In honor of Friday the 13th being JUST before Valentine’s Day, I’ll take a couple of slasher themed valentines card ideas from you guys! For our horror lovers, I’m obviously starting out with our boy Jason
Lmk what you want, I’m gonna do it for the rest of this weekend :33
Sinclair Brothers
House of Wax
Words: 1.500
*Trigger Warning* implied violence, gore (canon-typical House of Wax themes), possessive behavior, psychological horror elements, body horror (wax imagery), mild jealousy, obsession, dark themes involving death, creepy domestic dynamics
The road between your town and Ambrose had always felt like a place people avoided. The cracked asphalt, the quiet woods, the way the world always seemed to hold its breath past the “population 897” sign.
But you’d grown up near this forgotten corner of the map. And you’d grown up knowing.
Not the details. Not the gore, not the part that would make normal people run.
Just… enough. Enough to understand what Ambrose was.
And enough to understand the Sinclairs.
You weren’t scared of them.
Which, in its own way, made you even more unusual.
A ROUTINE MOST PEOPLE WOULD NEVER UNDERSTAND
Most people wouldn’t think twice about the little rituals that filled your week: waking early, packing a few supplies into your bag—cleaning gloves, a book, a Tupperware of something you’d cooked the night before—then walking toward town until you saw Lester’s truck rumbling down the road.
He was always waiting.
Always grinning that messy, uneven grin like you were the highlight of his afternoon.
“Hop in, sunshine,” he said as he leaned across the bench seat to push the door open.
You climbed inside, dropping your bag at your feet. “You always get here early.”
He shrugged, cheeks going a little pink beneath the smudges of dirt.
“Ain’t got much else worth doin’. Plus, Bo starts pacing like a caged dog when you’re late.”
“He does not.” You laughed.
“Oh, he does.” Lester pulled onto the old road. “Gets all grumbly. Pretends he don’t care.”
He shot you a sideways look, shoulders lifting. “Vincent just waits by the window.”
That part didn’t surprise you. You’d gotten used to the way Vincent lingered in the background of most of your visits—quiet, steady, always watching through that porcelain mask. He didn’t hide from you anymore, not the way he did with strangers. Sometimes he even nodded a greeting.
Small things.
But with Vincent, small things meant everything.
THE HOUSE THAT ALMOST FELT LIKE HOME
The Sinclair house creaked the same way it always had—old wood complaining under every footstep, warm dust floating through shafts of morning sunlight. You shrugged off your jacket and rolled up your sleeves, already knowing what needed doing.
Laundry first.
Kitchen next.
Then whatever disaster Bo had left in the living room.
Bo was sprawled on the couch when you came in—boots up, grease on his arms, an amused twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Well, ain’t you a sight,” he said. “House actually looks decent when you walk through the door.”
“Maybe that’s because I spend half my week fixing the mess you all make.”
He grinned wider. “You complainin’?”
“If I were, you’d hear it.”
Bo’s eyes dragged over you in that slow, assessing way he had, something sharp flickering behind them.
Not lust.
Not exactly.
Possessiveness.
A quiet burn of something he’d never admit.
“Lester picked you up.” His voice was casual, but you heard the underlying edge.
“He always does,” you replied, moving past him to wipe crumbs off the table.
“He don’t gotta,” Bo muttered.
You didn’t answer. Bo hated needing anything. You’d learned to ignore the defensive bark that came whenever he felt something softer.
A SOFTNESS LESTER DIDN’T BOTHER HIDING
Lester hovered while you cleaned the kitchen, leaning his elbows on the counter, watching you with the full weight of his attention.
“Made somethin’ for ya,” he said suddenly, fishing a small wrapped object from his pocket.
“What’s this?”
“Somethin’ I found. Thought you’d like it.”
Inside the cloth was a small metal trinket—an old locket, dented but still beautiful.
Your heart tugged. Lester didn’t show affection with words.
