𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓱𝓸𝓬𝓸 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓯𝓲𝓼

── After running into some trouble at your job, your older boyfriend makes it his job to teach you how to shoot a gun.

♡ : older boyfriend x reader, self-insert, no names, no smut, light fluff.

Crows cry as they sit on the powerlines, their claws ripping into the thin wire. They hang above the dead field, crops dried out and decaying from the winter that always seems to last too long; snow seems to suffocate every living thing around here, including you.

 It’s spring now, but it doesn’t feel like it; the chill of December persists even in March, and dark clouds hang low in the sky, a grey hue masking any colour that is meant to be there. It’s almost raining, just that beginning mist is brushing through the air, and your boyfriend is patting your back, praising you for bringing a jacket with a hood.

“Smart thing, aren’t ya?” he mumbles as he walks alongside you in the empty field, his shotgun slung over his shoulder, a free hand holding a cigarette. He blows smoke out of his mouth, and you watch it dissipate into the cool air.

“Prepared is the better word,” you correct with a small grin, your hands shoved into the pocket of your jacket – his jacket – the one that you stole, and hangs over your frame. It’s comfy, though, and it smells just like him. 

“Right,” he says dryly, clicking his tongue while he stops in place. He’s taking the shotgun off his back, carefully taking it into his hand, whistling at you to stop walking – he doesn’t even have to look up, he knows you’re walking off. 

“Come here,” he calls over to you, holding the cigarette between his teeth, his hands messing around with the gun, and he’s checking the safety. His sharp eyes remain on it, soft clicks breaking the silence in the field, and you’re standing before him, watching, too.

“You need ta’ be watchin’ this if ya’ want to learn anythin’, baby,” he teases you, and you sigh quietly, eyes gazing up at the sky. He was the one who chose to do this for the day, teaching you how to use a damn gun – he says you need to, something about protecting yourself.

Ever since you came home that one night, complaining about a man at the diner hitting on you and refusing to leave you alone, he made it his job to teach you everything about defending yourself. You think it’s cheesy, but he sees it as a necessity; keeping you safe, keeping you his.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he mumbles around his burning cigarette, carefully taking it out with two fingers as he hands you his shotgun. It’s intimidating to hold something with so much power.

“I’m already nervous,” you joke, the metal cold on your warm hands, and he’s laughing, shaking his head as he begins to walk around you, standing behind. He places his hands on your hips, but beneath your jacket, resting on the waistband of your jeans.

“Don’t be nervous,” he mumbles as he shakes his hand again, a thumb hooking into the loop of your jeans. “You’re good at everythin’ you touch,” he comments, tugging you closer by his thumb. You’re blushing, cheeks flush despite the bitter wind.

“I don’t know where to start,” you say quietly, and he can sense your insecurity, the confidence that you’re lacking. It’s not your fault; you’ve never been in a position like this.

“That’s fine, baby,” he reassures you, sliding his hands up from under your jacket, carefully maneuvering you to hold the gun in the right position. He’s close; he’s warm, and you can smell his cologne, though cigarettes seem to be the most prominent scent. 

“Hold it like this,” he mumbles, guiding you into a proper position, his head bowed – he’s much taller than you, and he’s trying to see it from your view, a chin practically nestled into your shoulder, his stubble on your bare neck. “Ya’ got this, don’t overthink it,” he tells you.

You hesitantly nod and grip the shotgun in your hand, balancing it against your shoulder slightly, your arms extended, your eyes narrow. Your boyfriend has his large hands helping you, making sure you won't somehow injure yourself. He knows you’re clumsy. 

“There ya’ go,” he mumbles, and he’s smiling as he looks at you, then up ahead, trying to find a target. “Jus’ like that, baby, you got this,” he adds, sliding one hand to hold your hip again, rubbing slowly.

“See that ol’ scarecrow? Aim for that,” he suggests, his eyes scanning around the field and surrounding forest. You two are alone out there, miles away from civilization, but he’s still making sure nobody is around.

“Now?” you ask, confirming, your hand shaking, a finger on the trigger. You’re swallowing hard, backing up a little, only to bump into your boyfriend, and he’s chuckling.

“Now,” he confirms, giving you a little pat.

It takes a second before you pull the trigger. There’s a loud bang as it goes off, and the recoil sends you back just a bit, but your boyfriend is behind you, cradling you. You definitely miss the target, and you’re turning back to look at him, lowering the gun slightly. You want his praise more than anything. 

“That’s my girl,” he says, gazing down at you with that smile, a clear look of pride in his eyes. He knew how out of character this was for you, and he couldn’t be prouder to be the one who teaches you such a skill.

