What if you tied me up in your basement

Of course!

Brahms Heelshire and a child reader.

There were thunders outside. You were sitting in the backseat of the car, looking out the window and up to the dark sky; not a single light could be seen out in the storm. The rain spattered against the windshield, and slid down the wind leaving thin trails behind.

The car of the Heelshires was an old, but expensive model. The seats were wrapped in a beautiful white velvet, and everything else was a shiny, dark gray. You curled up in a reduced space very far to the side; if you were to make a mess, you'll never hear the end of it.

—“Is everything okay back there, sweetie?”

A shaky voice approached you, and you noticed the old man watching you from the rear-view mirror.

—“Mhm, thank you, sir. Are we there yet?”

—“Haha. We're almost there.”

You've been sitting for nearly two hours since you left the orphanage, and worried that you didn't see a single house on the way. The mansion really is in the middle nowhere.

You turned back again to the window and watched the hundred raindrops fall against it, like a busy road. You pretended they were having a race, hoping it would distract your 8-year-old mind. But as your chest grew tighter, you found that nothing that interested you before provided you the slightest bit of entretainment.

Your gaze fell upon the structure rising marvellously along the crowns of the trees. The mansion provided enough light to be seen through the foggy view of the thunderstorm; it looked like a fire had started on the inside.

The vehicle began to slow, and came to a stop when it reached the curb of the house. The light from inside loomed over them, a starry night in the black sky. Rain pattered on the roof of the car.

You got out. While a servant dressed in black came to take care of the luggage, you stared at the long hallway that extended in front of you. It shined in dim light, no corners were left dark, and yet you felt like something sinester lurked around.

—“Go inside, hurry! You'll get wet!” A hand in your back pushed you gently, making you hurry inside the building. Miss Heelshire ran in with you. “God, honey, you're soaking!”

Suddently aware of your state, you took a look at yourself; she was right. Your hair and clothes were dripping onto the bright velvet carpet.

—“Oh golly” Mister Heelshire closed the door behind him, leaving his hat in the rack besides it. “Why don't you go take a warm shower, young lady? I'll show you the way to the bathroom.”

You followed behind him. He took the opportunity to show you around a bit on your way to the restroom, but you weren't quite paying attention. You couldn't catch anything he said.

—“It's here. You'll find some fresh pajamas on top of the toilet. It's late, so why don't you get some rest, do you? Tomorrow morning we'll give you a little tour.”

You nodded and he left. You went in.

The bathroom was nothing you've seen before. It only had an old window, wearing a foggy crystal, that didn't seem like you could open it. The mirror in front of the sink took most of the wall, except for a thick space that traveled from the floor to the very ceiling; three frames hanged from it vertically, each depicting the same little boy with different expressions. “What a crooked little bathroom”, you thought.

You turned on the water of the shower, and vapour immediately started to pour out. You took off your damp clothes, and got in quickly; the water was deliciously warm, you felt your muscles relaxing at the touch of it.

Several minutes later, you came out looking like a raisin. You didn't realize how long you've been in the shower until you saw the clock that was hung also besides the mirror: at least 30 minutes of water wasted. You felt a little embarrassed, but the water bill was nothing a pair of billionaires couldn't handle, anyway.

Thump. You were putting on your pajamas, that smelled new, when a noise caught your attention. Once, it sounded gentle. Thump thump. Twice, a little louder. Then it wouldn't stop.

Desperately putting on whatever you could, your heart throbbed at the aggressive noise that seemed to unravel around you. It sounded like a giant beast running inside the walls.

The last noise ended just in the other side of the bathroom door. Filled with adrenaline, you ran outside slamming the door open.

—“Hello?!” The echo was the only thing you heard back. The sound of the creaking walls stopped abruptly as if you scared off whatever was making it. Or that's what you wanted to think.

You looked around for something that produced light; anything would do. And when you found a candle, which flame could barely stay alive, it was enough for you. You took it with one hand, keeping it as far from your body as possible, and thought about what to do next.

