesture to the broken door, "can wait until tomorrow."

I can fix it, Jason signs immediately, sizing up the ruin behind you as if for the first time. I will fix it.

"It's fine," you half-sigh, too tired to argue about wanting to fix it yourself, if possible. "It's a tomorrow problem, it's all a tomorrow problem, for now…I just really, really want to go to bed." And you look up at him with such plain exhaustion that you can physically see him dropping the matter. For now.

Getting the dogs back inside is more trouble than you expected. This night has clearly rattled Heracles, who growls upon getting past the threshold, and Abby's hackles raise within a few steps. It's something of a relief that your nose isn't as sharp as theirs—all you smell is bleach. You sigh as you step in after them. "I know. I know. Just…c'mon, the bedroom's still good. Please." You do feel for them, honestly, and you're over the moon that they're unharmed, but your patience is non-existent. In the end, you have to scoop Heracles' brick-like body into your arms when he refuses to to go any further, nuzzling your chin into the side of his neck so he knows you're not mad at him. Abby takes the cue and bounds down the hallway and into your open bedroom, and you watch her curl up in the middle of the bed with significant gratitude toward her. Heracles will calm down if she's calm, you're sure, and you'll feel better once they're settled.

Even still, you get two steps into the house with your burden before turning back and looking up at Jason. He fills the doorway once again, but he does not cross over, and his arms are firmly at his side. Just seeing him there helps fight away the dully encroaching fear of being inside again, his familiar frame backed by moonlight abating the press of your dark walls. The words are out of your mouth before you consciously decide to say them. "Will you stay? For tonight?" The idea of him leaving, of physically being where you can't get to him, is enough to make you shiver.

Of course, of course, he agrees. I will be here until you want me somewhere else. You and the dogs are safe, I promise. Your shoulders slump with relief to the point where you almost drop Heracles, and even then, you're only saved because he makes a grumpy noise close to your ear. Sleep. I am here.

Maybe you'll fight with him tomorrow. Maybe, when your head is clearer, you'll tell him you never want to see him again. Maybe you'll fall into his arms and cry until he swears upon the land that already binds him to protect you above all else. You don't care right now. He says he will stay and you believe him. It's enough.

You hug Heracles closer to your chest. "Okay. Thank you, Jason. I—thank you."

He does something just before he takes the wreck of the door in both hands and hauls it back into place for the night. He reaches across the threshold into your home and presses his fingertips to your cheek, then spells out the letters of your name with featherlight smoothness. You hold still while he does it, and the touch is so sweet, so gentle, that your lids flutter shut of their own accord. But then it is gone as quickly as it arrived, and when you come back to yourself, the door is mostly in its place.

Your breath flutters out of your chest like a newly living thing, completely unmarred by the terror of this night.

The dogs deign to make space for you when you finally get into bed. You need a shower, but that goes into the tomorrow's problem pile along with everything else, and once you've got the bedroom door locked, you are single-minded in crawling between the covers. The mattress presses against your sore body like a hug, which does prompt you to squeeze out a few more miserable tears. This fucking day.

Your last thought is of Jason standing guard outside, and that final press of his fingers to your cheek, and your body finally lets go. You are asleep within seconds, and if you dream at all, it is only of being carried far, far away by a forgiving current.

[opossum-that-serves-cunt]

stockholm syndrome being a "rare psychological disorder" is some bullshit because I feel like it's very natural to watch a horror film and want to fuck him.

[amomentsescape]

Reader runs behind slasher because someone else is harassing/chasing/stalking them. They don't even know they hid behind a killer for help and apologized to the killer for their awkward action of hiding behind them.

Imagine if reader is so polite that they do a apologetic bending bow.

Slashers Being the Protector (Rather than the Killer)

Slashers x Reader (Separate)

Includes: Freddy, Michael, Jason, Thomas, Bubba, Brahms, Norman, Billy, Stu, Vincent, & Bo

Warnings: Being chased/stalked, maybe a couple cuss words?

A/N: Thank you for the request! I didn't do the bow for every Slasher since I felt like it would get repetitive after a while. But I hope you enjoy either way!

Obviously, walking home alone is never your first choice, but it's not like you had an option.

Your job kept you late. And as much as you wished you could have just set some damn boundaries for yourself, you couldn't say no. You were probably the only one that actually cared about your job.

You kept a fast pace, holding your head down as to not make eye contact with anyone you passed by.

And this worked for a while. You were at a point in your journey home where you found yourself completely alone. However, there was still a part of you that felt uneasy. They always say that humans are able to tell when someone is watching them, and you were clearly no exception to this.

You finally took a deep breath and paused, mustering up the courage to look at your surroundings.

The woods were beside you, the darkness only allowing you to see a few trees at a time, but thankfully, no one seemed to be there.

Ahead of you was just more concrete and not a single street lamp in view.

And behind you... was someone.

You hadn't expected to see anyone there, but of course your luck would prove otherwise.

Your eyes widened and your breath got caught in your throat. Why were they just standing there?

Without taking your eyes off of them, you took one step backwards.

They took one forwards.

You took another step.

They did too.

It was in that moment that you knew you had to think quickly.

Should you just turn around and keep running straight ahead? No, that would prove useless. They would surely outrun you and grab ahold of you in no time.

Or should you turn and run to the woods, hiding behind trees for long enough that they give up?

You didn't like this idea much more than the first, but you figured this was probably the only option that got you out of this unharmed.

With your eyes watering and jaw clenching, you sprinted towards the woods.

You could hear their footsteps behind you, branches and leaves snapping in the distance.

They were catching up.

A sob slipped from your lips as you could feel your legs burn.

Keep pushing. Keep going.

And you did, right towards a figure in the distance.

Freddy Krueger

He could hear your sporadic heartbeat from a mile away

He was already smiling, hoping that you were about to be another easy victim

But something about your fright felt off

Someone else was after you

The moment you came into view, his smile softened a bit

You looked so desperate and scared

In any other context, he would have loved to see it, but it wasn't him making you feel this way

Plus, you weren't repulsive to him like everyone else

He could see the split second of hesitation on your face when you saw his gnarled skin and sharp gloves

But clearly that other person had spooked you more

You were already apologizing, begging for some sort of help

You weren't even six feet from Freddy when he raised his arm and a sudden thud could be heard behind you

The person who was once following you no longer had a head

You turned back to the burnt man, suddenly feeling worried that you would be next, but instead, he grabbed the side of your face

"I can't blame the guy. I would have wanted to snatch you up too," he cackled

Michael Myers

Michael raised a single brow under his mask

Clearly, you were terrified of the person chasing after you, but was seeing another large man holding a bloody knife of no concern to you?

You ran up to him, coming to an immediate stop when you saw the blade glinting back at you

"I-I need help. Please," you could barely choke out

He could tell you were trying to figure out who to be more afraid of

It's not like Michael really cared that you were being chased, but this was his territory, no one else is allowed to do his job for him

He stepped in front of you, watching as the other person slowly came to a halt

He grabbed your arm and began to drag you towards the figure

You started to cry at this, thinking he was about to give you up

Instead, his knife plunged deeply into the other person's neck, their body collapsing to the ground

You had blood splattered on you, and you could still feel the fear in your chest

You gave him a soft bow, wordlessly thanking him before stumbling back out

It was only when you heard a branch snap behind you that you turned around

He was still behind you

As you kept walking, he kept following

You really thought he'd just help you without something in return?

Jason Voorhees

He thought he killed everyone already, so how did he miss you?

How did he miss someone so cute too?

Oh, you're running towards him instead of away

This is odd

If he had been any other average sized person, you would have tackled him to the ground with how hard you collided with him

"I-I need help. Please!" you cried out, rushing behind him

He quickly took notice of the person chasing after you, them stopping in their tracks at the sight of Jason

Now, who's being hunted?

The stalker began to run the other way, not failing to notice the freshly bloodied machete like you did

However, with Jason's stride, it didn't take long for him to catch up and knock the person's head clean off in one swipe

He took a deep breath and turned back to face you, expecting you to be running for the hills

Instead, you ran up and hugged him, thanking him through your tears

You weren't... scared?