He showed it by treasures he brought back from the woods.
Shiny things. Pretty things.
Things he thought belonged with you.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
He melted—actually melted—eyes softening like a kicked puppy suddenly given love.
“You’re welcome,” he mumbled. “Just… like givin’ you nice things.”
His fingers brushed yours when he handed it over.
He didn’t move them.
Just stood there, cheeks pink, breathing just a little too fast.
Bo’s voice cut through the moment sharply.
“Lester. Quit crowdin’.”
Lester shot him a glare. “Ain’t crowdin’. And she don’t mind.”
You didn’t, actually.
He was warm company. Easy.
Bo made a noise low in his throat—jealousy, poorly hidden.
But he turned away.
THE WORKSHOP
You saved your favorite part for last.
The workshop sat behind the house, quiet and dim, filled with wax and soft light and the faint hum of Vincent’s breathing. You pushed the door open gently.
He looked up immediately.
Vincent didn’t speak.
Didn’t have to.
The way his head tilted, the way his shoulders loosened—those were all his words.
“Hi,” you said, stepping inside.
He moved aside so you could join him at the workbench, always leaving just enough space for you to slip into. The warmth of his shoulder pressed subtly against yours, like he couldn’t help leaning close.
You watched his hands as he shaped the wax—careful, precise, impossibly gentle for someone who had done such brutal things. You’d stopped trying to reconcile those contradictions. Vincent was both. He always had been.
“Is this new?” you asked, pointing at the figure taking form under his fingers.
A nod.
He reached for a sketchbook, flipping to a page—your face, half-finished, drawn in charcoal. The faintest blush of wax forming your profile on the sculpture beside it.
You stared. “Vincent… is this me?”
His shoulders tensed, just for a moment, before he dipped his head in a slow, reluctant nod.
Your breath caught.
He’d sculpted you before, in fragments. Hands. A curve of your cheek. The shape of your hair.
But never a full figure.
Never this intimate.
You cupped his forearm gently. “It’s beautiful.”
His body eased at your touch.
He didn’t pull away.
He leaned into it.
Quiet stretched between you—comfortable, warm.
The kind of silence that belonged only to people who understood each other.
BO WATCHES THE TWO OF YOU
When you finally stepped out of the workshop, Bo was standing on the porch with crossed arms.
“Y’been in there a while,” he said, tone clipped.
“Vincent was showing me his work.”
Bo snorted. “He don’t show nobody his work.”
“He shows me.”
“Yeah,” Bo muttered, jaw ticking. “I noticed.”
Jealous.
Absolutely, undeniably jealous.
“You got somethin’ to say?” you asked.
“No.”
A beat.
“Just think maybe you spend a little too much time with him.”
“That bothering you?”
Bo’s eyes flashed.
He opened his mouth to argue, then snapped it shut.
Denial. Always denial.
“I don’t care what you do,” he said. “Just don’t want my brother gettin’ distracted.”
You stepped closer, tilting your head at him. “Vincent? Distracted by me?”
Bo looked everywhere except your face.
“…Not what I meant.”
You smiled.
He hated that you could read him this easily.
THE SUNSET WARNING
You’d stayed longer than usual. The sky was turning red, sliding toward dusk. You grabbed your jacket, ready to walk home on your own until Lester appeared in the doorway.
“Nope,” he said immediately. “Ain’t lettin’ you walk back alone. Dark comes fast here.”
“There’s nothing out there,” you said gently.
Bo scoffed. “Plenty out there.”
Then, too quickly, “Not that you’d have to worry. Not while you’re… here.”
You blinked.
That was the closest he’d ever come to admitting that he cared.
Vincent stepped into the hallway behind them, fingers tapping lightly against the doorway—his version of concern.
Lester took your bag off your shoulder before you could protest.
“I’m driving you,” he declared. “End of story.”
You sighed, but smiled. “Alright, alright.”
Bo muttered something under his breath—something about how Lester only volunteered so eagerly because he got to hog your attention during the ride.
