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[rottenstrawberrymilk]

first time

slashers x reader

michael myers (halloween), jason voorhees (friday the 13th), thomas hewitt (texas chainsaw massacre), brahms heelshire (the boy), pyramid head (silent hill), chris walker (outlast), daniel robitaille (candyman), pinhead (hellraiser), harry warden (my bloody valentine), bo sinclair (house of wax), bubba sawyer (texas chainsaw massacre), kazan yamaoka ('the oni' dead by daylight) , philip ojomo ('the wraith', dead by daylight), danny johnson ('the ghostface' dead by daylight), quentin shermer ('blissfield butcher' freaky)

preferences

nsfw

Michael Myers

He's rough as fuck no question about it. You don't expect any different, considering how he handles or touches you casually (throwing you around rooms or forcefully shouldering you or shoving you aside when you're in his way). You can take it though. At least that's what you tell yourself when he wrestles you onto the bed. You wondered if putting up a bit of a fight would turn him on or make him want to put a knife in your chest. 

Thankfully it was the former. 

The way you writhed beneath him, trying to push back against his hands or nails clawing down his neck and chest, seemed to get him all worked up, huffing and panting behind the mask and not because he was overly exerting himself. He wanted you. 

You hate noticing that it's almost like you're playing out how it usually goes for him when he hunts people down and kills them. The running. The fighting back. He likes it and he wants it because he knows he can dominate you anyways. It's familiar to him and maybe that makes him even more comfortable when it comes to manhandling you and taking your clothes off for you. It was fucked up. Plain and simple. But so was he and so were you. 

At first he only wants silence from you, going out of his way to cover your mouth with a rough hand, his other hand caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress like tomorrow's never coming. But despite his impressive stamina and his usual stone coldness, it all starts to slip the longer he's in you. His hand slips from your mouth to claw his hand into the sheets by your cheek instead, then into your hair, yanking at it. He wants to hear you then, he wants to hear you scream for him. 

And when you start crying because of the way he slowly brings you towards euphoria, only to slow down and steer you smugly away from your climax? That really drives him fucking wild. No amount of begging could convince him to let you cum. Not even the way your nails dig into his bare back or the way you moan into his heaving, sweating chest. It was up to him and him alone to decide that and nothing you said or did was going to get into his head. 

He had complete control. 

Ultimately, he doesn't care much for your pleasure the first time. He just cares about him. Once he's heaving against you, finally releasing, not bothering to pull out, he's pretty much done from there. He practically doesn't even hit the mattress as he rolls off you, pulling up his boxers and zipping up his coveralls. 

Later on when he initiates anything with you it seems like he pays a lot more attention to you. You don't know why but what you do know is that all the sudden he's making you finish a lot more which you are definitely not complaining about. 

Jason Voorhees

Surprisingly enough, despite his stature and his nature Jason is deceptively shy and has trouble making any sort of move. He wants to. He desperately wants to--its like a carnal need in him at this point, every time he looks at you or catches a glimpse of your upper thigh or waist when you stretch. God to only hold your waist in his hands. 

Sex has always been somewhat taboo to him, but the more he thinks of you, the weaker he becomes and the more he starts thinking of loopholes. He especially realizes something needs to be done when the thoughts of you running wild in his head begin distracting him from his work. All the sudden he can't focus and it makes catching and killing trespassers that much harder. 

But eventually, one day, he feels your hand on his thigh while he's sitting next to you, watching old, grainy movies on the staticky television. He's ready to go from there. 

He can have sex. That's his reward for getting rid of trespassers for years and years and fulfilling his revenge. It was his reward for keeping Camp Crystal Lake his and safe. There's exceptions for everything right? His hesitations seemed to dissolve when you leaned into his lap, your fingers at the zipper of his pants. 

He's always had to take care of himself when his need became too much. But what you were doing to him was beyond any sort of bliss he could give himself--the way your hands stretched around him and then oh God the way you took him into your mouth only a few moments after. It took everything he had not to put his hands on you, to wait until you told him to, until you wanted him to. Your mouth on him was wonderful but all he could think of were the things he wanted to do to you. 

"Jason?" you'd asked after you'd swallowed (which nearly made him fucking faint on the spot), looking up at him, the back of your hand at your lips. "I-"

He couldn't stop himself. The sight of you looking up at him with him all over your lips had him hard all over again. He yanked you into his lap, his hands wrapping around your waist exactly the way he'd imagine it for weeks now. Your arms wrapped around his neck as you leaned up into his chest, lifting yourself slightly, either of your legs spread over his as he tore down your shorts. 

It's his first time so you don't mind that your little ride isn't all that long. It'd been so long since you'd been touched, like him, it didn't take much to push you over the edge. For him...it was just all those little noises you were making...just for him? Just for him. It got him so worked up he barely could last for a few more minutes. But the fact that he clearly has wanted to do this for you for a long time flatters you immensely, even after you're collapsed on his chest, insides still churning from his size. You figured anyways that if you made this good enough for him, he'd keep fucking you and he'd keep learning the exact way to make you scream for him. 

Obviously, Jason holds you tight, his cold body soothing your heated face as you nuzzled into his broad chest. Your fingers reach up to wrap around the heavy chain situated around his neck, playing with the cool metal as your eyes fall half shut. One of his hand still stayed at your waist, but the other moved up to stroke over your back--somewhat heavy handedly and rough but you understood the gesture well enough and knew he didn't mean to be rough.  

Thomas Hewitt 

Now Thomas' momma raised him right and he's not going to be one to harass or force himself on you like his less proper male relatives encouraged him to. You were scared of him and he knew it and it didn't make him feel any better about himself. But it didn't stop him from thinking of you when he stared up at the ceiling on hot summer nights, retreating to the basement to get a little relief.

That's why he was somewhat startled when he felt the bed beside him shift under new weight. His hand was quick to find the body of the intruder, his fingers wrapping around a throat. 

"T-Tommy, it's me," your voice had come, partway choked under his hand. 

His grip had lessened but he didn't let go entirely. 

"I-It's hot up there and...and I dunno. I don't know. I just..." You'd hesitated. His hand slowly slipped away from your throat. You took that as a sign that he was okay with you crashing in his bed in the basement for the night. "I just feel safer...with you." Truth be told you'd spent about three hours upstairs, unexplainably hot and bothered, thinking of him.

It'd been strange to hear you say that after all the while he'd spent thinking you were terrified of him. Had he read you wrong? Apparently so, as you climbed over top of him, straddling him. A low grunt left him, but not one of disapproval. He couldn't help but rest his giant hand over your hip, practically engulfing your skin. He felt you shiver beneath his touch, which once again confused him. He thought it was from fear, not pleasure. 

"I know that...you like me. And I kinda like you too, Tommy." 

He felt your hand take his other wrist and even though it was dark, he could dimly make out the way you pulled up your oversized night shirt, pressing his hand to your chest so he could feel. You felt his arousal against your leg as he squeezed slowly, experimentally, like he wasn't sure what to do. You'd kept your hand pressed to his, hoping that he'd get the message, hoping that he'd realize it was okay to want--to want you. 

Thomas had zero experience but you figured he'd have some sort of instinct that would take over. Relief fell over you when your idea was proven correct as Thomas started to take control, sitting up so that way he could slowly press you to the bed instead, underneath him. It felt so right being completely underneath him, pinned to the mattress by his weight, unable to push him off or squirm away like you were so tempted to do. Something told you that playing around with him at the moment wasn't a smart move for his first time. Just keep it simple. 

Surprisingly enough, the way your fingers arched into his back and the way your teeth dug into his shoulder to keep yourself quiet and from waking the rest of his family got Thomas going and soon any of his insecurities were long lost as he proceeded to spend the next twenty minutes absolutely destroying you. It caught you off guard, the way he was suddenly rough without regard, huffing and growling into your ear, making you shiver with delight beneath him. 

You cum first and he follows you soon after. You had no idea how he was holding back his loud groans without having his own teeth buried in your skin or into the pillow because you certainly had a hard time attempting the same thing. But you could tell he liked it when you moaned for him, which made it even harder to hold back. 

Despite the heat, Thomas didn't let you go, only shifting so that way he could curl around you protectively, your ass snug in the curve of his stomach. His fingers picked through your hair slowly and you knew you didn't need to say anything and he didn't need to say anything for the two of you to understand each other perfectly. 

Brahms Heelshire 

Brahms is always looking for opportunities to try and get into your pants. It's obvious that despite the child-like voice he puts on (which freaks you out still) his interest in you is anything but child-like. You become increasingly aware of this whenever his hands find their way down your waist and hips, to your ass or whenever he wraps his arms around you and comes from behind, clearly feeling you up and pretending like he isn't.

You don't know why you're not receptive to his advances. It's not like you hate him or dislike him, he just...scary. You're afraid he'd hurt you for the sake of being nasty to you--you know he gets off on things like that, getting a reaction out of you. So all you really do when he feels you up is bite your tongue and ignore him.

That drives him even more wild because to him there's nothing that spells out more of a challenge than being ignored. 

He switches up tactics soon enough when force isn't working and starts being surprisingly nice to you. He brings you things. Family heirlooms, jewelry--and he wants you to wear them too, he's constantly checking your fingers for the rings he's so generously gifted you. At first you're uncomfortable with his sudden change, knowing he's only being nice to get you under some sheets with him. But at the same time, his new fake kindness is strangely comforting and you like it and you start maybe considering him. 

When you finally give in to his advances and his courting, he wastes no time tearing away at your blouse, even thought it's broad daylight and you're both standing in the fucking kitchen. But you weren't one to complain. With Brahms being the only option for months now and being too uncomfortable to take care of yourself, knowing Brahms was somewhere in the walls watching you, his touch was extremely welcome. 

All the sudden he's got you bent over the counter, shirtless with your pants gone as he tears away at your panties, huffing into your ear, before biting into your soft neck. You give him what he wants. A reaction--a sharp gasp, that soon falls away into strained moans as he begins to suck on different parts of your neck and shoulder. You have no idea where he picked this up from or if he'd done this before but with the confidence he carried himself with, you couldn't believe otherwise. 

He's a little rough at first just to really assert who's in charge, but when you're submissive to him and do what he demands, he softens up, his motions slower his hands gentler on your body. Soon any bruise he's left on your skin he's kissing, and he's telling you how good you are for him and how much he loves you. Apparently you have as much as a praise kink as he does because your body responds in all the right ways to the things he's telling you. 

When he's finished on you, he practically drags you to the couch and makes you lay with him, his fingers intertwining with yours in a way you would have found romantic if it wasn't for the fact that he was a crazy man wearing a mask that ran around the inside of the walls of his own house watching you. But still, the way he snuggled into you was endearing and you couldn't help but smile softly and feel safe enough to even doze off into the crook of his neck, your soft breath stirring at his tangled, dark hair. 

Pyramid Head 

He doesn't talk and you don't care. 

He also doesn't do much to prepare you for when he finally takes you, a gloved hand around your throat as he pinned you against a grimy wall. The ridge of his helmet pressed into your chest, between your breasts, a low, gut wrenching growling coming from him. The terror you usually felt towards him was drowned out with a sort of animalistic want that rivaled the beast's own. The ridge of his helm pressed slightly into your crotch and your nails dig into his heavily scarred wrist, already dried with the blood of monsters unfortunate enough to get in his fucking way. 

One of your hands had slid down the side of his helm, slowly, before reaching underneath it, feeling the fleshy mass beneath. You felt his tongue push against your palm and a soft, strangled moan escaped you. You'd known he had a tongue but you'd never felt it on your skin before. Too bad he wouldn't be using it. 

Instead, dropping his weapon with a loud clang, he moved his hand to open up a part of his thick, stitched apron. You couldn't see it but you could feel the heat of his arousal against your bare leg. God he was fucking huge and the thought of him already sent shivers down your spine and the burning in your stomach only blazed angrier. Pyramid Head had made quick work of your clothes earlier on before he'd even dragged you down the hall and pinned you to the wall. 

He's rough. Too rough. But he's better than anything else in this hell. And it hurts at first when he fucks into you, another growl echoing from his helm and down the hall. But when you finally begin to adjust you can't think about anything but him. His grip tightens on your throat slightly as he thrusts hard, practically smashing you into the wall as you scream. No one that matters can hear anyways so you don't care about being loud. 

