i’m annette and i’m horny for slashers! i main kate and my favorite murder husbands are bubba and pinhead ♡ for more information about requests and boundaries, see below!
𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑠 :
i don’t take them, i’m just not the type to be able to do them in a timely manner. my apologies, but i do love asks regardless!
𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡 :
i love writing and reading it! if you’re underage, i ask that you not interact with it. i can’t stop you from reading it but breaking this rule will result in a hardblock, no questions ask. i will not unblock you when you turn eighteen.
𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 :
i refer to these as boundaries hopefully so they’re respected. i will not write rape, incest, pedophilia or scat fetishes. you will never see this from me and asking for these will result in a hard block. if you’re not a fan of what i write, or disagree with my takes, i welcome you to block me. minors will be blocked on sight.
also apparently my father, the man who stole my mother’s life savings and then ditched his kid, has apparently been stalking me for months online so that’s fun. especially if the sick fuck is seeing this and getting his rocks off about it.
well, nothing i can do about abusive estranged family members, unfortunately, but i hope it explains why i can only detail Some of what we’re going through rather than All as i would prefer.
i’ve been struggling in the cycle of poverty for a long time & COVID broke the camel’s back. the one of the first industries to go under was, haha, my industry (health & beauty), and since i and my family are in vulnerable categories i’ve not been able to transition back to in-person work. i managed to score a part time job which generally helps cover bills, but i’ve not had enough hours the past two months to break even and since we have to move soon, I need to keep all the savings i possibly can for deposit, rent, bills, moving van etc.
with the cost of living skyrocketing into fucking space, we need all the help we can muster.
of course, the dream would be being paid back the money that was stolen & skipped out on (£140k lmao, imagine the stability we could have), more realistically we’d need £20k for breathing room, but we are all of us too poor for that i imagine.
at this point, though, anything would be a help, from reblogging, to sharing, to just well wishes. if you’ve ever enjoyed my datamining or writing, please consider any of the above. but don’t feel too bad if you can’t help. COVID hit all of us…hard.
you can give HERE if you feel like you can, or just share this post around. thank you.
notes: of all the killers, this cowboy has the most special and reserved place in my heart. so he’s getting some gentle lovin’ too <3
rating: mature. there’s nudity but it’s not sexy.
pairing: caleb quinn / deathslinger x gender-neutral reader.
𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙾𝚁𝚂 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝙱𝙴 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃 ♡
you come to the riverside after every trial, more ritual to the act than one of mikaela’s boons.
it’s healing to wash the blood off, you say. the dirt and the grime are as unforgiving as the certainty of death. but, when clean, you can manage to live with what you have.
hopelessness only comes when the humanity runs dry, it’s why you’ve lasted as long as you have. at least, you like to think so. you preserve the sanctity of a normal bedtime routine.
and he just can’t sneak up on you during it.
he’s never seen a stare like yours, he thinks when you look over your shoulder and dare him to make his fun with no hooks around to keep you contained.
if anyone in this pocket of hell could kill him, it would be you. and that’s why you smile, reach out a hand and beckon him for something other than a chase.
it’s all about appearances, but this far from the campfire makes you certain enough that you can let your guard down.
he grumbles that he wasn’t about to watch you undress without asking, and you remind him that you never take your clothes off if there’s another set of eyes.
blatantly untrue, but he smirks at the lie.
you look like hell. it fills him with rage and melancholy, the sight of you bloodied by a hand other than his.
it isn’t right to want to do harm to you, and he doesn’t, but it’s all about appearances. at least he knows how to do the least amount of damage.
your skin would be so mottled with scars and fresh wounds if they persisted beyond each trial. but you’re spotless in that respect and no other.
you chime that he can wash your back, now that he’s here. caleb rolls his eyes when you insist on returning the favour.
but he looks a sight, too. it must be worse to see him as clothed in viscera, he wishes he could promise that no one had to suffer to get this way.
here there are no bullies, not as he knew them at home. here, no one cares for his past and the shapes he saw of his tormentors have gone up in smoke. he’s been lied to, he bides his time.
like you, he survives on hope. he refuses what he can from the entity, feeling the bloodlust grow thicker in him with every kill.
that is, until you touch his face. you hold his cheeks between your hands and coax his line of sight to your strange eyes.
his are like long tunnels, with just a hint of warmth at the end. you apply gentle pressure, and remove his hat.
you call him handsome, his gut swims with guilt and desire.
he’s told to forget the trials, and you produce a bar of soap from within a creaky first-aid kit. he’s never seen you without it.
the water is cold and uninviting, but you’re enough to tempt him into it. you pull at his waistcoat and shirt, shucking clothes onto the riverbank and baring his skin not bloodstained and dirty to you.
you wait to kiss him, wait until your clothes have joined his on the grass. leaving you to run, nude, into the water.
you complain about the cold in a high-pitched, giggly whisper. caleb thinks that on anyone else it might be annoying, but he can’t fight a grin as he watches you writhe.
you take him in your arms when he’s close enough, clinging tight and trying to find any warmth in him to steal.
