#ghostface oc

[asther-ckb]

Introducing my Ghostface x y/n... 🤪

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Ignore the ALT 😗

[mapledkanata]

Decided to redo my lineup for my Slasher HS AU thing :3 This would be the second redo!

I love them! They are silly!! They are going to solve a strange mystery surrounding the abandoned sanatorium in their sleepy town of Haddonfield… I likely will redo the other lineups as well :)

[slashers-outcast-au]

The Outcasts in a haunted house because I was feeling silly (with out of context spoilers)

[notes-and-violets]

This is my Ghostface OC, and I finally made him an actual reference! He's been dubbed "The Violet Ghostface" here due to the uniquely colored metallic mask he wears. He's a Ghostface Killer working around the Late 80s-90s when Arcades were fairly prevalent, which correlates with his colorful attire.

He is a bit sillier than the usual Ghostface Killers, choosing to be an early Video Game Blogger/Arcade Reviewer rather than a News Reporter. Overall, he is just a massive dork.

[fireside-fanfics]

Hey bestie!! Can I get a Scream Au Joaquin x Reader fic where both are Ghostface?

EEEK I LOOOOVED THIS REQUEST!!!

Killer Chemistry

ꜰᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ: ᴍᴀʀᴠᴇʟ x sᴄʀᴇᴀᴍ ᴄʀᴏssᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴀᴜ (ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ sᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ) ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴊᴏᴀǫᴜɪɴ ᴛᴏʀʀᴇs x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴛᴏɴᴇ: ᴅᴀʀᴋ, sᴜsᴘᴇɴsᴇꜰᴜʟ, ᴛᴡɪsᴛᴇᴅʟʏ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: ᴛʏᴘɪᴄᴀʟ sᴄʀᴇᴀᴍ ꜰʀᴀɴᴄʜɪsᴇ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴛᴏxɪᴄ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ɢʜᴏsᴛꜰᴀᴄᴇ ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴛʏ sᴘᴏɪʟᴇʀs ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ’s ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴅᴏɴᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ɪɴ ᴛʜɪs ꜰɪᴄ; ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴀʟʟ ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ

The first scream echoed down the hallway like a siren made just for them. Joaquin didn’t flinch. He stood still at the edge of the party, red solo cup in hand, the thrum of bass rattling through the soles of his boots. His eyes were on the stairs—on the blood pooling down the wood like it was made for it, n the girl who tumbled down, throat carved open, on the panic in the crowd. And then, he turned slightly, just enough to feel the press of your shoulder against his. Your voice brushed his ear like a prayer.

“Too fast?”

He smiled, slow and controlled.

“Little bit,” he murmured, “but God, it’s art.”

You giggled softly, and it sent shivers down his spine. He knew that sound in every octave—from bedroom whispers to post-kill highs. It was your tell. You only ever laughed like that when it was real. When the world was burning and you were dancing in it, head tilted back, eyes wild with something too bright to be afraid.

That laugh meant you felt alive. Untouchable. And in that moment, so did he. Together, you vanished into the chaos like smoke—twisting through shadows, bleeding into the madness with the kind of ease that only came from being born to it. You weren’t just surviving the storm. You were the eye of it.

The two of you had met at a college mixer freshman year. Back when Joaquin was still finding his footing—charming, loyal, full of anxious energy and the kind of smile that made people trust him too easily. He was trying to be everything at once: the good son, the golden student, the one who could hold the world together with duct tape and sheer willpower. You clocked him the second he walked in—jacket too clean, posture too polite, like someone still trying to figure out which version of himself would actually fit.

You were fire wrapped in silk, all self-contained chaos with a calculating mind behind every glance. Always two steps ahead. Always watching. You didn't flirt so much as hunt. People were puzzles, and you were collecting pieces, slotting them into place. Joaquin wasn’t the most obvious pick—but you’d seen it. The tension behind his grin. The way his gaze sharpened when he thought no one was looking. He had teeth. You just had to show him how to use them.

Joaquin was drawn to you instantly. And once you let him close, he stayed there. By sophomore year, you were inseparable. He steadied you when your rage got loud; you sharpened him when he started going soft. Together, you were a whisper campaign on campus. People talked, wondered, gossiped. By senior year, if either of you showed up to a party alone, people assumed something serious had happened—or that the party wasn’t worth staying for.

What they didn’t know—what no one knew—was what you were actually building.

It started with one kill. Just one. A professor. Tenured. Respected. Who smiled too wide when the girls in his class stayed after office hours. You knew what he was. Everyone did, but no one said a word. Until you did. You brought the file. You laid out the details. You mapped his routine. Joaquin—your sweet soldier boy—took it from there. He executed the plan like a goddamn poem. Quick. Clean. Precise. Not just the physical act, but the cover-up, the narrative, the careful reshaping of evidence like he was composing a symphony.