He had no idea what to do, so he just stood there while you cried into him

At least he was right about his earlier judgment

You were cute

Too cute to turn into just another victim

Thomas Hewitt

He was actually making his way towards you both

He thought you two would be good additions to tonight's menu

But the moment he saw you look at him in relief instead of terror...

Something in him shook

Before you could even say anything, he was guiding you behind him, some protective instinct overriding his usual hunter side

The person who was following put their hands up, saying that they "didn't want any trouble"

And in response, Thomas through a meat cleaver at their head

You about screamed but he turned around, looking at you softly

"I-I'm sorry. You didn't have to d-do that," you said barely above a whisper

He just shook his head and continued to watch you, some internal battle waging inside him

He really really didn't want to kill you

But what would his family think?

Only one way to find out, he supposes

With that, he hoists you up and into his arms bridal style, carrying back home

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba is about three times the size of the guy chasing you

So despite the unpleasant mask, you felt like he was your only chance at safety

He tilted his head in confusion

Normally, people like you run the opposite way from him

So the moment you're in front of him, heaving and shakily explaining what's going on, he feels angry

He might be a murderous cannibal, but Mama taught him some manners

He quickly whips out the chainsaw beside him, causing you to jump at the sight

Now it was the stalker's turn to be afraid

You were left in the woods for probably 15 minutes alone, still too scared to unfreeze yourself from the spot

It was only when you saw a large figure in the distance carrying something that you finally got your bearings

Bubba walked a little past you, holding the body of the man prior

He stops for a second and looks at you, motioning his head for you to follow

And what were you going to do?

Say "no" to the man holding a chainsaw and a dead body?

Brahms Heelshire

Brahms was already on edge

He never strayed this far from the mansion, and the fact that he was out this far made him feel very jumpy

So when he saw you running straight for him, he was ready to attack

Until he saw the desperation on your face

"Help! Please!" you begged him

And a cute thing like yourself would be difficult for him to deny

He saw the figure stalking after you, slowing down when they realized they had company

Brahms stepped in front of you and gave the person a challenged look

And it seemed to have worked, because the person began to back off almost immediately

He could have killed the guy, sure

But he wasn't going to be a threat anymore

Why? Because you were coming home with him

And once you're in his territory, there's no leaving

He'll make sure of it

Norman Bates

Norman wasn't even sure how he got there in the first place

All he remembers was being at home when suddenly everything went black

And now he was here, watching as some person runs up to him him in a panic

Before he could say a word, you were holding onto him, spinning yourself around so you were behind him

And that's when he saw another figure in the distance

"P-please," you suddenly croaked, "I don't know who that is. I was just walking home alone and I-"

He shushes you, his eyes still locked on the man

He could feel your head bump into his back as you bowed, muttering apologies to him

"It's okay," he reassured. "They're not going to do anything."

His brows furrowed as his face twitched

Maybe it was your cute panicked face, or the way your soft hands were gripping his back

But either way, Norman could feel his conscious fading out

He won't hurt you, though the same can't be said for the other person

He just hopes you'll still be there when he comes to

Billy Loomis

You were terrified, that was obvious

But he was honestly surprised that you seemed more scared of a random weirdo behind you than the notorious serial killer straight ahead

You grabbed his arm, not failing to notice the sharp blade in his dominant hand

"I-if you're going to kill me," you gulped, "Then fine, but can you please kill them first?" you motioned

This may have been an odd suggestion to most, but the worst Ghostface was going to do was stab you, but you had no idea what the other person's intentions were

The creep was only a few feet away now, their hand also donning a sharp blade

Billy wouldn't have normally entertained such an idea, but he knew you from school

And God, were you pretty

"Shit," he whispered

He twirled the knife around as he approached the figure, the latter already stepping back

It was an easy kill, and Billy was back to your side in no time

"Thank you," you bowed, head down and awaiting your fate

Instead, he grabbed your chin and made you look at his mask

He couldn't wait to see you at school the next day

Stu Macher

He could see you freeze the moment you were in sight

The Ghostface attire was already pretty notorious in the town, and he could see the worry on your face at the realization

And clearly, the person chasing you also felt the same, because the moment they saw him, they ran off the other direction

Tears began to stream down your face at this

Although, he couldn't tell if they were from relief or fear at that point

He stepped a little closer to you as you stumbled back

"P-please, don't, I-"

He dropped his knife and reached out to you in response

You shakily took his hand, obviously scared of what he was going to do

But he simply began walking you out of the woods, checking around for the creep

He walked you all the way home before giving you a small wave and running off, leaving you completely dumbfounded

He spared you?

It took you a few days afterwards to almost forget about the situation

Until you turned on the news

There was a report of a dead body found in the same woods you were just in a couple nights before

Another apparent criminal from the area...

You gulped, realizing it was your stalker as the phone suddenly rang

"Unknown caller"

Huh, weird

Vincent Sinclair

Bo somehow got him to leave that musty old building

But of course, he ran off to God knows where and left Vincent alone

So the moment he saw your figure sprinting closer, he assumed that Bo would be the one to follow

However, he quickly noticed that the man behind you was not his brother, and he suddenly felt dumbfounded on what to do

Bo would surely be pissed, but something about you told him you shouldn't become just another wax figure in his collection

So the moment you were close enough, he was stepping in front of you, some newfound confidence leading him

The stalker hesitated for a moment before finally stumbling back, leaving the two of you alone

"Thank you, thank you!" you repeated, your head instinctively shifting downwards

Vincent took a deep breath in while looking at you

Yep, Bo was definitely going to be angry

But oh well

You were just too sweet to let go stale

Bo Sinclair

He could hear your erratic footsteps rushing closer to him

And unlike most of the others on this list, he comes off as a seemingly normal guy, so of course you wouldn't hesitate to go to him

His cocky smile only widens when he gets a look at your face

A mighty cute thing, you are

"Excuse me? Sir, I think I'm being followed and-" your voice cracked

How precious

Surely too pretty and too soft to be made into hard wax, hmm?

He steps towards you, and you think he's about to help you

But no

He grabs ahold of your shirt tightly, muttering some smooth nonsense to your stalker about finding "a good place for this one"

Tears begin to stream down you face

How could you have so blindly trusted a stranger?

He leads the both of you back to some empty building that you assume will be the last place you'll be alive

But the moment Bo turns back around, a pipe is swung into the other man's head

He'd be a great addition to the museum

You turn to your "savior" in confusion

"Can't let a pretty thing like you go to waste, huh darlin'?"

All you can do is tilt your head down in a silent "thank you"

[psychotic-star-girl]

[taeaura]

[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.”

.

[the-s1lly-corner]

Wearing their jackets (slasher edition)

I need to write slasher stuff more.... I also need to watch scream like I said I would... and other films... but alas cotl rot is too strong

Characters: Jason, brahms, bubba, Thomas, Michael

Notes: reader is gn, cold weather baby!!, in Michael's bit yoy wear his coveralls because he refuses to throw a jacket over it

CWs: none

JASON

Built like a polar bear, he's so used to the cold that he just shrugs it off as he goes into the woods to get fire wood for you

Actually offers his jacket to you until he can get a fire started to keep you warm- he doesn't want you to get sick! Don't worry about him! Especially if this is zombie Jason, the cold doesn't really.. effect his undead body that much...