the kisses come soft and often, making him groan into your neck when he stoops to press his lips against your pulse.
he feels your hands rubbing his shoulders, coaxing tightness from his muscles. it’s freezing, but he can forget the cold when he focuses on how you touch him.
distantly, he hears you ask if it’s good. if it’s good enough.
it always is, but he only grunts to answer you. caleb knows that most of his answer lies in the fact that what you do for him is enough to keep him coming back.
after every painful trudge through blood and dirt, he returns to you.
he can’t feel the pain in his leg, or the way some of his scars feel so close to opening again when the entity is displeased.
you’re quick to sit him down, knowing his insistence about the ache. caleb surprises himself when he holds fast to your hand, staring at you above him.
he presses a kiss to your now-bloodless knuckles.
and he insists that he can’t feel anything bad when he’s with you.
notes: mister michael makes me happy so i’m giving in and writing him. this is purely one-sided, surely you feel nothing in return for him.... of course.
rating: explicit, mikey is hjorny.
pairing: michael myers x gender-neutral reader.
𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙾𝚁𝚂 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝙱𝙴 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃 ♡
he’s capable of sleep, but not of rest. his mind isn’t kind to him when his eyes are closed.
michael is in chase every night. it’s never in the entity’s realm, never in the familiar forest. he chases shadows and shapes down dark hallways. through dilapidated gardens.
sometimes the shadows distinguish themselves, and he’d know your shape anywhere.
you run the fastest, never pausing to cry or to taunt him. you only glance over your shoulder, considering him a moment before rushing away.
your eyes... he’s never seen such eyes. they’re bright, full of hope rather than fear.
he thinks about breaking you, about running fast enough to grab your arm and sink his knife into you.
and then michael considers your face, and if he would like it as much if it were contorted in agony. he doesn’t understand why he thinks not.
he doesn’t prefer you running from him, certainly, just out of reach. if he could, he would grab you tight.
he’d push you against the wall, press himself against you and revel in your inability to escape. he’d drink your fear, making you wait to see where he would put his blade.
michael never stops his chase in his dreams, only when it ends does he consider what he’d do if he caught you.
and without fail, when he wakes he’s confronted by the throbbing in his crotch.
his trousers feel tight, as does his chest. he cocks his head to the side, considering the sensation and why it only chooses to visit him when he thinks of you.
he unzips his fly slowly, almost robotically. his body has never felt wholly his own, and self-pleasure only a mechanical form of release. michael’s found better ways to deal with an excess of emotion.
but this feels nice, he can admit it. he shifts up on his cot and takes himself in hand.
he considers again your face should he grab you. would you be shocked? afraid? or would there be only that unreadable expression in your eyes.
oh, michael, he imagines you saying, finally.
he’s kept you waiting, perhaps. and you’d press yourself against him as firmly, your hands touching parts of him left ignored his whole life.
he closes his eyes, his breathing coming hard underneath his mask.
would you kiss him? he’s disgusted that he hopes so. but his hand never stills, not as he imagines you’re the one stroking him instead.
he wants to growl your name in your ear, but he stops himself just short of speaking. it’s easy enough to imagine what you’d say, but so difficult to picture what he would.
so he skips to the bit where his name comes soft and breathless from you instead. he can hear the curve of your smile in the way you sigh, it makes his heartbeat pound in his ears.
his fist squeezes tight around his cock, jerking up and down at a brutal pace.
that’s not how i’d touch you, your voice in his mind is gently mocking. it shocks him, like ice water poured over his head. he stops, squeezing his cock at the base and feeling it throb in mindless want.
his instincts are animal, to grab and take until he gets what he wants. you’ve only ever challenged that want.
when he touches himself again, at your lilting instruction, michael is far gentler with himself. he imagines his rough palms are as gentle as yours, rubbing him and searching for when he’s most sensitive.
he draws his fist up, focusing just under the head of his cock. like he’s shown you where to undo him, where to make him melt.
and you’d giggle, he thinks. you’d laugh softly at his spread legs and his mask clinging to his sweat-soaked face.
you’d laugh and then you’d make him come, slowly and deliberately.
notes: if you hate bubba idc, i adore him and this is for the bub stans <3 this isn’t explicitly set in the dbd universe, this is for tmc nerds like moi ♡
rating: explicit. there’s giving head and our sweet boy crying from overstimulation.
pairing: leatherface / bubba sawyer x gender-neutral survivor reader .
𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙾𝚁𝚂 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝙱𝙴 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝙵 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃 ♡
he’s a good boy, harmless to those who stay out of his family’s way. you two go way back, playing in the fields of dying corn around the dilapidated plantation house since you could walk.
you know what his family does to stay alive, you’ve never held it against him. you’ve just watched the sweet thing from your childhood take on the weight of slaughtering to keep his brothers fed.
he brought you meat once, and watched the fear in your eyes with a hollow sort of understanding. he took it away and returned with a pig carcass, poached from the slaughterhouse where he used to work.
you kissed him. he grunted and squealed in surprise, pressing the grimy cheek of his mask against yours and asking for another.
he’s never hurt you, even when he’s bitten down on your lower lip. bubba’s always gentle.
and completely inexperienced, much to your delight. what you have, you share with him and revel in the way he reacts.
you don’t wish he could speak, he says volumes with his noises. bubba’s endlessly fascinated by how much you know, and what other things you can do with your mouth.
there’s so much to learn, and he trusts you completely.
you could put a collar around his neck with how he follows you around, so eager to experience new things.
and when you guide him to sit in his favorite chair, bubba makes it known that he’s excited. confused, bewildered, and so excited.
you sink to your knees, he cocks his head to the side. it makes him look like a quizzical beagle.
his mask shows the deformed skin of a beautiful woman clinging to your lover’s face. he wanted to look pretty for this.
you coo about what a good boy he is, rubbing his sore knees and up to his thighs.
his legs part almost without him needing to think about it, and you spare a gentle tease for how easy he is.
bubba’s glad that you can’t see his blush, but you can hear it in his squeak.
especially so when your hand moves up his thigh and between his legs, over the smooth fabric of his dress pants.
his short, fat cock has been throbbing since you whispered for him to follow you. he squirms when you smirk at him, reassuring him that this will feel very good.
you press your tongue flat against the head of his dick, tasting salt and precome. he whines and his knee jumps next to your face, but a few, gentle pats makes him settle.
poor thing, so easy to overstimulate. you occupy yourself with sucking on the tip until he’s accustomed to it, stealing glances at his face when you pull back to give him a break.
you stop with a start when you see he’s crying. fat tears pool at the eyes of his mask, spilling over the grimy cheeks and leaving tear tracks.
your hand on his knee is comforting, soothing him and reminding him to nod if he needs it to stop.
he shakes his head. he wants more, he’s just never felt anything so good.
notes: a touch of introspection about pyra’s inner exhaustion at straying from his intended purpose, with a smattering of fluff for the romance enthusiasts (me).
rating: teen.
pairing: pyramid head x gender-neutral survivor reader .
he’s been ready to sleep for a very long time. the weight of his blade drags and catches on the concrete, his shoulders ache.
it was supposed to end ages ago, but the inky-black void reminded him how comforting it is to have a duty. an obligation to justice.
but the great knife is so damn heavy. he feels every tendon in his forearms, sick with himself for wanting to drop it.
so he stops, leaning against a cold wall and slowly sliding down. he sits, wedged beside a locker and awkwardly tilting his head to accommodate his helmet.
there is a sick, metallic thud when the hilt of his blade hits the floor. pyramid head rests his weapon over his lap. if he has eyes, they close.
your breathing comes slow, the hand over your mouth helping to quell the terrified retching feeling in your stomach. if you make a sound, he’ll stir.
you’re reduced to waiting, unable to find the strength to give chase. you can’t do it again, you ache to your very bones.
peeking through the slats in the metal, you watch the hulking man’s chest heave as desperately as yours does. then, his breathing slows until you’re certain he’s fallen asleep.
cracking the locket door open, you wince at even the smallest creak. part of you, you’re shocked, is simply loathe to wake him. do your tormentors sleep otherwise? or do they struggle with fitful nightmares the way your friends at camp do?
you get your answer when the great beast shudders. his helmet clangs against the locker, but he does not wake.
he looks cold, barely clad and this close to the freezer. his arms, chest and torso are well-toned, dirty with blood and sweat.
you watch him, transfixed by the sight of a brutal murderer who’s as unable to find rest as anyone else.
this is hell, no one gets to dream.
without thinking, you crouch in front of him. part of you likes to imagine lifting that heavy blade, swinging it without mercy. but you’d never be able to get it off the ground, he barely does.
pyramid head lurches again, stuttering on the edge between wakefulness and sleep. you freeze, but then reach out to put a hand on his knee.
you’re going to die, and it will be soon. but you begin to hum that odd, little lullaby you’ve heard the huntress singing.
the words escape you, but in time with the melody you trace small circles on his bruised kneecap. you’re gentle, gentler than you’d be even with someone more deserving of it.
he sees you, then, unbeknownst to you. you’re cold, bleeding and afraid and you’re touching him.
but it’s nice, and so is the song. it took him front a dream of long, spidery limbs pressing their sharp tips against his stomach.
it’s difficult to kill in anything other than the name of justice. he serves brutally, but it is still a service.
you, kneeling at his side, caressing his leg to help him find sleep are entirely blameless. he’s killed you before, tried to snatch at your hair as you’ve rushed through the gate and just out of sight. but you’re helping him now.
this isn’t what he was meant to do, neither sleeping nor the slaughtering of hapless innocents. there is a reason his knife weighs so heavy on him since he came here.
pyramid head is careful not to move, not to disrupt the song. sleep threatens to take him again and he gives into it.
his rest is dark and cold, like swimming in deep water. but it is free of any visions, of any guilt. and when he awakes again you are not there.