“Ya’ wanna try again?” he asks, his hands sliding back up your jacket and to your hips again, but this time they bypass your shirt, resting on your bare lower waist. His hands are cold from the air, and your skin is warm to the touch.

You shake your head, and he nods, kissing the side of your head, nuzzling his nose into your hair.

── A long road trip starts off early in the morning, where you’re politely sitting in the passenger’s seat of your older boyfriend’s truck.

♡ : reader x older boyfriend, light fluff, no smut, everybody is 20+ in the story, fem reader, self-insert, no mention of names.

Your hand lifts, shielding your eyes from the sunrise, the orange hue sickeningly prominent in the open fields surrounding you. He’s humming lowly to himself, a hand wrapped around the steering wheel, another lazily resting on your thigh. 

You’ve been on the road for just about three hours, leaving early in the morning, the sun only peeking out from the horizon now. It’s already warm, a thick, humid heat seeping in through your boyfriend’s cracked window. You can tell it’s going to be a long drive.

“Ya’ bored already?” he asks, tilting his head to the side as his eyes flick over to you, his hand pinching the soft skin on your thigh. “Better get used to it,” he adds dryly, his thumb finding the hem of your loose jean shorts.

You roll your eyes, hips shifting against the leather seats, an uncomfortable noise breaking the silence as your skin rubs against the fabric. He chuckles and shakes his head, his tongue running along the front of his teeth. 

“I’m thirsty,” you complain softly, turning your body slightly, allowing the seatbelt to slip off your shoulder swiftly. “We didn’t even eat breakfast,” you add, shifting yourself, a small foot resting against the rough denim of his jeans in his lap.

“Diner up the road,” he mentions with a nod towards the empty road ahead of you. “You’re gonna get somethin’ that’ll make ya’ sick the rest of the ride, huh?”

You roll your eyes; his sly comments are always right. He knew you well, like the back of his hand, and his hand was now moving to the arch of your foot, his thumb rubbing your ankle through the cotton socks.

“I’ll get… pancakes, or something? I’m sure they have a lot,” you shrug, feeling his large hand rubbing against your ankle still, and he seems to be unimpressed with your idea.

“Don’t be gettin’ all carsick on me now, okay?” he asks with a raise of his eyebrows, his head turning once again to glance at you as your body is positioned awkwardly, but you still want to be close to him. Like always.

The diner comes into view, only a few cars filling the vacant lot. It must be a few workers, maybe a truck driver heading back onto their route, and your boyfriend swiftly parks beside them, putting the truck into park. He pats your bare calf, telling you to get out of the truck.

“Come on, little lady,” he mutters to you, his own hand reaching for his seatbelt as he unbuckles it, climbing out of the truck and onto the pavement. The heat is brazen, and the sound of cicadas buzzes loudly. 

You slip on your white sneakers and quickly lace them up before jumping out of the truck, making a soft thud as you hit the ground. You join your boyfriend, who is waiting for you, an unlit cigarette perched between his lips, a hand digging into his pocket for a lighter.

“Really?” you ask softly as the two of you begin walking towards the entrance, knowing that he would have less than twenty seconds to smoke that cigarette, but he just raises his eyebrows. 

“Who are you to tell me what to do?” he asks, his free hand grabbing your smaller one, and he gives it a little squeeze, maybe even a warning. You smile to yourself, heading towards the large open sign on the door. 

He swiftly opens the door for you, tossing his less than half-smoked cigarette onto the ground. He gives you a small smack on your behind as you walk in ahead of him, and he earns a glare from you, and he’s acting oblivious. He’s never been too shy to act this way in public; if anything, he only acts this way in public.

An older woman stands at the front, with big hoop earrings and a slicked-back ponytail that shows too much of the grey hair she forgot to dye. She holds a menu, her acrylic nails tapping against it as she eyes the two of you – it’s more than staring, it’s an analysis, you think.

“Just for two?” she asks, her eyes glancing around the diner, trying to find a table for the two of you to sit at. “Booth okay?” she then adds on, and your boyfriend is nodding, and she’s already leading the way. 

The two of you sit in a booth, and he’s sitting across from you, sighing heavily as he lifts a menu. His eyes squint as they read over the options, and you’re biting your lip gently, watching how focused he seems to be. He nudges your ankle with his boot beneath the table, almost like he’s telling you to behave.

“What?” you ask, your eyebrows furrowing in a light confusion, and he’s about to lightly scold you until the waitress arrives at the end of the table, and a soft pen clicks.

“What can I get started for y’all?” she asks, her eyes gazing at you, and you freeze for a second, forgetting how to speak as you’re abruptly put on the spot.