You turned back toward Vincent.
“Thank you for today,” you said softly.
His shoulders lifted in a subtle, almost shy gesture. A thank you of his own.
Bo was watching the two of you from behind Vincent’s shoulder, jaw tight again.
THE RIDE HOME
Lester drove slower at night. His hand rested on the steering wheel, the other draped across the back of your seat—close enough to feel the warmth of him.
“You know…” he said after a moment, “you don’t gotta leave so early next time.”
“I stayed late today.”
“Still.”
His voice dipped.
“Wouldn’t mind you stickin’ around longer.”
Your chest warmed.
“I like being with you all,” you admitted.
Lester’s whole face brightened. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He beamed. “Good. ‘Cause Bo gets all pissy when you leave, and Vincent—well, I think you know.”
You did.
You knew all of them in ways no outsider ever would.
And they knew you.
Wanted you close.
In their own strange, broken, possessive ways.
As you reached the outskirts of your town, Lester slowed, gaze flicking toward you.
“Hey… you’ll come back in a couple days, right?”
“Of course.”
He let out a breath of relief, then smiled softly.
“Good. Feels real quiet when you’re gone.”
You pretended not to hear the way his voice cracked on quiet.
hiya!! im the anon that told you abt requests being closed, im glad i could help you out!!
i saw you headcanon danny as demiromantic and im very curious, what would it be like if danny had romantic feelings for a survivor reader? how would those feelings develop? i’m not demi myself so i’m rlly curious about the process of it!!
oh anon you have no idea how excited i am to answer this
*clears throat*
🫀 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 🫀
TW :: Obsessive behavior, stalking, violence, general Danny Warnings
Authors Notes :: This uh...kinda turned into a ficlet. Oops!!! I've just thought of this scenario a LOT so I had a lot to say-
Anyways!! Hope you enjoy <3 (also this isn't proof read, we die like men)
It took a really long time for him to realize it, or maybe just for the emotions to develop. He wasn't sure.
You had appeared months ago, or whatever the equivalent was in the realms. Time wasn't exactly an easy concept to pin down here.
For a long time you were just another survivor, someone his knife sliced through with delicate ease. Someone to hunt and kill, that was his job, and entity if he didn't love every fucking second of it.
He liked to stalk his victims, both in and out of trials. Especially the new ones, he loved to see what made them tick. What really fucking scared them.
So he was keeping an eye on you, taking his usual notes, keeping an ear out for anything to use against you later.
But it started to develop into something a bit...more than that.
Suddenly he noticed his notes becoming less about what you feared and more about what you liked.
The way you smiled, how you laughed at Ash's jokes, the way you bit your knuckles when you were worried. The way your eyes lit up when seeing your friends and fuck he wanted to see your eyes light up for him like that.
He shook it off, had to shake it off. It got in the way of what he did. What even was this feeling?
Sure he had flings before he was taken, but he never really had feelings for them. It was part of the game, part of his job. Something to keep him low on the radar. That's all.
Was that what this was then? What it felt like to properly fall in love?
He hated it.
He hated every feeling, he hated the way your smile made his chest light up. He hated how distracted he was, so fucking distracted.
He hated you.
He couldn't stop thinking of you.
Quit laughing at Ash's stupid fucking jokes they aren't even that fucking funny.
More scribbling, more anger, why did you have to appear here? Was it some sort of taunt by the entity? Some kind of damn punishment? Fuck you and fuck whatever feelings you gave him.
For a long time it was like that, if you were in a trial with him you were the first hooked. You were too much of a distraction to his work.
And maybe he loved the feeling of holding you like this but fuck he wouldn't admit that.
------
Eventually you got fucking tired of it.
Every damn trial he would tunnel in on you and only you. Wouldn't focus on anyone else while you were around.
You realized quickly killers couldn't truly kill you. You felt it, every last agonizing slice into your flesh, every bruise, every broken bone, but you would just wake up at the fire at the end.
