Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Death.

Something inevitable even for those who gave it away themselves.

It waited for them patiently. It’s something they had always known would arrive, no matter how many bodies they left behind. Each one of them knew it would get to them sooner or later.

All of them had died.

Different nights, different places, different weapons fell out of their hands. Each story ended similarly: agonizing pain, blood, screaming — not necessarily their own, but always someone's. Taking one last breath, feeling the world tilt and then…

Darkness.

It wasn’t the type of darkness and silence that those who wish for death imagine. No, no. Not at all.

It was the awareness of still being alive, even if they knew they shouldn’t be. They would feel the sting of the still lasting pain, but get up and look around only to see there’s actually nothing there. Just the darkness that felt heavy as hell. They didn’t know where they were, what to do, or what would happen. It made them sweat. They weren’t in control at that moment. Even heartless beings like them could get a little stressed, right?

They would notice an eye.

It stared at them, almost like through their soul. Like it knew every little detail about them, because it did.

Then the proposition would come. The same one, but yet so different for each of them. The voice was everywhere and nowhere. It didn’t speak to them, it spoke through them. It echoed. It was emotionless, but it still somehow could make one shiver. 

„Fade beneath the water, or return and be bound to the witness.”

„Rest, or wake and never die — only if others see.”

„Return, and your jokes will never stop. But your nightmares will be shared.”

„Sleep, or wake and build a home of bones—together.”

„End, or return and design the eternal, but not alone.”

„Broken, or stitched together — choose the hand that never misses.”

More sentences like these would come to others like them.

-

It started with the six of them. 

They held a mutual hatred just from the first look at each other. Eyes locked, muscles tensed, knives, machetes and chainsaws hanging like extensions of their own bodies. The air between them felt thick enough to cut with a knife.

Johnson was the only one that didn’t. He recognized the ones in front of him immediately — even despite the small (or not so small in his case) changes the being that brought all of them here gave to them as if to make fun of them — Krueger, for an example, got a centipede tail and antennas. Pfft. Gross. — They were legends! Legends standing right in front of him! The ones that he looked up to for years, and not only yearned to be as famous and as great as them, but to be even better.

He could recite each one of their full names, their stories, their kills…

And so he did, but only their names, under his breath.

„Jason Voorhees… Michael Audrey Myers…”

Freddy’s head snapped in the way of the source of the voice, eyes narrowing. He already ignored that hockeypuck. He didn’t even want to waste his thoughts on him. But holy shit, Michael Myers was in the room. He never expected to see the fucker again. He wished not to. But oh, there he is. They all just got here, and it was already the first time he got nervous in this.. new life? the same but new life? Whatever. He froze and focused his eyes on the strange looking human in front of him…

Wait, human? Was he even actually a human? He most definitely didn’t look like one. A ghost mask split in half to reveal nothing but pitch black with an eye in between, looking at them one by one.

He continued naming them.

„…Frederick Charles Krueger… Bubba Sawyer… Charles Lee Ray…”

He cleared his throat to introduce himself. Being himself, he would expect them to know him. But with them.. Oh, with them, you could never really know.

Just in case, if they did not know him (just the thought of that made his eye twitch) he wants to make a good first impression. 

He straightens up slowly, hands spreading wide as if the blood-soaked air was a stage curtain. The eye in the dark void of his mask lingers on each of them, savoring their attention.

„Daniel “Danny” Johnson. Ghostface. The one and only.” His voice is smooth, too confident for someone standing in front of killers who made history. Then, with a shallow, mock-polite bow, he adds, almost sing-song:  “Pleasure to meet you, idols of mine. Consider this your curtain call.” It seemed as if he already got with this weird, disturbing body of his.

Jason’s unblinking stare stayed fixed, machete shifting in his grip but no movement otherwise. Bubba just made a faint, muffled grunt through the mask, as if the whole ordeal confused him. 

Michael and Freddy were in their own world. Michael breathed heavily as he stared at Freddy, tilting his head just slightly, like studying an insect crawling across glass, which Freddy wasn’t far from now. Freddy rolled his shoulders, arms crossed, tail twitching, scowl carved deep on his face, trying to avoid Michael’s gaze.

Danny blinked, his single visible eye darting between them. „...Really? That’s it? I give you me and I get — this?” He waved a hand at the still, hostile silence.

Then, a sharp little laugh broke it. It belonged to the one they all almost completely forgot about, because he wasn’t even at their eye level. Chucky — perched on a crate like he owned it — shook his head, grinning with those plastic split lips pulled too wide.