Halfway through he has to stop, pulling out as you shriek and letting you fall to the ground. Your legs were unable to support you as you collapsed down, your legs splayed out almost doll like as your head presses back into the wall while you cry out for him again. He's busied himself with the decapitation of some mutilated creature that was bold enough to come walking down this hallway of all other hallways, probably attracted by your moans. A heated blush crept onto your face. Something about the way that cleaver dragged behind him, covered in the blood of things that wanted to kill you and hurt you...

Although distracted at first, his helmet turned back towards you and even though he had no eyes, no face, you could still feel his non existent gaze fucking burning into you. All over again you were hot and you wished you could even understand why something like him made you feel the way that you did. Desperation maybe? You didn't know, you didn't care and all you knew was you wanted him buried inside you all over again for the rest of time or however long you could go without being killed in Silent Hill. 

Already adjusted to him before, it hurt less when he shoved you back up against the wall, either one of his hands gripped on either one of your thighs, spreading you wider for him. The ridge of his head pressed to the wall at your side, adjusting his position so he could get even closer to you as your hips ground against his and you screamed for him. He was good for a seven foot tall monster with a huge ass pyramid for a head. You didn't really want to think about where or who'd he done this to before because all that mattered to you now was that he was doing it with you. 

Chris Walker

Like many things in the asylum, Chris is not gentle. You can't tell if it's because he doesn't realize how rough he's being or if he just doesn't care. You want to think it's the former to make yourself feel better, but either way, he's going to make you hurt a little before he's even got his dick out. 

You try not to make noise at first as he grunts into your ear, calling you "little pig" and "whore" and all of his usual vocabulary. But my God is Chris fucking massive and you thought you were going to burst a vessel if you held back your moans and screams anymore than you already had. Any variant drawn by the noise is quick to get the fuck out when all they can see is the expanse of Chris' back, rippling with powerful muscle while he fucked you into the wall. 

It feels good to at least know that if you're fucking Chris you're technically protected and no variant is going to try to kill you. This normally means you can focus on worrying about whether or not you're pleasing Chris enough to even have him consider keeping you around more. You think you're doing good so far judging by all the noises you were able to get him to make just from a twist or buck of your hips against his. 

He's touch starved and climaxes first, all over you. But he doesn't stop. You don't think the first thing on his mind is to push you into orgasming as well--you just think he's trying to go for round two. It works though, either way, and your cum makes it even easier for you to adjust to his size and overall enjoy him more. 

A couple of times you debated the morality of fucking a literal monster, but then decided that doting on it for too long really would make you go insane. You chose not to care about it. Indifference would help you survive, you were sure. It was pretty hard to think anyways with your eyes almost in the back of your head when Chris picked up the pace, apparently reaching yet another climax. His roar is deafening in your ear and you wrap you legs around his waist tight when he manages to hit a sweet spot, practically plunging your body into euphoric ice as your back arched and you shrieked his name.

You were limp in his arms afterwards, the energy completely sucked out of you from only about fifteen minutes with Chris. 

Sometimes you forget how horrifying and scary he is when he presses his lipless mouth to your own lips in what you imagined was supposed to be his idea of a kiss. Then you remember on account of him pressing his teeth to your face and feeling his extensive scarring and permanent snarl on your lips. 

Still, he's better than the other variants here and you'd rather have had his favor than any other and he actually does seem to like you despite his constant growling and eagerness to have a hand around your throat while he dragged you around. 

Daniel Robitaille 

It hits different when you feel the metal of his hook brushing up your skirt, lifting it as it drags over your legs, threatening to pierce skin, but never following all the way through. While his hooked hand might be rough and dangerous and intimidating, his free hand isn't--stroking over your cheek, caressing your body as he pulls you closer to him. His touch is juxtaposition, so sweet, but deadly if chosen to be. 

For a man (ghost?) who spent months tirelessly pursuing you in your dreams, in your head, everywhere you looked, violently killing those who even looked at you wrong, who even came near you he was surprisingly sweet and gentle to you. That was his love, you supposed. Only for you. No one else. 

When he pinned you beneath him, his lips meeting yours slowly, softly, his hand at the curve of where your neck met your jaw and cheek, you were surprised to feel no sudden pain at bee stings. That had been one of your biggest fears, that the bees in his chest would stir and mark you with painful red sores. If you were quiet--if you held back your moans and soft, blissful sighs--you could hear a faint buzzing noise in his chest. It disturbed you, but there was little you intended on doing to stop Daniel's advances. 

You...kind of liked him. Even if he had spent months essentially ruining your life. To his credit, he did remove a number of irksome people from it. 

What were the moral consequences of getting pipe from an undead ghost man who'd been terrorizing people for the better half of a century? 

Soon enough, it didn't really matter to you because you couldn't even think straight. 

He's very, very attentive to you and your needs and body. He works his way down from head to toe before he's even in you, making you squirm beneath him, arousing you like no one had before. It's like he knows every sweet spot and sensitive area, the places that could really make you scream, even though he's never fucked you until now. The side of his hook pressed deep into the flesh of your inner thigh as he ducks his head once more, breath hot on your sex. 

Even before he begins to fuck you for real, you've already cum for him not once but twice. And he intends on making that number climb. He'll always hold on to the memory of you breaking out of your shy, reserved exterior when the pleasure overwhelmed you. The way you were wild, unable to hold back shrieks of euphoria as you clawed in to his back, the back of his neck too, face pressed into his shoulder. And when he heard his name on your lips? His real name? It easily makes him lose the control he valued so heavily before. 

By the end of it all, you're a panting weak mess, partway slung over his shoulder as you shut your eyes.

He whispers to you. Words you can't catch, words you can't process because your head's still spinning. But he meant them. The passion in his voice was unmistakable, the love, the fire. All there. And he held you close, a part of his coat wrapped around you. Oddly comforting.

Pinhead

The promises of pleasure overwhelm any real thought warning you of the pain that would come with it. The whispers of the box, the Lament Configuration, it gets to you. He, towering and clothed in all black, terrifying and powerful as all hell, gets to you. 

The Hell Priest did not lie to you. He didn't omit that--the pain that's involved in being with him. But part of you, some guilty part of you thinks you deserve what he's promising you. Some horrible part of you, so similar to him, almost can't even define the difference between the pleasure and pain he's offering. 

It's hard to say no anyways when there's hooks, pierced through you. 

There doesn't need to be hooks dug into your thighs for them to be wide open for him, for those long, neat fingers of his. There doesn't need to be winding, strong chains around your wrists for you to hold them up and above your head, allowing him access to your body, allowing him to do whatever he wanted to you. 

You would have done that all on your own without a second thought. Just to chase the bliss. 

The pain of it all...it's like it enhances the absolute euphoria, something unearthly that no actual man or woman alike could come close to making you feel. It's a crude way to make you appreciate the pleasure more in comparison to the pain, but at the same time, it's almost impossible to distinguish which is which in the burn of your nervous system.

You think you might understand, you might grasp the mentality this demon, this angel, whatever he is holds dear and above all else. You get it. You wonder if anyone else he's had the chance to pierce hooks through has reached enlightenment like this. Can he tell? By the glint in your eyes and the moan rolling off your tongue, can he tell? You want him to know. You want to be worthy of him. You want to worship him. 

Enamored is an understatement.

Chains ravel around your body, tight, between your legs, cold and biting, against your abdomen, around your neck, slowly squeezing, choking you just right. You shut your eyes, head tilting back. Ready to receive. 

You could never let anyone have their way with you again. The Hell Priest--he was the only for you now, you were sure. 

Smitten was a word that came to your foggy mind as he forced a slender finger into your mouth, covered with your own wetness, making you taste your own arousal. As if he even needs to remind you what effect he has on you. You throbbed. For him. Your thighs, numb from the suspension, dull to the pain of the hooks pierced through your skin, tremble. 

He can't kiss you. He can't bite you or suck on your skin. The pins, the silver needles lining his regal face, they prevent him. But he doesn't need to. He can find dozens of other ways to make you writhe and moan. Decades of this has made him creative, experienced in his craft. 

There is no romance to this. No gentleness. No love. This is Hell. His Hell. And you fucking love it. 

A leather thumb swipes over your lip, slow, catching your saliva from the corner of your mouth and wiping it away. 

"More," you're barely able to whisper, a stray chain tight around your neck. The indents from the shape of the links will remain long after. If you could, you'd have tattooed them over, just to make them stay, just to show your devotion. 

And he obliges. 

"I will show you pleasure and pain like no other." 

He's not close to your ear, but his voice carries, low and deep, like his lips are practically to your skin. You shiver. It feels more like a promise than a threat. 

The chains jangle against each other, your suspended body tight with anticipation. You hear leather shift. It's all so much better with your eyes shut. You feel a hand creep up your calf. Streams of blood cross over your skin, like threads, like art. 

He's fucking you. It take a moment to realize, between the overwhelming sensations of pain and pleasure that he so loves to bring crashing upon your mortal head. Your fingers curls, bent to the extreme at the knuckles, grasping at whatever tight length of chain might have been near that stretch of skin. Curled into fists around cold links, your arms jerk against the bindings with every little shock of pleasure in your nerves.

"Will you give yourself up to me? In the name of the pain you seek?" The Priest asks. A hand, pale and soft, grips at your neck. 

You gasp out a "yes", desperate and unwound. 

He finds this desperation, your desperation specifically, so amusing. So human. So beyond him. 

"Pet," he tells you, voice thundering deep in your ear, in your chest, home to your rapidly beating heart. "You. Are. Mine." 

Harry Warden 

Harry's been wandering the mines with only his imagination and his hand for a long time now. So when you came along, even from the very beginning, there was no denying his automatic attraction to you. Once he got past the idea of brutally murdering you anyways--that was always the hardest part to fight through. But ultimately it paid off. 

When the opportunity finally arose and he found you willing and wanting him, Harry wasted no time stripping the clothes from your body. He pulled you through the mines until he reached the communal showers, turning on a stream and pulling you in with him. His own gloved hand reached down to undo his belt.

He liked shoving you up against a tile wall, almost so that you couldn't breath unless your neck was at an odd angle and your cheek was pressed to the wall. Harry's hands crept up your sides, before spreading over your abdomen, rising up to your chest and gripping you, hard. A soft moan escaped you, echoing in your ears. And in his. You couldn't see it or feel it, but goosebumps rose on his arms as a lustful chill swept through him. He didn't seem much for any foreplay, too riled up to waste any time. 

He's rough and scary and makes you fear for your life at first, the way his hand wraps around your throat as he takes you from behind, only muffle grunts and growls coming from inside the mask. You didn't know what was wrong with you, the way those noises seemed to arouse him as much as your moans and pants did to him. As minutes passed and your legs began to shake, Harry almost seemed to become...more loving? 

His affections were more obvious, when his touches grew softer and his hand finally left your throat as you murmured his name, your eyes shut in pleasure, your brows drawn together as you tried to hold yourself together. Harry's strokes grew slower and longer and deeper as well, like he was finally stopping to savor and enjoy you, rather than just fucking you quick to get his sexual frustration out of the way. His hands shifted right around your waist, giving you extra support the less you were able to feel your legs.

The trembling spread throughout your body as he guided you closer to an orgasm. You couldn't bite back full on screams of pleasure anymore, begging him to finish you off. You almost wanted to sob you were so close. You begged him again and again, howling his name as tears gathered in the corners of your eyes. God he felt so good. 

Rough fingers shoved into your mouth, past your soft, parted lips--he'd taken his gloves off. You cringed when you could taste the dirt and grime on them, but couldn't help but want to please him, sliding your tongue over them, sucking and grazing your teeth over them softly. He was making you feel good and you wanted to return the favor. 

You came first, in turn triggering his own climax as his other fist suddenly gripped into your hair, pulling your head back. You could feel the gas mask pressed up against the side of your head, his heavy breathing even louder in your ear. A pleasured shriek escaped you as your hand reached up to press against his mask, as your back and hips arched into him. 

Obviously, Harry wasn't much of a cuddler, even after you'd given him one of the best fucks in his life. But he did have the decency to hold you close, somewhat awkwardly, pulling you back under one of the shower streams with him to get all of the dust and fluids off of you. You sighed as you leaned into his chest, a hand pressed up to him as a wave of fatigue overcame you.