And you needed to figure out what the fuck his issue was.
Your fellow survivors tried very hard to convince you out of it, but they understood being pissed about it. So in the end, no one stopped you.
So there you were, in front of Autohaven Wreckers. A few survivors tipped you off that Ghostface liked to hang out around this area. Beats you as to why, the place stank of burning rubber and old oil. It made your stomach turn, but you entered nonetheless.
As you walked through the old junkyard, it dawned on you, you didn't really have a plan. You had done this mainly on a whim, annoyed at constantly being targeted and harassed by the white faced freak. Where were you even supposed to look? What if the Wraith saw you? This was fucking stup-
Before you could react a leather gloved hand covered your mouth, pulling you back as the cold steel of a sharp blade touched your throat.
"You scream and this is going into your fucking back, got it?" The voice was husky in your ear, unfamiliar. It made you realize you had never heard Ghostface speak before. So you nod, and he make an approving noise before releasing you. You run a hand over your throat where his knife had bit into it, leaving a light red line against it.
"So," He spoke again, letting you turn to him finally to confirm your suspicions. There he was, the Ghostface in the flesh, mask and all. "What do I owe the pleasure, Doll?"
"Well," You started, feeling your anger bubble up in you again. "For fucking starters, I have some damn questions for you, asshole."
Oh he loved when you spoke like that, some real final girl trope shit.
"Ooo, questions for the killer?" He cooed, leaning against a nearby car and watching you intently. "Brave of ya, Doll. I like it."
"Oh fucking can it, you damned halloween drop out!" You spat, and though you couldn't see it under his mask, your words had him grinning ear to ear. He loved when you were angry like this. "Why the fuck do you keep tunneling me, huh?! Every fucking trial we have you steamroll me and kill me as quick as possible. It's fucking bullshit, dude!"
He laughs a bit, removing his leather glove and using his knife to pick the dirt from under his nails.
"I dunno what you're talkin bout, babe." He says nonchalantly. "You're mad because what, I'm killing you during trials? Come on, that's my job-"
"Bullshit, this is more than that and you know it!" You seethe, god if you knew you wouldn't die you'd punch him. "What's your fucking damage? Hell, I've heard stories about other trials, you're even fucking friendly with some of the survivors sometimes! What the fuck did I ever do to you?!"
His eye twitches.
"Like I said, I'm just doing my fucking job. Now if you would just-"
"NO YOU AREN'T!" You shout at him and he's on you in an instant, hand over your mouth and you can see his eyes through his mask. A deep red brown and angry.
"Listen here you stupid bitch, one more outburst like that and I'm gutting you like a fucking fish, understand?" He snaps, his grip on your face almost bruising. Fear grips you again and you nod. He sighs, letting you go again with an unspoken warning that he would follow through if you got loud like that again.
"Look, it's fucking...it's complicated." He mumbled, looking almost shy as he played with one of the ghostly strips of fabric attached to his outfit. "You're just...you're a fucking distraction. Every trial I'm in with you it's hard to fucking focus, and I have a fucking job to do god damn it." He grumbles. You almost feel bad for him, almost.
"What, and that's my problem?" You snap in return.
"Yeah, it fucking is." He snaps in return, starting to pace back and forth. "I have work to do, people to kill, fear to harvest, the whole nine fucking yards. But you," He points, "You get in the fucking way, you make me lose track, you make me...you...fuck, you make me feel something, OK?"
You blink dumbly at him, finally speechless, and he continues.
"I get this stupid fucking feeling in my stomach and it makes me fucking twitchy. It makes my damn mind race and I can't tell if it's because I want to fucking dissect you or..." He trails off.
"...Or?" You question.
"I don't know!" He snaps, growling a bit as he continues pacing. "I haven't fucking felt like this before, I didn't think I fucking could. I just..." He takes a breath, looking back at you. "I need you to stop."
