#rz michael myers x you

[sl4sh3rsub]

rz michael myers hcs (nsfw: mdni)

rz michael myers x reader (AFAB, AMAB, FtM, MtF)

warning: a lot here. mikey has a monster cock, insecure + inexperienced michael, he doesn't talk but makes noise + mouths words + grunts syllables sometimes (selectively mute ig?), oral sex (both giving and receiving), excessive creampies, fingering (receiving), no lube we die like men his dick n spit does it for him, masturbation, rimming (both giving and receiving), knife kink, excessive mentions of precum + spit + cum, creative use of cum/arousal fluids in arts projects, musk kink, choking (receiving), mentions of sex toys, thigh humping, mention of canon SA and violence (nothing w/ or directly involving reader), p in v + anal (all unprotected - pls stay safe irl), cum eating, slight somnophilia, bruises and hickeys, cockwarming, slight worship (receiving), dry humping, handjobs, 2 mentions of him having a mini shrine to you, mentions of needle hrt in ftm + mtf bits (feel free to ignore), mentions of the institute/asylum

a/n: sorta edited. tried not to be too ooc, but it's more focused on a softer side of michael - personally i think his character is very different to og/peepaw myers! rz mikey is more based in instinct rather than previous experiences/societal expectations, so there's more general hcs than separate sections this time. NOTE: feel free to read any sections, tried my best to not use gendered terms in agab sections but lmk how i can improve :3

order: general hcs first then amab + afab then ftm + mtf, different sections = different content n tried not to repeat much

_ _ _ _ _

general hcs

as michael is very inexperienced with kissing, he'll smash his lips against yours and become a huffing mess after he gets worked up from your breath mingling with his and your darkening gazes meeting

if you play with his hair and gaze into his eyes, he can't help it if he gets half-hard - his body will always needily react to your attention and affection

he's most at home in grey sweatpants - he's very used to wearing them while making his masks and associates them with comfort and the years of creatively honing his craft

so naturally, don't be surprised when his already impressive girth pulses and thickens at the sight of you bending over or reaching something off a high shelf

mikey will absolutely make you your own special mask!! although, the glue he uses for your personal paper mâché mix is a bit more,, personal. he'll also use your arousal to paint the inner layer of his favourite mask :( he simply needs to have some semblance of you with him at all times, especially whenever he's out on the town and away from your embrace

he's borderline hypersexual and gets half-hard and extremely sensitive without reason, however he doesn't always feel the need to act on his urges with you. expect him hiding his arousal during mundane activities, getting flushed and shy when he realises that you notice :<

if he's comfortable on the couch, he'll make himself at home with a horrendous manspread. naturally, this leads to him getting flustered whenever you kneel in between his legs with a mischievous glint in your eye. if you ask him sweetly, he'll be more than happy to sit you in between his strong thighs and let you hump into his hand while you both watch a movie

if he's not feeling like he wants to be inside you, he'll lie on his back with his knees up, pulling you to straddle his waist and lean back against his thighs. from this angle, he's able to watch you play with yourself and masturbate above him while feeling your weight grounding him, just out of reach but almost close enough to taste

he loves taking you from behind and kissing the base of your neck, your breathless giggles echoing in his ears as his long hair tickles your shoulders and back

michael loves having you cockwarm him while he makes his masks!! he adores it when you doze off with your cheek smushed into his shoulder during a late night arts-and-crafts session, the slow pulse of his heartbeat deep inside you

he's so, so incredibly thankful for you, that he's able to unleash his frustrations into you, whether it be about a ripped mask or just about pentup emotions. he's eternally thankful for your love and under the table support

you are mikey's angel, his true saving grace. after his long bout at the institute, he was fully convinced that being loved by anyone was impossible for him. your welcoming arms and gentle praise proved him wrong and completely changed his image of heaven - to michael, it's no longer a cloudy sky mentioned in those old books, it's your warm embrace and loving gaze. it just took him a little while to realise that he was in his own little paradise with you

he tries his hardest to treat you with absolute reverence and adoration T-T he's devoted to making you feel good with him, no matter what. usually, this means holding back from skullfucking you at a brutal pace whenever you give him head. your throat is just so tight around him :( it's got him steadying himself against a wall with his hand, shaking and sweating from holding back, with his gorgeous, garbled moans encouraging you to swallow the saltiness of his length