He didn't stay for long after, but you knew he'd be back for more. You'd given him a taste, you'd given him your body willingly, and now in his head he believed you were his. 

Bo Sinclair 

The sexual tension between you and Bo had been bad and was only getting even worse for awhile now. You didn't know why you were so...into him, but you just were. And it seemed like he liked you a lot too. The way you caught him looking you over, up and down over your body. The way he talked to you, the way he seemed to put on extra emphasis on that southern drawl of his (that he definitely knew drove you wild) and sent goosebumps all up your arms and shivers down your spine. And when he touched you, even if it was friendly, you knew of the lurking intent behind it. His hand on your waist or on your arm or around your shoulder. It didn't matter where. 

Sometimes he kissed you. Nothing much. Soft pecks on the cheek or the nose, maybe your lips if you weren't really paying attention and he could catch you off guard. But it never went any farther than that. Still, you figured that if he was kissing you and touching you the way he did that meant you were like...with him. He never really said anything to confirm it to you directly and you didn't want to ask out of nervousness.

You're scared of Bo almost as much as you're strangely drawn to him, having seen him in action and in his fits of rage that came as easy as they went. You couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever turn on you. You didn't think he would and you were sure you'd have to push him pretty far to have him mad enough to actually try to hurt you. 

So that was why it surprised even you when you ended up taking initiative. He'd kissed you, something that'd become a habit of his when he first saw you in the morning. You didn't know what the hell had gotten into you, but all the sudden your hand traced down from his chest to his thigh, thumb at the buckle of his belt. Bo took over from there with zero hesitation. He took it as a green light to do to you the things he'd been planning since you'd first run into him at the gas station some months ago. 

He dragged you up to his room, a place you'd only seen a few times but never been in. You'd never wanted to invade his privacy or piss him off by being nosy. His face buried in your neck, kissing you roughly, he pushed you down onto the bed. You could barely even take in a breath before he was ripping away at your panties with his hunting knife, sending chills down your spine as the cool blade brushed over the delicate skin of your thigh. 

"You know how long I've been wanting to do this to you?" he asked you, his voice little more than a hiss in your ear, before capturing your lips in another kiss, his rough, calloused fingers already sliding into you. You let out a cry, your back arching involuntarily as you sighed out his name, your eyes squeezed shut in the sudden sensation. 

Even when he comes close to getting you to climax, he pulls his fingers out right at your peak, on purpose. You let out a whine, a wave of frustration falling over you. "Bo!" you gasped out, going to sit up. He wrapped his hands around both of your wrists, pinning them above your head and forcing you back down to the mattress.

He leaned in close. "Sh, sh," he shushed you. "Not finished with you yet, darlin'." 

Reaching over to the bedside stand, he rummaged through the drawer until pulling out a roll of grey duct tape. He stretched out a good length with his teeth, the hair on the back of your neck raising with the sound of tape ripping. Tearing the length off, he threw the roll off to the side, focused only on you as he descended upon you once again, shaking the mattress beneath you. You gasped as he grabbed your wrists again, wrapping the tape around them tightly. Part of the bed frame was caught within the tape, pinning your wrists above your head easily. He looked back down at you, his hair a mess his eyes hungry and wanting, like he was drinking in your slightly fearful expression. Bo grinned as he lowered back down onto you, kissing down your neck, to your collarbone. 

Impatiently, you rubbed your thighs together, fire still burning in your core as you whine softly under his touch. Holy fuck you needed him so bad. All of your nervousness and anxiety and shyness was forgotten for the moment as you moaned his name, begging him to continue. 

"How bad?" he asked. "How bad do you need me inside you, angel?" his breath was hot in your ear. 

If you thought he could talk you into a fluster on a regular day, holy hell could he do it even better now. It was like a never ending stream of sultry words, just for you, only for you, directly into your ears. And, his voice. Lower and even more commanding than it'd ever been before. The way he could arouse you without even touching you was a specialty of his.

Bo worked at your neck again with a hot tongue and teeth, grazing over your skin, sucking and pulling wherever he could get you to make the loudest noises, wherever he could get you to writhe slowly underneath him, trying to get some kind of relief, some kind of release as you gasped for air. He left purposeful marks all over your skin, moving down towards your chest, to your breasts where he could bite harder. You cried under his teeth.

"I want you to see these tomorrow n' remember who left 'em for you. I want everyone to see 'em tomorrow. I want everyone to know you're mine." His voice twisted into a growl as he continued on lower once again towards your throbbing sex. 

"Bo, please," you had begged him again, blinking back tears in your eyes. "I-ahh~"

Your voice had faded off into moan as his head dipped between your thighs and his nose pressed to your clit. Your hands jerked above your head and your fingers curled into fists as you threw your head back, clenching your teeth. Between his hot breath and his tongue, slowly lapping up against you like he had all the time in the world--you were a complete mess, trembling beneath him, every other breath caught in your throat. 

You lose count of the amount of times you cum for him, the amount of times he licked up your everything like he was starving for you as you screamed and your hips jerked beneath him. At some point, his hands were gripping your thighs tightly, forcing your hips down so only he could be your relief from the pressure in your body. By the time he was satisfied, you were gasping for air, eyes half shut, tears rolling down your face. 

Bo's thumb brushed them away. "Aw, didn't mean to make you cry now, honey..." he told you as you leaned your cheek into his touch. 

Stammering, you tried to get out a response. "N-no, you're...you're really good. You-you were really good." You laid your head back down on the pillow, letting out a heavy sigh. A sort of nervousness filled you at still being in your vulnerable position beneath him, wondering if it was your turn now. God you were going to disappoint him bad...you were totally spent from everything he'd just done to you. 

Bo reached up over your head, unsheathing his hunting knife. A bit carelessly, he cut between your hands, through the duct tape. You peeled it off your wrists, wincing when you realized the blade had caught on the side of your palm. Blood began to gather. 

"Sorry 'bout that, darlin'."

You turned on your side to cup your hand as Bo collapsed behind you, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close, so that the curve of your ass was snug against him. He rested his chin in the crook of your neck, one of his hands grabbing at your wrist, and pulling your injured hand to his lips. Your eyes were half shut with fatigue as you felt his tongue over the skin over your hand. 

Even if he doesn't make you return the favor right now, you know it doesn't mean you're completely off the hook. It means he's coming back for more later. 

And that thrills you. 

Bubba Sawyer 

You certainly hadn't been dating him the first time. Hell, you hadn't even known his name until a few days after. The fact that you had let him get some in the first place was the entire reason he let you live. Knowing that had driven guilt and shame deep into you for the longest time. 

He'd cornered you in some old barn. It was dark and it was raining and thundering like all hell was about to break loose. In a way, it already had. Your friends were long gone. They'd seen him get a pretty good hit on you--a slash from the running blade of his saw into your arm. It was deep and it'd been painful as hell, enough to make you drop on the spot and black out temporarily when you'd received it. You didn't exactly blame them for thinking you were dead judging by the way you'd dropped like a sack of potatoes. You'd never really been the type to have high pain tolerance. 

You figured your friends were either all dead or had bailed on you. They had escaped. Without you. That concept, coupled with the crushing loneliness and bitterness of betrayal hurt almost as bad as the open wound in your arm. But in a way, you couldn't complain. It was smart of them to just run when they had the chance. There was a reason you were the only one left around, trapped in a barn with a chainsaw wielding man. With nothing between you and him. 

No where to run, no where to hide and, nothing to do. If you tried to run past him, he'd catch you with the saw or his hand--he was big enough to block almost the entirety of the door as he glowered down at you, looking beyond pissed.

The odds just weren't in your favor. And you weren't a fighting type. You arm was hurting worse and worse and your vision was becoming more and more blurred and all you could think about was how tired of running you were. 

It caught him off guard when no scream of terror escaped you as he began to approach you. A soft sigh sounded hollowly instead, one of utter defeat as you stood before him, shoulders hunched and head dropped. Not frozen in fear or shock like victims usually were. You just were...standing there. And then you fell to your knees, eyes half shut with fatigue as a single tear dripped from your eyelashes and into the dirt on the barn floor. 

On your knees, at your feet, head bowed like a prisoner waiting for their beheading, you waited. You couldn't help but flinch softly when the blade of the chainsaw pressed slowly, experimentally into your shoulder. It wasn't running, thank God...but you figured it'd only be a matter of time before he did start it. You just hoped he'd make it quick. But the sound of the engine starting never came. Eyebrows furrowing with confusion, you looked up at him. You hadn't seen him up this close before, staring down at you through dark, surprisingly soft eyes, the toes of his shoes barely touching your knees. His other hand, dried with dirt and blood reached up to hold your jaw, lifting your head higher yet. A rough, scarred thumb brushed down your bottom lip, pulling at it slightly as he tilted his human skin masked head to the side. You didn't break your teary eye contact with him. How could gentle eyes like that belong to such a...monster? How could he touch this softly when he'd previously tried to drive a chainsaw through your arm?

You were starstruck, up until he suddenly grabbed you by your throat, lifting you with a low grunt and ramming you up against the back wall of the barn. You felt the bottom of an old crate settle just beneath your legs, providing little support as your hands grabbed at the corners of it. Your nails dug into the rotting wood and your muscles stiffened as the end of the saw dragged up your wet leg. Breath caught in your throat as you squeezed your eyes shut, tight, the blade pushing up further to between your legs. He applied pressure slowly, watching you squirm, shuddering when you finally let out a whimper. He seemed...excited to get a reaction out of you. He did it again, with the same results.

The chainsaw dropped to the ground and his huge, hot hand made itself known on your skin in its place. A low groan came from him as he stroked your soft skin under rough, dirty fingers. It's not an entirely unwelcome sensation on either end. 

Better than the chainsaw, you eventually decided, through the thick haze settling on your brain. 

It may have been a poor choice wearing a skirt this short, but it had been so hot before it started raining...

It took the man in the mask a good few seconds to properly align himself after he easily rips your panties away from your legs. He missed, rubbing up against you, eliciting a low moan from you that brought an instant flush to your cheeks. You felt embarrassed about your somewhat...welcoming demeanor towards his advances. But you couldn't help it--you'd been fucking around with one of the boys (who was either dead or long gone) earlier on and chainsaw guy had interrupted before you'd been able to finish. 

 He didn't seem experienced, like he didn't know what to do. Were you his first? 

"Hold on, hold on, please," you told him, your voice soft. "I can help..."

You don't know what possesses you, but you figured out then that maybe if you went through with this, you might live. And even if he did plan on killing you right after this, maybe it'd be one last bit of pleasure. You'd rather one last shot of bliss through your veins before going to the chainsaw. 

Your voice seemed to pacify him as he snorted into your neck. You reached down to grab ahold of him, properly lining it up with your entrance and shifting your hips down so he could push inside you. He's bigger than you thought. A lot bigger, what the fuck were you thinking? You bit back tears, hands leaving his skin to steady yourself via the crate beneath you. 

He took over from there with surprising ease. While he fucked you, the crate cracked and began to splinter beneath your weight and his smothering, combined one. He grabbed beneath your thighs and lifted you up, crushing through what remained of the crate just to throw you harder against the wall with a loud growl that seemed to drown out the thunder itself. You moaned at the feeling of his fingers digging so roughly into your flesh. 

He came pretty fast, which you thought would be a relief. That same sense of frustration from when he interrupted you and your "friend" from earlier bubbled in your chest once again. Fuck, you'd been so close this time. Were you just going to get edged over and over again until he took the fucking chainsaw to you? But he didn't immediately pull out and instead continued thrusting into you, like he actually...wanted to bring you pleasure too. And you do. Just for him. 

When it was all over, you thought he was more tired than you were. His hot breath pushed against the sensitive, bitten skin of your neck as he gasped and whined softly. Awkwardly, shakily, you reached up to pet your hands through his dark, thick, matted hair. It was taking everything you had not to pass out on the spot again, and your vision was still spinning from your climax. 

A bit too roughly, the man threw you over his shoulder and you could hear the faint zip of his pants. You fought to keep your eyes from shutting. Through your eyelashes, you caught a glimpse of him lifting his once abandoned chainsaw up from the barn floor in his free hand. 

