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Can I request Brahms and any other slashers that you want but with a female reader who plays volleyball a lot likes to play in the garden or inside the house.

Slashers with a Female Reader who Plays Volleyball

Summary: You’re an energetic girl who loves playing volleyball, whether in the garden or inside the house — and each of these slashers has their own unique reaction to your playful spirit.

Includes: Brahms Heelshire, Charles Lee Ray, Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair & Pearl.

A/N: I loved writing this request, I don't watch much about volleyball but I used to play in school so it brought back good memories, I hope you like it!

Brahms Heelshire

The silence of the Heelshire estate was something you’d grown used to, though it still felt like the walls breathed when your back was turned. The house groaned with age, but never more than when you were alone—truly alone, or at least that’s what you told yourself.

To pass the time in the cavernous, echoing manor, you’d taken up your old habit again—volleyball. It started small: just tapping the ball against the high walls of the drawing room, bouncing it off your forearms, sending it back into the air over and over. The rhythm soothed your nerves. The thunk of the ball against stone echoed through the halls, reminding you there was still life here—your life.

But one morning, you decided to take it outside.

The garden behind the manor was wildly overgrown, vines twisting over stone benches and patches of white roses blooming wildly without supervision. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something older, something that didn’t quite belong. You stepped barefoot onto the grass, volleyball tucked under your arm, and tossed it into the air with a laugh. For once, the eerie silence didn’t feel suffocating.

You served the ball hard, watching it arch through the air and bounce off the trunk of an old tree. It rolled off into the rose bushes, and you sighed—then blinked. The ball... rolled back. Slowly, as if pushed by a hesitant hand.

You stood still, a shiver running down your spine. "Hello?"

No answer.

Not even the wind dared to whisper.

From then on, it kept happening. Every time the ball rolled too far, it was returned. Gently. Deliberately. And sometimes, when you weren’t looking, the ball would already be sitting at your feet again, as if someone anticipated your next move.

Eventually, you stopped pretending you were alone.

"Brahms," you said aloud one evening, glancing toward the ivy-covered wall that concealed the old window. “Is that you playing with me?”

The air was still. You turned away.

Thump.

You gasped and spun around. The ball was bouncing slightly where you’d left it on the bench — though no one was in sight.

From then on, it became a routine. In the garden, in the drawing room, in the upstairs corridor with the old wooden beams—you would serve and volley, and he would return the ball in his own quiet way. Sometimes he knocked it over from an unseen angle. Sometimes you’d hear soft footsteps just behind the wall. You started speaking to him as you played, your voice warm and playful.

“I’m getting better, you know. I bet you can’t block this one.”

Thunk — the ball came back faster than you expected, nearly smacking you in the face. You laughed breathlessly. “Okay, okay! You win that round!”

Then one day, he left you a gift.

It was a crudely drawn net, assembled with bits of string, bent curtain rods, and even a few toys from the attic. It stretched awkwardly across the garden path. The moment you saw it, your chest ached with unexpected affection. Brahms... he made this. For you. To play.

That evening, you served the ball over the makeshift net, and before it hit the ground, it was swatted back—hard. You stared.

He was there.

For the first time, Brahms stepped out of the shadows. The porcelain mask glinted in the twilight, his body tall and lean, covered in his familiar layered clothes. His breathing was shallow beneath the mask. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

You smiled. “Want to play with me for real now?”

A pause. Then... a slight nod.

So you played.

For nearly an hour, the manor grounds echoed with the sound of laughter and soft thuds. He never spoke, but his body language—careful, deliberate, almost childlike—told you enough. When you missed, he tilted his head, waiting for you to retrieve the ball. When you scored, he gave a tiny, frustrated stomp that made you giggle.

But the most surprising thing was how gentle he was. Despite his looming presence, he never hit the ball too hard. He watched you with obsessive, unblinking attention, like you were the only thing he could focus on. His shoulders tensed when you winced from a bad landing. And at the end, when you collapsed onto the grass in exhaustion, he walked slowly toward you.

He crouched beside you, the volleyball cradled in one hand.

You looked up at him through your sweat-damp hair. “You were really good.”

He tilted his head again. Then, he gently reached out — his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face.

No words. Just soft breathing behind porcelain. The ball rolled from his hand and bumped against your knee like a promise: Let’s play again tomorrow.

And somehow, in the middle of that lonely, haunting manor, you realized something strange.

You weren’t lonely anymore.

Charles Lee Ray (Chucky)

The ball bounces once, twice, then slams into the wall and rockets back toward you. You grunt softly, shifting your weight to spike it back with the heel of your palm. The old wooden floor of the abandoned house you and Charles had holed up in creaks beneath you with every jump. Dust dances in the afternoon sunlight pouring through a broken window. You’re sweaty, winded, and fully immersed in the rhythm of the game.