Your mouth hangs open, shocked by his...confession? If you could call it that.
"What?" You question again.
"Stop! Stop making me feel...whatever the fuck this is!" He snaps again, and even though you can't see his eyes anymore, you can feel the frustration wafting off him.
"How the fuck am I supposed to do that?!" You snap in return, annoyance rising in you as well. "It's not my fault you have a...a fucking crush on me or something!"
"Yes it is, it's absolutely your fault!" He throws his arms up, almost like an annoyed toddler. "It's your fault because you have this soft fucking face and this pretty laugh and that stupid fucking smile! You have these fucking eyes that light up whenever you get to talking about what you love, and fuck I just wish for once that was ME and-" He cuts himself off with a growl, kicking a nearby stack of tired and knocking them down. "It's bullshit, you're bullshit, it's all fucking bullshit!"
You're left speechless until he finally looks at you again.
"There, you happy? Now could you fucking make it stop?!" He breathes out, his eyes just barely visible through the black mesh of his mask.
"I...Well...fuck uh..." You mumble, shifting your weight from foot to foot. "I...don't think I can do that? I mean..."
"Fuck, yeah, course you can't." He grumbles, fidgeting with the fabric strips of his costume again. "I just...this is a stupid, distracting fucking feeling and I hate it."
"Well...I mean..." You take a breath, not really sure how to approach the situation. "Maybe we could like...I dunno...start over?"
He looks at you, and you swear he thinks you're insane.
"Start over?" He questions, "The fuck you mean start over?"
"Like, I dunno. Figure shit out from the beginning, like...get to know each other or something?" You say awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck.
"...Are you fucking crazy?" He questions, and yeah, you expected that. "Like, hello, earth to Dollface, I've killed you dozens of times now. I have murdered your friends in front of you." He snaps his fingers, impressive considering he's still wearing his gloves. "Like sure, sounds nice and all, but how the fuck do you expect to just start over? Hi, what's up, the names Ghostface. Wanna get stabbed?"
"Don't be a fucking dickhead." You snap in response and huff, "Look, I don't know what you want me to do about...whatever this shit is," You motion to him vaguely. "Like I dunno dude, you need a good therapist or something?"
"Fuck you." He growls.
"Yeah, whatever." You breath out. "Look, I don't care what you do, but I'm sick of you pulling bullshit during trials because of...whatever your feelings are. So you either talk to me about it and we get it sorted, or I start making offerings to the entity to make your job even harder than I apparently already am." You cross your arms and look him up and down before sighing. "I'm heading back to camp, if you want to fucking talk-"
"Wait," He grabs your arm and you stop, looking back at him before he sighs. "OK maybe...maybe you're right. Maybe we can like, try that? I dunno."
You smile at him, sighing in relief.
"Good, I prefer that." You turn to him, extending a hand and telling him your name proper, even though he already knows it. "Nice to meet you, Ghostface."
He stares at your hand for a second, but slowly, he takes it.
"...Ghostface is fine for now." He mumbles, shaking it awkwardly. "So...uh...how do we do this?"
"Well...what kinds of movies did you like? Before you got taken."
His eyes light up, and suddenly he's on a kick. Rambling happily about his favorite horror movies while you listen.
Things get better after that.
Rather than being targeted, you're more often than not spared during trials.
Of course people get suspicious though, so you have to cut a small deal with him to either spare all of you during trials or kill everyone including you.
He's not personally a fan of the second option, so he ends up sparing your little party whenever you're involved.
You two get closer and you start to have your own feelings for him in return.
Eventually he tells you his real name. Danny, it rolls off your tongue nicely.
He's nervous at first, but eventually his smooth charm comes back and it's rare for him to not leave you flustered and blushing when you two talk.
When you finally get the courage to tell him your feelings, you swear he's on cloud nine. immediately talking about how happy he's going to make you and how he'll make sure no one in this fucking realm ever touches you.