Doesn't mind it if you steal his jacket from him, he takes it as you being cold- but if you explain that it's partly because you miss him he feels.. bad.. he didn't mean to take so long in the woods he promises

Even if you said it jokingly he's going to do his best to make up for his brief absence

BUBBA

let me tell you, as someone who lives in texas: the winters get brutal. Incredibly cold, he's definitely got at least one coat somewhere... and even if he only had one he would let you take it

But... please stay close to him by the heater, he knows you probably want to go do something else with him but it's truly too cold to not be able to do much else without freezing in their old house- even worse if this takes place in their new home in the second film... underground

He thinks you look really cute in his coat and he tries to let you know that- hes... a little bashful but you think it's sweet

You both probably end up cuddling into one another under the coat together

THOMAS

Once more: texas gets incredibly cold in the winter depending on the time of year and where you are. He's got a coat somewhere

Not that that he really uses it, built like a polar bear like Jason. He tolerates cold pretty well, hardly seems phased by it.. he's so laser focused on his chores and work around the house that you often find him still working outside

And he's given his coat to you because you have a lower tolerance than him... maybe you can convince him to come snuggle with you under it? Maybe? He'd hate to leave his chores unfinished but he doesn't like saying no to you

Very heavy coat, very thick

MICHAEL

Completely unphased by the cold, he also doesn't have a jacket. The best you can do is take his coveralls when you FINALLY convince him to take them off so they can be washed

Does not like sharing his things, the likelihood of him humoring you after you put them in is low. May actually take them off of you himself... not incredibly rough but there's intention to yoink them back

If you're cold then go get a blanket or you're own jacket... why steal his things without asking?

It completely flies over his head that jacket (or rather clothing) stealing is common for couples

BRAHMS

Move over give him his sweater back he's FREEZING! If he needs to he's going to wear the sweater with you in it!

HATES the cold and he's going to make it everyone else's problem, please don't let him catch a fever reader! Please!

Fire place? Lit. Blankets? Gathered. Sweaters? Worn. You're more likely to see him leave the walls during the colder months so he can snag your body heat, too

Lets it go to his head if you let slip that you stole his sweater because you missed him... hes basically hovering over now- well, more than he did before

[nobitchs-world]

Me: I love horror movie slashers

My scary ass if I ever saw them:

[pumopucci]

The accumulated Jason and leatherfaces sketches I drew

[sharkie-ds]

🦈My type🦈

[whereisyourstar]

Split Apart at the Seams

Jason Voorhees x GN Reader oneshot (for now)

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: graphic descriptions of injury, blood, muscle, and pain. newly discovered masochism and sadism. wound fucking. unhealthy power dynamics.

Your reason for being here at all is equal parts genuine chivalry and blatant sucking up. One coroner, three assistants, and four student interns makes for pretty tight scheduling when the nature of the job is to be on call 24/7. Illness spreads like wildfire in this building despite the sanitation standards, which means you're preparing to do the work of three people—the coroner herself and your fellow assistant, who had to leave halfway through his shift. For the next fifteen hours, it's just you and a rotating cast of interns (who get to stagger their six hour shifts, the lucky bastards) taking on whatever scant cases Crystal Lake can throw at you. These late night shifts are never too exciting, which is a blessing and a curse. Finding ways to stay awake becomes an active hunt for work on nights like this.

Nine mostly peaceful hours pass, and you're making your way through decently well on the combined graces of coffee (always fresh, you love the interns and will miss them so much when their summer break is over) and listening to radio. Both help you put a sizable dent in the paperwork that's always piling up, and when the late-night DJs start pulling out their more obscure tracks, you find you have a taste for the blues.

That peace is broken at fifteen past midnight, when the phone on the coroner's abandoned desk rings and all hell breaks loose. Thirteen bodies coming in from down near the lake, all confirmed dead, identification still being sorted through. The officer at the station relaying everything to you isn't shy about using the word massacre.

It's just about the last thing you need right now, this close to the end of the shift, but insane murderers aren't in the habit of checking in with the local morgues before doing their thing.

Once the ambulances and removal vans arrive, you work with the sole intern and the paramedics to get the bodies directly into the morgue. You're forced to talk with a pair of detectives for a few minutes, mostly just squaring away contact information for when the autopsies are finished, but the entire time you're just thinking of the number of bodies and putting them against the hours left before you get to go home. You won't get to them all before the next assistant comes in, so you'll take the most interesting ones first. Anything to keep you awake through the rest of the morning.

The detectives stay to oversee you and the intern stripping the bodies, ensuring that every stitch of clothing goes into an evidence bag. It's work that no one particularly likes, but it's worse on the bodies that have been dead longer—once blood dries down, it's hell to pry off of skin. You work in tandem with the intern, undressing the corpses so he can fill the bags, and you make mental notes to follow up on while you work. These are mostly college kids, reeking of weed and booze and sweat, like nearly everyone does when it's summer in Crystal Lake—not much else to do in a town like this except smoke and drink and have sex. The tragedy of it hits you in a distant way. These kids were too young to die, but you've been working for the coroner long enough to know that death isn't picky about who it takes. You haven't cried over a case since this past winter, when a twelve year old boy was picked up off the street, literally frozen to death. That's part of the reason you're working so hard to impress the coroner now—the look she gave you that day was withering.

At the end of the row of fresh bodies lays one that is distinctly bigger than the rest. The detectives at your back focus in as one when you approach it, the combined weight of their attention almost physical, and it sets you on edge. This body is special in some way, and just going off the size alone…the killer, maybe? Did one of these kids manage to take out their own murderer before they died?

It's a man in a mask. An old hockey mask, you think, but that's where the sports paraphernalia begins and ends. Your suspicion feels slightly more justified now—a mask means he didn't want anyone knowing who was killing them. You take a second to inspect the deep slash to the head that's been partially absorbed by the off-white fiberglass, impressed more than anything that whoever gave it to him managed to get all the way down to the skull casing with one swing. Then you hook your gloved fingers under the chin of the mask and pull up.

He's older than the others. That's the first thing you notice—there's fine lines around the eyes that you don't think are connected to any of the facial abnormalities. Mid-to-late thirties, you'd say, but not much more than that. Those eyes are wide open, as they often are in death, and you note the difference in alignment. One is lower than the other, cloudy and drooping where the brown one is more typically shaped. The part of you that just really loves this job can't help but do a quick case study—upturned nose that trends bulbous near the tip, some kind of cleft palate that turns the left side of the mouth down, a misshapen ear on the right, and protrusions in the skull that make you hope his mother got a cesarean over trying for a natural birth.

One of the detectives whistles a sharp note, jolting you out of your focus. "Damn. That is one ugly motherfucker."

Your frown is immediate—your job isn't to evaluate anyone's looks, and you don't think it's the detective's either—but you hide it before he walks over to stand on the other side of the cot. He peers down, practically bending in half at the waist to get a better look, and it strikes you as distastefully voyeuristic. Is this what the CLPD is paid to do? Stare at dead people who look different? You want to grab for the mask to cover him back up, but that's an overreaction and you know it. Besides, the intern has already packed it away into an evidence bag.

"I'll take this one in first," you tell him, schooling your tone toward neutrality. "Anything I should know before we put these others away?"

He spares a second to meet your eyes, and his mustache twitches at the side like you said something funny. "Nope. You just make sure to give us a ring when you're finished with 'em all, we'll want copies of the files."

You spare a thought for your colleague on the next shift, who will have to deal with not only the police, but enticing the ancient copier to spit out at least thirteen case files before his shift is over. If you have time, you'll personally put a fresh pot of coffee on before he comes in.

The rest of the undressing is done on autopilot, your every motion the most efficient it can be under the curious gaze of the detective. He's too interested in the unremarkable, if slightly meaty, form that's revealed for your liking. You wish you could tell him to back up, and maybe that's something the coroner could do, but you definitely don't have that authority. It's a relief when you're able to pull the white protective sheet over the body, now matching with the other twelve, and the detective trots back over to his partner. You stay long enough to make sure the intern is okay with helping the regular officers collect the evidence bags, and ask to have the other bodies cleaned while you work. Normally you would stay to assist, but you want to get this body out of the morgue as quickly as possible.

You can relax a little in the examination room. The smell of sanitizer is familiar, and the bite of cold metal keeps you sharp. Once you've got a new set of gloves on, you set about heaving the body onto the table, which is done neither gracefully nor respectfully. You settle for tilting the stretcher cot up inch by inch until the unmasked man tumbles onto it, then adjusting him correctly from there. This is why the coroner has assistants and interns in the first place—some cases are built like linebackers and weigh what feels like half a ton. She had better adore you after this shift.