„Pfft. Ghostface, huh? Yeah, I heard of you. Some shit crazy maniac that stalks his victims for weeks, even months, planning the perfect kill, only to mess up in the end. Cute.” His knife flashing as he twirled it between tiny fingers, before pointing it in Danny’s way. “But newsflash, pal — nobody here gives a flying fuck about your press clippings.”

Danny’s posture stiffened. He held his hands behind his back and took a deep breath. It is not a good look to lose control in front of those you admire, his father taught him better than that. “Oh, I think they’ll care once they see what I can do. You included.” The eye seemed to smirk all on its own.

Chucky just snorted, hopping down from his perch. “Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, mask-boy. Just don’t trip over your own ego before the real show starts.”

-

One year has passed.

All of them knew the rules by now. All of them still couldn’t believe the actual hell they agreed on. Living is incredible, don’t get them wrong. Living meant being able to kill, and that’s what all of them had loved doing. Well, not exactly all of them. But they had their motivations while agreeing, right?

Continuing to live after their death didn’t require the one thing that the Binding  — the being that gave them a second chance of continuing their killings, they had somehow learned it’s name  —  had said to every single one of them. Oh no, no. It was much worse than that.

„Die, or keep living with others like you” or whatever the whole deal was, because they all received a different sentence from it, actually meant: „die or live under the same roof with absolute shitheads that kill just like you do, but are infuriating to the point you want to tear your fucking hair out” as Chucky would say.

They do have to live under the same roof. They have to be around each other. They can be alone from time to time as all of them so desperately please, but after too long has passed, they get weaker. They feel exhausted, powerless.. and they do not want that when going for a nice kill. Staying together is what keeps them energized, focused, stealthy if needed.

Talking about kills, they can’t be alone during them either. There always has to be at least one person killing with them, or at least one to witness it. 

The Binding watches constantly, and it doesn’t forgive mistakes. If one of them slips away for too long, the pulse of their hate fades, and the void between grows bigger. Arguments flare up faster, strikes land harder, and old grudges become sharper than any knife. There is no escape. Every kill must be observed, analysed and felt by someone else.

They know very well it’s the only way to keep the Binding satisfied. To keep living almost the same old life they had lived, just more fucked up, to keep killing, to keep growing stronger. 

Chapter Text

It’s been 2 months since this weird “family” has grown by two members. 

When Harry had shown up, he had already left dirt on the floor. Everybody was already pissed at that. He never joined conversations, not that there were many to begin with. He just watched, polished his pickaxe, and waited.

The other one was Clint. Bubba hated his stare the most when he felt it on his back while cooking. Chucky and Freddy couldn’t stop making fun of his mask, the little stupid cupid arrow that went through it, and the whole “Heart Eyes” name. He didn’t talk much either, but if there was a need to speak up, he did. 

Bubba was probably the only one who did something in this house. He cooked for them every day, even if they didn’t need to eat. They never felt any hunger, unless they had been away from each other for too long. It was one of the side effects when they were getting weaker.

Mostly he, Freddy, and Clint were the only ones that ate. Freddy in particular loved his cooking, but wasn’t a fan of the cook himself. Danny forgot to eat, Chucky couldn’t care less, Harry just ate his chocolates, and Michael refused to do anything that’s human. And Jason… Bubba was pretty sure he didn’t have the organs to do so.

He cooked just because that’s what he loves doing. 

He probably would refuse the proposition of living again. Killing didn’t really give him any pleasure. He did it only to satisfy his family, and for his family, he accepted the proposition. 

He thought he would be able to see them again, but when he got his life back, he didn’t even know how far away he was from them. If he ever wanted to go and look, he would have to drag the others with him, and he knows that they couldn’t care less about his family. It’s not like they would understand him anyway.

No one asked what kind of meat it was if they ate it. They all knew it was either human meat from one of their earlier victims that body happened to be thrown just outside their home, or just animal meat.

Sometimes, though, they surprised him. Michael ate once. Not his food, never that, but a stray dog that wandered too close to the house. Harry was the only one who saw. Danny somehow found out about it from him, and then everyone else in the house knew. But again, it never interested them that much. 

The miner remembered the sound of it — quick, wet tearing, nothing human about it — and the way Michael left nothing behind but a dark smear on the floorboards.

After that, Harry started leaving leftover chocolate boxes for him. Not because he felt bad. He didn’t care. But he would rather have Michael eat anything that’s normal than see him eat an animal, as if he were one himself.

He always left them in Michael’s room. He was there the most, staring out of his window like he used to do in his childhood home, and because nobody dared to come in there anyway. 

Never saying a word, but the very first box came with a little note that said: “What’s next, the furniture? Don’t lower the bar for the rest of us.” Michael never touched them, at least Harry never saw him do so, but he continued to do it anyway.