You didn't know where your room was. Even if you knew, this house had at least 20 rooms per floor; there's no way you could find it.

But you remembered the way to the main hallway. The hallway that led to every room in the house, but it would now be dark, silent, and much more horrid.

You forced you legs to start walking.

“There's nothing to fear.” You thought to yourself, looking down the red velvet carpet that lied under your feet. You reached the end of the wall, and the hallway was just around the corner. All you needed to do was look up and walk through, it wouldn't even take you a minute. So you raised your head.

You could see the siluette at the end of it. You could've convinced yourself it was just a lump if you didn't see the moon shining against his face. His face made of porcelain.

The wind was raging against the trees, making the leaves moan an omnious sound. The flame burning in top of your candle danced along your heavy breathing.

—“Hello.”

You froze in place, and felt your blood cold in a split of a second. Your eyes narrowed; everything felt like a living fever dream.

—“Don't be scared. I wouldn't wanna hurt you.”

The childish voice resonated in your head; there was no way it came from him. You managed to splurt out a stuttering sentence. —“Who are you?”

He approached shyly, like a little kid. —“I'm Brahms. I live here.”

Something seemed off, but you couldn't put your finger on it. You had no choice but to believe him. You had no reason not to.

—“How old are you?” You asked.

He hesitated. —“I'm... 8 years old.”

You were as well. —“You look like you're a big year old.”

—“I'm just really tall.” His hands started fidgeting; he looked nervous to meet you. You felt a little bad for him.

You stretched out your arm towards him. —“I'm (y/n). Nice to meet you.”

—“Nice to meet you...” He repeated while taking your small hand in a handshake. You smiled.

—“What's up with the mask?”

He tilted his head. —“I'm playing a game. Do you want to play with me?”

You hesitated. The flame on the candle was shaking weakly while silence filled the space between you two. It was too late in the night to play.

—“Please.” He spoke as if he read your mind. “Just for a bit.”

The flame died out. It was pitch black.

—“Okay.”

And you were the last child the Heelshires adopted.

I should be studying.

It's not difficult to tell Michael is a very interesting specimen. What's on his mind, aside from murder, might be forever a mystery for us. His silent nature makes it very hard to tell his likes or dislikes, let alone what he is romantically or sexually attracted to; but, at the very least, you can start by catching his attention.

Step 1, and the most simple: Make him want to murder you. Attract him by the only thing you know he takes interest in: the splatter of warm blood, and the satyisfying sound a body makes when falling hard into the ground.

The most effective way to become a target is to get on his way; study him. Make him the muse in your drawings, the reason for the money flying out of your pockets everytime you buy old newspapers, the first search result in your Google search bar. Make him suspicious of you, enough to get you killed.

Step 2, when he answers your death call, don't show yourself afraid. Hold back the urge to pee yourself when he holds his weapon to your face, and instead of screaming, fight him. Frown upon him, and tell him 'i will survive' with the look on your eyes.

Don't be aggressive, be intelligent. Not only because any kind of physical attack is ineffectual, but because knowing how to keep calm in under pressure situations will make you differ from the other victims he has had. Michael will, at some point, see you as a rival more than a victim.

Step 3, flee from the death his hands grant. Aside from the obvious, this will make Michael Myers obssess over you, and immediatly put you above of the victim category. How dare you escape the shape, the boogeyman, the murderous Michael Myers? You digged your own grave.

Step 4, knowing he will pay you a visit eventually, don't show yourself paranoic. Wait for him as if you were waiting for a friend. Don't set up traps, or carry any heavy guns (If something happens, pepper spray and a little intelect will do the trick); instead, leave him snacks or friendly notes on your external doors. This way, he'll know your intentions aren't of ending his life.

Don't act as if you can overpower him; you can't. Michael doesn't appreciate his victims getting cocky; don't test his patience unless you wanna play rough. The mouse and cat dynamic gets to be your little game when he decides it, not the other way around. This is the best way to get yourself killed.