“She’ll have… the stack of pancakes,” your boyfriend chimes in for you, casually nudging your ankle once again, his hand rubbing the scruff of his unshaved facial hair. “And.. for me, jus’ the.. Bacon and eggs, black coffee, too,” he orders, nodding at the waitress who wrote it all down far too quickly. 

“Ya’ need to start usin’ your big girl voice, you know that?” your boyfriend tells you once the waitress is gone, and you’re staring down at the table, focusing on the wooden pattern. “Can’t be orderin’ for you like I’m your daddy or somethin’,”

You bite your tongue when he says that, and you want to crawl under the table with the way your cheeks have turned a soft pink. He notices, and he’s shaking his head, clearly unimpressed with the way you’re reacting to his sarcastic comment. 

You rest your elbow on the table, your chin resting in the palm of your hand, and you’re gazing at him. He’s looking back at you, a crease forever between his eyebrows. He’s fidgeting with his Zippo lighter, a rough thumb constantly flicking it open and closed.

“You have a starin’ problem.” he comments dryly, his head turning as the waitress comes just in time with two of your plates, and she’s swiftly sliding them onto the table.

Your eyes widen at the portion, but you’re smiling more than ever; three large pancakes, covered in butter, and a pouring glass of fresh maple syrup. Your boyfriend knows he should’ve ordered you the thing with the least amount of sugar.

“Don’t know what I was thinkin’,” he mumbles more to himself than you, his large hand gripping the knife and fork as he cuts away at his eggs. “You’ll be bouncin’ off the walls by nine o’clock.”

“No, I won’t,” you retort, though your mouth is full of pancake and he’s glaring at you. He has always had a thing with manners, making you say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’; it was his little knack, and you noticed it. 

He takes a long sip of his black coffee, the bitter flavour mixing with the already bitter taste of cigarettes. He’s eyeing you, watching you take careful bites of the pancake, and he occasionally warns you to slow down. He finishes before you, despite your speed.

You're on your last bite, and the waitress comes by, slyly taking the two finished plates from you, and your boyfriend is nodding, requesting the bill politely. He looks back at you, the mug held to his lips, and he’s finishing up the last drops of coffee.

“Only six more hours,” he comments as he places the empty ceramic on the table, and you’re groaning, your head tipped back in an exhausted frustration. You don’t know how long you’re going to last, all stuck in the warm truck, no air conditioning.

“Ya’ father-daughter date going well?” a woman’s voice suddenly chimes in, and it’s the waitress with the bill, and her hands are on her hips. You look away from her and narrow your eyes at your boyfriend from across the table.

“Uh-huh,” he mumbles, his hand fishing out a few crumpled bills from the pocket of his jeans and tossing them onto the table. “Keep tha’ change,” he adds, nodding for you to start leaving the booth. 

You leave just as quickly as he does, and he’s shaking his head, just as embarrassed as you are. You’ve never found your gap to be too big, not at all, but it’s an occurrence that happens too often, and you never knew how to handle it. Neither does your boyfriend.

“See what happens when you make me order stuff for ya’?” he tells you as you walk towards the truck, pausing to put a cigarette between his lips again. “I baby you, an’ people think you’re my daughter,” he adds, lighting the end, blowing out the first inhale.

“How is that my fault?” you ask, swinging the passenger door open and climbing in; you immediately slip off your white sneakers for extra comfort. “You always do it without me asking.”

“Yeah, cause if I didn’t, you’d be starin’ at the waitress like a deer in headlights,” he mutters as the door swings open, and he’s settling back into the driver’s side. “Savin’ ya’ the embarrassment of it all,” he adds.

You scoff, and the engine starts up again, a soft roar in the quiet around the vehicle. You adjust your position in the seat, arms crossing over each other. You watch him back out of the spot, easily maneuvering the steering wheel, his hand against the back of your headrest. It slowly goes back to its usual spot: your thigh. 

“Always wearin’ the shortest shorts I’ve seen,” he comments, his chest close to the steering wheel as he looks both ways before pulling out onto the road. “Wonderin’ why men can’t keep their eyes off of ya’.”

“What else am I supposed to wear?” you ask, a hand reaching forward to fiddle with the controls of the radio – it all seems to be static, you’re much too far away from any radio station around here. 

“Nothin’, nothin’,” he defends, lifting his hand like he’s guilty. “Jus’.. if it distracts me, I can’t imagine how others feel,” he pats your bare thigh at his words, letting his hand slip a little more up the hem of the denim.

You laugh a little, breathing out softly as your thighs lightly squeeze together, letting them clasp around your boyfriend’s hand. He’s touchy; he always has been. 

“Not here..” you practically whisper as you shake your head, already feeling his hand sliding up just a bit further up your shorts, finding the light fabric of your underwear. You’re shaking your head still. 