Even as you were limp over your back, your hands absentmindedly traced over his back, as you waited for a death that wasn't going to come. 

Kazan Yamaoka 

Honestly, there's not much of a grace period between first encountering Kazan--or "The Oni" as he was called by other survivors--and finding yourself pinned beneath him. You learn quickly not to call him "The Oni" when you're around him and he's not trying to kill you, otherwise he will try to kill you. His name is fine. Kazan Yamaoka. It's his legacy and his pride and it's been eons since anyone has referred to him with his proper title. 

Maybe that's why he had other interest in you that didn't involve meathooks and sacrifice and katanas through the throat. 

You wanted to think that maybe it made him feel more human again. Maybe what made him feel very human "love". Completely wrong. It wasn't about a sense of humanity--he'd shed that centuries ago. He was a monster, a demon, a...you know what. And it certainly wasn't about "love". Make no mistake, Kazan has not felt any stirring of love in that cold, dead heart of his for a very long time. It's about control. It's about animalistic want and possession and just straight lust in its darkest form.

But still, to your mild concern, there's some piece of you that wants to take part in it. 

And so you do. 

There are no words needed. You don't know the extent of his powers, but he seems to be able to tell that there's a knot in your stomach when your eyes meet the empty holes of his mask during the next trial you see him in. 

You notice when he finally hunts you down and hauls you over his shoulder that his clawed, massive hand moves down your back slowly and to your ass. His fingers knead hard into you and you grit your teeth to stop from crying out. You swore that his nails were going to break through your pants and puncture flesh. He'd like that though, wouldn't he? 

The possibility that you had somehow pissed him off crossed your mind. You knew he'd seen Dwight previously touching your arm as you knelt so he could help you heal from a slice that Kazan had graciously given you at the beginning of the match. He definitely had a much larger, more noticable mean streak whenever he saw any other survivors near you or (god forbid) touching you. 

You figure that in his head, you're essentially his. Like completely. Under any other circumstance, with any other guy who wasn't an eight foot tall scary ass demon, you would have objected to these old-fashioned, overly possessive ideals that made you feel more like property than...well...you couldn't really even say 'parter' and be completely sure of yourself. You knew the bare minimum of how his semblance of a relationship worked with you and that was that he was very clearly attracted to you and very, very sure no one else could touch you because you were his and only he could do that. 

Kazan ended up tossing you near some ruins off the far end of the arena, away from the other survivors. You know better than to move and to be honest, he's kinda got you all hot and bothered and the memory of his hand on your ass is pretty clear, so you don't want to move either. Still, you take the opportunity to press up into a corner and tend to the deep cut in your side, just for the sake of not bleeding out before Kazan could return. 

He must be impatient because pretty soon, the sound of screaming and generators popping is replaced with silence. There's always a chance your fellow survivors evaded him. But the familiar pit in your stomach, the eerie feeling, tells you otherwise. And when Kazan comes back drenched in blood, the last of a snarl dying on his tongue your initial theory about the reason behind the silence is confirmed. 

His impatience still reigns supreme when he grabs your thigh, a low growl coming from behind the mask. You take it as a warning. You swallow nervously, but can't ignore the growing excitement in your chest as his thick, scarred fingers wrap around your legs and pull you closer to him. He's down on top of you, either one of his hands positioned by your head. 

There's really not much to prepare you for him. He's obviously been thinking about you as much as you've been thinking about him. You're not sure if the teeth of his mask crashing into your head was some version of a kiss or just an accident, but you'd take it. You could pretend some part of him loved you or cared about you, just to entertain your human fantasy of him. 

Kazan cuts you--deep--just to feed off your blood, even while he fucking you on the rough ground. He reopens the wound you'd previously treated, forcing a shriek from your throat. It only seemed to spur him on more as he groaned and gasped, head in the space between your shoulder and ear. 

His low, deep growls turn into deafening roars. Thankfully, he moves his head from your ear long before the demon-like howling begins. Even if its directed upwards as he throws his head back in pure pleasure, it's still earth-shaking.

You really thought you would go deaf after this was over, but holy fuck he wasn't roaring for nothing. God he felt good. He's aggressive and too rough and treats you like you're some fucking ragdoll (quite literally) but it brings a certain thrill and adrenaline rush you've never felt before. You'd only had sex a couple of times before getting lost in the fog that landed you here, but you could confirm then and there as you writhed beneath him, hands clawing at his scarred skin, that demon dick was wayyy better than the regular shit. 

Still, it's obviously been awhile since either of you have experienced pleasure like this, so maybe it had just been so long you were glorifying and worshipping what little you could get. The pain, at least, had lessened and you'd come to enjoy the way he filled you completely and made you just...feel like you weren't here anymore. Like all this murky, dirty, scary shit all falls away and it's just you and Kazan and the bliss pumping through your veins. 

Maybe you love him for that. You don't know. 

After its all (unfortunately) over and the fog comes rolling back in and you realize you're still here, in the Entity's hell, you can't help but feel a sense of loss. 

Kazan's not much for aftercare. Instead, he simply straightens himself up, readjusting his pants and his armor, his chest still heaving from his climax that was very much deep in you. You went to wipe at your inner thigh, feeling some of his cum leaking out onto your skin. He suddenly grabs your wrist tight and snarls. Your fingers tremble as one of his hands reaches down between your open legs and pushes any leaking seed back inside. You gasp and tighten around his fingers, and you think for a moment you might have tempted him into another round. Maybe you're just light headed from literally bleeding out this entire time for Kazan's own pleasure. 

This little ritual after he's finished with you becomes a continued habit in the future. It eventually clicks that he's definitely trying to breed you, and he'd continue doing so until he was successful. Heirs to his legacy. That's what he wanted. Lucky for you, the IUD implant in your arm still seems to be working great and is generally unaffected by being in possibly another dimension. Whatever this place was. You wisely choose not to tell Kazan about it. In the strangest way...you don't want to lose whatever value you might have to him. A part of you wants to think he'd continue being possessive over you, even if you never gave him a child, but you're not going to take that chance. 

Eventually, he hauls you up over his shoulder. You simply let out a soft sigh. It's nice to be on his shoulder without also having a stab wound or a broken leg from being clubbed. 

The only time Kazan has ever shown mercy and given you the hatch was after your first time with him. As far as you can tell afterwards, it's never going to happen again, no matter what you do. 

Philip Ojomo

A soft gasp escaped you at the feeling of an invisible hand stretching over your abdomen, reaching over your stomach and downwards further, down to palm slowly, gently over your pants. David, who was working on the generator with you glanced over. You quickly shake your head, trying to ignore the feeling of phantom fingers pressing into your jeans, kneading into you softly, knowingly. 

"Nothing, j-just thought I...I heard something," you mutter out, just to take the other survivor's focus of you and back on the generator. Your hands shake on the wires and you decide the best move is to drop them before you pop the generator and ruin its progress.

It wasn't just Philip--the Wraith--'s hand that startled you, it was the meaning behind it. You always thought you'd have to make the first move with Philip. You'd always had to before. Whether it came to kissing him first all those trials ago or even taking your hand in his when you met up to walk with him between realms, awaiting your next trial.

It's new. And it's bold. Bold for Philip at least. But it only gets you going the more you think about it. You'd be lying if you tried to deny your fantasies about him, how it would feel for him to take you spontaneously. It'd been so long since you'd gotten any, you couldn't really help leaning your hips more into his palm.

He's touched you before during trials, slender fingertips ghosting over yours or a slight dip of his head into the crook of your neck--all while he's cloaked of course and all in front of other survivors, but never like this. Never with so much obvious want.

No one can see. No one can see the way the two of you look at each other. 

You know you're not going to be able to bite back moans or soft gasps much longer and Philip's not showing any signs of stopping. It's not an attempt to tease you--he clearly has no intent of going anywhere without you going somewhere else first. You quickly excused yourself, figuring that since the generator was half done, it would be believable for you to lie and say you were going to double back on a different generator you'd started at the beginning of the trial. David doesn't question the excuse. He just nods, wires pinched between his calloused fingers and his scarred brow furrowed with concentration as you leave. The other survivors don't know. They'll never know because if they do they'll never trust you again.

It's not like you don't like them--you do, you just think...there's something about Philip where they can't compare. And you can't choose Philip over them either. There's no possible decision to be made in the first place. If you even tried, it would not guarantee your safety nor your happiness--happiness here in the Entity's void wasn't attainable. Maybe there were brief moments when you laid with Philip between rounds, in between the realms the killers roamed, that you felt content. Felt...happy to be in his presence, your hand in his. But it would all go away when it was time for yet another trial and once again misery ensued. 

He was your break from all of that--the endless trials and the blood and gore and hooks and screaming. Even when he was assigned killer in a match with you, he seemed to go easier on you, which was enough of a gesture to suggest deep affection for you. What could you say? It was bleak and dreary and scary here and even the bare minimum was wonderful. 

But if your teammates ever found out? You'd be fucked in every other round without Philip in it. You'd seen what happens whenever they got mad and turned on someone for a round or two to exact petty revenge over some royal fuck up. Loving a killer? That wasn't even comparable to leaving someone behind or accidentally leading a killer to the rest of the group or something like that. It was an unspoken rule--the highest treason--not to fuck around with killers. "Don't even talk to them", was a pretty prevalent suggestion in the group. If they found out, you knew it would mean that whenever you got hooked or downed in future trials, you were going to stay on that hook and there would be no goodwill or help healing.

Even with the risks of getting caught running through your head, you still make a beeline for the furthest generator from the rest of the group, all the way on the edge of the map. You felt Philip's fingertips ghost over your waist, and then your hand, pressing into your palm. You can hear his raspy breathing in your ear. It only gives you a sense of intense comfort. 

As soon as you're hidden behind ruinous, mossy walls, Philip uncloaks, the clanging of the bell near silent. He'd brought a coxcombed clapper. You felt somewhat flattered by that. He doesn't speak, but you figure from the few times you've ever seen him bring this particular type of clapper, it's a rare find. You almost feel guilty that he's wasting it on you. But the feeling is long forgotten when his palm reaches up to curve over your jawline and your fingers wrap lovingly around his bandaged wrist while you lean your cheek into his hand. 

Philip's facial expressions don't ever change. You don't think he can smile. You don't think he can laugh. But there's still something about the way he looks at you, head cocked to the side, eyes bright and soft and all on you. All for you. A generator pops somewhere in the distance. And you realize you don't have all trial. 

You're not much to rush something like this, but the situation and your own excitement makes it an exception. One of your hands drop to stroke slowly down him, near identical to the way his hand moved over you earlier. He shivers under your touch. He seemed so touch starved that he was already aroused just from the trace of your slightly trembling finger tips over his abdomen and down to his thigh. Your fingers shifted underneath the bandages, picking at an edge you found and moving the bandages down from between his legs. A soft groan leaves him as his eyes half-shut when you wrap your hand around him. Philip suddenly pulled you close, pushing you back up against the crumbling brick wall, his breathing turning heavier than usual. 

Your other hand moved to lift up your skirt for him as either one of his hands enveloped your thighs and suddenly lifted you up with little effort. Your lips found his neck. He was somewhat passive--like he's not quite sure what to do, but when his cock twitches in your hands, a chill sweeps down your spine you know that he's into it and keep going, your teeth grazing along his scarred skin. 

Philip let you take the lead, your hips shifting against his slowly. Realizing that he was giving you most of the control, you felt a bit of the pressure on your chest lift. The most he did was reciprocate your movements, rubbing up you to your liking. When he presses at your clit at just the right angle you moan and he catches on quick and repeats the movement again and again until you're shaking against him and as much of a panting mess as he is. 

Eventually, he seems to grow uncharacteristically impatient with the way you tease him and toy with him and he takes back control. Still in your hand, he lines up anyways with your entrance and slowly pushes in, a soft growl rolling on his tongue, muffled behind closed lips. Your hands leave him to press up to your face, palm over your mouth, teeth digging into your skin in order to cut off a moan. You squeezed your eyes shut, ducking your head, trying to focus on not making any noise. The last thing you wanted to do was attract attention and ruin this whole thing.

The killer was also a little larger than you had thought he would be, so it took a second to start actually feeling pleasure from the sensation of his slow, evenly paced thrusting. It's soon hard to focus between the warm bliss soaking into you and keeping your hands tight around your mouth. 