Step 5, to clear out your intentions, help him out. And this does not mean you need to get your hands dirty. The police searching histerically for a tall man in a mask? Sorry, never seen him. Posters requesting for evidence of his location? Magically gone the next day. Did it snow in the morning? Looks like someone left a pile of blankets in the Myers residence's front door.

The help will not be thanked in any way, be aware of this. Don't expect Michael to return the favor, because he won't. The reason you're doing this is to gain his trust, which also won't be happening as easier as most of us want to.

This man requires lots of patience, if not all the patience you have.

Step 6, pay him visits. Show him you're purposely going out of your way to make time for him, and try to make it as clear as possible. He's intelligent, don't get me wrong, but he does need to work on his social skills.

When you know he's lurking around, talk to him. Tell him about your day, an interesting story, ask him about himself. If you're lucky, he might stop and listen.

Step 7, remember he's not an emotionless monster as they want you to believe, and take interest in his fixations. Don't ask about his mental health, don't give him advise about his psychological problems and don't mention pills; he's heard enough of that. Instead, think about his most common interest; Halloween.

Complimenting his decorating skills and scaring abilities is one of the best ways to get on his "people I sometimes don't really feel like brutally slaughtering" list. Michael has a crude, grotesque sense of humor, that is difficult to laugh at. But understanding this part of him is definetly important to get on his mildly friendly side.

Step 8, the day he doesn't kill you when he has the opportunity to, you know you've won his heart. But don't celebrate yet; this can change very quickly if you make the wrong move. Make sure you behave, or at least not get on his nerves for the first years. Beware of his temper, he tends to lose it very quickly; never doub't he would end your life over a small disagreement.

sorry if this is too short! hope you like it <3

Leatherface with a cannibal s/o

Honestly, Bubba always thought strange of your eating habits. He initially tried getting you into human flesh, but you had too much of a good excuse not to. So he ended up helping you with your diet rather than trying to convert you.

You proposed the idea one day before dinner. You stopped him when he was about to put the beef and vegetables in the slow cooker for you to eat.

"Hey, Bubba, I was thinking maybe I'll just eat normal dinner today!"

He was confused at first, and couldn't help but tilt his head. But you said you were severely allergic to human meat! What if you die?

"Oh yeah, um... I'm cured! Yay!"

Well, he didn't know allergies could be cured, but that's okay!

Honestly, he was more relieved than happy to have you eat 'normally'. Animal meat was expensive; not that it mattered, he loves you anyway! But his family started pressuring him to stop buying it, so seeing your eagerness was a breath of fresh air.

And he wasn't the only one who was happy to hear it! Everyone was more than happy to show you the best ways to properly cut --and eat-- every part of the human body.

That night you learned a lot about anatomy, to say the least.

This is hella long, hope you like it!

Tummy tickles with Bubba

Your chest went out of breath when you hit the floor forcefully, like a direct kick in the lungs. The chainsaw’s purring sounds echoed in your ears, like a very distant chaos melody. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Struggling to get up on the ground with the hand that wasn’t painfully unbearable to use, you carried your knees to your chest in an attempt to sit up, clumsily.

Squinting in pain, you caressed your left arm, and sluggishly turned your head when you didn’t feel the coldness of your fingertips. Your sight was blurry and struggled to focus, but you managed to make out the shape of your arm bending in a way that it wasn’t meant to. You cringed; it looked broken beyond repair.

You heard a bunch of muffled, barely recognizable noises in the back of your head, and to you, everything sounded like a radio under hundreds of sheets. You saw, in the corner of your eye, a prominent, fleshy figure crouching to your side, followed by anxious noises that you couldn’t, or didn’t try to comprehend.  

“Damn, they got her good, the shitheads! Wait, Bubba, where are you going?”, or something along those lines was the last thing you heard somewhat clearly, followed by what you could only describe as static before you passed out cold.

