i-heart-slashers

[i-heart-slashers]

loving the yandere content on your follows thing. can you do one but like a romantic yandere for paul from the lost boys? Babe, Crazy, Bed.

𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔱 | 700 𝔣𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔱

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗: Paul (Lost Boys) 𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖒𝖊: Romantic Yandere 𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘: Babe, Crazy, Bed

You’re tangled in the sheets when his voice cuts through the night, a husky laugh dripping from the corner of your bedroom.

“Babe,” Paul drawls, the pet name crawling over your skin like smoke. You don’t remember leaving the window open, but he’s already inside, boots heavy against the hardwood, denim brushing fabric as he leans against the wall. His grin is wolfish—too many teeth, too much hunger.

Your throat tightens. “Paul—”

“I know,” he interrupts, raising his hands in mock surrender, the silver rings on his fingers flashing under the streetlight pouring through the blinds. “I know, you think I’m crazy. That’s what you said last time, right? That I should stop showing up. Stop watching you.” His laughter spikes, sharp and manic, before dipping low, dangerous. “But you don’t get it, do you? I’m not stopping.”

He prowls closer, the mattress dipping as he plants one knee on the edge of your bed. The scent of cigarettes, ocean salt, and something copper-sweet fills your nose. Your pulse stammers. You’ve seen what he does, what he is, the way he tore through the boardwalk junkies like wet paper. You swore you wouldn’t be next.

Yet he brushes a strand of hair from your cheek with surprising gentleness, his fingers cold but steady. His blue eyes gleam, not with humanity, but possession. “You don’t see yourself the way I do,” he murmurs, almost tender. “You’re everything. The music, the fire, the taste I can’t shake. You make this… endless hunger worth it.”

A dark stain clings to the cuff of his sleeve, fresh and wet. Your stomach turns as the metallic tang fills the air—someone else’s blood, someone unlucky enough to be between you and him tonight. Paul notices your gaze, and his grin widens.

“Don’t worry, babe. It’s not yours. Not yet.” He leans closer, fangs brushing the shell of your ear, and you shiver despite yourself. “But if you keep thinking about running, keep whispering that I’m insane, I might just have to prove it. Make sure you can never leave me.”

His hand slips around your throat, not squeezing—just holding, a reminder of how easily he could. How easily he would.

And yet, when his lips press against yours, bruising and desperate, you melt despite the terror clawing at your chest. Because some sick, broken part of you knows: Paul’s love is the kind that consumes.

And there’s no escape once you’ve been chosen.

[i-heart-slashers]

my request is Art the Clown from any movie. Darkish but with yandere themes. Gasp, crawl and dread?

𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔱 | 700 𝔣𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔱

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗: Art The Clown 𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖒𝖊: Dark + Yandere 𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘: Gasp, Crawl, Dread

Your gasp echoes in the hollow silence, as sharp as broken glass. The copper stench of blood clings to the air, heavy, suffocating. You stumble backward, palms slipping in the slick trail that streaks across the floor. The world is a blur of red and shadow, but his grin, oh that awful painted grin, remains sharp in the dark.

Art tilts his head, studying you as if you’re not a person but a puzzle, a trembling little insect caught under his thumb. You crawl, desperate, knees scraping raw on the cracked tiles. Your heart thunders, a frantic drum, and every pulse feels like it might give you away.

But he doesn’t need the sound; he doesn’t need the panic radiating from your bones. He’s already decided.

Dread coils in your gut when you glance over your shoulder. He’s not chasing. He doesn’t need to. He stalks with deliberate steps, dragging his rusted blade across the wall, letting sparks dance like fireflies. His silence is worse than any laughter—because the joy is there, unspoken, carved into the curve of his smile.

You know he could have ended it already. The first time he caught you. The second. The third. But Art doesn’t just want blood. No, he wants your fear—squeezed from you like nectar. He drinks it with his eyes, wide and wild, glittering with something far more dangerous than madness.

When you finally press yourself into the corner, chest heaving, nails clawing uselessly against the plaster, he stops. Inches away. Close enough that you can smell the rancid sweetness on his costume. He crouches, folding himself low until his face is level with yours. His grin widens, impossibly, stretching the greasepaint into a grotesque mask of devotion.

The blade hovers near your throat but doesn’t press. Instead, Art cups your cheek with a hand still wet and sticky, smearing crimson across your skin. His thumb drags slowly over your lips, tracing the shape, memorizing it. His eyes never blink. It’s almost tender—almost.

You try to turn away, but his grip hardens, jerks your face back to his. He shakes his head, the gesture exaggerated, almost playful. No. You don’t get to look away. You don’t get to escape.

His affection is carved in flesh, sealed in silence, written in the ruin he leaves behind. And when his blood-slick smile hovers closer, you realize the truth—Art the Clown doesn’t just want to kill you.

He wants to keep you.

Forever.

[i-heart-slashers]

for the follower thing can you do any ghostface? Dark comedy with the words run scream and fall

𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔱 | 700 𝔣𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔱

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗: Ghostface 𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖒𝖊: Dark Comedy 𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘: Run, Scream, Fall

You run.

Not the kind of graceful jog you see in Nike commercials—more like a panicked, knees-flailing, elbows-flapping sprint that would make a toddler look athletic. The alley ahead is a smudge of wet asphalt and twitching shadows, your lungs burning like you’ve swallowed lit matches. Your sneakers slap the ground in sync with the thudding behind you. He’s close. Too close.

You’ve seen horror movies before. You know the rules. Don’t trip. Don’t look back. Don’t—

“God, you’re fast,” Ghostface drawls behind you, his voice playful, breath steady. “You working out for me? That’s so sweet.”

Your heart lurches, and you make the mistake of glancing over your shoulder. He’s there, knife glinting under the streetlight, the white mask tilting in a way that somehow reads as smug.

You scream.

Not a delicate little shriek, but a full-body, throat-ripping wail that would make banshees tell you to pipe down. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you note the absurdity: you’ve got an audience of exactly one, and you’re performing like you’re auditioning for an opera.

“Music to my ears,” he says, mock-clapping the knife against his palm. “Encore?”

You nearly crash into a dumpster, vault around it with all the grace of a drunk flamingo, and of course—you fall.

Knees hit pavement. Pain blooms sharp and hot. Somewhere above you, he chuckles.

“Classic,” Ghostface says, like you’ve just delivered the punchline to his favorite joke. “You even did the stumble. I was hoping you’d do the stumble.”

The mask looms into view as he crouches, knife dangling in one gloved hand. You try to crawl backwards, but he hooks a hand under your chin, tilting your face toward him.

“That’s the thing about you,” he says conversationally, as if you’re sharing a coffee instead of cold, damp concrete. “You make it fun. Most people? They just cry, beg, get all boring. But you? You keep me entertained.”

There’s blood, yours... you think, dripping warm down your shin. He notices too, dragging the tip of his knife lightly across the cut. It stings, but he’s not carving deep… yet.

“You should’ve seen yourself back there,” he continues. “All that running. All that screaming. Ten outta ten. Though…” He tilts his head. “I think we can do even better.”

The knife lifts, gleaming wickedly in the flickering streetlight, and you realize two things: one, he’s not killing you yet, and two, you’re not sure whether that’s better or worse.

Because Ghostface isn’t just a killer. He’s an audience—and you?

You’re the show.

And the curtain hasn’t even gone up.