From there it's just the routine of performing an autopsy. Start the recorder, wash the body, and make notes as you go. You take your time with that head wound, notating it as the result of either an ax or large blade. It was sharp, whatever it was—the layers of skin and fat are so cleanly defined that it's almost textbook. Like you noticed earlier, though, the actual skull hasn't been punctured. This wound is nasty, and it happened recently enough for the blood that oozes out to not have coagulated yet, but it's not what killed him.

"Let's see what you can tell me," you mutter, lifting the chin to inspect a continuous line of bruising around the throat. To the recorder you say, "Bruising is consistent with strangulation or hanging…swelling in the neck, but that may be a side effect of the overgrowth on left trapezius. Nothing broken as far as I can tell." You prod your fingers along the neck, careful of the hump that eats up a good portion of the body's left shoulder area. You'll have to inspect it later to make sure it is just a physical anomaly and nothing related to the death, but that leering detective still looms in your mind. This man, whoever he was, deserves some dignity after death. After that struggle with the cot, you'll protect as much of it as you can.

With the external examination done, you move onto the actual autopsy. The scalpel sits on its tray with the other tools while you prod at the body's chest, checking for anything that might obstruct the blade's path. No body hair, thankfully—a scalpel is plenty sharp, but you've had to shave more than a few chests to the coroner's satisfaction, and you're never keen for a repeat performance. Everything checks out, so you pick up the scalpel, press it to the left shoulder and report to the recorder: "Beginning Y-incision now."

Part of your responsibilities here are keeping the coroner's tools in good repair, which is a job you take seriously. Just as sure as the sun rises every morning, you are positive that every scalpel that passes through your hands is cleaned and sharpened to the absolute standard. So there is no reason for it to get as far as three centimeters under the clavicle and then stop. The blade hits a snag and refuses to go any further no matter how you encourage it—which you have to do gently, because you really don't need a sloppy Y-incision on your record. "Come on," you breathe, leaning in close to try and see what's blocking the scalpel, then poking two fingers under the top layer of muscle to lift it. It's just standard skin and gristle, there's nothing here for the blade to even catch on, but you refuse to accept it's the scalpel's fault. Another finger goes under, a small break in procedure—there has to be an obstruction, you just need to see it better.

With three gloved fingers under the skin, tucked devastatingly close to the breastbone, you notice something. A buzzing, almost, like a hushed hive of bees is sending reverberations all throughout the body. Cautious, yet intrigued, you push your fingers further under and press them to the meat underneath, wanting a better feel. That buzzing is stronger here, you're up to the knuckles and nearly touching the breastbone now. Insects, maybe? But the blood hasn't started clotting yet, even fast-moving pests couldn't move in and get this deep this quickly.

Two things happen at nearly the same time. First: you abruptly understand why this man was presumed dead. His heart is beating so faintly and rapidly that its pulse is nearly undetectable—you certainly didn't notice it when inspecting his neck. Second: when you look over your shoulder, unwilling to rise from your curled in position, the man's eyes are open. They've been open, but now they're focused. The pupil on the brown one dilates into a pinprick as his upper lip curls.

You are three fingers deep in a dead man's chest and he's just woken up.

A hand is around your throat before you can react. The man is sitting up and taking you with him, his fingers crushing down on your windpipe with clear intent to choke the life out of you altogether. You have a scalpel in your hand, but it's your dominant one inside of him, and that's what you try to retrieve first when your reflexes finally kick in. The glove catches on exposed muscle and your fingers start to pull free of it entirely.

One moment the world was going black, and the next it isn't. Your throat is released and you gulp in huge lungfuls of air, panting and shaking and scared and confused. The man has traded holding your throat for ensnaring your wrist in his massive grip, the one connected to the half of your hand that's currently inside of him. All his attention is on the incision, now dripping at the seam with blood.

"I'm sorry," you rasp, half-heartedly pulling against him. His entire head twitches when you speak, like he's fighting the impulse to look at you. "I'm so, s-so sorry, I didn't know. You're, ah—not dead. You can g-go, you clearly don't need to be here."

He ignores your stammering for all the good it was going to do you in the first place. Instead, he tugs on your wrist and pushes your fingers further inside the incision, purposefully skipping them along the muscle there. He makes a sound that's somewhere between a grunt and a hiss, his upper lip curling to expose the sporadic placement of his teeth. Another tug, more forceful this time, and a deeper grunt. Then he looks at you.

You're standing there with your mouth hanging open. This can't be real. You must have caught the flu going around and now you're having a very vivid fever dream. He can't be doing what you think he's doing.

Experimentally, you twitch your fingers against the surface of the muscle and his breathing comes up short. You twitch them again and he licks his lips. When you splay them out entirely, laying them flat, he tips his head back and flutters his eyes shut. That's an expression you would recognize on any face. Bliss. Pleasure.

Your next breath comes out in a little oh and you stop trembling. With your wrist still locked up in his grip, all you can do is pet the striated muscle, massaging and stroking it in equal turn. The man loves it somehow, enjoys the pain or the intimacy or forcing you to do this at all, his breathing going heavy and the groans seeming to pull from under your fingerpads and up his throat.

Emboldened, you step closer and, rather than pull away, push into that vice lock on your wrist. He releases it instantly and is rewarded by your fingers brushing up against hard bone—a rib. The noise he makes is strangled and you're already staring at his face when his eyes fly open. He looks from you, to your hand, and back to you. His naked brows pull down in a silent question.

You don't know what compels you to reassure him. "It's okay," you tell him, hushed, soothing. "I know what I'm doing."

It's not a lie. You are good at your job—it's just this context that's new, really.

Maybe it's the sentiment that get through to him, or maybe it's the tone. What matters is that he holds your eyes, heavy brows pulling further down, then he nods. He breathes through this open mouth, panting a little. Waiting.

One of your fingers is still on the rib bone, so you stroke over it in a minute arc. The fit of the upper chest wall is tighter against the back of your hand here, but you're undeterred. One stroke, two strokes, three, and on the fourth you press your other fingers into the muscle. The man's cry is guttural and, interestingly, his hand slams down on the table. You jump, gasping, immediately concerned that you've gone too far. But it's not just pain twisting his features.

Professionalism, if there was any to begin with, flies out the window when you glance down the length of his body and find him painfully erect.

You learn something about yourself just then: you're kind of into this. Seeing his obvious pleasure with the situation seems to give your body and brain the go-ahead to enjoy it too. Even with that acknowledgment, the wave of want that crashes through your veins takes you completely off guard. Your hips press against the edge of the table in the hopes of tamping down on this sudden desire by giving it a bit of what it wants. The scant pressure is like kindling and you crush your bottom lip under your teeth to keep from whining. Fuck.

It's insane, but you're both past that by now, you think. Faster than blinking, you've lifted the scalpel again and cut another half inch along the incision. Now you're the one outpacing him, slipping your pinky finger under the skin and gently grinding your palm against the naked muscle and bone as you push it further in.

He grabs at the fabric of your scrubs, scrunching them in his grasp when he falls all the way back on the table with a massive clang. Taking you with him again, you guess, but it's possible he may just need something to hang onto. His bottom half writhes while everything from navel and up stays locked down—he's trying so hard not to disturb your work.

"Shh," you hush him over a genuine moan, stroking over the part of his rib cage that's received so much attention tonight. "You're doing so well. Should I press harder?"

He nods frantically, more of those wordless groans ripping through his throat. Your body pulses with desire, your focus pulled between his face, your hand inside him, and his dripping cock. The head is flushed such a vivid crimson that you wonder how he has any blood left at all. The professional in you does some sloppy math to calculate how much blood loss has already occurred. Everything else just wants to get a hold on that cock and see what happens if you sync your strokes between hands. He doesn't appear to need you, though—his hips rock in minute circles, thrusting into the open air. It's just enough, if the beads of precum slipping down his length are anything to go by.