You have to talk him down from that, knowing that your other survivors would hate you if you were the only exception during trials. And while he says "fuck em" you know you can't have him as your only friend in the realm, as much as part of him would love that.
But it's nice, he treats you like royalty. Like you're his entire world.
It might not be a real happy ending, but it's probably the closest you'll get in this hellhole.
For the mask, the chase, the pulse, and the kill. Industrial rock, nu-metal, metalcore, and gothic despair intertwine with moody rock, darkwave, and experimental energy.
🔪 The Prey's Mating Call — For the mask, the chase, the pulse, and the kill. Industrial rock, nu-metal, metalcore, and gothic despair intert
Dream Man is a soundtrack for haunted hearts of hunters — for those who love too fiercely, rage too loudly, and linger in the spaces between danger, longing, and desire. Each track strikes like a blade into an unsuspecting lover. This is music for sleepless nights, for whispered confessions, for hearts that refuse to stop even when the world goes silent.
For fans of: Sleep Token, Slipknot, Nine Inch Nails, Korn, Ice Nine Kills, Deftones, Bad Omens, Muse, My Chemical Romance, Three Days Grace, In This Moment, Halestorm
I can't decide which micheal this fits better, you can decide.
Ok, so let's say reader is like Micheal. Doesn't show a lot of emotion, doesn't talk much, etc. They may not say it much, but Micheal knows they care. Right? At first, Micheal is fine with the lack of affection (physical and verbal), he gets it, y'know. He's not exactly an affectionate person either. Over time, however, he starts to feel like reader doesn't care about him. It's very much not true, he just can't see it. Reader expresses their care differently. Like staying up late waiting for him to come home, starting the shower for him when they can tell the night didn't go as well as he wanted, making sure the cupboards are always stocked with his favorite snacks, cleaning and sharpening his knife for him, etc. Micheal may observe everything around him, but that didn't mean he always picked up on what it meant. Like we know, he doesn't really get emotions.
Well, after convincing himself reader no longer likes him, he decides to just go out for a few days. It's not abnormal for him to be gone so long, but he would always let reader know if he would be a few days. So, when Micheal didn't come home that first night, they were worried. They tried to brush it off as maybe he was just running later than normal, and they went to bed. When they woke up to a cold bed, they really began to worry. By the time the sun was rising on the second night, the reader couldn't sleep. What if something went wrong? What if he got caught? What if he's hurt? Thoughts swirled in the readers mind. What could they do? They certainly can't call someone to help find him. So, they do what they can, and they wait.
Finally, on the fifth night, Micheal trudges through the door. The exhausted reader shoots up from their spot on the couch and runs to him. They cling onto him in a tight hug as tears start to fall down their cheeks. They pull back enough to look up at Micheals eyes through the mask. They gently cup his face and bring it down to rest their foreheads together. Tears continue to roll, but a small, relieved smile creeps onto their face.
"I'm so glad you're ok. I was so worried. I thought something had happened. I thought you were stuck out there somewhere, hurt and alone. I don't know what I'd do without you. I love you so much." They hug him again and ramble against his chest.
Micheal doesn't know what to do at first. He was so sure they didn't care about him, but they just said they love him? He felt guilty for having caused them so much pain. He gently reaches down and wipes readers tears away. He pulls them closer and rests his head on top of theirs. They stay like that for a while, just embracing each other. It didn't take long for micheal to feel the reader slump against him, asleep. He smiles through the mask and picks them up, careful not to wake them, and he carries them to bed. He gently lays them down, and he takes off his mask, placing a kiss on top of their head, before laying down beside them and pulling them and pulling reader on top of him.
When the morning rays start to peak through the curtain in the morning, reader stirs. They look down to see Micheal below, and relief washes over them again. They pepper his face with kisses and snuggle back into him. Having woke up, he wraps his arms around readers waist, and they continue to lay there. That's all they did that day. Just lay in bed, enjoying being together again.