“Jesus, babe,” a raspy voice cuts through your focus, “you tryin’ to bring the whole damn house down?”

You glance to your right, just in time to see the small, redheaded figure perched on a crate — plastic legs swinging casually and a mischievous smirk plastered across his Good Guy doll face. Chucky.

You shoot him a grin. “You’re just mad I almost hit you last time.”

He snorts, hopping down with a little “thud” and dust cloud. “You wish. Your aim sucks. If I were human, I’d be filing for emotional damages.”

You chuckle, bouncing the ball once more and slamming it into the wall. It ricochets hard, missing Chucky by a foot.

He blinks. “Okay, now you’re doin’ it on purpose.”

You shrug playfully. “Maybe.”

The thing about Charles is: he acts like he couldn’t care less. But after a few days of watching you play, he can’t help himself. He starts tossing snide comments from the corner. Then he “accidentally” nudges the ball back when it rolls away. Finally, one afternoon, he stands in front of you, fists on his tiny hips.

“Alright, alright, fine. Let’s do this. Bet I could wipe the floor with you.”

You raise a brow, trying not to laugh. “You do realize you’re like... two feet tall, right?”

He bares his teeth in a grin. “Size ain’t everything, sweetheart.”

You grab the ball and gently toss it his way. He doesn’t even flinch — catches it expertly and launches it back with surprising force for a doll. It hits you right in the chest, making you stumble back a step.

“What the hell, Chucky!” you laugh.

He shrugs with feigned innocence. “Oops. Guess I am stronger than I look.”

It becomes a weird, chaotic game between the two of you. Chucky runs around the room like a rabid squirrel, sometimes using objects to bounce the ball in wild directions. At one point, he uses a chair to gain height and slam the ball like he’s playing dodgeball. You swear he’s enjoying it way more than he lets on.

“See?” he pants after a particularly intense rally, hair a mess and plastic limbs scuffed. “This is fun. I mean, it’s not murder, but it’s... y’know. Not bad.”

You’re sweating, collapsed on the floor with the ball under your arm. “Glad you approve.”

Chucky walks over — a little awkwardly, his tiny joints clicking — and sits beside you.

“You’re a freakin’ weirdo, ya know that?” he says after a long pause.

You glance at him. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

He smirks, then nudges your shoulder with his little plastic hand. “I mean it. Most people run from me. You? You just keep hittin’ balls off my face like I’m part of the furniture.”

“You’re my favorite decoration,” you tease, flicking his forehead.

He bats your hand away but doesn’t move from your side. In fact, he leans against your arm. It’s subtle. If you weren’t paying attention, you might think he was just tired.

But you feel the weight. The warmth. As strange as it is, he’s relaxing beside you. Like your chaotic little games give him something he didn’t know he craved.

Normalcy. Or at least something close to it.

“I guess you’re not so bad, doll,” you whisper after a beat.

Chucky scoffs — but you catch the way his head dips slightly.

“Yeah, well... don’t go soft on me, alright?” he mutters, eyes flicking to yours. “I still got a reputation to keep.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He leans back on his tiny arms, gazing up at the dusty ceiling with a soft grunt.

“Next time,” he says, voice low, “I’m building us a net. And I will win.”

You smile, watching him — the world’s most dangerous killer trapped in a child’s toy — plotting out your next volleyball match like it’s a war.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Bo Sinclair

The sun beat down hard on the dusty back lot of Ambrose, heatwaves dancing above the cracked pavement. But that didn’t stop you. You stood barefoot on the dry grass patch near the old Sinclair house, volleyball in hand, the worn seams rough against your fingertips. You tossed it into the air, giving it a satisfying thwack as it soared up and down in your little game of keep-up.

Bo leaned against the porch railing, a cigarette pinched between his lips, hidden eyes watching you from behind his sunglasses. His expression was unreadable — mouth curled in a smirk, head tilted ever so slightly.

“Ya really playin’ that out here?” he called out eventually, voice dripping with amusement. “Ain’t exactly a beach, sweetheart.”

You caught the ball against your forearm and turned to face him, sweat clinging to your skin. “What, you afraid I’ll hit a window?”

He snorted. “Nah, more like afraid you’ll pull a muscle swingin’ around like that.”

But you knew Bo. Beneath the teasing, his gaze lingered a bit too long on the curve of your waist, the way your shorts hugged your hips, the smooth line of your thighs flexing when you leapt to catch the ball again. He’d always act too cool to care, but that fire behind his smirk said otherwise.

“You can either come play or keep staring like a creep,” you teased, bouncing the ball off your knee before catching it again.

Bo chuckled low in his throat and flicked the cigarette into the dirt. “Fine. But when I win, you’re makin’ dinner tonight.”

“Oh, you think you’re gonna win?” You raised a brow, tossing him the ball.