You set the scalpel down on the table with shaking fingers, unwilling to cut any more into him while he still lives. Sloppy as that calculation may have been, the number you came up with was cause for concern, and you don't actually want to kill this guy. This leaves a hand with nothing to do, and you consider shoving it down the waistband of your scrubs and catching some relief. You're riled up enough that it wouldn't take much, probably, and you doubt he would even notice.

Glancing at his face to check is what undoes you. He dropped his hold on your scrubs at some point, likely when you were caught up admiring his cock. Now he uses his fingers to delve into the weeping wound on his head, slipping them around and between the layers of flesh and fat. His eyes are screwed tightly shut, mouth hanging open in a silent cry, and all you can do is watch. Your hand is rubbing over his naked muscle, disrupting thousands of nerve endings, touching him where you're certain no one else has dared to touch, and he wants more. It's working for him, and it's clearly working for you, because seeing this man fondle his own wound brings you right to the edge.

You lose all sense of yourself then. Your mind clears of everything—the long shift, the intern down the hall, even your own name—in the single-minded pursuit of getting him off. Inside him, your fingers play with pressure and spread, withdrawing almost entirely to skate around his clavicle, then pushing in to rub down his ribs. There's no other word for what you're doing—you're fucking his incision. Your hips keep pace, grinding against the edge of the table for what little friction you can get from it, and your body shudders with wave after wave of pleasure. It's a good thing, then, that you decided against touching yourself—with the way you're reacting to even this much pressure, you'd probably pass out.

A burst of inspiration prompts you to reach across his chest, now bent so low over him that you can smell the sweat and rancid blood on his skin, and circle a gloved thumb around his nipple. This entire side of his body hasn't been touched at all, which means he isn't expecting it. His strangled gasp punctuates the first circle, a garbled keening accompanies the second, and when you roll the nub between your fingers at the end of the third, the complete and utter silence is the best reward yet.

You let go of his nipple when the first massive shudder rips through him, intent on seeing him come apart. As you ease off of your tiptoes to return to your side, you look down his body expectantly and are literally hit with the first spurt of his release. Your tongue works reflexively, licking the corner of your mouth and tasting a musk and saltiness that isn't entirely unpleasant. His feet are flat on the table, hips arched entirely off of it while his orgasm takes him in strong thrusts. You watch, transfixed, as he covers his stomach in his own cum, his cock bobbing in the air with every pulse. It takes longer than you expect for him to run out—it's been a while, it seems.

When his hips finally still, there is a moment where the only sound is a long, shuddering exhale. Then his entire lower body collapses bonelessly onto the table.

Your first reaction is to panic. For all you know, that orgasm just fucking killed him.

"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?" You still don't know his name, it's ridiculous but it's the best you can do. His face is slack, relaxed, eyes peacefully shut while his head lolls to the side. No help there. Your free hand darts around uselessly over his torso until you remember, of course, that you're still inside him. Palm flat, you force yourself to calm enough to feel for that strange heartbeat. His lungs have been working hard under your hand this entire time, and his uptempo BPM is hard to forget, so you should—

There. His lungs fill to take in a deep breath, which presses his pulse into your palm, and you actually sigh with relief. You didn't kill him.

Although, now that you think of it with a slightly clearer head, you're supposed to have a dead body. This one, alive and apparently satisfied, is no longer fit for autopsy.

You watch his face when he exhales that breath. It tumbles out of him in a deep, growling snore.

You let him sleep while you get to work. He deserves the rest.

When he comes to, it's violent. He claws his way to consciousness like waking is a fight that he intends to win bloodily. It's a mess of limbs and a fearsome, silent snarl that could make anyone witnessing it turn tail and run. The sheet that had been meant to cover him slips to the floor.

From your position by the door, you stay very quiet.

You debated on being here at all for this part. The first thing he tried to do when he woke the last time was kill you, after all. You're under no pretense that this isn't a very, very dangerous man. But it helps your story if he leaves before you do and, to be very honest with yourself, you wanted to be here. To talk him through it.

The sutures are some of your best work. A normal autopsy wouldn't necessitate such careful application, so you genuinely enjoyed the throwback to med school while working with the thread. He notices the pull of them immediately and halts his waking rampage to paw at the raw, dimpled flesh.

"Those won't dissolve on their own," you tell him, only jumping a little when he immediately snaps his attention to you. God, but he's intense when he's not writhing around on a table. "You'll have to snip them out in a week or so."

He is very still. His mismatched eyes are so heavy on your face that you have to fight to keep your chin up. You don't know what comes next, but whatever it is, you want to do it with confidence.

"I applied those stitches to your chest and the wound in your head while you were out. And I, um, cleaned you up. With a rag, I didn't really touch you at all, I promise. That's all that happened while you slept." He continues to stare, but his hand rises to prod at the closed gap in his head. He hadn't even noticed—no wonder it wasn't enough to kill him outright. His resilience is impressive, if not a little terrifying. "You probably need a blood transfusion, but the best I can do is recommend that you drink water. A lot of it. And try to get more salt into your diet for the next few days."

The man swings his legs off the table and stands, uncaring of his nakedness. If he hears you, he makes no indication of it. He shouldn't even be able to stand after losing so much blood, but you're not about to tell him to stop. He's not your patient, after all. A scalpel—the scalpel—falls off the table with him and you wince at the clatter. When he stoops to pick it up, you make your play.

"You're the one that killed all those people out there, aren't you?" And you're not actually expecting an answer to the guess, but he rises, scalpel in hand, and dips his chin into a nod. Your pulse starts to pound in your ears. Okay. He killed twelve people and not one of them managed to kill him. At least you're fully aware of the danger now. "Once you're past this door, the exit is down the hall and to the left. You can walk right out. It's just me and an intern here, neither of us is going to stop you. I promise. So there's—" your voice cracks, a testament to your fear. "There's no need for anyone to get hurt. Right?"

He's such a big man, but that feeling of danger that just radiates off him makes that tiny scalpel seem like a very viable weapon. It wouldn't take much for him to do some real damage with it, you're sure. Your mind churns through a highlight reel of every terrible thing he could manage with that blade, and none of it ends as nicely for you as it did for him when you held it.

He stares at you for what feels like an eternity. Then he squares his shoulders and takes a lurching step toward you, which sends your stomach plummeting. Eye contact is next to impossible to maintain, but there's nowhere else to turn. The unfairness of it puts a bitter taste on your tongue—you're about to die and you didn't even get to cum first. That's your reward for being unselfish in bed. Or the autopsy table, as it turns out.

The scent of putrid blood on his skin wasn't washed away either of the times you put rag to flesh, and it sits on the back of your palate heavily. He comes close enough to back you up to the wall and invade all of your senses—scent, sight, taste, the sound of his rasping breaths, the sudden press of his fingers into the bruise on your neck. It's been developing this whole time, left there by his own hand. The ache of it makes your heart jump in your chest, excitement and dread mixing in a heady cocktail. It turns you on, the way he tests the bruise he gave you, and you think he can tell. He doesn't smile exactly, but his permanently frowning mouth twitches at the corner.

One tap, two of the cold scalpel's blade against your bare flesh. It's far from dull—the edge catches just over your carotid artery and makes a surface cut there. Your mouth falls open, thighs press together, and your breath comes out in pathetic little pants. "Please," tumbles into the space between your mouth and his, and you don't know if you're begging for your life or for him to keep going. Both, maybe.

Then it's gone. The scalpel leaves your throat and he takes himself with it, shouldering through the door without a backwards glance.

You slump against the wall until you're sitting, half-dazed and breathing heavily on the floor. Steps echo in the hallway and you distantly listen for the turn, then the tell-tale sound of the crash bar on the emergency exit. It opens, and right on cue, the fire alarms begin their flashing and wailing.

When the intern comes running in thirty seconds later, you've had just enough time to position yourself against the examination table, limbs splayed in what you hope is a convincing act of distress. "He wasn't dead," you croak, pressing a limp hand to your throat. "I don't understand…"

The intern fusses over you, gently guiding you back to the coroner's office to sit you down in a chair, but you hardly hear any of it. Let the distraction feed into the confused, frightened, innocent coroner's assistant story you concocted while sewing that man up—it's not so far off from the truth to be unbelievable.