And then? Nothing. No suspicion. No investigation. Just a closed office door and an announcement about sudden health issues. The high didn’t fade. It evolved—grew teeth, grew rules. It wasn’t about chaos. It wasn’t random. You made a system. A logic. You both started crafting stories and personas. You had rules: never kill in anger, never without cause, never without control. It had to mean something. It had to say something.

The Ghostface persona began as a joke. It was a callback to your horror nights, the cheap slasher masks you used to wear while getting high and dissecting movies, but when you tried it once—just to see—it stuck. The anonymity was intoxicating; the symbolism even more so. Ghostface was something borrowed from fiction, reborn in truth. It gave you both freedom and power … a mythos. 

The masks. The robes. The voice modulators. The thrill of the scream. The perfect symmetry of shared sin. The world only ever saw shadows and headlines, but you and Joaquin? You were legends, hidden in plain sight. And nobody—not your classmates, not your professors, not even the cops—suspected the golden boy with the charming smile or the girl with fire in her eyes and perfect grades. Not for a second. Not yet.

Back in your apartment—blood still fresh under your fingernails, Joaquin shirtless and streaked in crimson—you straddled him on the couch, knees pressing into either side of his hips as the adrenaline still sang through both of you. The night had been chaos—screams and footsteps and breathless laughter echoing behind your masks—but now, here in the aftermath, it was quiet. Intimate. Electric.

You dragged your blade slowly across his collarbone, the pressure teasing but deliberate, leaving a thin line of red in its wake. Joaquin’s breath hitched, but he didn’t flinch. He just smiled up at you with the devilish grin you loved so much.

“You think they’ll catch on?” you whispered, voice low, like a secret shared between devils.

“Not a chance,” He snickered, eyes half-lidded and hungry, dark and drunk on you. 

“You sure?” you taunted, cocking your head as your smirk curled wider. “You’re not too soft to play the killer?”

His fingers wrapped tight around your wrist—firm but careful—as he yanked you closer, mouth just a breath from yours as he whispered, “Only soft for you, baby girl.”

The air between you cracked like static. And then you kissed him. Hard. Hungry. Like sin. Like a promise written in blood and breath. Like you were sealing something dark and eternal between your teeth. His hands roamed your back, slipping under your shirt, warm against your spine. You tasted copper and sweat and triumph, and it was perfect. You kissed him like there was no tomorrow. Because for everyone else, there wouldn’t be.

The next string of murders was messier, bolder: friends, classmates, people who got too close. You leaked hints to the press, breadcrumbs wrapped in panic and polish. You two twisted the narrative like a knife. You played the roles of scared survivors with award-worthy tears and trembling hands. Every interview, every candlelight vigi, you and Joaquin were always together. You were always touching, reassuring, masking the carnage behind “couple goals.” No one suspected a thing.

But someone was getting close now: Sam Wilson.

Your mentor. The only person who ever saw through your charm and called it what it was—strategy. He’d taken you under his wing back when you were just a sharp, restless mind in a campus full of sheep. You admired him, once. Still did, maybe. Enough to hesitate. Joaquin didn’t have that problem. Sam had been his former commanding officer—stern, principled, loyal to a fault. Joaquin respected him, even liked him in another life. But now, every look Sam gave him felt like it was peeling something back. Like he already knew.

Joaquin played dumb. Played the little bird with broken wings and a bright smile. All innocence and second chances. You, on the other hand, started plotting, shifting the angles, and reworking the script. If Sam was going to sniff around the edges of the truth, then it was time to turn the narrative back around. Because if he wouldn’t back off on his own … you’d make him.

“You want me to kill your mentor?” Joaquin asked one night, leaning back on the bed, mask in his lap, eyes on you.

“No,” you chuckled, crawling over him slowly. “I want us to frame him.”

That laugh again. Dark and delighted. He pulled you into his lap, let you straddle him again like you were made to sit there.

“We’re really doing this,” he grinned sheepishly.

You kissed him, hard. “We already are.”

The final act was always meant to be a performance: blood, screams, a survivor or two, a noble sacrifice—Joaquin “bleeding out” in your arms while Ghostface “escaped.” A perfect ending. A finale to be remembered. But halfway through, when it was just the two of you backstage in the chaos you created—costume discarded, hands still slick with blood, adrenaline buzzing under your skin like a second heartbeat—he turned to you.

“What if we don’t stop?”