The sun was shining through the room’s window, dyeing it a rusty gold. You had to take the white sheets out of your body to realize you were soaked in sweat. The summer in Texas was always tough to bear. On the hot sunny days, where you could see the heat weaves hovering on the pavement of the streets, everything seemed to go slower. The days were long, the nights lasted a second, yet the heat never ceased to be agonizing. Particularly in the Sawyer’s residence, where warmth knew no end and showed no mercy.

You tried to tense your ill arm, that still felt numb, to make sure it didn’t somehow detach from your body. Much to your luck, it was still there; stabilized with a tree branch and wrapped entirely with dirty bandages. You leaned forward to sit on the bed, and realized how heavy your head felt; ¿Just how much time have you been lying in that bed?  

Apparently, the grunts and moans of pain weren’t as quiet as you thought, because you immediately heard Bubba bursting through the bedroom door to come to your rescue, between loud whimpers of concern.

“Bubba, hey there--!” You greeted him, with an embarrassed smile, as he crawled into your lap like a dog who hasn’t seen his owner for years. He looked like he was on the verge of tears, holding onto your waist as if you were going to vanish if he didn’t.

You caressed his hair with your steady hand, assuring him over and over that you were okay. You recognized a familiar shape standing in the doorframe. “Hey you, you’re finally awake!” Chop Top announced excitedly. “Thank god, we thought you were gone for good, hehe! Leatherface’s been runnin’ around like a chicken with its head cut off all day!”

“How long have I’ve been out?” You looked up to see him, sliding your fingers through your lover’s hair, who kept squealing in your lap.

He turned around to leave, “It’s been a day and a half, so you better catch up, okay?”

You widened your eyes and watched him leave in disbelief. You suddenly felt disconnected with reality, as if you’ve been sleeping since 1866 and woke up in an entirely different reality, so now you’ve got to learn to live in a totally unfamiliar society with a family of cannibals.

And so, you did. Or, to say at least, you tried to. Bubba kept lingering around you all day to check on you every couple seconds, and if you didn’t assure him you were okay in a two and a half second span, he would carry you to your bedroom and make sure you rested. Not the greatest feeling ever. So, there you were, sitting in a chair at the kitchen. Bubba was washing the dishes, watching you over his shoulder every then.

“Okay, I’m going to—Fuck!” You muttered under your breath, while you stood up from the chair when a piercing pain filled your arm like a thousand wasps stinging you at once. You let out an agonizing quiver, and of course, Bubba dropped everything he was doing to come to check on you. You don’t know how, or why, but as soon as you saw him, you saw red. It’s not like it was his fault, not at all. Maybe it was the fact that his overprotective ways fed you up. Or maybe, you felt guilty, if not useless, having him put you as a priority over his chores when he knew damn well it would get him in trouble. Perhaps you just weren’t in the mood.

“Don’t touch it!” You pulled your hand in a flinch and snapped at him with accidental aggressiveness. He flinched at your fierceness and seeing his usually cheerful expression drain in the split of a second, regret filled your chest.

“Oh my god, Bubba, no, I’m sorry…” Your expression immediately softened, eyes shining with guilt. When your hands reached out to him, he stepped back and raised his arms as if you were going to hit him, and you felt your heart sunk.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m so sorry…”

He hummed and approached you slowly. You put your hands on the sides of his face, holding it dearly, and you felt him melt in your touch. You gave him a peck on the lips, and his joyful moans were music to your ears. Your hands left his cheeks and slid past Bubba's neck, then his chest, finally stopping at his belly, which you loved so much, just as much as his whole existence. You gave him a faint squish, and scrunched your nose playfully, matching a joyful smile, when you heard him giggle. You kept rubbing his tummy, crackling at the way he enjoyed it.

But it wasn’t long until he returned the favor. Suddenly, you felt his warm, big hands sliding under your shirt, and a chill went down your spine when the tip of his fingers explored your skin lightheartedly.