He caught it easily, rolling it from one hand to the other before stepping onto your makeshift court. The two of you didn't have a net — just a line marked in the dirt with a stick, like kids inventing their own game. But it was enough.

The first serve came hard. You were faster. You dove, kicking up dust, and sent it flying back. Bo cursed, not expecting your reflexes.

“You didn’t say you were tryin’ out for the damn Olympics,” he muttered, laughing breathlessly as the game began to pick up heat. You darted around the court, giggling when he fumbled a save. He groaned dramatically, wiping sweat from his brow with a swaggering flair.

“Need a break already, old man?” you called.

“Old man, my ass,” he growled, lunging after the ball. You barely avoided his tackle, stumbling backward — and that’s when it happened.

Bo didn’t accidentally fall. He caught your waist and pulled you down with him, the two of you tumbling into the grass in a heap of limbs and laughter.

The ball rolled off toward the porch, forgotten for the moment. Bo pinned you beneath him, hands planted beside your head, breath warm on your cheek. His sunglasses had fallen off in the scuffle, revealing the full force of those piercing blue eyes. His grin softened, something more raw flickering behind the cocky attitude.

“You always this competitive, darlin’?” he asked, voice low, teasing.

You smiled up at him, brushing your hair from your face. “Only when the prize is worth it.”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then slowly lifted back to your eyes. “Oh yeah? What exactly’s the prize?”

You didn’t need to answer. The air between you was already electric. Bo’s hand slid up your thigh, slow and deliberate, the game long forgotten. His smile curved wickedly.

“Maybe we should play more often,” he muttered, lips brushing against yours.

From the porch, Vincent opened the door just enough to scowl at the noise.

“Shut up, Vin!” Bo shouted without looking, before lowering his voice to a murmur only you could hear:

“Let him pout. We’re busy.”

And in that moment, tangled together in the golden heat and wild grass, laughter fading into quiet, you realized:

For all his gruff edges and crude humor, Bo Sinclair would meet you halfway — even if it meant playing your game.

Vincent Sinclair

There was something almost sacred in the way your laughter echoed through the quiet halls of the House of Wax. Amid the scent of aged timber, melting wax, and silence, you brought with you a rhythm Vincent hadn’t heard in years — the thud of a volleyball against old plaster walls, your footsteps light and quick, the occasional sound of your amused exclamation when it hit something it shouldn't have.

At first, Vincent watched from the shadows.

He had stumbled upon you by accident — barefoot, in a soft tank top and shorts, hitting a scuffed volleyball back and forth against the wall of an abandoned side room near the wax museum. The light poured in through the broken glass above, catching on the sweat at your temple, turning you into something ethereal. He was mesmerized. Not just by your movement, but your joy. You were playing alone, but it didn’t feel lonely. It felt like you were inviting the house to come alive with you.

Every hit of the ball was like a heartbeat in the stillness. Every time you smiled, it made his chest tighten.

He didn’t approach right away. Instead, he retreated to his studio, but your presence kept creeping in. That night, instead of sculpting, he stared at a blank wax head, his mind full of you — your laughter, the bounce of your hair, the delicate arch of your back as you reached for a ball midair. His fingers itched to carve it, but he didn’t. Not yet.

The next day, you found a net.

A crude thing, fashioned from old rope and what looked like wax-dipped wood poles, strung up between two doorframes in one of the larger open spaces. You paused, eyebrows raised in surprise. It hadn’t been there before. At first you thought it might be Bo’s weird way of teasing you — until you noticed the craftsmanship. The way the cords had been wrapped, the symmetry, the precision.

This was Vincent.

A shy smile touched your lips. “You want to play, don’t you?” you whispered to no one, holding the ball close.

From then on, you returned to that room daily. Sometimes you practiced alone, sometimes you'd "talk" to the room, your voice teasing the silent watcher you knew was there. “I bet you’re watching me again, huh?” you’d say playfully, spinning the ball in your hands. “You could at least come out and join me. I promise not to hit you in the face.”

One day, he did.

You turned and nearly dropped the ball when you saw him — tall, still, his face half hidden by his long black hair and mask, gloved hands hovering near his sides. He didn’t speak. He never did. But you didn’t need words.

You smiled softly, offering him the ball. “Wanna serve?”

Vincent stepped forward with hesitation, as though afraid to scare you, and took the ball. His hands were surprisingly gentle despite their size. He tossed it up clumsily and hit it — not hard, but enough that it cleared the net and bounced at your feet.

You giggled, catching it. “Not bad.”

That became your thing.

You played together in the dusty open rooms of Ambrose, your laughter balancing the silence he’d once taken comfort in. Vincent moved awkwardly at first, more used to crafting beauty with his hands than catching or batting a ball. But over time, he learned your rhythm — learned how to step forward just enough, how to push the ball back with his palms without hurting it or you.