To your relief, it seems like he's had sex before the Entity claimed him as a pawn and understands the basic idea of pulling out. You're a bit embarrassed to realize that Philip has definitely gotten around more than you had previously and has more stamina and experience than you do. Of all the things you didn't see coming...other than your own sudden climax, of course. He had been working at you so slowly and so well that it had been hard to discern your actual orgasm from the general pleasure of just...him inside you. 

You felt kinda bad that he immediately pulled out once you'd finally cum for him. A soft groan left him when you once again wrapped your hands around him, still shaking with the aftermath of euphoria and finished him. He'd let one of your legs down to slam his hand besides your head into the brick wall, ducking his head as a semblance of a moan left him. 

The two of you stayed like that for what felt like a long time, until the sound of a generator being completed jolted you both from the falling ecstasy. For a moment, he looked down at you. You couldn't identify the look in his eyes, but it made you feel somewhat soft. You reached up to take his cheek into your palm and kiss him on his rough lips. He seemed stunned for a moment before his muscles eased and he relaxed into the feeling of your own lips. 

Obviously, Philip let you go afterwards. He wasn't nasty enough of a killer to hook you after what you'd done for him--for his body. Four of the generators were completed anyways, so it really wasn't worth trying to suddenly make up for all of the time he'd wasted--no, spent--on you.

"What happened? You never finished that generator you went after," David had commented to you as the exit gate opened wide. 

You were still sweating and shaking from your...encounter with Philip so you figured you could use it to lie. "Ran into him. The, um, Wraith. I just kinda looped him around for awhile. Figured I could distract him a little." 

You were relieved when no one asked anymore questions.

Safe again. 

Danny Johnson 

You find some entertainment, some pleasure in teasing the Ghost Face, in going back and forth with him. It's a never ending game that spares you the usual grind of a trial. Having him to play with? The game of cat and mouse featuring his curved knife to your skin? The most fun you've had in years. And he thinks likewise. 

The mutual teasing, flirting, fucked up courtship, whatever you wanna call it--it's not exactly kept private. 

Constantly, you catch shit for it from the other survivors. They're less likely to rescue you now, because of him. They think you're collaborating with him, cheating with him, and that's simply not how it works here in the Fog. You do none of the sort. He's not interested in knowing where the other survivors are, which generators are being worked on. The only thing he gives a fuck about in a trial with you, is where you are. No point in explaining that sort of infatuation to the others--it would only make things worse. 

You don't care that they don't come for you anymore. You adapt to it, naturally, becoming more independent, picking up on a skillset that really only came to benefit you. No one needs to save you from the hook or the shoulder of a killer if you're never caught in the first place, right? 

But eventually, all that teasing, all that time messing with the Ghost Face does culminate. 

He's having a particularly good round--he's killed all of your teammates. It's only you left. Just how he likes it. 

You're lucky enough to find the hatch. But you don't leave. Patiently, you wait for him, arms crossed. The buzzing lights flicker dully above you as your head drops slightly and you shut your eyes. They're not closed for long before strong arms creep around you. You feel the chin of his mask shift up slightly against your neck to reveal his mouth.

"Hey baby," he murmurs, knife dragging up your side, grazing over your skin, under your shirt. 

Your eyes stay closed but a smile crosses your face. "Hi, dick, how've you been?" 

Dramatically, the Ghost Face--Danny, sighs before he responds. "Lonely. Bored. Thinking of you. Baby names. The usual." 

You shake your head lightly. You think he's funny, a sentiment not shared by any of the other survivors. They don't find his as charming as you do for very obvious reasons--reason number one being the blade up against you skin. 

Danny nudges you, the hum of the open hatch nearby apparently giving him an idea to work with. "Hey...how about something new? I fuck you. You get the hatch in return? You're such a little tease but you never let me get up all in your pretty little guts..."

A bit of a smirk slips onto your face. "Hmmm..." Your eyes half open--you can feel his dick stiff pressed against you, against the back of your leg. "I've never been good at making hard decisions..." 

His voice, once low and smooth, turns to a growl. "Maybe I won't make it a decision for you." There's real threat in his words--when is there not? But you don't let him take the control from you. You don't let him shock you into a reaction. His only response is a disinterested scoff.

"That takes the fun out of it, don't you think?" Finally, you turn to face him, regarding him--more his mask actually--still with half shut eyes. "Don't you want me to want you?" 

"But you already do." With his mouth revealed, you can see the smirk tugging at the corner of his thin lips. You've never seen them this close before. One of his hands presses up to the back of your thigh, rising up slowly, leather dragging on your skin. Slowly, you lean up onto the tips of your toes to kiss him. 

His teeth grind into your bottom lip as he pushes up against you suddenly, a passionate puff of hot air escaping the nose of his mask. Almost without wasting a second, Danny's fingers grab onto your leg, lifting it up around his side so he can pull you closer, other hand roaming up your side. 

You don't have long to enjoy it, the feeling of his tongue in your mouth, as he suddenly pushes you back into one of the rusted nearby chairs skewed around what might have once been a waiting room. Danny grabs at the waist of your shorts, yanking them down, hard. The denim slips past your legs and you kick them off of your ankles. He finds your enthusiasm, as usual, arousing. Either of his gloved hands go to push your legs far apart. His head ducks between your spread legs, one hand palming at the tent between his own legs and the other reaching to raise his mask further up to reveal his nose. 

His hand leaves his face to pull aside your underwear. You don't even have the chance to catch your breath before his face is buried up against you. His tongue, hot, long, and narrow traces over you, your inner thigh, your clit. He bites you, lightly, making you gasp and flinch, blush burning across your entire face. Your fingers arch up against the cold metal of the chair. 

Danny's hand creeps between his own legs, palming at the tent forming in his pants between his legs. 

"You're holding out on me, aren't you?" he growls as you gasp, thighs squeezing around his face. He always gets frustrated when he can't make you cum in his mouth quickly, at least the first time anyways. He's desperate for the taste of you.

Before you can respond, both of his hands go to your hips, sliding under your ass, lifting you up out of the chair slightly. He rises to his feet, sliding into the chair himself, lowering you back down. Your hands move down with his, pushing his pants lower, past his hips. Danny shifts your underwear to the side. 

He likes to have you facing him--he likes to see your face, the way he can make it contort, the way he can make you squirm with pleasure on top of him. He can't complain. It feels just as good for him as it does for you. Danny's leather gloved hand reach to grab at your scalp, above your ear, the other taking hold at your jaw. 

With his mask still balanced above his mouth, slightly above the tip of his nose, he could lean in to kiss you. His lips are rough--they always are. But you need it. You need that sensation to take you from this world. Just for a few seconds. Maybe more if he allowed it. You feel his tongue move slow over yours. 

You gasp again into his mouth, trembling, as he makes you finally cum. He doesn't stop, apparently intent on making you borderline unconscious--the closest you could truly get to sleep in this realm. You take pleasure in falling almost dead into his body, into his arms, now around you tight, allowing him to use you to meet his own wants. His doll. Thats what you are. 

Danny's hand strokes over the form of your back.

He whispers, voice muffled by his mask once more. "As much as I'd like to slice you right open, tailbone to nape and dig around in your insides a little...I'll keep my promise. You were a good girl for me." 

To his credit, he does keep his promise. You're over his shoulder in mere moments. The chill of the hatch sweeps over you. Plummeting through the darkness, your eyes open halfway, and you catch a glimpse of him waving, all too smugly, fingers still sticky with you. Had the sudden blackness that came with dropping through the hatch not claimed you then, you might have been embarrassed.

Luckily, there still time for your face to flush, especially when you regained consciousness. On a whim, you lift the waistband of your jeans to look down. An irritated "hmph" escaped you. 

Fucker took your underwear. 

Quentin Shermer 

The Blissfield Butcher isn't exactly gentle to you. He's like...an animal for a lack of better words. He's unknown, he's scary, he's unpredictable to you. But maybe that's why you just can't stop coming back to him. The thrill. The adrenaline rush. Knowing that he's wrapped his giant, cruel, calloused hands around innocent throats and crushed windpipes--but not yours. At least not yet. 

You were always the one that came to him. 

You hadn't been looking for him with the intent to get your back blown out to be honest. That'd always been a dark fantasy, of course, pushed away deep in the back of your mind. You try not to think of it when he's near. You try not to let him get to you--invade your thoughts more than he already has.

It's hard trying to live normally when you're practically obsessed with a murderous urban legend. 

You'd just been looking for him because it had been so long since you'd last seen him and you were getting worried. For the first few weeks, you had wondered if your luck had finally ran out--if he finally tired of toying with you and was planning your demise next. Then why weren't you dead yet? He's a fast worker--if he wanted you dead you would have been six feet under days ago...So then where was he? 

You know he's a serial killer. You know he's bad all the way through. He shouldn't be worth your time. He shouldn't.

But his disappearance from your new norm was making your life all too regular again and you couldn't take it. 

No recent murders. At least nothing reported yet...maybe he's finally picked a fight with someone he can't handle...

The thought alone is absolutely fucking terrifying. Who in the fuck could take someone like him down? Not possible. It couldn't happen. Not to the Butcher. Not to your Butcher. He's so ridiculously strong...You can still recall the way he easily bruises your arm just by grabbing it too tight sometimes. 

There's obviously only one place to check for him--the abandoned building he sulks around in. It's stupid but you feel almost privileged that you know where he sleeps. Obviously, he literally knows your address and he's known it far longer than you probably realize. But knowing something that private about him feels intimate to you. Especially since it's one of the only things you do know about him. 

"Hey...?" you call out softly as you peek around a corner in the run down building. You're relieved that so far none of the other squatters have tried to bother you or intervene with your search. It still blows your mind a little that someone like the Butcher would want to be in the proximity of any other living people while he slept. You'd never figure this fucking guy out...

You end up in a room that seemed to have far more fucked up decorations than any other area in the expanse. Judging by the skulls and home taxidermy and generally serial killer-esque type shit hanging from the walls and skewed across the floor, you figure you've finally come across his lair. You knew that he lived in the abandoned building--you just had never seen the place he slept up close before. It's...breathtaking for a lack of better words. 

Within moments of entering the room, you suddenly get pinned up against the wall. You gasp in surprise and as a hand wraps around your throat, you begin to wish you hadn't wasted the breath. Through half shut eyes you recognize him. Your shaking hands reach up to his wrist. You don't try to pry his hand away from your throat as you knew from experience it would only make him squeeze tighter out of sheer spite. 

With the breath you had left, you tried to plead with him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I just...I just wanted to see if you were...okay." You don't want to speak your truth.

I missed you.

You don't want to admit your truth because it's the worst possible string of thoughts you've had in years. God how far you've fallen...Remember when you used to get involved with normal people and not abnormally large serial killers that were supposed to be town folklore? Good times. Boring times. Stupid fucking times. 

To your relief, his grip lessened just slightly around your throat and you managed to get in a shallow breath. His head tilts slightly to the side and he leans in close to speak. It's a rare thing to hear him speak.

"...'okay?'" he repeats in a low voice, raspy from disuse. You want to kick yourself for shivering. 

Instead you nod the best you can and press your thighs tighter together. He noticed, of course he fucking noticed. He leaned in closer, inhaling softly. You hold dead still when you feel the heat of his breath on your skin and his lips press up against your jaw. Once again you want to kick yourself for leaning into his touch--for groaning with pleasure and enjoying this because you're so starved what the fuck else do you have going for you? And he knows that and that's probably the worst part of this guilty fucking pleasure of yours. 

The hand that had been pinning your abdomen to the wall shifts down to your thigh. His fingers dig roughly into your flesh and his thumb angles up just right. It's nothing short of euphoria when you finally feel his rough lips on yours. It's so brief but you're so completely lost in it that it catches you off guard when his hand leaves your throat and reaches over your back instead. Effortlessly, he throws you over his shoulder. Your fingers dug into his back as a frightened squeak escaped you. You prayed to fucking God no one else but him heard that and if anyone else in this place did they'd mind their business. 

When your back hits the shoddy, dirty mattress on the floor you know there's no going back. Not that you want to anyways. You let him tear your shirt off your body.