[i-heart-slashers]

Can you write a dark romance + yandere drabble for The lost boys x female reader. "ours, death, eternity."

𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔱 | 700 𝔣𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔱

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗: The Lost Boys 𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖒𝖊: Dark Romance + Yandere 𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘: Ours, Death, Eternity

The night air tastes like salt and rot when they corner you at the cliff’s edge. Moonlight bleeds over the ocean, turning their teeth into silver blades.

You should run. You should scream. You do neither.

David’s smirk is slow, deliberate—like he’s already replaying the moment in his mind for decades to come. “You’ve been ours from the moment you stepped into Santa Carla,” he says, dragging a leather-gloved finger along your jaw. His hand smells like gasoline and blood. “It’s just taken you this long to realize it.”

Paul laughs behind him, all manic and sharp, the sound of a match striking. Marko’s closer, circling like a feral thing, and Dwayne—silent, unreadable—watches with eyes that feel like the weight of a cathedral’s shadow.

The wind carries the copper scent of something freshly torn open. Somewhere behind them, there’s the faint sound of water lapping at the rocks… and something heavier slipping beneath the waves. You don’t want to think about what it was.

David tilts his head, the way a predator might before the lunge. “Do you know what’s beautiful about death, sweetheart?” His smile shows too much fang. “It’s only a door. And once you’re through, you don’t ever have to leave us.”

Marko presses close enough for his curls to tickle your ear, voice low and sing-song. “We’ll be your family. Forever.” His breath smells like wine and something meatier.

Paul cuts in, grinning wide. “Family with better perks. No more rules. No more boring human crap. Just us, baby.”

Your pulse is pounding so hard you feel it in your teeth. You want to say no. You want to say yes. You want to throw yourself off the cliff just to escape the heat of their eyes.

David catches your chin and forces you to meet his gaze. “It’s not a choice, not really.” His pupils dilate until the blue is just a rim of ice. “You’re coming with us—one way or another. Might as well make it easy.”

Somewhere inside, the rational part of you is screaming. But another part—the one that’s been lonely for too long, the one that’s felt the cold seep into your bones every night— takes a sip from the ancient encrusted bottle.

David’s lips curl into something triumphant. “Good girl.” He runs his nose along your neck with a smirk.

His bite is fire, then numbness, then drowning. The world tilts and fractures. You taste blood—yours, his, theirs, mingled until you can’t tell the difference.

The last thing you see before the dark swallows you is their faces, lit from within like devils in stained glass.

“Ours,” David whispers against your throat, sealing the word in you like a brand.

Somewhere in the rushing void, you feel it—death sliding over you like silk, and something larger waiting on the other side.

Not heaven. Not hell.

Just eternity.

[i-heart-slashers]

Hi! Can you do a yandere theme with Jennifer Check please? With words: Mine, Blood, Forever.

𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔱 | 700 𝔣𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔱

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗: Jennifer Check 𝕿𝖍𝖊𝖒𝖊: Yandere 𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘: Mine, Blood, Forever

You wake up to the sound of your name—whispered sweet like hot, sticky honey.

"Baby…" Her voice slithers into your ear before you even open your eyes. "You're finally awake."

It's dark. Not pitch black, but red-dim. Candlelight flickers against the ceiling, casting dancing shadows that look like limbs writhing. Something soft and warm pins your wrists above your head. You tug instinctively.

Silk. Of course, she used silk.

Jennifer looms over you, straddling your hips, wearing nothing but blood-spattered lingerie and a smile that doesn't touch her eyes. She's smeared in it—blood, real blood, fresh, wet, and warm against your skin where she touches you.

"Jen—what the fuck—" you start to say, but she cuts you off with a kiss, all tongue and teeth. You taste iron. Someone else's scream still clings to her lips.

"No," she breathes when she pulls back, licking her lips. "No talking. Just listen."

Her nails—sharp, painted black, stained red—drift down your chest, over your stomach, just enough pressure to make you squirm.

"You were looking at her," Jennifer purrs, voice low and venom-slick. "Smiling. Laughing. Like you forgot."

Your heart hammers.

"Forgot what?" you whisper.

She tilts her head like a curious cat, her smile widening. "That you're mine."

The word slams into your chest harder than her hands ever could.

Jennifer leans down until her lips are brushing your neck. You can feel her inhale. She loves your scent. Says it's sweeter when you're afraid. "She touched you," she whispers. "She breathed your air."

You shake your head. "She's just a friend."

"She was." Her fingers trail it absently. "She didn't scream long. I was merciful. For you."

You try not to gag. You try not to scream. Because part of you knows—screaming only turns her on.

She kisses you again, softer this time, almost sweet.

"There's my good girl," Jennifer whispers, cupping your face, smiling down at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters. "No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to love you."

Her lips brush your forehead this time, the sweetness of it just a ruse. You're hers, and she never lets you forget it. "You're mine. You've always been mine."

You don't have the strength to respond, nor the will to move. There was no escaping Jennifer anyway; somehow, she was always there, always around, watching carefully.

She wraps herself around you, the blood between your bodies drying like glue, sealing your fate.

"Forever."

[i-heart-slashers]

𝖂𝖊𝖑𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖒𝖞 𝖋𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓𝖙! (a bit late since I already hit that milestone but still going to do this)

Theme: Dark Romance • Yandere • AU • Writer's Choice • Suggestive • Dark Comedy • Fluff/Domestic • or you can request a theme!

Dates: August 7th – 21st! Fandoms Allowed: Any slasher/horror franchise e.g. Art the Clown, The Lost Boys (seperately) , Ghostface, etc. Format: x Reader

🖤This event is for followers and anons 🖤Send an ask with 3 words, a theme & a character (slasher or villain) 🖤No limits but please don't spam Reblogs, Likes and Follows would be appreciated ♥️

completed requests:

↠ Jennifer Check x Reader | Yandere | Mine, Blood, Forever |

[i-heart-slashers]

𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖋𝖔𝖗…@rezqwr

𝕴 𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍… Billy Loomis!

Despite his sinister tendencies, Billy Loomis has a dark intensity that pairs surprisingly well with your soft-but-dramatic charm. You’d balance each other in an oddly poetic way — your optimism and gentle, “do no harm, take no shit” energy could simultaneously soften his rough edges and keep him on his toes. He’s a brooding stormcloud, and you’re a pastel lightning bolt: unpredictable, emotional, and enchanting. You’d probably drive him crazy (in both the romantic and chaotic senses) with your stubborn moods and need for personal space, but he’d low-key admire your strength and independence. You, in turn, would find yourself fascinated by his intensity — not condoning the murder-y stuff, of course — but drawn to his mystery like a moth to a flame.

ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔰

He keeps his jealousy tightly controlled...until he doesn’t. You smile a little too long at someone, and suddenly his hand’s firmly on your lower back, eyes dark. You think it’s possessive — and you’re not wrong — but he says it’s because “you’re too pretty to look unguarded.”

You force him to do face masks with you. He complains the entire time but secretly loves when you gently rub skincare on his face and kiss his nose after. He won’t admit it, but it’s his new favorite part of the week.

He’s extremely protective of your softness. You’re the only good thing he thinks he has, and god help anyone who talks down to you or tries to mess with your peace. You’d never ask him to handle it — but he already did.

You always drag him to bookstores, thrift shops, and plant nurseries. He sulks at first, but slowly starts looking forward to the way your eyes light up over an ugly frog mug or a discounted pot of lavender.