Some time later, when emergency services have combed the entire building and the poor sick coroner has been roused from her bed to handle this disaster personally, one of the officers slips up while you're in earshot. It's just a name that's revealed, but it's enough. It's everything right now.

Jason, you think, pressing your thumb into the rounded corner of the session recording tape you're hiding in your pocket. You just couldn't bring yourself to destroy it, not even to bulk up your story. There are several things on that recording you're looking forward to hearing again. Jason Voorhees.

The cut on your neck throbs in time with your heartbeat. It's covered by a tiny bandage, placed there by a paramedic who noticed the way you kept touching it. The bandage twirls once in the air before falling to the floor, permanently relieved of its duty. You press a nail into the scab trying to form and hum, content, for the moment, with the memories.

[sp1der-wid0w]

guys.. i have a problem 🤦🏾‍♀️

[amomentsescape]

Slashers handling ovulating s/o?? 😚

Btw I love your work so much! You’re amazing

Slashers with Ovulating! Reader

Slashers x Reader (Separate)

Includes: Freddy, Michael, Jason, Thomas, Bubba, Brahms, Norman, Billy, Stu, Vincent, Bo

Warnings: MDNI, suggestive and mature content (It gets pretty steamy but nothing too crazy)

A/N: Definitely the most NSFW fic I've posted on this page. As a reminder, I don't write smut so this will probably be as steamy as I get for my posts. But this was a fun request, and I enjoyed writing for it! Thank you, Anon!

Freddy Krueger

Your dreams give you away

(Yes, he'll watch your dreams if he's not already controlling them; there's no privacy with this man)

And he's very interested in these dreams you've been having recently

It only takes a couple for Freddy to quickly snap

You'll go to sleep one night only to find yourself immediately in Freddy's domain

The setting and environment feeling very familiar somehow

You won't see him at first, but you'll definitely feel him around you, his voice echoing around the dreamscape

"Wanna make those dreams come true, baby?" he cackles throughout the darkness

Before you'll be able to respond, you'll feel his hand slide over your waist

The question was mostly out of politeness

He's not going to let you say no now that he has you (not that you were going to anyways)

Michael Myers

He picks up on everything in an instant

Your smell, your actions, your voice- literally everything is screaming at him

Now, Michael has a lot of self-discipline

He could just go about the day like usual and not need to indulge in anything

But he wants to

Don't mistaken this for "giving in"

It's just another way for him to put himself in control

You're just so desperate for him that he can just about get away with anything he wants

A simple touch has you weak in the knees, a slap on the ass has you arching your back

He could just absolutely ruin you these next few days

And he is very much planning on doing so

Jason Voorhees

Jason is fairly innocent when it comes to this sort of topic with you

But unlike Bubba, he does pick up on your teasing after a bit, he's just too flustered to do anything back

He loves the attention, but the way you're making him feel is causing him to freeze up and blush wildly under his mask

He knows you love him, but he can't understand how someone like you could possibly desire someone like him

He can't even hold eye contact with you when you're looking at him like that

When you've finally grown too impatient, you'll hop on his lap and grab his cheek, forcing him to look at you

He'll give you a big sigh and concerned eyes, silently asking if you're sure

"Jason. I want you. I want you and only you."

Those words must have been laced with magic, because a switch flips, and he's suddenly standing up, holding you bridal style

He'll toss you onto the bed and crawl on top, suddenly more confident than earlier

Looks like all he needs is a little bit of reassurance during this time of the month

Thomas Hewitt

It might just be the primal side of him, but he can literally smell it

Your pheromones during this time of month are always consistent to the point that he anticipates this weeks in advance

He lingers around you more often than normal (which isn't saying much since he stays near you 99% of the time anyways)

He's just waiting for the moment that you'll let him take a bite

And if you bump into him just slightly, his breath hitches and he'll freeze, hoping maybe you'll turn that bump into something more

Stands a little too close to you so he can breathe in your scent

But he's also hoping it'll increase the chance of you rubbing up against him on "accident"

This only makes things worse for the both of you until you two are finally alone together

All you have to do is give him that look, and he's throwing you over his shoulder, locking you two away for the night

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba is a very innocent man

He didn't even really know what the concept of "sex" was before you

So unfortunately for you, pulling out all stops will quite literally do nothing

You could stand there completely bare in front of him, and he'll sweetly think you want to shower

That's not to say you're constant touches and flirting don't do anything for him

They do, he just doesn't understand what that feeling is yet

When you finally get to be alone with him, you'll gently let your hands wander, watching carefully at his reactions

Once you hit a sensitive spot, you'll know

His breath will hitch and he'll give you this soft, pleading look

And once you kiss him, that fire inside him will quickly engulf his body

You just have to give him a sweet questioning glance, and he'll be feverishly nodding his head, grabbing at your wrists to continue

Brahms Heelshire

To be honest, whether or not your ovulating doesn't really change how Brahms acts around you day to day

Because he is always down bad for you

But he does appreciate how quickly you seem to return his advances during this time of the month

He enjoys turning it into some sort of game when he can too

You'll feel his breath on your neck, only to be met with an empty room

You'll feel his gaze on you all throughout the house without a single sight of his whereabouts

When you finally have had enough, you'll break

Turning on the shower peaks his interest

And the moment he sees that first button of your top open, he's revealing himself from the walls

You've been working so hard for him today

He thinks it's time for you to finally relax

Norman Bates

Norman knows before you do

The sweet man tracks your cycles for you, always wanting to be prepared to care for you in the way you need

But this time of month isn't one where he feels too bold

He becomes even more shy somehow, having trouble holding eye contact

Every kiss or hug from you sets him aflame, and he turns into a blushing mess

It's honestly like he's the one who's ovulating

And all you have to do is hold him for just a little bit too long and whisper in his ear to make him break

He'll quite literally fall to his knees in front of you, waiting for anything

He'll do whatever it is you ask

Like I said, he wants to care for you in any way you need

Billy Loomis

He tries to be smug about everything

You're more affectionate than normal, even doing some PDA that he's not used to from you

He just acts like his usual self out in public

But the moment you two are alone, he confronts you

He'll pin you against the door, his free hand wandering across your skin while he looks at you with dark eyes

"You think I can't see what you're doing? It's not very nice of you to be such a tease."

His voice is barely above a whisper while his grip on you tightens

His wandering hand finds the most sensitive spot on you and squeezes, causing you to let out a whimper

He smiles in return

"You're going to have to do better than that to make it up to me," he whispers, leaning in gently

Stu Macher

Look at this guy

He literally can't keep his tongue in his mouth (sorry, bad joke)

He can tell something is up though

You're more cuddly than usual, practically sitting on his lap at all points during the day

And Stu does not mind one bit, but he isn't sure what's gotten into you

You're hoping he'll take the hint, but he's as oblivious as he is happy

It's only when you straddle his lap and kiss him deeply that he understands what's going on

His hands are on you in an instant

He'll happily oblige to your "demands"

Just be careful when and where you decide to break though

Because the moment you open that door, Stu will be having you in that instant

And if he has to pull you into a broom closet in public to do so...

He will

Vincent Sinclair

Despite barely seeing the light of day most of his life, he's fairly knowledgeable about everything

But unlike his brother, he doesn't really get driven up the wall by this time of the month

He just wants you to be happy, so if being flirted with and touched every two seconds is what you want, he'll happily go along with it

Even though his face feels like it's going to burn off again every time

He won't initiate anything, but he also won't say no to anything you do

Just guide his hands and tell him what you need, and he'll be helping you out instantly

He doesn't even expect anything in return

But when you smile at him just like that, his brain might short circuit

He'll be your slave if you ask nicely

Bo Sinclair

Bo is, well, Bo

He sometimes acts like he can't tell or that he's too "deep" into his work at the moment to be bothered

But he knows

And he loves the feeling of being needed and desired

You'll come up to him, hugging him for a bit too long, your hands lingering on his chest and torso

He likes to play coy

He wants to see you break first

He'll happily make it worse for you too

Hands on your waist, a gentle caress of your neck, that piercing gaze of his

He can see your face flush and body practically tremble at his actions

But he won't do anything about it

It won't be until the end of the day when he finally comes back home to find you already waiting at the door

You about have to throw yourself onto him before that smile finally breaks out onto his face

"So impatient, aren't we darlin'? Gonna show me just how badly you need me?"