mikey's wandering hands always end up on your ass or tummy whenever you cuddle together, it's just comforting for him

he's one of the strongest, largest men to ever walk the earth, but the way he gently traces your facial features makes you forget that completely. michael handles you like you're made of porcelain, only using soft pressure unless you assure him he won't break you easily

he has a big, strong and beefy body. lord knows how he maintained it in the institute but with you, he's gonna try his damnedest to put all of his strength to good use - whether it be getting you off while fingering you, his toned forearms barely breaking a sweat or his tree trunk thighs tensing while you ride them

mikey is not trimmed or well-groomed downstairs, his pubes are a wild and unkempt cloud of blonde and light grey hair, so you know he's not caring about how you look at all. you're a fuckin deity in his eyes and he'll dispose of anyone who makes you feel anything other than heavenly

michael is uncut, big and thick, with a large vein running up the underside - so heavy and large that it can't even stand up against his belly, instead slightly bobbing with his pulse and hanging low. it's the type you see in lewd magazines, where it tilts down even when fully hard

when you're on your knees for him, expect his weepy cockhead to drip onto your face while you kiss and nip at his heavy, full balls

oh yeah, this man has the definition of breeder balls; hanging low, swollen and filled to the brim with his potent cum. he truly has so much to give, so you'd better be ready for multiple loads throughout the night

in contrast to michael's hard cock, his nipples are soft and incredibly sensitive. if he's trying to cum as fast as possible, he'll sneak a hand up his shirt and pinch at them relentlessly - make sure they're puffy and spit-glazed after you've been ontop, he goes absolutely feral would really appreciate it

mikey has massive hands too - his fingers are enough to fill you considerably, but he often resorts to stuffing your mouth with them or using his palm to muffle your noises if you're being vocal. he definitely doesn't want the cops called on you just because he's great at pleasuring you

his cock feels heavy inside you, almost like he's deep in your chest whenever he bottoms out. the weight is absolutely dizzying as it stretches you out each thrust and rubs all of the right places. he easily gets drunk on the feeling of you clenching around him, leading to his head being tossed back with drool dribbling down his chin at the sensation

he has the biggest size kink possible but he really doesn't want to get carried away when exerting his strength and size on you - he doesn't want to get carried away or hurt you too badly :(

michael uses whatever knife he can get his hands on during foreplay to add a bit of risk and edge. cutting off your underwear and shirt, tracing down thighs and hips and gently nicking your skin every once in a while, but he quickly tosses it if you beg him to fuck you desperately enough - he doesn't wanna hurt you that bad, not before he's even gotten started

mikey is incredibly insecure about himself and his own worth as a person. he fears your love is only temporary and that you'll move on, leaving him behind as a memory or an adrenaline rush of foolish regret :( for that reason, he's terrified to go too hard or hurt you badly - he's convinced you'll be in pain and be fearful of him if he fucks up. be sure to reassure him when you're together after you have a rougher time and he's manhandling you more <3

initially when he learnt about dry humping, he was confused as to why he craved the friction so desperately but he's learnt to give in - michael will almost immediately cum in his pants if you quietly reassure him you'll clean up the mess you're both bound to leave on his clothes. half the fun (in his eyes, at least) is seeing you get flustered over the sheer amount of his load that's seeping into his boxers from just that little bit of friction

his favourite place to have you is on his lap - cockwarming, cuddling or napping, he does not care. he needs to have your face pressed into his neck with his larger frame providing you with warmth and stability

will rarely fist his cock but if you ever catch him, you might be able to make out his lips repeating the shape of your name over and over

for a long while at the start of your.. arrangement, he had no idea how to initiate sex. he'd just hover close to you, desperately hoping you'd notice the heat radiating from his massive, obvious bulge. would start to bite the inside of his cheek and guide your body towards him in a desperate hint if you didn't clock it immediately

he also did not know shit about the human anatomy, so he'll need you to guide him to where you want to be touched and with a bit of coaching, he'll learn the correct pressure and pace to get you off easily

if you tease him while he's in his overalls, the sight of his lower region slowly darkening with his endless pre and the sound of his haggard breathing devolving into animalistic grunts is nearly enough to make your knees give out

michael isn't a massive fan of fucking you on your bed, especially if your room is in a similar layout to his back at the institute. haunting memories brought on by the guards cast negative clouds across his mind and that is the last thing he wants with you. he'd much prefer to go at it against a wall, the couch or even the floor. most of the time, around his desk is where the action happens and your bed is solely reserved for sleep <3