He calls you “shortcake” when he’s trying to be cute. You hate it at first, but when it slips out in a rare soft moment — “C’mere, shortcake. You look tired.” — you melt.

You read to him when he can’t sleep. Something soft and rhythmic. He pretends he’s not listening, but he knows every character’s name and gets weirdly tense when there’s conflict.

ℑ𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔔𝔲𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰

Billy: “Don’t go outside alone.” You: “You’re literally the danger.” Billy: “Yeah, but I like you.”

Billy: “I’m not jealous.” You: “You literally growled at the barista.” Billy: “He spelled your name with a heart.” You: “I asked him to!!”

𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℌ𝔢 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔄𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔜𝔬𝔲

Your contradictions — You’re this ethereal, sweet presence, rosy cheeks, platform shoes, loves baking, and yet you’ve got this fire in your chest. You stand up for yourself. You don’t take shit. One minute you’re cooing at a kitten, the next you’re fiercely defending someone you love. That duality? He’s obsessed with it.

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤

Cherry Wine – Hozier (Late night vulnerability — him letting his guard down while you read to him on the floor.)

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

Grumpy x Sunshine He broods. You bounce. The contrast is so stark it's practically a rom-com setup.

Opposites Attract You love soft things, he loves chaos. You adore cute plushies; he’s... a slasher. Somehow, it works.

Lover Has a Dark Side You know he’s got secrets. You don’t ask all the questions. He loves you for not needing to.

𝔓𝔩𝔬𝔱 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

Love Redeems You make him question everything — even the darkness he’s clung to for so long.

Dark Obsession He’d never hurt you — but he might hurt someone for you. And he’s not sorry.

Wounded Villain x Soft Healer You patch him up after he shows up at your window bleeding again. He watches you work and wonders why the hell he can’t let you go.

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔞𝔤𝔢

Acts of Service, without a doubt. He’s not good at words, and he's not exactly gentle but he’ll silently fix your broken shelf, walk you home in the dark, or "take care" of people who stress you out. If you’re in trouble, he’ll show up — always.

[i-heart-slashers]

You Smile Pretty When You’re Scared

The closet smells of mothballs and stale cedar, the slats of the door casting thin, jagged lines of light across your face. Your breath hitches, shallow and sharp, as you press yourself deeper into the corner, knees tucked tight against your chest.

The house is silent—too silent—except for the faint creak of floorboards somewhere beyond the door. He's out there. Art the Clown. You've seen what he does, the way his black-and-white painted face twists with glee as he carves through anyone in his path. And now, it's just you.

He knows you're here. He's known for hours. The way his gloved hand lingered on the closet door earlier, tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm with his fingertips, told you as much. He didn't open it. Didn't yank you out. No, that's not his game. He wants you to come out on your own, to step into his trap willingly, like a mouse too curious for its own good.

Your heart thuds so loud you're sure he can hear it. The darkness presses against your skin, heavy and suffocating, and you try to focus on anything but the growing dread in your gut.

You think of the others—your friends, or what's left of them. You didn't see their bodies, but you heard the screams, the wet crunch of metal meeting flesh. You'd bolted, scrambling into this closet like it could save you. Like anything could save you from him.

Another creak, closer this time. Your fingers dig into your palms, nails biting skin. He's toying with you, dragging it out. You can picture him out there, his broad, toothy grin splitting his greasepaint face, those dark, hollow eyes glinting with something unholy. The silence stretches, and you hate it more than if he were banging on the door. At least then you'd know where he was.

A soft scrape, like fabric brushing wood, comes from just outside. Your breath catches, and you clamp a hand over your mouth, eyes wide as you stare through the slats. Nothing. No shadow, no movement. But he's there. You feel him, like a predator circling in the dark, savoring the scent of your fear.

He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. His silence is louder than words, a promise of what's waiting if you stay hidden too long—or if you don't. Your legs cramp, muscles screaming from hours curled up, but you don't dare move. Not yet.

The air shifts. A faint, metallic clink sends ice down your spine. He's close. So close. You can almost see him in your mind, tilting his head, mime-like, as he listens for you. He's patient, terrifyingly so, and that's what makes your stomach churn. He's not rushing. He's not desperate. He's enjoying this, the slow unraveling of your courage.

Your hand brushes the closet door, and you freeze, heart lurching. Did he hear that? The seconds drag, each one a lifetime. Then, a soft thud, like something heavy being set down just outside. Your mind races—his bag of tools, maybe? The one filled with blades and spikes and God-knows-what-else? You bite your lip, tasting blood, and force yourself to stay still.

Your eyes dart to the door handle. It's right there, inches away. You could open it, end this waiting game, and face him. But the thought makes your chest tighten, your vision blur with panic. You've seen his work. You know what happens next.

Another sound—a low, deliberate drag, like a blade across wood. He's closer now, maybe leaning against the door. You picture his face pressed to the slats, those unblinking eyes peering through, searching for you. Your throat burns with a scream you don't dare let out. He wants you scared. He feeds on it. And God help you, you're giving him exactly what he wants.

The light through the slats flickers, just for a second, and your heart stops. A shadow? Or your imagination? You can't tell anymore. Your fingers tremble, hovering over the door. You could open it. You could run. But where? The house is now his playground, every corner a trap. And yet, staying here feels like surrendering, like letting him win without a fight.

A soft, exaggerated sniff, like a cartoonish imitation of someone catching a scent, breaks the silence. It's him. He's mocking you, letting you know he's right there, so close you could touch him if the door weren't between you.

Your chest heaves, and a tear slips down your cheek, hot and unwanted. You wipe it away, furious at yourself. Don't break. Don't let him see you break.

But he knows. He always knows.

The floor creaks again, retreating this time. Is he leaving? No, that's too much to hope for. He's baiting you, giving you just enough space to think you're safe.

Your hand grazes the door again, and this time, you don't pull back. Your pulse roars in your ears, drowning out everything else. You can't stay here forever. You can't let him keep you caged like this, trembling and helpless.

Slowly, so slowly it hurts, you push the door open. Just a crack. The hallway is dim, shadows pooling in the corners. No sign of him. No glint of his knife, no flash of his grin. You step out, legs shaking, every nerve screaming to go back. But you don't. You take another step, then another, your bare feet silent on the cold floor.

The living room is ahead, the front door beyond it. Freedom, maybe, if you can make it. Your eyes scan the darkness, searching for him. Nothing. Just the faint drip of something wet—blood?—from somewhere in the house. You swallow, forcing your legs to move faster.

Then you see it. On the coffee table, propped up like a sick centerpiece: a Polaroid. You don't want to look, but you can't help it. It's of you and your friends partying, just moments before the traumatic events.

Your eyes were wide with terror. He was there. He was right there, watching you, and you didn't even know. Picking up the Polaroid, you turn it over, seeing words scrawled on it 'You smile pretty when you're scared'

A slapping noise cuts through the silence, and you spin around. He's behind you, leaning against the wall, slapping his thigh in silent laughter, his bloodstained costume blending with the shadows. His grin is wider than ever, teeth gleaming, eyes locked on yours. He points at the Polaroid, then at you, and mimes a smile, dragging his fingers across his lips.

You freeze, your breath a ragged gasp. He steps closer, slow and deliberate, his head tilting as he studies you. You want to run, to scream, but your body betrays you, rooted to the spot. He stops inches away, his gloved hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch is cold, wrong, and you flinch, but he just grins wider.