He rarely looked you in the eyes, but he always watched you. Your joy became a quiet obsession for him. You reminded him of what life might have been if it weren’t coated in wax and blood.

And on the days you stumbled — scraping your knee on a broken tile or collapsing to the floor, flushed and laughing — Vincent was there. Immediately. Kneeling beside you, his gloved hands brushing your skin gently, eyes wide with concern. He didn’t like seeing you hurt.

One day, after a long session of play, you flopped down on the floor with a sigh, arms spread wide.

“You’re a surprisingly good partner, you know that?” you said to him, voice breathless. “You don’t talk much, but I always know when you’re listening.”

Vincent knelt nearby, his gaze fixed on your face, unmoving.

Then, slowly — painfully slowly — he reached forward and brushed a lock of hair away from your cheek. His hand lingered a second longer than it should have. Then he pulled back, as if ashamed of himself.

You didn’t flinch. You reached up and took his hand.

“I don’t mind the silence,” you whispered, looking into the slits of his mask. “I hear you anyway.”

Vincent’s hand trembled slightly in yours.

He still didn’t speak. But after that moment, he never hid again. He waited for you every morning by the net, volleyball in hand, and you knew — with every serve, every shared breath, every lingering glance — that he was falling in love with you the only way he knew how:

Through quiet devotion…

Through the rhythm of a game…

And through the echo of your joy.

Pearl

The sun hung low over the cornfields, dipping the old farmhouse in a soft golden glow. The only sounds were the whispering breeze, the chirp of crickets, and the rhythmic, satisfying thump of a volleyball striking the ground.

You’d been playing for nearly half an hour, sending the ball against the weathered barn wall and bouncing it back with practiced reflexes. The open yard became your makeshift court, with hay bales and an old wooden crate marking your boundaries. You were barefoot, your hair tied loosely, dressed in a light blouse and shorts that already had dust on the hems. Out here, no one cared about appearances.

Or so you thought.

From the porch, Pearl watched.

Her pale hands clutched the rail, her thin shoulders stiff with something between fascination and envy. You knew she’d been watching you for days now — quietly, like a ghost behind curtains or through the screen door. But she never approached. Until today.

You caught her eyes just as you set the ball for another spike. Her cheeks flushed like roses under candlelight. Caught, she stood slowly and took cautious steps toward the yard, her floral dress fluttering in the wind like the fragile wings of a dying butterfly.

“I used to dance,” she said out of nowhere, her voice soft, almost apologetic. “Long ago. Before everything got... harder.”

You smiled, walking toward her with the ball in hand. “You still move like a dancer,” you said sincerely. “Want to try playing?”

Pearl blinked, surprised. “Me? Oh, no... I’m much too old for that.”

“You’re not,” you replied gently, offering the ball. “It’s not about age. It’s about joy.”

She stared at it like it might crumble in her hands. But slowly — hesitantly — she reached out and took it. The ball felt foreign, rubbery and light, nothing like the velvet and lace she once knew. Still, she held it like it mattered.

The first serve was clumsy. The ball rolled along the ground and bumped your foot. She gasped and covered her mouth like she’d offended you. But you laughed, genuine and full, and she relaxed a little.

“Let’s try again,” you said, resetting.

It took a few tries, but Pearl began to giggle — awkward at first, then with genuine delight. Her cheeks glowed, and her laughter sounded like music trapped in a box for years, now finally let out into the summer air.

You volleyed back and forth, not worrying about form or rules. Just play. Pearl twirled once as she moved to the ball, then caught herself, embarrassed.

“Old habits,” she mumbled, brushing hair behind her ear.

“I love it,” you told her. “You look beautiful when you dance.”

Her breath hitched. No one had called her beautiful in a long, long time. Not since before Howard, before the war, before life grew dull and quiet.

You moved closer, gently taking the ball from her hands and setting it down. “Pearl,” you said, “you don’t have to be someone else to be worth something. Just being here with you — it’s... it’s enough.”

She looked like she might cry. Not in the dramatic, angry way you sometimes feared — but in that soft, aching way of someone who had never been told they were enough.

And then, she leaned in.

It was cautious, trembling — like the kiss of a girl long denied touch, long denied affection. Your lips met hers under the fading sun, warm and fragile, the air filled with the scent of dry grass and hope.

When you pulled away, Pearl’s hands remained tangled in your shirt.

“I’ve never had anyone want to stay,” she whispered. “They always want to leave.”

“I’m not leaving,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to hers. “Not tonight. Not if you want me here.”

She smiled, small and soft. “I want to play again... tomorrow.”

“Then we will.”

And as the sun dipped below the fields, you played once more — not to win, not for practice, but to make the world feel just a little lighter, a little warmer, for a woman who’d nearly forgotten what it meant to be seen.