NSFW DRABBLE — coat guy is a virgin, riding, the reader is teasing him & thinks he’s cute, he doesn’t take off his clothes this time, creampie, he cums too fast, reader doesn’t cum + he feels really embarrassed, clit play, don’t worry he’ll finger you later where you can cum, you have to guide him.

A/N — i wrote this last night, this is my first time writing for ninah so im still getting used to it! i hope you guys enjoy.. hehe.. requests r open too!

he let out a shuddering breath, hands gripping the edge of the couch as if it were his last option.

“o—oh, god—“

his breathing was heavy, eyes shut tightly in a poor attempt to compose his thoughts—he couldn’t look at you. he couldn’t. not now.

not when you were rolling your hips against his needily, not when you used him like a mere toy.

Freezing freak 18+

Maybe? You knew what you wanted lol. Anyway, here it is. This ended up having way more of a plot than I'd meant for it to but the brain bug said "write it like that anyway." Ty for the ask!

Pervert coatguy is creepy and strange and kind of gross. AFAB!reader, (warranted) bullying, clothed footjob, mentioned murder.

Mark Hoffman General HC's

Dedicated to his work and reputation, I mean he'll do anything to keep it up

You can always count on him. If he says hes going to do something you bet your ass hes going to do it

Always brings you some sort of present when he has the time like flowers n such

Oddly well with calming down children, but isnt all too fond of them

He can overthink things though... a lot

Thinks he knows what's best, but sometimes he just doesnt

Massive blockhead 👏👏

Will call you out on your bullshit, but plays along when necessary

Sometimes he just cant take criticism

Dad Bod! Dab Bod! Has a total sweetooth for them snACKS

Daddy kink? Check. BDSM? Check.

Probably prefers cats

Total book worm and nerd at home

Mark is very smart, but as he got older he used it more to his advantage to become intimidating and manipulative

Can get very territorial and jealous, but well at hiding it

Hes got a pet peeve for people talking over him/purposefully ignorning him

Hates having his time wasted

He can get a bit cocky on the down low if he succeeds

And if he really doesnt like you, hell hold it over your head

Observer, rarely talks when he isnt in an area he knows well

Caries his gun everywhere, always aware of his surroundings

Big Ol' Family Man. You're just about all he has and hes going to defend you with all his life

Hes got a drinking probably. Poor babys and alcoholic

Honestly, not a bad fighter

Loves to pick little fights with you sometimes to see you get frustrated or just to tease you

Absolutely hates being lied to or kept secrets from

But good luck keeping secrets from him, hell find out in a heartbeat. Hes a detective for christ's sake

Safe to say he isnt a fan of surprises very much

Would rather to things by himself and really never asks for help. Thinks if he asks for help it's a bit pitiful

If you're sick you ain't doin SHIT till you get better b. Hes got you

Has a tendency to just not answer you sometimes, but also has to have the last word. Hes practically impossible to read

He grinds his teeth mad hard when hes asleep AND awake

His hair is off limits baby. You know how much that hair gel costs?

On the softer side, is an expert at making you laugh and smile. You get nothing put compliments

Hes always touching you. Hes really only afraid of losing you. It's even worse if hes not there to save you

Master of playing hard to get just to piss you off

Bo Sinclair, Thomas Hewitt & Michael Myers with a Super Stereotypically Feminine S/O (SEPARATE)

Summary: Imagine Bo Sinclair, Thomas Hewitt and Michael Myers with a stereotypically overly feminine S/O who only wears pink, cute things, hates bugs and dirt and speaks in a city girl language.

A/N: I really loved writing this request, it was great to see the dynamics of these slashers with a super feminine S/O, I wrote it listening to Sabrina Carpenter and Fifty Fifty to get more into the mood. I hope you like it as much as I did.

Bo Sinclair

“If it’s pink and sparkly, it’s probably already in her purse.”

Bo Sinclair never expected a girl like you to waltz into Ambrose. Hell, he wouldn’t have believed someone like you existed, much less would stay.

You were all fluttery lashes, bubblegum lip gloss, and sparkly earrings shaped like hearts. When you first stumbled into the wax museum, looking absolutely horrified by the “rustic aesthetic,” he expected you to start screaming bloody murder. Instead, you blinked at him, tilted your head like a curious little kitten, and said: 

“You’d be super hot if you smiled more. Like, dangerous bad boy vibes. I dig it.”

Bo had no idea what to say. It might’ve been the first time he’d ever been stunned silent.

You hated dirt, bugs, blood—literally everything Ambrose was soaked in. You gasped when your heel broke on the cracked sidewalk and clutched him dramatically like they were in a soap opera. “Bo, I’m limping. You’re gonna have to carry me. This is a whole crisis!”