Between all the oddities surrounding the mattress you feel like you're taking part in some fucked ritual. It only gets your blood pumping quicker. The windows are all broken. A sheer, bitter breeze blows through tattered curtains, biting at your skin making you tremble once again beneath him. But he doesn't care. This is his realm. And you were quick to forget about the cold when his heated body presses tight up against you with no inch of space between to spare.

Your legs part for him. Just for him. 

He fucks you hard into that mattress like tomorrow isn't coming (and for you, maybe it isn't). There's really no love in it. Not that you expected there to be. Whatever you two have isn't love in any good sense. Maybe a mix of desperate obsession on your part and a sort of horrible possessiveness on his. It's about power and you're all too willing to let him practically maul you. You can't help that his tongue and teeth just feel so fucking good on your skin. 

Your nails dig into his back as you wrap your legs around him to bring him closer than he already is. You can hear him growling in your ear and it's enough to set your insides on fire. You shut your eyes so you can focus on him. Just him. 

They can hear you. You know the other people barely scraping buy in this dusty old place can you hear you both. But they're smart enough not to come in. Thank God they didn't. Somehow you felt as though the Butcher wouldn't take kindly to being interrupted. It makes you feel almost...protected for a lack of better words. Like nothing can reach you as long as you're there, throat in his rough hand and body beneath his. You can't even feel the bitter cold from outside anymore. Just heat.

There's this sense of genuine pride in you when you manage to outlast him. You probably had some sort of advantage considering how pent up he seemed to be. Either way as he finishes, he suddenly grabs you by your hair, close to your scalp and pins your head back. A low moan of pleasure comes from you as he leans down to bite down onto your throat. Maybe to muffle his own noises, maybe to cause you that wonderful blend of pain and pleasure. It's enough to push you over your own edge and your back arches up into him. 

He doesn't let you fall back onto the mattress. He doesn't allow you an inch of space. He only turns on his side, fingers digging into you like he thinks you're going to vanish right then and there. You gasp for air as you come down from your high and struggle to steady your breathing. With the way he's practically smothering you, you can barely get an arm up to wipe the perspiration from your brow. 

When the wave of exhaustion suddenly comes over you, you can only feel grateful that you hadn't made plans for the rest of the evening or the morning after. Chances were you weren't going back home tonight. 

Waking up in an abandoned house next to a vicious murderer didn't really feel that different from waking up next to any other stranger before. He's already awake, still with his arms wrapped around you, chin on top of your head. A calloused thumb strokes slowly over your cheek and his palm is still warm against your throat. 

"I only wish I'd known a name to scream last night," you murmured softly to him, blinking the sleep from your eyes. You regretted those words almost as quickly as they had slipped from your mouth. 

In all of your fucked up little affair, this little game you played with him, you'd never asked his name. You'd never asked anything, fearing that he'd quickly lose patience and interest in you and kill you right then and there. You held your breath in his silence. But then he spoke, his voice low, barely a whisper. 

"Quentin." 

[rottenstrawberrymilk]

trying to leave

slashers x reader

michael myers (halloween), jason voorhees (friday the 13th), thomas hewitt (texas chainsaw massacre), brahms heelshire (the boy), pyramid head (silent hill), chris walker (outlast), daniel robitaille (candyman), harry warden (my bloody valentine), bo sinclair (house of wax), bubba sawyer (texas chainsaw massacre), kazan yamaoka ('the oni' dead by daylight), philip ojomo ('the wraith' dead by daylight), quentin shermer ('the blissfield butcher' freaky)

preferences

not healthy not condoned

Michael Myers

Obviously, you only ever tried to leave early on in whatever defined this "relationship" you had with Michael. That was back when you didn't fully understand how things worked now that Michael was in your life. Back when you didn't fully understand what he would do to keep you where he wanted you. Back when you didn't fully understand how dangerous of a man he really was.

Your plan had been to just get in the car and fucking bail. You'd had a bag packed, ready to go, and little attachment to the house or the people in this small town. Michael's knife had been to your throat far too many times now for your comfort despite your complacent nature and usual lack of energy. He'd been wearing on you. Slowly. So you thought you could leave. He certainly wasn't going to anytime soon.

Apparently, when you hadn't been paying attention, he snuck into the backseat because you'd only been driving for five minutes before you felt that familiar blade to your throat and a hand gripping hard at your shoulder to keep you pressed back to the seat. He was lucky your nerves were steady enough that you didn't crash the car off the side of the road, and instead the steering only shook lightly before you stabilized the wheel again. 

When the blade never fully slashed over your throat, instead remaining steady against your skin, you figured he didn't intend to kill you right then and there. It'd have been pretty stupid to do that when you were going forty down a road with plenty of curves and poles to crash into. 

He didn't have to say anything to get the message across. He never did. 

You turned the car around.

He never took his knife away from your skin.

The cold bitterness was mutual and the silent tension became thicker and thicker with every passing second. Your hand tightened on the wheel so much your knuckles turned white. 

The knife only left when you pulled back up to your house. You grabbed your bag from your passenger seat, silently, storming back into the house. You hoped when you slammed the door it was in Michael's face, part of you wanting to aggravate him as much as he aggravated you. A dangerous move on your part. But you never heard the door open behind you, leading you to believe he was going to leave you alone for awhile.

Wrong. 

While you were furiously throwing your bag back onto the bed, ripping your clothes out from it, he showed up again, like he normally did, just out of the blue. Was he really quiet or was he supernatural? You didn't know. You didn't care. What you did know was all the sudden his hand was buried in your hair. With force that you'd come to expect from him, he yanked your head back once again, overpowering you with his larger stature and forcing you partway down onto the mattress, your fingers gripping at the sheets as you bit back a cry of pain. 

Michael's knife made itself known against the delicate skin of your throat for the second time that day.

"Okay. Okay. I get it," was all you managed to get out--some strained excuse for an apology.

Apparently it was good enough for him. The blade went away in favor of his bare, rough fingers, forcing you to stand back up fully again as your fists clenched at your sides. His chest was heaving against your back, his masked cheek against yours. You could hear him breathing behind it, deep and slow in contrast to your quickening breath. 

You hadn't tried to leave him since. 

Jason Voorhees 

The one thing you hadn't expected when you'd finally made a move to get away from Jason was the strange sense of sadness and sudden pity that had made it's home deep in your chest. You thought you'd shake it off the farther you got away from him, you thought you'd break out of whatever strange, trance like state seemed to overcome you when he was around. Like an instinct to keep you docile and sedated and ultimately alive. 

You'd actually gotten somewhat far, you could almost see the entrance signs of the camp. You should have kept going. You knew damn well you shouldn't have stopped. You shouldn't have stopped to stare, your hands close to your chest, wringing at each other nervously, suddenly unsure of whether not you really wanted to go back...out there. 

Despite his size, Jason actually managed to sneak up on you. The minute he grabbed you with a clumsy hand, too strong for his own good, fear came crashing all around you like a tidal wave that you'd been secretly waiting for this whole time. Drowning you. Suffocating you. So much so that you couldn't even scream, only stare dumbfounded at him as he hunched lower to begin dragging you back. 

You couldn't help but start crying, stifling your sniffles and cries with one hand while Jason practically crushed your other free hand in his own. He was cold. He was very, very cold. When his grip only continued to tighten, you could no longer bite back sobs and pitiful apologies. Over and over you apologized as he pulled you back up the rotting cabin steps. You were surprised that they didn't give out under your combined weights as he shoved the door wide open with a powerful shoulder, the chain around his neck jangling as he moved so suddenly.

You wanted to think that it was your incessant, pitiful, trembling apologies and tears that kept Jason from doing anything to you. But weirdly enough, a part of you believed he didn't plan on doing anything to you in the first place. If he'd wanted to hurt you (on purpose) he would have done it already. If he intended to kill you for trying to leave the machete would have already been through your chest. 

All he did was sit you down, his hand still firm on your arm as he stared down at you. In this...strange, sad way of his that only evoked further conflicted feelings of pity. All you could do yourself was look away from him, fighting back even more tears as you trembled. You felt his hand stroke slowly up your cheek, a clumsy thumb rubbing under your eye to vainly dry your tears.

He's lonely and he's chosen you as his. So you're not getting away from him anytime soon. 

Thomas Hewitt 

Being initiated into the Hewitt family wasn't exactly an easy feat. Although at the moment when you had agreed to stick around them, not having anywhere else to be or any awareness of what went on in that hellhouse, slowly your decision was becoming more and more regrettable. 

Even Luda Mae's favor couldn't exactly save you from the less charming parts of the house and family. 

But you kept your nerve and your promises. You kept busy with chores Luda Mae gave you and you avoided the basement just like she told you to. But it wasn't long before you saw one. Another person in the house. Not a family member.

You'd just been passing by the sliding door that you knew lead into the basement. You'd heard a scream and you'd frozen in place. Looking back, you wished you'd minded your business and continued on walking. The door moved. You stared, a hand covering your mouth in shock. Some terrified looking teenager covered in blood missing an arm came shrieking out of the door, frantically trying to shove it open all the way. And then a large, bloody hand grabbed them by the back of their head, yanking them back in. You caught a glimpse of the beast of a man lurking behind the door. And that was what sent you running. 

Not for long, obviously. You didn't even reach the front door before that same man reappeared, literally blocking the entire doorway. You almost fainted out of fright when you first saw him. Did the Hewitts know this man was living in their basement? You considered calling for Luda Mae as you stumbled back, gasping for air. 

"Grab 'er, Tommy, don't be shy!" came the Sheriff's voice from a flight above. 

Tommy? They know him? Why hasn't anyone introduced him to me yet? 

He'd grabbed you tightly by your arm and pulled you back into the kitchen where Luda Mae was waiting, an exasperated hand on her hip. He'd thrown you forward, so hard you had to grasp at a kitchen counter to regain your balance. Fingers arched against the surface, you raised a hand to brush back some of your hair as you looked up at her, still trying to get your breath back. 

Luda Mae cracked a half smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "So you finally met my Tommy..." 

Raising your eyebrows and casting a quick glance over your shoulder at the hulking man standing almost...shyly (?) near the entrance of the kitchen, his dark eyes trained on his shoes rather than on you. 

All you managed to say was, "Apparently." 

Brahms Heelshire

You really did try to stick around for a few weeks, hoping to find an out from this unfortunate situation. You did have a spot in your heart from Brahms and pitied him and knew of what had happened to him. You thought he was just...misunderstood and hurting and was emotionally stunted. You'd always been the type to give people the benefit of the doubt, no matter what they'd done and you'd found it easy to forgive him for his grievances against you. Whether it was spying on you or going through your clothes, stealing your undergarments or things and denying any knowledge of it, throwing destructive tantrums that even made you fear for your safety...you somehow found it in you to forgive him over and over and over again. 

Maybe it was the way he'd hold your hand in his, the way he'd nuzzle into your neck and wrap his overly strong arms around you, telling you whatever it was you need to hear, whatever it was you wanted to hear from him. He was manipulative like that and you could almost say you loved him for it, loved him for the way it made you feel. 

But eventually it wasn't enough.

You tried to leave late at night, long after you'd tucked him in and kissed him on the cheek. Strangely enough, that night, he didn't try to get anything more from you. He'd just given your arm a tight squeeze before rubbing his hand down it softly. Which made you feel even worse about what you planned to do. 

Apparently, he'd woken up right as you began to sneak downstairs. You heard him call your name. You ignored him--something you weren't used to doing less he have a tantrum. He called again. You flinched, but held you ground, continuing quicker down the stairs, eyes set on the front door. You hadn't even touched the handle before you heard him begin to cry. And good God you'd never heard a sound more heart wrenching in your entire life. Something that made your chest twist. But you shut your eyes and continued on, pushing open the door. 

He wouldn't be able to stop you if you left right now. There was nothing to threaten you with. There was nothing to say to you once you were out the door. No words. 

But even as you sat outside, the door still partway open as you stared out into the trees, into the night, you could hear him begin to scream and cry even louder. You could no longer recognize your name in his call. Only the incessant sobbing and howling. The begging. You bit your bottom lip, bowing your head. 

And realized.

You couldn't leave him. 