He leans in, so close you can smell the greasepaint and coppery blood on him. His finger traces your cheek, slow and mocking, and he mimes that smile again, drawing it upon your skin in your friends' blood, his eyes gleaming with something dark and hungry.

...You smile pretty when you're scared, he doesn't say. But you hear it anyway.

[i-heart-slashers]

𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖋𝖔𝖗… @saintxvalentines

𝕴 𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍… Bubba Sawyer!

Bubba is loyal to a fault. If you were kind to him, sang to him, and gave him genuine affection, he’d melt. You want someone who sees you and protects you? Bubba would go absolutely feral if someone even slightly disrespected you. Like, no hesitation full chainsaw mode. And he’d never give you the silent treatment.... I mean he's nonverbal, but that means he’d show you love through actions. You're both kinda lost in places, you're working on yourself (go you!) and he’s... well... not currently in therapy, but he needs someone who gives him patience, not punishment. You’d help each other grow. You’d be each other’s safe space.

ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔰

He hums when you sing. It’s not in tune, not really, but when you’re singing old 2000s ballads while cooking or hanging clothes, he hums along like it’s instinctual. It's his way of saying, “I love this. I love you.”

He tries to dance with you — and trips. You’re showing him how to do a basic two-step in the middle of the living room and he steps on your feet constantly. You laugh and cheer him on. He clings to you like you're the music itself.

You sew him little accessories. You once made him a soft, pastel apron with “Kiss the Cook” stitched in glittery thread. He wears it constantly, even while butchering… which is kinda horrifying and adorable at the same time.

He gets jealous of the TV. If you're playing your favorite shooter game or watching a rom-com, he'll just stand behind the couch staring at you like... 😐, until you giggle and pull him down beside you. You always end up curled into him with his arm around you.

He keeps a stash of sweets just for you. He doesn’t eat them, but he knows how happy they make you, so there's a dusty kitchen cabinet FULL of candy and cookies. No matter what horrors went down that day, there’s always a little surprise sweet waiting for you.

He's ultra-protective around his family. The moment any of the Sawyers talk to you in that creepy tone or get too close, Bubba will stand between you and them with the chainsaw in-hand like, 'touch her and lose a limb'.

ℑ𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔔𝔲𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰

You: “Baby, do you think I'd survive in a horror movie?” Bubba:tilts head, then shakes it slowly You: “Rude. Explain?” Bubba:makes crying motion with hands You: “…Fair.”

You: “Babe, do you think I’m annoying?” Bubba:immediately shakes head and pulls you into hug You: “You’re not just saying that because I have gummy bears?” Bubba:pauses, considers, then shakes head again

𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℌ𝔢 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔄𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔜𝔬𝔲

He loves that you see him — not as a monster, not as a tool, but as a person. You talk to him like he’s normal, joke with him like you’re safe, and sing to him like he’s someone worthy of beauty. It breaks something open in his heart every single time. Your love is like honey in the wounds of his soul. You're soft, chaotic, weird, loud, and his, and he will never, ever stop trying to protect that.

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤

Like Real People Do — Hozier (Slow dancing in the dark of the kitchen, bare feet on stained tiles, your head resting on his chest while he rocks you gently, the world forgotten.)

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

Found Family – You, him, and his weird-ass cannibal clan. You end up being the emotional glue that holds them together.

Protector x Gentle Soul – He guards you fiercely while you emotionally heal him.

The Soft Monster & The Healing Human – The ultimate horror fairytale. Messy, intense, beautiful.

𝔓𝔩𝔬𝔱 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

Beauty tames the beast You sing him lullabies and put bows in his hair while he sharpens his chainsaw.

You get injured, he snaps A scratch on your arm and he goes feral. No one touches what’s his.

You teach him to be soft He learns how to comfort, to hold, to just be, all because you showed him how.

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔞𝔤𝔢

Acts of Service — He doesn’t talk at all, but he shows his love with every action. Whether he’s fixing something you broke, making you a weird little bone sculpture, or physically placing his hulking body between you and any threat, it’s all him screaming “I love you” in his own way. He might not say it, but he means it in every motion.

[i-heart-slashers]

Loyal Clown Boyfriend

The bar smells like cheap beer and desperation, the kind of place where people go to forget they exist. Except tonight is Halloween, and everyone is looking for a good time.

You’re perched on a wobbly stool wearing a short harlequin outfit, nursing a drink you barely sip because you’re too busy watching Art. He’s across the room, leaning against the wall, his black and white clown costume stark under the dim neon lights. His eyes—those dark, hollow pits—lock onto you every few seconds, like he’s making sure you haven’t vanished. Or like he’s making sure no one else has gotten too close.

You love him. God help you, you do. Art’s not like other boyfriends. He doesn’t sweet-talk or bring you flowers. He doesn’t whisper promises or hold your hand. Instead, he carves his devotion into the world with a rusty hacksaw, painting it red for you. It’s twisted, but it’s his way. And you’ve learned to live with it—learned to love the monster who’d burn the world down just to keep you by his side.

The guy at the bar hasn’t learned, though. He’s been eyeing you for the last ten minutes, his gaze slimy, lingering too long on your legs, your lips. He’s got that cocky smirk, the kind that says he thinks he’s got a shot. You sigh, stirring your drink. Poor bastard has no idea what’s coming.

Art’s head tilts, slow and deliberate, like a predator catching a scent. His grin stretches wider, all teeth and menace. You don’t need to look to know he’s noticed. The air shifts, heavy with the promise of blood.

“Hey, sweetheart,” the guy finally says, sliding onto the stool next to you. His breath reeks of whiskey and bad decisions. “You look lonely. How ‘bout I keep you company?”

You don’t even turn to face him. “I’m not lonely,” you say, voice flat. “And you should leave.”

He chuckles, undeterred, leaning closer. “C’mon, don’t be like that. What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a dump like this all alone?”

You glance at Art. He’s still against the wall, but his fingers twitch around the handle of the hammer he’s holding—his favorite tonight, apparently. His eyes aren’t on you anymore. They’re on the guy. And they’re gleaming.

“I’m not alone,” you say, a warning he doesn’t hear. “And you’re about to regret this.”

The guy laughs again, louder, like you’ve told a joke. He reaches out, his hand grazing your arm. That’s the moment Art moves.

It’s not fast, not at first. Art never rushes. He saunters, his movements exaggerated, almost playful, like he’s putting on a show. The guy doesn’t notice until Art’s right behind him, looming like a shadow made of nightmares. The bar’s too loud, too chaotic, for anyone else to care. You lean back, sipping your drink, and brace for the chaos.

Art grabs the guy by the back of his neck, yanking him off the stool like he weighs nothing. The man yelps, flailing, but Art’s grip is iron. He slams the guy face-first into the bar counter, the impact splitting skin. Blood sprays, a crimson arc that catches the light. Someone screams, but it’s drowned out by the jukebox blaring some shitty country song.

Art doesn’t stop. He never does. The hammer comes down, once, twice, each swing deliberate, like he’s sculpting something grotesque.

The guy’s screams turn wet, gargling, then stop altogether. Art’s grin never wavers, wide and unhinged, like he’s having the time of his life. He glances at you, mid-swing, and winks. It’s for you. All of this is for you.

The bar’s emptying out now, people scrambling for the exits, but you stay put. You’ve seen this before. You know how it ends. Art’s not here for them,not unless they get in his way. He’s here for the idiot who thought he could touch what’s his.