[slasher-fxcker]

Slashers S/O falling asleep on them

A/N: Just a quick little drabble of me fantasizing about our favourite slashers. I am still working through requests so please don't think I am ignoring you guys! They are coming :)

Billy Loomis

· Billy isn’t sure how to react at first, if you are around people sorry but he’s not going to tarnish his reputation with these soft moments. But if you're alone he will be conflicted.

· He’s not used to soft moments and he likes to be in control of any affection. He tries to keep it light like hand holding or sexual to try and keep you at a distance. So, this makes him sort of short circuit.

· Once he decides to allow it, it takes him a while but he does eventually relax into the embrace. He hates to admit that it is comforting, you make him feel secure and that worries him.

· He probably won’t sit for too long and may move eventually, he won’t disturb you but will leave you on the couch to rest.

Bo Sinclair

· Bo will never ever admit to this but he loves your soft affection, even if it’s only when you're asleep that he embraces it. He will pull you closer to him and wrap his arm around you. It’s the time he will let his guard down and let himself truly feel.

· If his brothers walk in he’s going to act like it’s a hassle, but even they know he doesn’t really mean it. Will also probably whine at you about it later.

· Bo loves you but he won’t admit that yet, even if you question it sometimes just know that you don’t get to see the way he looks at you like you're his world, or how your cute sleepy expression grips his heart. It’s these times where he thinks maybe he should be nicer to you, it’s now when he realises that he needs you even if he’s not ready to admit that.

Jason Voorhees

· Jason will not move a muscle if you fall asleep on him, you may as well be leaning on a comfier version of a statue. He wouldn’t do anything to wake you up.

· Barely breathes in fear or disturbing you. This man adores you and if you need sleep you're going to get it.

· If there are any trespassers he is going to be even more brutal than usual, how dare they disturb this intimate moment with his loved one. He lays you down as gently as he can, lucky you're a heavy sleeper.

· Jason will make quick work of the trespassers so he can get back to you, sure you may wake up with some leftover blood on you but it’s all worth it in the end to be in Jason’s arms.

Jesse Cromeans

· Jesse gets a small smirk on his face when he realises you’ve fallen asleep in his lap while he’s completing some paperwork. He will hold you while he works, occasionally stroking your hair and placing his chin on your head.

· You seem so small buried into his chest, it reminds Jesse how delicate you are and how protective he is of you to keep you here with him.

· Jesse is a busy man so its highly likely that he will end up having some sort of work that pulls him away from this intimate moment. He will carry you with ease to your bed and cover you in blankets to keep you warm until he can return.

· Won’t leave without placing the gentlest of kisses to your forehead and watching you snuggle in.

Lester Sinclair

· Lester is a busy man, he loves your affections but try to catch him when it won’t interfere with his day or piss Bo off. He will put your affections first and that can often get him in trouble with his brother.

· This man is the cutest cuddle bug, he will hold you for as long as you want. Will wrap you up in his arms and put a movie on, he is definitely the most chill out of the slashers when it comes to this kind of affection.

· Expect him to occasionally cover your face in soft kisses, the small smile it puts on your face gives him the cheesiest grin. Part of him wants you to hurry up and wake up so he can give you more affection, but don’t worry he wouldn’t dream of waking you.

· Lester cherishes you and when you wake up still in his arms expect to give him all of your attention for a while.

Michael Myers

· Do you like sleeping on the floor? Because that’s where you will end up if you fall asleep on Michael when he’s not in a very good mood. He’s an asshole. He does love you, but you don’t get to be affectionate without his approval when he’s in this kind of mood.

· If you catch him on a good day he will simply let you rest against him, most likely sitting still and watching you sleep.

· He thinks you're naïve to trust him when you're in such a vulnerable state, how he could hurt you at any moment. He likes to pretend that he could but you both know he would never do anything to hurt you. Not now that he had let you in.

· If you wake up to his head resting against yours as you both find comfort in the slight affection he will jump up and storm off as soon as he notices you're awake. Don’t bring it up unless you want him to pout for a while or threateningly glare at you from across the room. He will pretend it never happened.

Stu Macher

· Stu had always been a night owl, and it didn’t help he spent a lot of his nights out with Billy.

· You would wait up for him a lot at his place, flicking through the channels of the tv and waiting for that familiar click of the front door. He would instantly come and join you, arms open and waiting. He always missed touching and holding you.

· Would probably ramble on and not realise you were sleeping until he notices you aren’t answering him anymore. The cheesy smile this boy gets when he realises you're asleep.

· He will probably just watch you for a while, moving the hair out of your face.

· Stu is the type of guy to draw on people’s faces while they sleep, but with you he will just gently trace your features or draw small love hearts with his finger, laughing quietly to himself as your nose crinkles at the feeling.

· He wouldn’t move you, he loves holding you in his arms, keeping you close to him. Will for sure tease you about it later though.

Thomas Hewitt

· Thomas just melts when he feels your head rest against him. He knows how tiring it can be working in the heat, so he will let you rest for as long as you need to.

· He will blush if anyone else sees the two of you, but he’s still not moving.

· Thomas could hold you like this forever, but he worries that the couch isn’t the comfiest place to spend the night so he will carry you upstairs to your room, this man just wants what is best for you. He tries his best to be as gentle as possible when he lays you down, not wanting to wake you.

· He stands up to leave but notices you clinging to his shirt, the crinkle in your brow showing you're clearly not happy with the loss of contact. He lets out a husky huff before climbing into bed next to you, he melts under your touch and the thought that even in your sleep you need his touch.

Vincent Sinclair

· He stills immediately when he feels the contact. Vincent loves you so much but he’s not sure he will ever get used to the physical affections.

· When he realises you’ve fallen asleep on him his heart swells. You better believe this boy will not move an inch, your comfort is his entire priority. He will be dead still until you wake up, would not dream of disturbing you.

· Will definitely watch you sleep, he feels like he needs to commit every single line of your face to memory. Not only will he want to sketch you later on but the fear of you leaving still weighs heavily on him and he needs to make sure he would remember every detail of you.

· It’s like you can feel him staring when you shuffle closer to him and mumble his name, he instantly melts. He pulls you closer, reassuring you that he’s still there. He’s not going anywhere, he will always be there.

[taeaura]

[macabrebatz]

WHAT THE SLASHERS SMELL LIKE

Except I get too realistic and carried away

Author’s Note: No seriously. I got carried away. Didn’t intend to write for this many slashers but the thoughts kept coming. If you all want a part 2, let me know!

Characters: Jason Voorhees, Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, Rufus “RJ” Firefly Jr., Baby Firefly, Otis B. Driftwood, Captain Spaulding, Pinhead, Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, Bubba Sawyer, Thomas Hewitt, Art the Clown, Michael Myers, Freddy Krueger, Ash Williams (I know he’s not a slasher, shush), Billy Lenz, Brahms Heelshire, Mitch/The Ghost, The Driller Killer

Warnings/tags: Realistic takes on the body odor & hygiene of various horror characters, mention of sex on Freddy’s part (and alluded to in Otis’s part), gender neutral reader, not beta read

Word count: 1.7k

Jason Voorhees

Jason smells bad. Like really bad. He smells like mud, mildew, blood, and a rotting corpse that’s been soaking in lake water. It takes a long time to be in such close proximity to him. Personal hygiene isn’t his strong suit at all. But once you come along he’ll definitely try. His clothes can be changed and washed but Jason’s body stinks in a way that a shower and soap simply can’t fix (at least not fully). It’s possible to get the smell toned down to somewhat tolerable levels. But realistically I think he’ll always have a bit of a smell to him.