he loves smearing his precum all over your face, loves letting his musk seep into your skin while your eyes glaze over with lust

he cups your chin, cheek and jaw whenever you have his full attention and his heart melts when you nuzzle into him - his thumb plays with your bottom lip and if you decide to suck on it to keep your mouth occupied, so expect to have mikey silently begging you to cockwarm him while his brain goes fuzzy

while you relax for the evening, watching a movie together, expect him to position you with your head on his thigh (your face way to close to his crotch ofc)

michael loves you sucking on his soft cock and warming him with your mouth, he adores the slow feeling of him growing hard as you moan and gag around his length

when you introduce him to the concept of the sixty-nine position, he absolutely short-circuits. what do you mean you can both suffocate in each other's musk while getting each other off?? what do you mean he can prop himself up above you so he can spend time teasing you while forcing you to choke on his length???

michael always cums a bit too quickly and a bit too much - the moment he enters you for the first time, he can't help but fill you up immediately (good thing he's blessed with inhuman stamina)

he's also the biggest fan of you offering to clean up the mess of his cum dripping down his shaft - if your ass is a bit tender and sore from his rough pace, he's more than happy to soften in your mouth while the two of you catch your breath and wind down

mikey isn't very confident with toys and would much rather pleasure you by himself, but he wouldn't mind learning slowly what you prefer over time

he's also not a fan of lube - it feels too cold on his skin and the slippery nature of it scares him a little, so the best way to get him all coated in pre (for your comfort ofc) is to rim him. his tip drools and spits out so much of his arousal whenever you fuck him with your tongue, rest assured it'll bubble down his shaft and drip onto your chest. the delicious flush of his neck and upper chest is a glorious sight to behold

he first feels the urge to make love to you slowly after he sees a steamy, romantic sex scene with a married couple on television - he wants to give you the warmth and care the actors portray on screen

when you first offered to give him head, he tentatively slapped his cock against your tongue to test waters and see if you liked the taste but ended up addicted to the feeling. he'll smack it against your lips and tongue every time you're on your knees for him

his heavy balls slapping against your chin while he floods your mouth with salty, thick warmth is one of his favourite sounds

he starts breathily whimpering in his gravelly voice whenever he fully bottoms out in your heat, one of the rare moments when he totally loses control over his lust for you

he grunts out the syllables of your name when he's about to cum, digging his fingers into your hips and nipping your neck, leaving deep marks on your skin

mikey gets the same rush whenever you both cum together as to when he stabs someone and kills them after a long game of cat and mouse - there's a reason why the french call it 'petit mortis', a little death

the first time the two of you had sex, it brought out such intense emotions from michael that he was left shaken, crying from confusion about the onslaught of feelings he just shared with you. he is originally torn between holding you close and never letting you go as well as instantly leaving and isolating himself in his own space - like he's used to. he needs time to fully mull over the situation and new sensations he experienced but he would really like to have you nearby incase he needs a hug :(

on a long day, after you've given him head, he'll softly catch his breath while watching you blissfully hum and rest your cheek against his thigh. he huffs a small chuckle as you press light kisses into his softening cock

myers really doesn't want to hurt your ass or bruise your upper thighs too much as he needs to have you perched on his lap whenever he can, but you can expect tender skin from his hips slapping into you as well as bruises from his grip on your waist and hips

if he was too rough with you the night before (maybe accidentally leaving bone-deep bruises or purple marks and scratches along your body), he'll disappear early next morning and return during breakfast with a fistful of fresh tulips as an apology, with their stems partially crushed. just be sure to rinse off the dirt still attached to the roots, it's the thought that counts :<

michael may be inexperienced and bashful but he'll try anything once if it gets you off and brings you pleasure

michael loves to place his hand around your throat, just as a reminder of his sheer strength and power over you. with the slightest amount of pressure, he could make your brain go dumb and your tongue loll out

he chokes you until your eyes become unfocused, your little gasps and whines becoming softer and softer. the proud glint in michael's eyes is deserved, as you fully trusted him with your life while you were in your most vulnerable position. he holds you close while you unsteadily catch your breath, mumbling about how good you are to him and stroking your hair all the while

if you're too shy to look up at him while he fucks you or gives you head, he'll tilt your chin up and groan when your cheeks flush at his blown out pupils