You turned around and went back into the manor and there was Brahms, standing only a few stairs away from the floor. His tears had created streaks through the dirt and blood gathered on his porcelain mask and his head hung pathetically. You closed the door behind you and he looked up, eyes reddened. You stood before him, bottom lip quivering, hands clenched into fists at your side. You felt Brahms come closer to you, steps slow. The slightest hint of his breath stirred at your hair from the nose of his mask as he leaned into you. His hand stroked up your arm before his fingers tightened, digging into your skin. 

Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes. You refused to look at him. 

Pyramid Head 

Silent Hill residents are quick to accept the idea that there's absolutely no way of getting out of this semi-purgatory.

There's no where to go in the fog itself anyways. You know from experience that even outside the winding, decomposing buildings the roads are mysteriously collapsed trapping you on this tiny hell island. You'd prefer to stay in the building anyways, knowing that they did an okay job of protecting your lungs from the soot and ash in the air. 

You were sure trying to find yet another way out would just me run-ins with monsters and more blood and rotting gore. 

Ultimately, it's safer with the seven foot tall monster with a pyramid for a head and a big ass sword that might weigh more than he does. At least he fucks good. 

Chris Walker

You only tried to leave Chris Walker when he was resting and his guard down. You'd been somewhat amused and confused to find that variants like him even needed something akin to sleep. You'd assumed the morphogenic engine just constantly had him with adrenaline coursing through his veins and bloodlust in his brain. Either way, you didn't know when you'd find the opportunity to sneak away without Chris muttering a quiet "come back, little whore..." under his breath between shredded lips, wrapping thick fingers around your waist and picking you up like you were no more than a doll to him. 

Which, to be fair, you kinda were. He's not good at remembering to handle you gently and there's tons of bruises on your arms and body from when he grabs you too tight or shoves you to the side to chase down a variant nearby. But a part of you thought he might have even liked you or actually been attached to you. There was never any sort of defined expression in his milky white, blank eyes. But you thought maybe he might have cared a little for you or your well being. He definitely did like you, which in this asylum could have been defined as love. 

But it's not enough to convince you to stick around him for long. What convinces you is the fact that you'd never be able to make it on your own if he wasn't there. If he wasn't your protector. 

That was made clear to you when you tried to leave him as he dozed, clawed hand resting on his stomach, his eyes half shut. You hadn't even been able to make it through the hall before a variant attacked you, slamming you hard into the wall. If the sound of your body hitting wood that roughly didn't wake Chris Walker, your scream of fear sure did. The only thing that had stopped that variant from practically ripping your head off had been the top of the Mount Massive food chain himself. You could finally breathe as gnarled hands were swiftly removed from your throat and you collapsed down to the floor, hand to your neck, coughing as you pressed back into the wall to try and stay out of Chris' way. 

He made bloody work of that variant. If you weren't mistaken, you might have thought he was purposefully dragging out the variant's death, twisting his head slowly, painfully before snapping it off completely, his palm swallowing the variant's face whole. Your chest moved rapidly with fright as you let the back of your own thankfully intact head hit back against the wall. The floorboards creaked and you opened your eyes to see Chris squatting before you, hulking shoulders blocking your vision as he traced a bloodied finger down your cheek. Hoping he'd be quick to forget your grievance and forgive you, you took his hand in yours, pressing it further against your cheek even if you could feel it wet with blood. It didn't matter. As long as it wasn't your blood.

You hadn't tried to leave Chris' side again after that.  

Daniel Robitaille 

Trying to leave? Daniel Robitaille? The Candyman? Bad fucking move all the way. 

He doesn't just spare random people you know, you're chosen, you're special. You're his. So why in the fresh hell would you ever try to escape him? He has no ill will towards you...only desire. It's extremely insulting to him when you think you can leave him in the first place.

No matter where you go or try to stay to get away from him he just...shows up. He's supernatural, he can just do shit like that apparently. Benefits to being a vengeful ghost. There's no way to escape him for long. The longest you've ever gone after moving somewhere in secret was maybe a day or two before he shows up in the room, all powerful, all terrifying, arms tucked neatly behind him as he glared down at you.

"Why are you still running, dearest? I'll always find you. Always." 

There's a threatening aura behind his words, all of his promises to you. He tries the nice approach first, but you can see right through him. You could always see the hunger in him, the burning anger. So it's not long until he begins to get aggressive.

Boy is he fucking pissed that you keep moving. Obviously he can always find you but it's beginning to get less helpless and charming and more annoying. He's never been a fan of straying too far from Cabrini-Green. But he figures if he keeps it up eventually he'll be able to drive you back to your original home, closer to his familiar hunting ground. He can tell that you miss it. You wear your expressions clear on your face. 

It was a game of persistence, basically. One that he did, eventually, end up winning. You did last long though, a couple months at least before one day you felt his hook at your throat and decided you had pushed him too far. 

You stopped trying to move around the city as much and actually ended up moving back into your old place. Settling down in a familiar place was easier on your mental health which was quickly becoming more and more fragile. There's no point in trying to leave anymore or trying to lose Daniel. 

He'd find you, even if you moved to the ends of the earth. 

Harry Warden 

You had thought you knew the way out when you tried to leave. You'd watched Harry pass by numerous times and when you'd gotten bold, you'd even explored a little ways from the main cave, hands tracing along the wall, never straying too far. Your fear of the dark still pursued you, even with the lifestyle you were beginning to get adjusted to. It had scared you realizing that you were adjusting to living in a dark cave with a cannibal murderer in a gas mask. Maybe that's what had finally pushed you into trying to bail. 

Unfortunately, you became completely lost within minutes in the mines. At first you'd been calm, simply turning around, hoping to head back to where you'd began to try all over again. There were only so many tunnels and caves and passageways you were bound by chance to eventually pick the right one. Right? But when you couldn't find your way back to the more familiar parts of the mines, cold panic began to set heavy on your chest and shoulders. 

Eventually, all you could do in the pitch black was slowly drop to the ground, pressed hard to the chilled walls and bury your head in your arms. You had only intended to stay like that for a moment to recollect your thoughts and regain your composure. But your head wouldn't stop spinning and you felt more and more faint. You couldn't help but begin to sob and cry, muffled in your arms in the pitch blackness. 

You looked up when you thought you saw a flash of light. You felt a strange mixture of relief and dread, knowing what the light belonged to. You let your head fall back into your arms to spare your eyes from Harry's piercing light. Tears still rolled down your nose. 

He crouched down in front of you, only his heavy breathing filling your ears. A gloved hand stroked under your jaw and then over your cheek, fingers beginning to press into your skin. He tilted your head up. You couldn't see past the shaded black lenses of his gas mask, but judging by his body language, you felt like you had less of a chance of him punishing you or hurting you. Maybe he thought you'd simply gotten lost. Maybe he didn't realize that it was a failed escape attempt. It was out of character for you to do that, you were sure, due to your usual meekness and obedience and strange need to depend on Harry.

Then again, it hadn't been a very long time that you'd spent with Harry, so reading his body language might not have been the most reliable bet. He still could be intending to hurt you later, to make you pay for straying off from the designated area in the mines he'd purposefully familiarized you with. He could have been luring you into a false sense of security to make it all hurt worse, with his gentle strokes and soft touches.

Maybe both, you think when he squeezes your arm just a little too tightly when he's pulling you up to your feet. He didn't let go either, his grip staying iron and firm on you as he marched you back through black passageways, the light from him cutting through the darkness like a white knife. 

When he finally got you back at the lighted area you recognized, he pressed down on your shoulder, sitting you back down in the exact same spot you'd left several hours ago. He looked down at you as you wrapped your arms around yourself. You only glanced up for a split second before quickly looking back down, instantly feeling guilty.

No words. Just heavy breathing from Harry's end. But the idea was clear enough to you.

Don't. Move. Again. 

Bo Sinclair 

Trying to leave Ambrose after newly discovering the horrors inside was a natural process, Bo figured. You were already somewhat soft and delicate and oh so meek in nature, so he knew there was no way in hell you'd ever take it well once you learned the truth. He'd given you a somewhat merciful grace period to freak out and try to run. He came to the decision that once he'd caught you, he'd give you the choice between staying with him or becoming a new attraction in the House of Wax. Either way you were fucking sticking around. The world couldn't have you take you back, away from him, not when you were obviously meant for him and him alone. 

When he did begin to hunt you down, Bo found that you were much more frustrating to deal with when you had completely lost your shit. Damn you could move. It wasn't that you were faster than him, it was just that you could dodge his grabs and suddenly change up directions a lot faster than he could. At least now he knew what you were capable of when you weren't busying up with that meek, quiet, innocent little act of yours. He wouldn't underestimate you like this again. 

When he finally was able to tackle you to the ground, you felt his lips press against your neck. You burst into even more tears. You don't struggle beneath him or try to fight him off. You already know he can overpower you and how scary his hair trigger temper can be. He turned you over beneath him, brushing your hair away from your face as he shushes you.

"Come on, don't cry now, pretty girl, don't cry," he told you. But he never gave you a reason not to.

He's surprisingly tender for a man that was obviously seething with rage. He pulled you to your feet before lifting you and throwing you over one of his broad shoulders. You knew if you had tried you could have wiggled out of his grip and maybe hit the ground. But you had a feeling he'd be back on top of you all over again, with a lot less mercy. You winced and bit back a sob as his hand held over your hips, readjusting slightly so his fingers pressed a little too hard into your ass. 

You recognize the gas station he brings you to, but you've never been down in the cellar before. He ends up setting you down in a chair as you continue to cry, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as you bowed your head down, tears rolling down your nose dripping into your lap as you trembled. 

"Thought I told you to stop with the damn cryin' already, (Y/N)," Bo said, a warning tone in his low voice, tilting your head back up and once again brushing the hair from your eyes. 

"I'm s-sorry, Bo," you apologized between harsh breaths, trying to hold back anymore tears. He lifted your chin higher to kiss you. 

The bliss was only momentarily, only making you forget about what was happening for milliseconds, before Bo was suddenly strapping your wrists down. 

"You ain't gonna kick me or nothin' right, baby?" he asks, although it sounds like more of a command. You shook your head rapidly 'no'. He smiled. "'Course you wouldn't. You know better than that, don'tchu?" A thumb brushed over your cheek affectionately before he stood up straighter, towering over you. 

He knows you're not much of a screamer either, so he chooses not to reach for the superglue. Not like anyone else was here to hear you and interfere anyways--he'd taken care of the shallow, conniving mockeries you called "friends" a loong time ago.

"See, here's the deal, sweetheart, you're gonna stay here til you can get your head on straight, alright? And while you're doing that, I want you to think, real fuckin' hard about what's important to you. 'Cause it'd be a real, real shame if you ended up all pretty and dolled up in that damned wax museum with the others." 

Bo really didn't intend on giving you the choice between him and the wax museum on the off chance you picked wrong and ended up being made into a statue for real. First of all, he didn't want his brother's hands on your body because that's where his hands were supposed to be. And second of all, he liked you alive and breathing, and staring at him all teary with those soft doe eyes, while he stroked rough fingers over your real skin. 

Lucky for Bo, it doesn't take you long to come down from your episode. Obviously, he doesn't stick around all day to watch you, he only returned once every few hours to see how you were holding up. Sure, maybe he cared, but mostly he was hoping he could rush a decision out of you and stop wasting his goddamn time.

You're not very stubborn or strong willed and end up giving in only after the first day. It's an easy choice to make, ultimately. Because it's not like you suddenly don't want Bo anymore, as fucked up as that is. Part of you was still attracted to him, part of you still needed him and wanted him, even after what he's put you through and what he's currently putting you through. Sure, he was involved in the murder and torture of everyone in this town, but...he wasn't the one pouring the wax. So...it wasn't so bad to still want him right? The alternative for being good for him and to him wasn't appealing in the slightest anyways. 

Bo will never let you forget how quickly you broke, how quickly you surrendered to him and called his name and chose him.

"Good girl," he praised you again and again, kissing up your neck, to your jaw as he undid the straps around your wrists. He looks you in the eyes, that familiar smirk on his face. "I think you went ahead and made the right choice, didn'tcha?" 

Bubba Sawyer 

It's pretty hard to integrate into the Sawyer family and lifestyle since you were formerly a menu item and the chance of you being back on the menu was low, but never completely 0%. From the beginning, the rest of Bubba's family obviously weren't lining up for autographs. Everything about you was different to them and they didn't like different. 