At first, he rolled his eyes. A lot. Teased you constantly. Called you "Barbie" and "Princess" with a smug little grin.

But over time, something changed.

He started noticing how you lit up talking about stuff he’d never cared about before—nail polish shades, the drama of lipstick undertones, reality TV betrayals. You’d sit cross-legged on his dusty bed, wearing fuzzy socks and ranting about your favorite fashion influencers while applying glitter highlighter in a cracked mirror. Bo would sit there, arms crossed, pretending not to listen... even though he always was.

You'd make him stand still so you could “fix his eyebrows” or “just a little bronzer, babe, for definition!” and Bo would grumble but let you do it. The way your eyes sparkled when you were focused on something—especially him—made it real damn hard to say no.

And as much as he tried to play it cool, Bo adored the way you clung to him when a beetle skittered across the floor, squealing and climbing half up his torso like he was your knight in dirty denim armor.

"You're lucky you're cute," he'd mutter, wrapping an arm around your waist.

"Obvi," you’d giggle, pressing a glossy kiss to his cheek and leaving a shiny mark he never wiped off until you weren't looking.

You gave Ambrose something it hadn’t had in years—life, noise, glitter in every corner of the wax museum (much to Vincent’s quiet suffering). Your pink hairbrush sat next to his tools. Your perfume mixed with motor oil. There were rhinestones on the old radio dials in his car.

And when some poor bastard stumbled into town and made a snide comment about “that bimbo clinging to Bo like a chihuahua,” Bo didn’t even give a warning. He just grabbed the guy by the collar, smiled wide, and said, “Say one more word. Go on. I dare you.”

He’d never say it out loud, but Bo loved you fiercely. Loved your dramatics, your soft hands, the way you made him feel like a movie star instead of a wax museum reject.

And if anyone touched you? God help them.

Even if you’d never lift a finger yourself (“I don’t do violence—it’s so bad for the nails, babe”), Bo was more than willing to handle it for you.

Because at the end of the day, you were his ridiculous, high-maintenance, adorable nightmare—and he wouldn't change a single thing about you.

Bonus: The Shopping Trip (Against Bo’s Will)

Bo Sinclair in a mall was the equivalent of dropping a pitbull into a ballet studio.

He was stiff, annoyed, and visibly scowling, while you pranced from one boutique to the next, holding up clothes and saying things like “This screams me, doesn’t it?” and “Bo, look at this! It’s like a skirt, but with fur!”

Every time he tried to retreat to a bench, you’d call him over with a squeal: “Babe! You have to hold my purse, I’m going to try this on!”

Bo, standing in a women’s boutique holding a pink bedazzled purse with a small chihuahua keychain on it, was a sight to behold. Some teenage girls giggled as they passed by. He gave them a slow death-glare that shut them up instantly.

And then you stepped out of the fitting room wearing something way too short, way too sparkly, and totally you.

Bo’s jaw tightened. “You’re not wearin’ that in public.”

“Why not?” You asked, twirling. “Too hot for you?”

Bo reached for his wallet. “…We’re buyin’ it. But you only wear it in the damn house.”

You grinned like you won a war. “So possessive. Kinda hot.”

.

Thomas Hewitt + Family

“Tommyyyy! There's a bug in the kitchen and it’s HUGE—oh my god, baby, I need you to handle it like, right now!”

Thomas had never met anyone like you.

You waltzed—actually waltzed—into the Hewitt family's dusty, decrepit home like a princess misplaced in a horror movie. Pink suitcase, heart-shaped sunglasses, fluffy keychains, lip gloss glinting like wet sugar on her pout. Your clothes were always perfectly matched, your hair always done, and you wore perfume that made you smell like cotton candy and cherry soda.

To the rest of the world, you were obnoxiously girly, with your dramatic hand gestures, and constant stream of Valley Girl slang. But to Tommy? You were pure, sweet light.

You squealed at bugs and cobwebs, refused to step into the kitchen barefoot, and definitely did not want to see “where the meat was made.” But instead of being cruel or judgmental, you’d wrinkle your nose and go:

"Ew, okay, I’m like, gonna pretend that doesn’t exist—but you’re still the cutest murder bear I’ve ever seen."

And Thomas, who had always been seen as a monster, didn’t know how to process someone calling him cute. His usual instinct was to back away, but you wouldn’t let him. You’d follow him around the house in your slippers with fuzzy pom-poms on top, chattering about skincare and outfit inspo and "how maybe this place could really pop if we added just a little pastel wallpaper."

When you first tried to hug him, Thomas froze—like a deer caught in headlights. No one touched him like that. No one wanted to. But you buried your head against his chest and mumbled, “You’re like a big warm teddy bear... with a chainsaw. So weird, but I love it.”