You blinked at him, stunned. He was grinning, but it wasn’t the easy, boyish smile he wore in public. This was something else—something sharp. Something hungry. He stepped closer, fingers threading into your hair, tangling at the nape of your neck like he couldn't bear the space between you. His voice was low, rough with possibility. 

“What if we keep going? New town. New campus. New faces. Fresh canvas.”

You stared at him, trying to trace the moment the follower had become the co-architect. Joaquin, who used to flinch at the idea of crossing lines. Joaquin, who had once needed you to lead. And now, here he was—eyes gleaming, jaw set, dangerous in a way that made your pulse stutter. You saw it then: the same fire you’d spent years hiding behind charm and masks was alive in him, too. A perfect mirror. A perfect match.

You smiled—slow, sure, wicked—and slipped your bloodied hand into his and murmured, “Let’s paint the country red, mi amor.”

The world behind you crumbled in smoke and sirens. Your final act is now another urban legend in the making, but you didn’t look back. You never did. Together, you stepped into the shadows, laughing low and breathless, like the beginning of a love story no one would survive. Two blades. One heartbeat. And a future dripping in crimson.

[the-moons-ace-card]

Omegaverse Slashers Headcanons

I like … never see Omegaverse headcanons for these guys, so I’m chipping in my two cents. I might regret this later, but that’s a problem for future me to deal with

Michael Myers

Let’s be real, this man is a textbook Alpha. Strong, assertive in his own way, keeps tabs on his people. Definitely the possessive type and would be protective of his mate/packmates. His scent is a mix of pumpkin spice and gasoline

Jason Voorhees

A lot of people think he’s an Alpha at first glance and smell, but he’s actually a Beta. No interest in having a mate or pups. If he does end up joining a pack, he is happy just being friends with everyone and helping the alphas make decisions. VERY grateful he doesn’t have to deal with heats or ruts. His scent is very earthy, like mud, lake water, and pine

Freddy Krueger

Omega and he’s pissed about it. He uses his dream demon powers to present more as an Alpha and it works. Constantly on heat suppressants, too. His fake scent is smoke and chili. His natural scent is lavender

Ghostface

Using my OC, Timothy/Tammy, for this since there’s a million Ghostfaces. Anyway, they’re an Omega and actually proud of it. They feel like it makes them seem more badass, appearing to be an easy target, only for them to have the ability to gut people in a flash. Being assigned male at birth, having both reproductive organs also makes them feel euphoric. Their scent is caramel corn and lemon-lime soda.

Leatherface

Another one that seems like an Alpha on the surface, but Bubba’s actually an Omega. He wishes he were a higher rank, like his brothers (Drayton’s the Alpha, the twins are both Betas), but fate had other plans. His scent is cooked ham and metal

Harry Warden

Alpha. In fact, he was the strongest Alpha in that mine collapse, hence how he survived while the others didn’t. His scent is dark chocolate

Donn Berodach

Adding my slasher OC, bc why not? Anyway, he was originally meant to be a Beta or an Omega. It’s unknown which, because before he even presented, the demon that owns him took a look, sensed what his rank was going to be, and went “Yeah. No. That’s not gonna fly with me” and altered him to become an Alpha. His scent is campfire and steak

Carrie White

As a kid, everyone thought she was going to be an Omega like her mother. When she didn’t present right away, everyone then thought she was a Beta. But then the night of the prom happened and while demolishing everything, she finally presented and her Alpha pheromones raged through the air. Her scent is roses and rain

Christine

Yes, I’m giving the car a rank. If she can have a gender, she can have a second one. Deal with it. Anyway, she’s definitely an Alpha. Strong, possessive, protective, assertive. I just know she treats her Omega RIGHT. Her scent is motor oil and cherries

Kayako Saeki

Omega, but in the mama bear kind of way. Mess with Toshio, you get the hair. She is #THAT mom. Speaking of Toshio, he never got the chance to present because he died too young. Kayako’s scent is like a whole hair care routine

Chucky

Beta as a human, but when he transferred into the doll, he became an Omega. It doesn’t bother him too much, though, he just takes a heat suppressant and deals with it. He has gotten to experience what it’s like to be an Alpha when he possessed Nica. His scent is that Good Guy cereal

Tiffany Valentine

Almost the opposite of Chucky. Her human form is an Omega, but when she transferred into the doll, she became an Alpha. She didn’t realize this at first, though. Not until the doll sex scene in Bride. Yes, in this AU, Chucky had Glen/Glenda/Gigi. Why? Because it’s hilarious to me. Tiffany’s scent is gold and dandelions

That’s all I have for now. If you want a part 2, let me know, and also tell me who you would like to see

[sanctuscurra]

Family Portrait

12/01/2025

Done for: @crossingblossom13

[sproutingweeds]