When it’s over, the guy’s not recognizable. Art steps back, admiring his work, then turns to you. His hands are slick with blood, his costume splattered, but he holds out a hand like a gentleman offering a dance.

You take it, letting him pull you off the stool. His grip is warm, possessive, and you feel that familiar thrill—fear and love tangled so tight you can’t tell them apart.

He doesn’t speak, never does, but his eyes say everything. You’re mine. Always. You nod, letting him lead you out of the bar, stepping over the mess on the floor like it’s nothing.

Outside, the night air is cool, and Art’s still holding your hand, his thumb tracing circles on your skin. It’s the closest he gets to soft.

You glance at him, his painted face glowing under a streetlight. “You didn’t have to kill him, you know,” you say, not because you mean it, but because it feels like something you should say.

Art’s head snaps to you, his grin dropping for a split second. Then he mimes a pout, exaggerated and mocking, before pointing at you, then himself. Mine. The message is clear. He doesn’t care about “have to.” He cares about you. And god help anyone who forgets that.

You sigh, leaning into him as you walk. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. You’re loyal.” He honks his horn, his version of a laugh, and slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

Art’s not normal. He’s not safe. He’s a monster, a nightmare in black and white, but he’s yours. And as fucked up as it is, that’s enough.

[i-heart-slashers]

Forever Mine

Part two for the 'my girl' series, Marko version. David's version is coming soon!

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Marko (Lost Boys) x Female Reader

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: A heated kiss sparks in the shadows, leading to a raw, passionate moment in a secluded alley. His touch, both tender and possessive, binds you to him in a way that feels eternal, leaving you breathless and craving more, unaware of the deeper, supernatural bond forming between you.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 1.2k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: 18+ Explicit sexual content, smut, mature themes, and public sex.

Part One.

Two nights have passed since he caught your scent, since that electric moment when your eyes locked and the word mate branded itself into his soul.

He’s been hunting you, not with the feral hunger he’s known for decades, but with a desperation that’s new, raw, and all-consuming. Your scent—wildflowers and ripe cherries—lingers in his memory, guiding him through the neon-lit chaos like a lighthouse in a storm.

He finds you on the third night, near the Ferris wheel. You’re alone this time, leaning against a railing, the ocean breeze tugging at your hair. The sight of you hits him like a punch, your silhouette framed by the moon’s silver glow.

You’re wearing a thin sundress, the fabric clinging to your curves, and Marko’s fangs ache as his eyes trace the line of your neck, the pulse point thrumming just beneath the skin. He’s not here to feed, though. Not tonight. Tonight, he’s here to claim what’s his.

You sense him before you see him, that same prickle from the other night, sharper now. Turning, you spot him—Marko, the wild boy with the curls and the patchwork jacket, his grin equal parts danger and charm. Your heart skips, not from fear, but from something hotter, something that makes your skin flush under his gaze.

“Hey, stranger,” you say, your voice teasing but soft, like you’re testing the air between you. “Stalking me now?”

Marko’s laugh is low, a rumble that vibrates through you. “Only a little,” he admits, stepping closer. The crowd fades, the world narrowing to just the two of you. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Your breath catches, his words sinking into you like embers. There’s something about him—too intense, too magnetic, like he’s pulling you into his orbit without trying. You should be cautious, but instead, you’re curious, drawn to the edge in his voice, the way his eyes seem to drink you in.

“Flatterer,” you murmur, but you’re smiling, stepping closer yourself. The space between you crackles with electricity. “What’s a guy like you doing chasing a nobody like me?”

“You’re not a nobody,” he says, voice dropping, serious now. He’s close enough that you can smell him—leather, salt, and something darker, like earth after rain. “You’re mine.”

The words hit you like a wave, possessive and certain, and instead of pulling back, you feel a thrill low in your belly. You don’t understand the weight of what he’s saying, not yet, but your body seems to, responding with a heat that makes your thighs press together.

“Yours, huh?” you challenge, tilting your head, your lips inches from his. “Bold claim for a guy I just met.”

Marko’s grin turns wicked, his hand finding your waist, fingers splaying over the thin fabric of your dress. The touch is light but deliberate, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “You feel it too,” he says, not a question. “Don’t you?”

You do. You can’t explain it, but there’s a pull, a need that’s been simmering since that first night. You nod, just a fraction, and that’s all he needs. His hand slides up, cupping the back of your neck, and then his lips are on yours, hungry and unyielding. The kiss is fire, stealing your breath, your hands fisting in his jacket as you pull him closer.

He growls softly, the sound vibrating against your mouth, and you feel the sharp edge of his teeth—not enough to hurt, but enough to make your pulse race.

He pulls you into the shadows, away from the boardwalk’s glow, into a narrow alley behind the rides. The world quiets, the carnival’s din muffled by the rush of blood in your ears. His hands are everywhere—on your hips, your back, sliding under your dress to graze the bare skin of your thighs.

You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue teasing yours, coaxing a moan from your throat.

“Marko,” you breathe, breaking away just enough to speak, your hands tugging at his shirt. “What are we doing?”

“What we’re meant to,” he murmurs against your jaw, his lips trailing down to your neck. You feel the faintest scrape of his teeth, and your body arches instinctively, pressing against him. He’s hard against you, the evidence of his want making you dizzy. “You want this. Say it.”

“I want this,” you whisper, the words spilling out before you can overthink them. It’s true, raw and undeniable, and the admission makes him groan, low and primal.

He spins you, pressing your back against the rough wall of the alley, his body caging you in. His hands slide your dress up, bunching it at your waist, and you gasp as cool air hits your skin. His fingers find the edge of your underwear, teasing, and you’re already wet, aching for him. He notices, his eyes darkening with something wild, almost feral.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growls, and then he’s kissing you again, hard and desperate, as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding you slick and ready.

You moan, loud enough that you’re glad the carnival’s noise drowns it out, your hips bucking into his touch. He works you over with expert precision, circling, teasing, until you’re trembling, clutching his shoulders to stay upright.

“Marko, please,” you beg, your voice a needy whimper, and he chuckles, dark and delighted.

“Patience, babe,” he says, but he’s already undoing his belt, the sound of metal clinking sending a fresh wave of heat through you. He frees himself, and you catch a glimpse—thick, hard, and ready—before he’s lifting one of your legs, hooking it over his hip. “Gonna make you mine. Forever.”

You don’t have time to process the weight of his words before he’s pushing into you, slow at first, letting you feel every inch. The stretch is intense, but it’s perfect, like he was made for you. You moan, your head falling back against the wall, and he buries his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he starts to move.

It’s not gentle. It’s raw, primal, his hips snapping against yours with a rhythm that drives you higher, faster. His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he fucks you, each thrust sending sparks through your body.

You’re lost in it, in him, in the way he fills you, claims you.

His lips brush your neck again, and you feel that scrape of teeth, sharper now, but he doesn’t bite—not yet. Instead, he kisses you there, possessive and reverent, like he’s marking you in a way only he understands.

“Mine,” he growls again, and the word pushes you over the edge. Your orgasm hits hard, a wave crashing through you, your body clenching around him as you cry out. He follows you, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he spills inside you, his movements slowing but not stopping, like he can’t bear to let you go.