-

Things always got messy if most of them decided to eat. 

Pots clanged, the smell of seared meat filled the air, and the rest of them sat like statues around the scarred old table.

When Bubba finally dropped heavy plates in front of them, Freddy was the first to dig in. Loud chewing, greasy smacks, licking his fingers like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

„Mm, not bad, big guy,” he drawled. „I’ve had worse at five-star joints.” A raspy laugh came out.

Jason sat across from Michael. They both stared at each other. They never ate anything. If anyone noticed, they would have known immediately that that was never a good sign. Clint and Harry, on the other hand, had no shame about taking off their masks around other maniacs — if it was just for eating, it was no big deal. They sat next to each other and ate quietly.

Chucky hopped up onto a chair, then the table, grabbed a fork, and tore into his plate like a rabid dog.

„This is the good stuff,” he laughed through a mouth full of blood and fat. „Don’t know what it is, don’t fuckin’ care. Tastes like home.”

You might be wondering how Danny eats.

He eats just like any other human does (because believe it or not, he is one) — or, at least, he tries to. The Binding played around and gave him two forms. The Ghostface mask always stays on; it has to. But it can be split in two ways. If the edges of the mask split horizontally — the eye holes and nose tilted upward, the mouth part slid down — it revealed a scarred, human face underneath. If the mask split vertically, peeling away to the sides, darkness spilled out, and one big eye blinked open.

There was this one thing that always occupied his mind. He was always plotting something to make everyone look at him.

He wouldn’t get the attention all to himself today.

Jason suddenly stood, chair scraping loudly against the floor. He loomed over Michael for a heartbeat, then grabbed a fistful of his stolen paramedic jumpsuit and yanked him up. Michael’s hands shot for the knife rack nearby, grabbing two knives in a blur, both of them dripping blood immediately. He slashed and stabbed, but Jason didn’t flinch. 

Before anyone could blink, he shoved Michael’s head straight into the sink, water splashing over the counter and floor. Michael thrashed, arms flailing, hands slipping on the sink and counter. He shoved at Jason with both hands, growling through the bubbles, but Jason barely moved. Fingers scrabbling, he grabbed a small knife and swung it wildly. Jason caught it like it was a twig and shoved it aside, making Michael snarl louder.

Michael grabbed the edge of the sink, trying to pull himself out, and slipped again. Water splashed inside his mask, but he didn’t stop. He kicked, pushed, and growled like he was a cornered animal. He was strong, furious, and not giving up — but Jason was stronger, holding him tight no matter how hard he fought.

Bubba barked something muffled, flapping his hands, panicking, not because they were fighting each other, but because he knew that probably he would be the one who had to clean all of this mess up.

Freddy doubled over in his seat, cackling, antennas twitching. „Oh, yes! Drown the boogeyman! Scrub that mask clean!”

Chucky started clapping like a child at a magic show. „Get him! Hold him down!” He let out a laugh, rough and broken, like an old engine turning over.

While the others entertained themselves with this child’s play, Danny leaned back in his chair quietly and stared at them with disregard. Why bother themselves with trying to kill each other, if they very well knew that they could not? It didn’t make any sense to him. It was unnecessary. It was ugly. It would never be a part of his designs.

He tapped his fingers on the table, watching Freddy cackle and Chucky squeal like a tiny maniac high on sugar. A tiny smirk played on Harry’s lips, while Clint just watched.

Legends. That’s what they were. Every single one of them. He’d spent years memorizing their names, their kills, the way they moved, the terror they left behind. And now, here they were, right in front of him, behaving like children. It was almost… disappointing. Almost.

Danny’s eyes narrowed. Amateurs. That was the thought that kept looping in his mind. All of them, thinking their little fights mattered, thinking they were terrifying. Pathetic. He could have done it better. Much better.

Michael’s fists pounded against the counter, water sloshing everywhere. Jason held him there with frightening calm, like he was washing dishes instead of trying to drown him.

The moment stretched, ugly and tense. Then Michael’s hand shot up, grabbed the edge of the counter, and he shoved himself free with a violent crash. He stood dripping, bloody knife raised, shoulders heaving, breath coming out heavy.

The table went quiet. Bubba slumped forward, shoulders sagging, arms hanging loosely at his sides, staring at the ruined kitchen. Chucky stopped clapping his hands. „Alright, fun’s over, dipshits.”

Danny nodded, tapped his knife against his plate, like a judge signaling the end of a round.

“Gentlemen,” he said brightly, “I think we have ourselves a hit show.”

And they did. Because that moment repeated quite often, if not every day, from now on.