“Bubs, stop!” You laughed blissfully, trying to get his hands off you, but he just kept going and going. The light-hearted moment soon turned into a tickling competition; You ran around the kitchen, trying to tickle him and not be tickled back, but Leatherface was used to playing catch, and you didn’t last long enough out of his hands.

“For real, I’m going to pee, stopppp!” You managed to articulate, between loud peals of laughter, as you two fell to the floor.

Submission by @michael-myers-is-aight

I only did Michael, I hope that’s okay... I’ve been with some deep writer’s block lately, and this is the only thing that came out alright lol. I might do the other slashers later, but for now, have a Mikey <3. 

Michael Myers

You fiddled with your fingers as you paced side to side, barefoot in front of the bedroom door. You looked at the clock, whose little skinny arms wouldn’t reach the 6 at the bottom just yet. But they would eventually, you thought. And that’s the time when your man, Michael Myers, would come barging through that door like usual, either painted in red or as clean as a new pin. 

 Biting the nail of your thumb, longing for the clicking sound between your teeth, you checked the pregnancy test for the last time. And for the last time. And finally, for the last time. And every time you looked, the positive sign was still there, ominous; yet unbothered. At this point, you questioned if you wanted it to be there or not, to mean what it meant, to cause what it caused.

 You were between sheer excitement and utter despair. Your sweaty hands decided to go to your forehead, then your hips, then stay hanging at the sides of your body. In the two hours you’ve been waiting for him, between shaky breaths, you’ve counted yourself smiling unconsciously at least nine times; but vanishing soon after. A wave of joy coming over you and then dying out bitterly. 

Click, the sound of the keyframe turning, and then the creaking noise of the front door opening, sucking the air from within. You felt like a nerve just popped inside you. 

“Michael!” You yelled, and he followed, like a game of Marco Polo. Hearing his footsteps approaching from the other side of the door, you felt a clutch on your stomach and hid the test behind your back hesitantly. 

 “How was your day?” You stumbled anxiously, and he immediately tilted his head. He understood that something was off with you, and for a moment, you hated his perspicacity. “Listen… I have to talk to you for a second.” 

Michael closed the door behind him and stood silently. Confused, he saw you struggle to talk. “Michael, I… I don’t know how to say this.” You started, and finding yourself unable to look him in the eye, your gaze dropped to the ground.

 Myers didn’t take his sight off you for one moment. He never saw you acting so anxious, so uneasy, so… guilty. Guilty, as if you were about to do something really bad. Something like leaving him. His hands turned into fists, white-knuckled, sweaty and scarred fists, and he found himself, for the first time, in a moment of weakness. 

“God, I’m sorry,” You continued muttering to yourself, biting your lip, holding back tears, and fighting the urge to run away. You raised your head to look at him, trying to find peace on his ocean eyes, but all you were left with was a fear-filled chest and a disgraceful look on your face.

 Michael, slowly, raised his arms to his head. His hands didn’t shake, his movements never stuttered, yet, he looked unsure. Unsure of you don’t know what. With a gentle, slow motion, he placed his hands on the sides of his head, and you watched his mask, patiently, slip off his face. Slip off the rough features you wish you could see more often. Now he was looking at you, with that stoic expression you knew, and fighting back the tears was impossible. A timid smile escaped your lips. 

 “I’m pregnant.”

 And he widened his eyes, and his lips parted. “Pregnant?” He repeated, in a brief, breathy, almost unintelligible voice. 

 You nodded hysterically. “Yes.” Your smile widened, and your voice broke into a million pieces.

 “…Really?”

 You nodded again, unable to speak, while tears ran uncontrollably down your cheeks. The tall man pulled you into a tight embrace, and for the first time, he didn’t know how to feel. His chest tingled, on the inside, with something he didn’t find the words for. While never being really excited about the concept of a baby, Michael wasn’t stupid. He knew this was the beginning of a new, utterly unfamiliar stage of life. A phase he would be sharing with the person he cherished the most; his special one. And he wasn’t complaining.