For a moment, you’re both still, panting, pressed together in the dark. His forehead rests against yours, and his eyes—those stormy blue eyes—are softer now, almost tender. “You’re mine,” he says again, quieter, like a vow.

You’re too breathless to respond, but you feel it too, that bond, that something bigger than you can name. You don’t know what he is, not yet, but you know you’re his. And as he kisses you again, soft and lingering, you know he’s yours too.

The boardwalk hums in the distance, but here, in the shadows, it’s just you and Marko, bound by something eternal, something that tastes like wildflowers, cherries, and the salt of the sea.

[i-heart-slashers]

How I feel the Lost Boys would be if it was set like Euphoria instead...

Marko: Hey Star?

Star: Yeah?

Marko: I have a quick question for you.

Star: What?

Marko: How long have you been fucking Michael?

Star: W-what? What are you talking about?

Marko: How long have you been fucking Michael?

Star: I’m not. I’m not.

David: What are you talking about?

Marko: Laddie told Dwayne that he saw her get on his bike and then kiss him and ride off. That was like what, like a month ago?

*David looks at Star.*

David: Are you kidding me?

*As everybody looks at Star, eyes wide, totally fucking horrified.*

Paul: Star, that’s like, really bad.

David: You’re fucking Michael? Are you kidding me?

Star: No, I don’t even know why he would say that.

David: You’re lying.

Max: Yeah, can we just table this conversation?

David: No. You expect me to stand here next to her, and she's been lying to me about fucking my future husband. I’m literally gonna get violent.

Lucy: No there is no need to get violent okay because we are having an intervention. Stop it.

*Star starts to cry.*

David: Oh, you’re crying? You’re fucking crying?

Dwayne: David.

*David gets in Star's face and Dwayne tries to stop him.*

David: You fucking bitch, you’re the one who’s hurt? You are the most self centered, idiotic person I have ever fucking met. You fuck my future man and you’re fucking crying? Are you fucking kidding me?

Dwayne: We can deal with this later.

Star: I don’t even know why you’re believing him, he's lives for drama! Have you seen how he bites his thumb!

David: How long have you been fucking him? Be honest.

Paul: David, let’s just do it later.

David: Paul, shut the fuck up.

*turns back to Star*

David: How long have you been fucking him?

*Star continues to cry.*

David: Laddie? When was this?

Laddie: Right after the concert where that oily guy was playing the saxophone.

*David turns to Star, furious.*

David: You dumb fucking bitch I’m gonna fuck you up!

[i-heart-slashers]

𝔭𝔬𝔳: 𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩 𝔤𝔦𝔯𝔩 "🇹​​🇭​​🇪​ ​🇫​​🇮​​🇳​​🇦​​🇱​ ​🇬​​🇮​​🇷​​🇱​ ​🇦​​🇳​​🇩​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇪​ ​🇲​​🇴​​🇳​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​ ​🇦​​🇷​​🇪​ ​🇹​​🇼​​🇴​ ​🇸​​🇮​​🇩​​🇪​​🇸​ ​🇴​​🇫​ ​🇴​​🇳​​🇪​ ​🇵​​🇪​​🇷​​🇸​​🇴​​🇳​." ​

[i-heart-slashers]

Hey! Could you write a smut scene for Rz Michael Myers where the reader is a patient at Smith's Grove? She is a very mentally ill person. She had killed her family at age 8 on Christmas Eve. She had been transferred from one mental hospital to another until she ended up at Smith's Grove. She had somehow formed a bond with Michael. In that scene where the two guards had dragged that girl into Michael's cell instead of the girl, it's the reader, and that's enough for Michael to kill the two guards. Then they have sex on his bed (it's both their first time), and then they both escape together. Doctor Loomis is like damn it.

𝖎𝖒𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖊 𝕸𝖎𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖊𝖑 𝖘𝖆𝖛𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖘 𝖆𝖙 𝖘𝖒𝖎𝖙𝖍'𝖘 𝖌𝖗𝖔𝖛𝖊, 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖜𝖔 𝖔𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖙𝖔𝖌𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗

TW: Non-consensual themes, graphic violence, mental illness, trauma, explicit content, institutional abuse, blood/gore.

CW: Smut, dark themes, horror elements, death, escape from confinement.

Please read with caution and prioritize your mental health.

The air in Smith's Grove is always stale, heavy with the scent of antiseptic and despair. Your cell is a gray box, the walls scratched with the ghosts of past occupants, but it's been home for years now. You were eight when you snapped, when the world turned red on Christmas Eve, and your family became a memory you don't let yourself revisit. They called you a monster, shuffled you through hospitals like a bad secret, until you landed here. Smith's Grove. The end of the line.

You met Michael in the common room, two silent storms sizing each other up. He didn't speak, didn't need to. His eyes—cold, unblinking—saw you, not the diagnosis or the whispers. You saw him, too. A freak, they called him, but to you, he was something else. A mirror. A tether. You'd sit together in silence, passing drawings or stolen pens, building something no one else could touch.

Tonight, the hallway is too quiet. The fluorescent lights buzz like dying flies. You're in your cell when the door clanks open, and two guards—Jenkins and Reed—fill the frame. Their grins are wrong, too sharp, their hands rough as they yank you up. "Time for a visit," Jenkins sneers, his breath sour.

You knew what they wanted; you've heard the stories and seen the bruises on other girls here. Listened to the banging on walls or rhythmic squeaks of the metal bed frame, accompanied by heartbreaking screams or pleas.

You'd wondered when they'd come to your cell, when your time would come. Your stomach twists, but you don't scream. Screaming never helps.

They drag you down the hall, your bare feet scraping the cold floor. Michael's cell is at the end, a shadowed cave in this sterile hell. The door's already open, and they shove you inside.

Michael's there, sitting on his cot, his massive frame still as stone. His head tilts, eyes locking on you, then the guards. You see the shift in him, the way his shoulders tense, his fingers curl. He knows.

"Hey, Freak!," Reed taunts, gripping your arm tighter. "Brought you some company. Don't say we never did nothin' for ya."

You stumble forward, catching yourself on the edge of Michael's cot. His eyes don't leave you, but there's a storm in them now, dark and lethal.

Jenkins laughs, reaching for you again, but he doesn't get far. Michael moves like a force of nature—silent, unstoppable. One moment, Jenkins is standing; the next, his neck snaps like dry wood, his body crumpling.

Reed barely has time to scream before Michael's hands crush his windpipe, tossing him against the wall like a ragdoll. The room is silent again, save for the faint drip of blood pooling on the floor.

You're shaking, but not from fear. Not of him. Never of him. Michael turns to you, his breathing heavy behind the paper mask he sometimes wears, the one you helped him make. His eyes search yours, and you nod, a small gesture that says everything. You're okay. You're with him.

The cot creaks as he sits, pulling you gently to sit beside him. The air feels different now, charged, like the world has narrowed to this room, this moment. You've never been touched like this, not with care, not with want. Neither has he. You can feel it in the way his hands hesitate, hovering over your shoulders, waiting for permission. You lean into him, your forehead brushing his chest, and it's enough.

Clothes come off slowly, a clumsy dance of inexperience. Your hospital gown pools on the floor, his tattered shirt follows. His skin is warm, scarred, a map of pain you both understand. You guide his hands to your waist, and he pulls you closer, careful but hungry. The cot is narrow, the mattress thin, but it doesn't matter. His touch is deliberate, like he's memorizing you, and you're doing the same. It's not just bodies—it's the years of silence, the shared weight of being broken things in a broken place.