From then on, he melted every time you got close.

He’d do anything to protect you. You never had to lift a finger. If there was something gross in your path? Thomas took care of it. Bugs, messes, even replacing broken heels when you cried over snapping one on the old farmhouse stairs.

You made him feel seen—not as Leatherface, but as Thomas, the quiet man who liked to sew, who carefully cut fabric, who noticed colors and stitches. 

One time, you saw the damaged lace curtain he’d repaired in the living room and gasped, "Wait—did YOU do this? Tommy, that’s, like, totally impressive! You’re, like, an artsy murder man!"

It made his ears go pink. He didn’t understand half of what you said, but he loved listening to you talk. Your voice was high and musical and full of love for every silly thing—nail polish, boy bands, weird drinks from the gas station.

And when you grabbed his hand and painted his massive fingernails soft pastel pink? He let you. Quiet. Blushing. Heart pounding behind the mask.

You brought chaos into his life, but it was the kind he never knew he needed. You made the horror of his world feel like background noise, just scenery for you to twirl and sparkle through.

You were scared of messes, yes. But never of him. And that was enough to make him fall harder every day.

Reaction of the Hewitt Family when they met you:

Luda Mae:

At first, Luda wasn’t sure what to make of you.

You were like a living Barbie doll—heels clacking across the floorboards, constantly asking if they had “like, anything organic” in the fridge, and wrinkling your nose at the dust like it personally offended her.

But then she saw the way Thomas looked at you. That softness. That stillness in his shoulders. Like he was finally… breathing easy.

And when Luda saw you gingerly wiping dust off the kitchen table with a pink handkerchief—still gagging, but trying—she raised a brow and muttered to herself:

"Well, I’ll be damned. That boy finally found someone who ain’t runnin’."

Within a week, Luda Mae was fussing over you like you were one of her own:

"Now sweetheart, don’t you go starvin’ yourself just ‘cause our food’s not from some big city spa store. You need meat on them little bones."

She even started defending your quirks: "If she wants pink lemonade in a wine glass, let her have it. She’s happy, and Tommy’s happy. That’s all I care about."

Luda eventually took great pride in teaching you “real homemaking,” even if your girlie girl instincts clashed hard with rural chores. You made a hilarious duo— “You expect me to churn WHAT?”— but there was affection in every sigh and scold.

Sheriff Hoyt (Charlie):

Ohhh, he HATED you at first.

All that chirping, that perfume, that attitude. He couldn’t stand it.

"You sure that’s not some kinda undercover spy, huh, Tommy? They sendin’ in Disney princesses now to take us out?"

He was always grumbling when you were around. Mocking your slang, your style, everything.

"‘Totes adorbs’? What in the HELL does that mean? Speak English, girlie."

But here’s the thing about Charlie—he might be a nasty piece of shit, but he’s loyal to blood. And when he saw how Thomas, his quiet, broken nephew, lit up around you… it gnawed at something deep in him.

One day he caught sight of you brushing Thomas’s hair behind his ears, gently humming while he sat still as a statue. Charlie stood there silently, watching the scene for longer than he’d admit.

Did he stop teasing you after that? No. Of course not.

But he started bringing you back things from town.

“Here. Some stupid lipgloss I saw. Said ‘cotton candy’ or some girly crap. Don’t get used to it.” (Spoiler: he bought you five more.)

He’d still act like he couldn’t stand you, but the minute someone outside the family made fun of you, he got real mean real fast.

"You talkin’ to our girl like that? ‘Cause I will rearrange your teeth, sweetheart."

Monty Hewitt:

Monty, bless his grumpy little heart, didn’t know what to make of you. You talk a mile a minute, wear hot pink everything, and once screamed bloody murder when you saw a spider crawling near his wheelchair.

But once he got over the initial shock, he actually found you entertaining.

He’d sit on the porch in his chair, sipping something strong, while you chattered about celebrity gossip or fashion trends, gesturing dramatically with a bedazzled water bottle in one hand.

"Now THIS is entertainment," he’d mutter, smirking.

You’d paint his nails once, calling it a “bonding moment.” He grumbled the entire time, but he didn’t stop you—and he definitely didn’t remove the pastel blue polish afterward.

Eventually, Monty became one of your unexpected protectors. If anyone said you wasn’t “tough enough” for the family, he’d raise a brow and say: 

"She’s still here, ain’t she? You try living in this hellhole in heels. That girl’s tougher than she looks."

And he’d throw in a wink for good measure.

.

Despite the glitter and giggles, your place in the Hewitt family became solid. You weren't just Thomas’s quirky girlfriend anymore — You were family.

