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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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—”
Another step. Heavy. Deliberate. Slow.
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—
“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.
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.
“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.
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?
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 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.”
It's heavy. Cold. Satisfying.
You grin wickedly. “I’m not gonna kill him.”
“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.”
“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.”
Then comes the sound of tiny footsteps… fast. Too fast.
A doll. A little red-haired Good Guy doll. Just standing at the end of the alley.
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.
Chucky eyes you. “You wanna borrow my knife?”
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.
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.
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?”
“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.
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.
Billy Loomis smirked down at you, all smugness and shadowed cheekbones.
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.
“…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.”
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:
You turned just in time to see Ghostface—tall, lanky, and looming—emerge from the hallway with a gleaming knife in hand.
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?!”
“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.”
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.”
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