Normally, it wasn't hard to catch them mumbling misogynistic slurs or insults under their breath. If you're lucky, it's straight to your face, accompanied with a death threat if Bubba doesn't step in or if he isn't present. Sometimes, you found yourself wishing there was another woman in the house who wasn't a mummified corpse, but part of you figured if there was any living female figure in this family, she wouldn't have been too big on you either. 

Sometimes you wonder why they hate you so much. You thought about asking, but figured it wouldn't go too well if you opened your mouth in front of them. Eventually, you connected the dots and realized they hated you because Bubba didn't. Maybe to them, you were some symbol of his ability to make his own choices, a testament to his free will and a trophy of rebellion against his family. That didn't make you feel any better. You weren't a symbol or a trophy or a testament you were you. And it wasn't your fucking fault Bubba just so happened to decide he liked you enough that he wanted to keep you around. It'd been fuck or die in that barn those months ago and you did your best to remain confident that you'd made the decision you had wanted to. It wasn't about which one was the right one, there was no right option in a situation like that, anyways. It was just about making you feel like you had a little control still. 

His family's verbal abuse and obvious disdain doesn't do much to turn Bubba against you--if anything he gets more protective. And you hate that as a result you began to actually like him way more and actively seek him out. It wasn't hard to seek him out anyways, he seemed to heavily dislike not having you at his side if he wasn't out or busy butchering. His possessiveness and obsession with you scared you more at first than it comforted you. But once again, that was before you realized how much nastier the rest of his family was compared to him.

Every insult drove you further into his rough, scarred, and eagerly waiting arms. Crazy how they made him look like the best option in the house when he was a murderous cannibal with a chainsaw. At least he was kinda sweet...his passive nature somewhat aligned with his soft, dark eyes. You thought you might have had the potential to love him. You thought maybe if his family hadn't been able to influence him the way they did, things could have been different. But you're not living in that timeline. 

These feelings of conflict only seemed to depress you more.   

So you tried to bail.

It didn't work. 

Bubba caught you pretty quick--his only hobbies were tending to you, putting up bones around the house, and chasing teenagers around with a chainsaw so he's quick to notice you're gone and even quicker to track you down to the barn. There was no other place for you to go anyways, not in this heat, but as long as it was out of the house it didn't matter to you. 

He found you in the hayloft, staring out the window across the barn, on the opposite wall, knees drawn up under you chin and tears in your eyes. One of his oversized dress shirts clung to your body. If you weren't wearing whatever dress (he normally took those from victims that didn't let him lay pipe like you had) he picked out, you normally only had his shirts to pick from. You imagined that seeing it on your body probably played a huge part in calming him, because instead of the roar of a chainsaw, you only heard his soft growl in your ear when his cheek pressed into yours. Bubba's head settled into the crook of your neck, a heavy, hot breath coming from him. 

You wiped at your eyes with a long sleeve.

"I'm not running away. Promise." You sniffled. Total lie. If you'd had a plan and a place to go, you'd be long gone by now. 

Bubba's palm pushed up against your cheek as clumsy fingers rubbed over your skin, damp with a mixture of perspiration and tears. His thumb pushed down at your bottom lip lightly. You turned your head away.

"I just needed some time alone. I'm fine now. I'm fine." Another lie. A sigh of your own escaped you as you tucked your head back into your arms.

Awkwardly, like he still wasn't used to being able to touch someone else in an affectionate, romantic way, he rubbed his hand up and down your back. It felt...kinda nice.

You leaned softly into his side, shutting your eyes. 

Kazan Yamaoka 

In the Entity's sick game of glorified cat and mouse, there is no "leaving". You can attempt escape. Not from this place, though. Maybe from the killer. Maybe to the exit gates. The hatch if you're lucky. But there really is no true escape. 

Kazan's possessiveness of you does not soften him, make no mistake. If anything, he's more eager to hurt you--more eager to absorb the blood you leave behind as you limp or drag yourself away. Like he savors it more than any other survivor's blood. In a gross way, you're somewhat flattered by it. 

Every single trial you get with Kazan is guaranteed death. He wants you to die by his hand every time. As mentioned before, he absolutely refuses to give you the hatch and targets you constantly, even if you're not marked as his obsession during the round. 

When you run from him in a match he will not hesitate to strike you down with his kanabō. You're pretty sure once you heard the crack of your bones against it, he hit so hard. He prefers to use the katana, however--it makes you bleed more. You won't tell him, but you actually prefer the katana to the kanabō because it hurts just a little bit less. 

What he does to you every time is painful as all hell and Kazan knows it but he doesn't care. He obviously has a rather extensive history of hurting people--hurting everyone--even those he was supposed to love and care for. His own family. Children. It should scare you that he's capable of that. And it does. But it shouldn't have sent those pleasurable thrills down your spine either that you tried to hard to shove into the back of your mind. It's like he knows he gives you that thrill--it's impossible to hide it from him. It's like the more blood he takes from you the easier he can read you, the better he understands you, the closer he is. And you still barely know a thing about him.

It's just in his nature to be cruel. Something inexcusable under normal circumstances, but once again, these are not those circumstances. 

You're almost relieved he doesn't treat you any different from the other survivors--if anything he actively tunnels you and treats you worse. It's like there's a switch in him that's broken and his love language is physical pain. If every slice of his blade, every strike of his club was the equivalent of an "I love you", then Kazan was head over heels for you. 

Sometimes when he hooks you, he'll linger for just a moment. He'll stroke a clawed thumb under your jaw or past your bottom lip, hooking on it to draw a light amount of blood. Sometimes his nose will be only inches away from yours, his rough, heavy breathing harsh behind the mask. It's like a reminder that in his own way, no matter what he does to you, he still wants you.

And you lean into his touch, no matter how badly you're hurting.  Every time. 

Philip Ojomo

You don't want to run from Philip, but you both know that if you don't it raises eyebrows. It looks suspicious and neither of you want to chance anyone catching on to the two of you. Sometimes when you hesitate to run from him, taken aback by his sudden appearances, he'll purposefully lunge for you just to spur you into action. As time goes on, you get more used to it. More used to the idea that no matter how much you might love him and no matter how much he might love you he's still a killer and when there's a trial he has a job to do. 

Philip doesn't really try to hunt you down and he doesn't try to avoid you either. He's opportunistic and not obsessive in his nature. If he happens to come across you, that's when he'll go for you, but for the most part if you just stay away from him during matches where he's focused on serving the Entity above all else, he won't go actively searching for you. 

He doesn't go easy on you either when he is hunting you. Leaving him behind? Not an easy feat, at all. He often cloaks, herds you into a corner so you can't get away and uncloaks. If someone's watching or nearby, he'll club you in the side--not as hard as he hits other survivors, but your screams suggest differently. 

Philip doesn't flinch or anything when he hears the ear piercing cries you make, but he does seem to look...sadder than usual. Like he half believes he's actually hurting you as much as your screaming suggests. What can you say? You're a convincing actor and so far none of your teammates have gotten suspicious--if anything they pity you during Wraith rounds, thinking that for some reason he really has it out for you.  

But there'll be times--rare times, but ones that you savor--where no one's watching and no one's nearby and he'll wrap his arms around you when he's cloaked to let you know that he's there, that he's coming for you. Philip throws you over his shoulder when he finally uncloaks and you don't bother faking a scream then.

You know you'll let a very real one out in a few moments when the hook comes through your shoulder. 

No matter how gently or reluctantly Philip tries to hook you, it just hurts worse. You prefer it when he does it quickly, when he just gets it over with faster. It's not that pleasant of an experience for him either, so you know it's somewhat difficult for him too. 

Sometimes, his gaze lingers on you for a few moments too long when he stands there before you. The look on his face always makes your heart and guts twist. 

Once or twice he's aided in your escape and given you the hatch. You usually just lie to the other survivors and tell them you found it on your own. But it's a rare occasion, albeit an appreciated one that only means more to you because of how uncommon of a gesture it is for him to make. 

Quentin Shermer

Sometimes you think about how things could have gone for you if you'd just given up on him and left town long ago. 

Boring.

Leaving town wouldn't work anyways. He's made himself a second home of your house so he'd notice if you were packing to leave. 

Leaving whatever fucked thing you have going on with him won't work either. You can sure try though. God knows you haven't tried to move on from him, choose someone else in town to fawn over and adore. Someone who would match your affections and treat you better than he ever could. But if you find them they don't ever last long so you just stop trying. Trying to leave him just gets people hurt. It hurts you too. It stings to think about ever leaving him when you've put so much time into him. 

It's easier just to stay and spare yourself the heartache.

If you so much as hold anyone else's hand or look at anyone else the same way you look at him, they're gone the next day. He's not a stalker type but he's not a fucking idiot either. He notices when you drift from him. So he's quick to reel you back in and keep it all going. 

And for you, it's very hard to pick between him and what seems to be nothing at all. He's the only option and you wouldn't honestly have it any other way. Ultimately you can't help just...coming back to him anyways. You can't help wanting him and caring about him the way you do you just can't. It's unbearable to think of him ever not wanting you anymore and the paranoia plagues you constantly. 

You can't get a read on him. He's still as unpredictable to you as ever. You don't realize that as much as he's cold and distant from you, he's just as ensnared in your web as you are in his. Otherwise, you'd obviously have been dead a long time ago. It's not like he's got groupies lined up at the shattered windows of his place either. It's just you. Only you. And it's not a bad thing for him. It's nice to have a warm body on his every other night. Maybe it was just a sex thing to him--you weren't sure. But thinking about it too hard just made your chest tight. 

All that mattered was he gave you just as much pleasure as you gave him. It's an understanding. And it's not like your life is on the line either. You still feel ashamed to realize that you want him bad. And once he gave you a taste it only got worse. All of the sudden his stupid fucking mattress on the floor of that fucking abandoned dirty house seems much more comfortable than your bed at home.

He sees you. Quentin sees you. 

He sees you and if he's the most notorious serial killer in the town's history then what of it. 

It's very hard for him to want to let you go at all either. He doesn't share. It's not in his nature. His. His. His. That's what you are. 

Again and again you can't help but grow insecure, wondering if it really was all just sex. Nobody's exactly lining up to let him fuck them or touch them the way you let him do to you. Maybe it was all just sex. Maybe. But the way he...has you in his arms after every time makes you confused. It makes you feel differently. It makes you think that maybe just maybe there's some tiny sliver of his heart that isn't dead and cold and it maybe beats for you. 

End of the day, you're not leaving. No one's really keeping you there clinging to him.

Just your addled head. 

[stealingpotatoes]

i know its been a while since it came out but im preeetty sure this is exactly how CATWS ended

(tip jar! // comms status)

[vinivan]

I started doing these with Slate's morning stream on the background, the difference between drawing on pc vs the tablet is crazy, this is a lot more comfy

(the inspo for the doodles are under the cut)

god i love Link and Rhett, they are the best

[grezzirossi]

Absolutely Canon Ghostmyers interaction (feat. Amanda)

[the-thot-clown]

Your Jason is so hot each picture adds a year to my life 😮

Thank you! Take this big tiddy Jason that I did for Patreon

[the-thot-clown]

I got inspired by that Jason!AU where he becomes a camp counselor

[the-thot-clown]

someone asked for BDSM Bo on Patreon and I thought you all wanted a peek

[the-thot-clown]

Happy Friday the 13th

(uncensored version on Patreon)

[the-thot-clown]

Give us the cake.

[xvrxyz]

Thems 💛💚💙

[peterqueer-deactivated20260420]

AAAAAAHHHHHH MY WIFE MY LADY MY GOLDIE MAIN DREW THISSSSSSS

@yokava ♡⁠˖⁠꒰⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠⑅⁠꒱

[f4ngzx]

Alucard

[wyvernfins]

I have been obsessed with this ship lately, so at least I had to sketch them

[dollface-xoxo]

I rarely see this photo and I absolutely adore him so I need to share with you all 💋

Credit to Pinterest poster xx

[v1cnutz]

hi!!!!! I'm new here and I have no idea how tumblr works so we ball

my friend suggested me to post my fanart here so enjoy this nathan explosion

[rayrayvenn]

more funny Bucky faces.