Your laughter echoed through the halls, and your energy brought life to the broken-down house.

You painted little hearts on the kitchen cabinets (Hoyt grumbled, but didn’t stop you). You decorated Thomas’s sewing corner with pink fairy lights ("Ambience, babe!"). You even taught Luda Mae how to contour her cheekbones one lazy afternoon, both of you giggling like teenagers.

You were chaos, glitter, pink fury—and somehow, you were perfect for the family. Because despite the perfume, the squealing, and the sparkles…

You loved Thomas. Truly.And they?They loved you for it.

.

Michael Myers

Most people wouldn't dare step within fifty feet of Michael Myers, let alone live with him. But you? You marched right into his life with a pink suitcase, a Chanel knockoff purse, and a lip gloss wand in hand.

You were the complete antithesis of him—bright, bubbly, and loud in all the ways he was cold and silent. The first time you laid eyes on him, you gasped. Not in horror. Not even in fear.

"Oh my god. You’re, like, soooo tall. And spooky. I love it."

He said nothing. Of course.

Just stared down at you, that pale mask blank and unreadable. You, on the other hand, looked up at him like he was some gothic god.

"You must be, like, a Scorpio or something. So mysterious."

Then you winked.

Michael wasn’t sure if you were insane, brave, or just so utterly oblivious that it baffled even him. But he didn’t kill you. Didn’t chase you. Just stood there while you babbled about your pink UGG boots getting dirty and how Haddonfield needed way more aesthetic lighting.

You moved in shortly after that. Not that he invited you… You just kinda never left. And strangely, he didn’t seem to mind. You filled his dark, grimy house with scented candles and plush throws. You left Hello Kitty slippers by the front door. You replaced the broken mirror with one that had LED lights and glitter decals spelling “You Look Fab.”

The house smelled like vanilla and strawberry body spray. The silence was filled with your upbeat pop playlists, makeup tutorials, and the occasional shriek when you saw a spider: 

"Michael! Get it! Oh my god, it’s going to attack me! Babe, pleeease!"

He’d appear out of nowhere, squash the spider with a boot, and disappear again.

You’d clutch your chest, dramatically:

"Ugh, my hero. You’re literally giving Jason Voorhees nothing right now."

He never answered your questions. Never spoke. Never changed facial expressions. But you always knew what he was thinking.

When you forced a pink hoodie over his head one day that said “Killer BF Energy,” he just stood there for a solid minute, breathing through the mask. You thought for sure he was going to snap your neck.

Instead, he wore it the whole day.

You started taking selfies with him. You’d pose like an influencer, flashing peace signs with glittery nails while he loomed silently behind you, bloodstained knife in hand.

"This is my spooky little murder muffin. Isn't he adorbs?"

The internet thought it was cosplay. You never corrected them.

Despite the complete lack of words, Michael showed his affection in other ways. You noticed it.

He’d always show up behind you if someone was bothering you in town; He'd carry your shopping bags in one hand like they weighed nothing, while you skipped beside him in heels; He started leaving strange, oddly thoughtful gifts: a pretty rock, a heart-shaped hairpin, a necklace you’d once pointed at in a shop window.

And one night, after you'd curled up on the couch in a pile of blankets, face mask on and chick flick playing, he sat beside you. Slowly. Stiffly.

You leaned against his shoulder without hesitation. "You're like... the murder version of a golden retriever, honestly."No reply.

But he didn’t move away.

Sometimes you swore you saw his head tilt just slightly when you were doing your makeup. One day, as a joke, you painted his mask with sparkly pink eyeshadow.

He didn’t wipe it off.

No one got it. No one understood why you of all people were still alive. Why Michael Myers let you prance around in stilettos, spraying air freshener and calling him “boo.” But the truth was simple:

You weren’t afraid of the dark.You made it glitter.

And somewhere in the silence, behind the mask, he found a reason not to kill.

He found you.

Michael Myers

• Michael will sit quietly next to you and just watch you. He's bad at words and expressing emotions, so just being around and listening is what he does best.

• Watch horror movies together. He will let you sit closer to him, wrapped in a warm blanket, and watch a movie. He's not scared, but he likes that you need his warmth and protection. If you're really scared, you can even sit on his lap. He will gently hold you close and stroke your thigh with his thumb in an attempt to give you some comfort.

• Michael can give you a massage. It's not like he can do it the first time, after all, he's used to killing with these hands. But he will try very hard and learn. After all, those big hands can be a lot of fun.

• He will just sit next to you and stroke your hair. He likes your hair, it's so soft and fluffy. His language is physical contact, so it's more than acceptable.

Jason Voorhees

• This cutie is as caring as a big fluffy teddy bear. He'll comfort you with hugs, awkward kisses through a mask, and just touches.