You move together, awkward at first, then finding a rhythm. It's raw, unpolished, but it's yours. His breath is hot against your neck, his grip tightening as you both chase something neither of you has words for. When it's over, you're tangled in each other, sweat-slick and breathing hard.

For the first time, Smith's Grove feels alive.

You don't need to speak to know what's next. Michael pulls you up, his hand steady in yours. The guards' keys are still on the floor, glinting in the dim light. You grab them, and he leads the way, his presence a shield. The alarms haven't sounded yet, but they will. You slip through the halls, two shadows moving as one, out into the cold October night.

Some time later, Dr. Loomis paces his office, his notes on Michael and you spread across his desk. He found the bodies, the empty cells, and cursed under his breath. "Damn it," he mutters, knowing he's lost you both to the dark.

You don't look back. Michael's hand is warm in yours, and the road ahead is endless.

[i-heart-slashers]

𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖋𝖔𝖗… @thecherrylady

𝕴 𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍… David!

David is pure, unfiltered intensity wrapped in a leather-clad, bleach-blonde package. He yearns—oh, he broods and burns. He’d fall headfirst for a girl who’s as passionate, aesthetic, and gloriously over-the-top as you. Your shared love for the 80s, goth glam, and chaotic romanticism? That’s his kryptonite. He’d live for your corpsepaint mornings and your baby pink bows in the afternoon, utterly hypnotized by your duality. You, the artist who spills your soul into fanart and fiction? He’d stare in awe as if watching someone conjure magic. He’s obsessive, magnetic, and full of that “ride-or-die” energy you crave—he wants to be consumed by love. And trust, he wouldn’t just let you into his world; he’d crown you queen of it.

You want someone who doesn’t care what people think and is loud in their love? David would make falling for you feel like a religious experience—bloody, beautiful, and absolutely poetic.

ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔰

He adores watching you draw – often hovering behind you silently, his breath ghosting over your neck, completely mesmerized. If you draw him? He’ll just smirk—but secretly stash it like it’s sacred.

He lets you paint his nails—even in baby pink, even with glitter. He doesn’t care. If you did it, it’s cool. He wears it like armor.

You teach him about fanfiction and fandoms—he doesn’t understand most of it, but he loves the way your eyes light up when you talk about them.

He’s possessive, but poetic about it. Not "you're mine" in a toxic way—but in a "no one else could possibly understand this version of you like I do" way.

You go on night drives together, blasting everything from Siouxsie and the Banshees to The Cure to sad, sparkly synth ballads, with his gloved hand always resting on your thigh.

He brings you trophies—old rings, necklaces, or trinkets from forgotten beach boardwalks. “It reminded me of you,” he’ll say, handing over something eerily beautiful and probably haunted.

ℑ𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔔𝔲𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰

You: “I need affection. Constant. Aggressive. Obsessive.” David: “Lucky for you, I’ve been alive for 400 years and still haven’t mastered subtlety.”

David: “You’re like… the moon.” You: “Soft and glowing?” David: “Chaotic and able to control my entire existence without trying.”

𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℌ𝔢 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔄𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔜𝔬𝔲

David is obsessed with your dual nature—your ability to embody delicate softness and fierce darkness. He sees how you express your soul through art and writing, how you bleed emotion into everything, and he adores how you're never ashamed of your own depth. You’re a full-spectrum experience, and he lives for every dazzling, dramatic, dreamy part of it.

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤

Oblivion – Grimes (You dancing in corpsepaint, him watching like you’re a goddess. Ethereal, eerie, and pink-glitter-meets-blood energy.)

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

Dark Prince x Romantic Artist – He’s chaos incarnate; you’re the emotional heart he never thought he had.

The Brooding Protector – Only you can calm him, and he’ll annihilate anyone who tries to dull your sparkle.

Matching Aesthetics, Opposite Energy – You’re bubbly and broody; he’s intense silence and calculated flare. Together? A gothic power couple.

𝔓𝔩𝔬𝔱 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

“Immortal Falls in Love With Human Artist” – He watches you from the shadows until he has to meet you.

“The World Can’t Have You” – He offers you eternal life—not as a trap, but a gift.

“You're My Favorite Sin” – He doesn't believe in redemption, but he does believe in you.

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔞𝔤𝔢

Quality Time & Acts of Devotion – David doesn’t say “I love you” often, but he shows it in undeniable ways. Standing behind you like a shadow as you work. Fighting for you—literally. Whispering your name like a prayer. He’s not casual. He’s carved-from-fire intensity.

[i-heart-slashers]

𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖋𝖔𝖗… @batty4vampsmain

𝕴 𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍… Dwayne!

Dwayne has the emotional maturity and calm energy that would make you feel safe and treasured — the kind of partner who could pull you close when you’re overwhelmed, without needing you to say a word. He’d adore your art and music, silently watching you work like you’re a masterpiece in motion. He’d definitely indulge your obsession phases, letting you yap about the latest horror novel or a song lyric that broke your heart at 2am. (He's awake anyway). Dwayne is totally the kind of vampire to give “you’re mine” energy without being controlling — someone who would absolutely put in effort, want to show you off in his slow, deliberate way and make you feel worshipped.

ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔰

He braids or plays with your hair when you’re anxious – wordlessly calming you down while you rant about something that overwhelmed you earlier in the day.

He takes you on night rides on his bike – one arm always around you, letting you cling to him while the city blurs past.

You draw him constantly – sometimes he poses for you, but most of the time you sketch him from memory. He keeps the best ones in his jacket.

He loves your voice – whether you're rambling about a new obsession, singing to your guitar, or whispering in his ear, he’s obsessed with the sound of it.

He shows affection in subtle, intense ways – a hand on your thigh under the table, a lingering look across a crowded room, always placing himself between you and danger.

You bond over horror movies – he never gets scared, but he adores watching you react. Bonus: he quotes cheesy lines back at you in bed later just to make you laugh.

ℑ𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔔𝔲𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰

Dwayne: Be careful. You: I'm just going to the store. Dwayne: That’s what everyone says before they end up in a vampire film. You: …You are literally a vampire.

You: You’re being very cryptic and brooding. Dwayne: That’s my whole personality. You: And I love it. Don’t change.

𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℌ𝔢 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔄𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔜𝔬𝔲

Your intensity. You feel things deeply — your art, your obsessions, your love — and it’s magnetic. Dwayne is quiet, but he burns inside, and the fact that you wear your passion like armor and lace is exactly what draws him in. He loves how devoted and expressive you are, how you can be soft and unshakeable, how you see through people and still choose to be kind. You make him feel alive in a different way than immortality ever could.

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤

Lovesong – The Cure (Dancing in the cave at 2am in candlelight, bodies pressed together, saying nothing but meaning everything.)

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

Grumpy x Sunshine He broods, you banter. He’s the stormcloud, you’re the dramatic thunderclap.

“Touch them and you die” Dwayne doesn’t say much, but he will kill for you. Silently.

Immortal x Human Angst The looming “forever” talk happens under a full moon, dramatic as hell.

𝔓𝔩𝔬𝔱 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

Found Family You fit in with the boys quicker than expected — you become their moral compass, and Dwayne’s heart.

Beauty and the Beast He thinks he’s too monstrous to deserve someone like you. You're determined to prove him wrong.

The Artist and the Monster You draw him so beautifully, he starts seeing himself the way you do.