Bo Sinclair

Bo, for the most part, smells fine. He takes regular showers, washes his hair with a generic shampoo, brushes his teeth, etc. When he hasn’t been working, he’ll smell like cheap cologne and whatever scented soap you keep in the shower. But if he’s been working at the mechanic shop he’ll come home smelling like sweat, oil, and gasoline (and blood if he’s killed someone that day). There’s also always a faint smell of cigarettes. The smell seems to have seeped into his clothes permanently after many years of smoking. You don’t have to coax him to shower, he heads there without a fight. After a long day, a shower can make him feel better anyway.

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent doesn’t smell too bad but he doesn’t always smell great. He often smells like beeswax, which isn’t a bad smell. But he can get quite sweaty as well and doesn’t shower as frequently as Bo. So it’s not the best smell combo. I mean, he’s constantly working in a hot basement/workshop…in a sweater…in a mask…with long hair……in Louisiana. Yeah, sweating is a common occurrence. He’ll probably increase his amount of showers for you. He gets so caught up in sculpting that he forgets sometimes though.

Lester Sinclair

Lester is the worst Sinclair brother when it comes to smell and hygiene. When you first meet him smells like roadkill, sweat, and dirt. His hygiene isn’t great. He doesn’t shower often, nor brush his teeth often. But when you come along he definitely starts caring about his hygiene more. He’ll take showers and brush his teeth. Maybe he’ll wash his clothes more…maybe.

Rufus “RJ” Firefly Jr.

Rufus smells fine for the most part. He showers regularly and uses deodorant. By the end of the day though he might have a slight musky smell to him but nothing too bad usually. Sometimes he would stink after working on cars all day in the Texas heat. He’d come home smelling like sweat and oil and you might have to ask him to take a shower. Occasionally he’d have a faint smell of beer or whatever alcohol was lying around on his clothes.

Baby Firefly

Baby takes frequent showers and bubble baths (when she’s not on the run with the family). She likes soap with a fruity scent, often opting for something that smells of berries. Sometimes she’d smell like blood but usually, she’d smell rather good. She has a variety of different perfumes snagged from the luggage of different victims. Just like her soap, she often goes for things with more of a fruit scent.

Otis B. Driftwood

Otis doesn’t smell good often. In fact, a lot of the time he smells straight-up bad. Like corpses, blood, alcohol, and tobacco. Otis does take showers though so the smell is temporary. He doesn’t take them often though and sometimes you’ll have to ask him (or mildly threaten him) to shower. If he’s being stubborn and you really, really want him to shower then you can coax him by getting in the shower and asking him to join you. He’ll never say no to that offer.

Captain Spaulding

Captain Spaulding smells okay usually. He’s not the best smelling out of the Firefly family but he’s not that bad. He often smells like fried chicken from making it so often at his shop. There are some faint hints of alcohol, blood, and maybe even cigarettes. His dental hygiene isn’t great but he does take somewhat regular showers.

Pinhead

Pinhead smells like blood, leather, and metal. It’s not an overbearing smell like some of the other slashers but it’s there. You can smell it when you hug him close. I don’t think he gets very sweaty. Honestly, do Cenobites even sweat? He doesn’t shower, doesn’t brush his teeth. Hell, he barely even removes the leather he wears. He’s not human and he doesn’t care about human concepts of hygiene.

Hannibal Lecter

Hannibal smells really, really good. He takes regular showers, wears deodorant, and brushes his teeth twice a day. He sometimes splurges on more expensive shampoos, soap, and cologne. He goes for colognes with woody scents. Sometimes there’s a small hint of vanilla thrown in. A majority of the time he smells really fresh. He doesn’t often smell like blood because he takes the cleanup process very seriously. Occasionally the smell of whatever he’s been cooking might linger on his clothes.

Will Graham

Will also smells good for the most part. He often smells like the outdoors and cheap cologne. He obviously has a big sweating problem so that can make him not smell as great. But he takes regular showers, especially when he’s been sweating a lot. He likes to smell good but he doesn’t give it much thought.

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba often smells like sweat, meat, and a heavy dose of decomposing bodies. Showers are infrequent but not nonexistent. When he does shower he smells fine but that smell can quickly disappear in the Texas heat, especially if the Sawyers are dealing with unwanted visitors. He doesn’t really notice the smell unless it’s pointed out and he’ll shower and change clothes if needed.

Thomas Hewitt

Much like Bubba, there’s often a smell of sweat, meat, and blood. In fact, those smells are stronger on Thomas compared to Bubba. He’s a rather musky guy. He doesn’t shower frequently. It’s a rare occurrence. But when you’re in the picture he might do a little better hygiene-wise, especially after a heavy dose of scolding from Luda Mae. And he’ll smell better (probably never great though).

Art the Clown

Oh, don’t get me started. Probably one of the worst-smelling slashers out of the bunch. Art smells like shit. Literally. And blood. And not just a little blood. The smell can be so strong sometimes that you swear you can taste iron on your tongue. Sometimes he’ll have faint scents of gunpowder and oil but those smells are often overpowered by others. Surprisingly though, Art isn’t that opposed to showers. He does the absolute bare minimum though, just standing in the water and rinsing off the remnants of his victims. He doesn’t mind getting all of that off of him but he’s not doing it to smell better. If anything, he likes the smell.

Michael Myers

He smells bad. Whether we’re talking about the OG or the RZ version, I can’t imagine this man smelling good when you first come across him. He smells like a corpse. It overpowers any other smell there could be on him. He doesn’t shower, he’ll wear the same coveralls for years if they last him that long. Hygiene is the last of his priorities and he’s not easily convinced at all to bathe or wash his clothes. Maybe (and that’s a very strong MAYBE) you could entice him to do something about the smell. It’ll definitely be a trade-off. He won’t give in easily.

Freddy Krueger

Freddy doesn’t smell great. He smells like ash and burnt skin. He almost smells like a campfire but with the added smell of blood and death. The smell is always there. It’s kind of permanent. And no, he won’t be showering. Don’t even suggest it because he’ll laugh in your face. It’s not that he’s against it, he just doesn’t want to nor does he feel the need to. The only way he’ll get in the shower is to have shower sex and that’s it.

Ash Williams

Ash smells good 90% of the time. He smells like pine shampoo, aftershave, and whatever cologne he wears. It’s not expensive but it smells nice. The other 10% of the time (when he’s hacking away at deadites), he smells like a mixture of gasoline, oil, blood, and whatever hellish smells come out of deadites. It’s not great and he’s aware of it. The last thing he wants is to be covered in brains but it’s just another day in his life. He honestly can’t wait to shower it all off.

Brahms Heelshire

Upon first meeting him, Brahms didn’t smell good. He smelled like a combination of sweat, dust, mothballs, and mildew. A direct result of constantly staying in the walls and lack of showering. If the smell bothers you though, Brahms is more willing to bathe than most slashers. He can be stubborn sometimes but he rarely puts up a fight.

Billy Lenz

Much like Brahms, Billy has a strong odor of dust, mothballs, and whatever other lingering smells are in an attic. Old boxed-up books, cardboard, mildew, the faintest smell of cologne (not sure if it’s his or it's just rubbed off from some clothes in the attic). The smells have stuck to his clothes and he doesn’t wash that sweater. He won’t put up a fight if the smell bothers you though. He’ll happily take a shower for you.

Mitch/The Ghost

Mitch smells fine…usually. He showers regularly, wears deodorant, etc. He usually smells of whatever soap is in the shower. The only time that he ever really smells bad is after long nights of running the Haunt in October. On those nights he’ll smell strongly of blood, corpses, and whatever acid they use to dispose of all the unlucky haunt visitors. Other than that, he smells fine the rest of the year.

The Driller Killer

The Driller Killer smells like cigarettes, leather, and blood. He smokes often. It’s not like he’s going to get sick from them (not 100% he can even die). Sometimes when you hug him, you swear you can smell the faint scent of a woody cologne. Or maybe it’s his hair gel. You’re not fully sure. But there’s definitely something there.