• He will take you to nature so that you can relax. The soft glow of the stars, the warm night wind, the singing of birds and the rustle of the wind. What could be better? Jason will snuggle up to you from behind and stroke your stomach and sides while you watch the shooting stars together.

• In winter, he will bring you all the blankets he finds in the camp. He will make you a mini nest to keep you warm and cozy. He will also light a fireplace and make you a couple of mugs of hot chocolate or coffee. What about marshmallows or cookies? This guy has hands, so he might as well try baking it for you with his own hands.

Bubba Sawyer

• Bubba makes you jewelry, lots of jewelry. When he realizes that you don't really like bracelets made of bones or teeth (he's offended, but he respects your opinion), he will try to find different stones, flowers and other little things for this. Bubba will even ask Drayton to buy him a needlework set! You know, this kid's set. It's gonna be a very cute pink bracelet.

• Bubba often relieves stress by taking it out on his victims, so he could very well bring you to the basement, give you a knife, and point to a half-dead victim on a meat hook. He will smile and wait for you to try. After all, it's not only fun, but it also helps him protect his family.

• He would try to do you a make up. It's a little sloppy, but he's trying. And he works really softly, so you like it. He could even treat you like some kind of beautiful doll. You know, dress you up like a princess, massage your body, wash your hair if you want. That's how he takes care of you.

• He will also do all the housework himself so that you don't have to work. He wants you to rest! And in his mask of a beautiful lady, he will make the most delicious dinner for you! And ice cream for dessert. What about ice cream with chocolate?

Thomas Hewitt

• He was never taught how to treat a loved one, and he was often surrounded by violence and bullying. That's why he doesn't really know how to please you. But he saw how you smiled when some guy gave you flowers at his mom's store (of course, Tommy was jealous, this guy didn't survive). That's why he decided to give you the flowers he found in this arid place. You liked it, didn't you?

• He could clean up the basement for you. After all, you're so sweet, you probably don't like dirt and blood (in large quantities, he means). So he'll clean up here, and then show you this place with a proud look (not much has really changed in the basement, but please praise him)

• If the victim is wearing beautiful clothes, he will try not to spoil them so that he can give them to you later. No, you're very beautiful and looks great in any outfit, but he wants to please you!

• Tommy may try to offer you his "needlework". He will cleanse the skin of blood as much as possible and will offer you along with threads, needles and beads, which he will only find. You could make a mask for yourself (without comment) or for him. He will proudly wear the mask that you make for him! It's the best gift for him.

• In addition, he will protect you as much as possible from Hoyt and the others. He won't let anyone offend you (especially any victim). Tommy is always on guard of your peace and honor.

Vincent Sinclair

• Vincent will play you some relaxing music on the radio or on a record. It will be something gentle and soft. You could dance together, just like that, without witnesses, in the silence of his basement. His touch is soft but confident, he gently guides you in this slow dance. His hands are on your waist, and his healthy cheek, without a mask, rests on top of your head.

• He will offer you a massage and some kind of wax therapy. He could have asked Bo to buy a special skin wax just for you. You're lying on the bed, and he's gently dripping wax on particularly tense areas. It's like relaxing on pins and needles or something. His hands rub your flesh after the wax, gently, gently, slowly. He wants you to feel good and safe because he loves you.

• You could do wax modeling together. It's soothing, and the warm wax feels good under tired fingers. He could add paint or some soothing oil to the wax for you, just to make you feel good.

• For you, he could put aside all his projects and unfinished wax figures and just spend the evening together. He would hold you close, stroke your back and hair while you relaxed on the bed together. Gentle kisses like tiny butterflies on your skin, a light massage and a gentle whisper. He hopes that it will really help you relax.

Brahms Heelshire

• He's going to be a good boy. Promise. At least for the next ten minutes. He will put away all his toys, things, will not be naughty. Brahms will try to obey and behave well so that you don't have to get angry and swear at him.

• He'll even let you bathe him! He'll try not to cry like a big boy, like your man. It's only advisable that you take a bath with him then. He likes your body close to his, he likes your hands in his hair. You could even shave him neatly or something (he'll be acting up just a little bit)

• He could try to cook something for you! However, after that you will have to clean the kitchen... Still, it's not worth it. But he wants to do something nice for you! Maybe he could just make you some delicious tea and get some cookies out of the cupboard and arrange them nicely. To this "snack" he can pick a rose in the garden to add some romance.

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) (Leatherface)

thank you so much for sending this in babe!!! i decided to post it so everyone can see what an amazing writer you are. be kinder to yourself, you’re more talented than you realise 💕

just to clarify, this is not my work, this is anon’s writing!! thanks again honeybun 💖