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔞𝔤𝔢

Acts of Service with Physical Touch. Dwayne shows love through doing — protecting you, making sure you're safe and warm, fixing your broken guitar string without telling you. And when it’s just you two? He becomes physically clingy in a very quiet way: resting his head on your shoulder, brushing his fingers down your back, pulling you into his lap with a low, “Stay.”

[i-heart-slashers]

Not Like the Others

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Michael Myers x Reader

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: You catch the fascination of Michael Myers, who spares you, his silent fixation growing into an unsettling, possessive obsession as he watches and leaves cryptic tokens.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 1.4k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: references to murder and blood, stalking and psychological tension, dark themes, mild horror elements, emotional manipulation

The autumn air in Haddonfield was sharp, carrying the scent of decaying leaves and chimney smoke. You pulled your jacket tighter, your boots crunching against the gravel as you cut through the empty lot toward home.

The streetlights flickered, casting long shadows that danced across the cracked pavement. It was late—too late to be walking alone, but your shift at the diner had run over, and the bus was long gone.

You didn't hear him. No one ever did. Michael Myers moved like a wraith, a shadow stitched into the fabric of the night. The first sign of his presence was the prickle at the back of your neck, that instinctive alarm that something was wrong. You stopped, breath catching, and turned slowly.

He was there, standing at the edge of the lot, motionless. The white mask gleamed under the moonlight, its hollow eyes fixed on you. The butcher knife in his hand caught the faint glow of a distant streetlamp, its blade stained with something dark and wet.

Your heart lurched, but your feet stayed rooted. Running would be pointless. You'd heard the stories—Haddonfield's boogeyman didn't chase. He caught.

"Who are you?" you asked, voice steady despite the tremor in your chest. A stupid question, maybe, but silence felt worse.

He didn't answer. He never did. Instead, he tilted his head, just slightly, like a predator sizing up prey. But there was something else in that tilt, something… curious.

You should've been screaming, sobbing, begging for your life like the others. That's what he expected—what he wanted. But you didn't. Your eyes met the black voids of his mask, and though your pulse thundered, you held your ground.

"Why me?" you pressed, taking a cautious step back. Your voice wavered now, but not from fear—it was defiance, a spark of anger at being hunted like an animal. "What do you want?"

Michael took a step forward, matching your retreat. The knife hung loosely at his side, but his grip tightened, knuckles whitening beneath the grime. He was close now, close enough that you could smell the faint metallic tang of blood on him, mixed with something earthier, like damp soil. His breathing was slow, deliberate, audible through the mask. Each exhale seemed to pull at the air around you, drawing you into his orbit.

You should've run. You should've screamed. But something in you—some reckless, stupid part—refused to break. "I'm not afraid of you," you lied, chin lifting. "You're just a man under that mask. Not a monster."

His head tilted again, sharper this time as if your words had struck something deep, something dormant. The knife twitched in his hand, but he didn't raise it. Instead, he stepped closer, towering over you, his shadow swallowing yours.

You could feel the weight of his stare, heavy and unyielding like he was peeling back your skin to see what made you tick.

And then, impossibly, he stopped. He didn't strike, didn't lunge. He just… watched. The silence stretched, thick with tension, until your legs burned with the urge to bolt. But you didn't. You couldn't. Not when those empty eyes held you in place, pinning you like a butterfly to a board.

Days passed, and Haddonfield whispered. Another body had been found, torn apart in an alley not far from the lot. But you were still here, still breathing. You told yourself it was luck, a fluke. Michael Myers didn't spare people. He didn't choose. Yet every night, as you walked home from the diner, you felt it—that prickle, that weight. He was there, somewhere, watching.

You started noticing things. A shadow lingering too long at the edge of your vision. The faint creak of a floorboard outside your door at 3 a.m. A smudged handprint on your window, too large to be yours. You should've called the police, packed a bag, and left town. But something kept you here, tethered to this cursed place. Maybe it was fear. Perhaps it was something darker, something you couldn't name.

One night, you found a knife on your kitchen counter. Not yours. It was old and rusted, with a handle worn smooth by use. Your breath hitched as you picked it up, the weight heavy in your hand. Maybe it was a message. A gift. A warning. You didn't know which, but you kept it, tucking it into a drawer like a secret.

The next time you saw him, it was raining. You were closing up the diner, the neon sign buzzing faintly as you locked the door. He was across the street, standing under a broken streetlamp, water streaming off his mask like tears.

You froze, the key still in the lock. Your heart pounded, but there was that spark again—defiance, curiosity, something reckless. "What do you want from me?" you called out, voice cutting through the rain. "Why won't you just do it?"

He didn't move. The rain plastered his coveralls to his body, outlining the broad, unyielding shape of him. For a moment, you thought he might turn and vanish into the storm. But then he crossed the street, slow and deliberate, his boots splashing through puddles. You backed against the door, the glass cold against your spine, but you didn't run.

He stopped a foot away, close enough that you could see the faint scratches on his mask, the way the rain caught in the creases. His head tilted again, that same curious angle, and you realized something: he wasn't just watching you. He was studying you. Like you were a puzzle, he couldn't solve. Like you were different.

"I don't know what you see in me," you whispered, barely audible over the rain. "But I'm not your prey."

His hand twitched, the one without the knife. For a heartbeat, you thought he might reach for you, might close the distance, and end it. But instead, he turned, melting back into the night as silently as he'd come.

Weeks turned into months, and the pattern held. Haddonfield bled, but you didn't. He was everywhere—outside your window, in the alley behind the diner, at the edge of the woods as you walked home. Always watching, always silent. You stopped locking your doors at night, not out of carelessness but because you knew it wouldn't matter. If he wanted in, no lock would stop him.

You started talking to him, in a way. Not out loud, not always, but in the quiet moments when you felt his presence. You'd sit on your couch, the knife from your drawer resting on the coffee table, and you'd wonder. What did he see in you? Why you, of all people? Was it your defiance, that spark that refused to flicker out? Or was it something else, something deeper, something even you didn't understand?

One night, you left a new knife on your porch, blade glinting under the moonlight. Could tell yourself if it was a test or even a dare. When you checked the next morning, it was gone. In its place was something new: a single, wilted flower, its petals bruised but intact. You stared at it, heart pounding, and realized you were smiling. Not out of fear, not out of relief, but something else entirely.

Halloween came, and Haddonfield locked its doors. You didn't. You sat on your porch, a cup of coffee in your hands, the air thick with the scent of pumpkins and fear. He appeared at the end of your street, a silhouette against the orange glow of jack-o'-lanterns. You didn't flinch. You didn't run.

He walked toward you, each step deliberate, the knife gleaming in his hand. The neighborhood was silent, the trick-or-treaters long gone. It was just you and him, the world holding its breath.

When he reached your porch, he stopped. The mask stared down at you, unreadable, but you felt it— that pull, that fascination. You stood, setting your coffee aside, and met his gaze.

"I'm still here," you said, voice low but firm. "You haven't taken me. You won't."

His head tilted, slower this time, almost… approving. The knife lowered just an inch, and you felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. He was close now, closer than he'd ever been, and you could feel the heat radiating off him, the raw, unyielding presence of him.

You didn't know why he spared you. You didn't know why he watched, why he lingered, why he left you flowers and knives instead of blood. But in that moment, as the wind howled and the pumpkins flickered, you understood one thing: you weren't like the others. And neither was he.