he's the type to not pull out after, needing to soften and catch his breath while still feeling connected, inadvertently overstimulating you without fail as his whole body is racked with aftershocks

if he's feeling mean, michael will make you hump his thigh while he palms at his dick during one of his arts and crafts sessions

he wipes the last dribbles of his cum on your inner thighs after he pulls out. he'll clean it either way - with a damp towel or his tongue, it's up to you <3

occasionally after a spree, he'll need to let his mind rest and will use you as his cute little fleshlight, burying himself deep inside you while guiding your hips along with his rhythm at a bruising pace. if you pay close attention, you'll see his lips forming silent prayers and whispers of apology whenever you yelp from the pace

his post-kill musk is potent enough to make your head spin. if you rest your cheek against his pectoral, you'll be able to feel his heartbeat start to slow against you :<

his guilty pleasure is pulling out while cumming thick spurts, slapping his tip across your skin while smearing his load all over you, be it your lips and cheeks or ass and thighs

michael doesn't want to disturb your sleep if he's needy, so he'll slip your hand in between his boxers and pajama pants to feel your smaller hand against his throbbing bulge. he's content to doze like that but expect to feel him humping into your fist while he sleeps. you may wake to the sound of sheets rustling as he licks up the mess he made, much too tired to change sheets but not wanting it to dry and soil your sheets

he insists on placing his hand firmly on the back of your neck whenever he takes you from behind - to stop you from fucking yourself back on his cock and squirming at his pace

after sex with mikey, it's a common occurrence for you both to be a panting mess on the floor when he's done, your throat sore from mindless babbling and loud moans - all complete with a wet, drool-covered spot on your shirt from his grunts through gritted, gnashed teeth. when he's floated back into the right headspace, he's absolutely mortified by his behaviour and is tentative to even glance at you in a less than innocent way for the next couple hours

if your soft body goes limp in his arms after a mind-blowing orgasm, he gets scared at first and stops his thrusts. he's worrying he hurt you but, once he realises you're alright, he'll support your head and neck and go completely feral, thrusting and grinding until he reaches his high as well

whenever you fall asleep ontop of him, he needs to have your face tucked into the crook of his neck - the scent of your hair and sex in the air lulls him to sleep quicker than any sedative could

he adores your attention while you both bask in your respective afterglows - your hands gently cradling his face while he tucks himself away is one of his favourite, most soothing actions of yours. he'll always rub circles into your skin in return

_ _ _ _ _

amab hcs

michael is inexperienced and completely driven by instinct when it comes to giving head - he wouldn't be deep-throating, instead focusing on your tip and licking along your veins. he's a master of giving handjobs, with the amount of spit he shamelessly coats you with (not to mention his rougher hands)

if he's particularly needy, he'll come up behind you and gently undo your belt while tracing his fingers over your zipper, nosing at your jaw and softly rutting into your ass while panting above you

the moment your fly is undone, his breathing gets ragged and drool nearly starts dripping down his chin

cages you against a bench or wall to rut against your ass and breathe in your scent after a long day at work

if you introduce him to rimming,, lord save your soul. his scruff rubs your ass raw with how often he goes to town on your tight, puckered hole. his favourite bit is pulling back and admiring how you glint in the light with his spit shining all over

of course, the extra spit only helps his efforts of bullying his throbbing cock into your poor hole

whenever michael is close to the edge while buried deep in you, he starts uncontrollably twitching and bumping your prostate, causing you to let out a pitchy whine at the unexpected feeling. every time without a doubt, his eyes roll back and growls into your ear at you clenching around him

he has a small photo shrine of your cocks together, a mess of cum and spit framed for his appreciation (he's a romantic)

his dirty fantasy is getting your attention while you're on the phone in bed by mouthing and groping at your cock, working you through the fabric of your pants

michael is obsessed with rutting his cock against yours, covering each other in your arousals, cum spurting up onto your chests as you nip and kiss at each other's chest and throat

_ _ _ _ _

afab hcs

mikey loses his mind a little each time you cream on his shaft, feeling your arousal dripping down to his balls and coating the insides of his thighs. just the thought of your slick coating him is enough to make his eyes roll back

he rips or cuts your underwear off you if he's too impatient to wait for you to fully undress

once michael is fully stuffed inside you, he gently traces where you meet, in awe of how he manages to fit in your heat

his large hands span over the bulge of his cock in your tummy, making you tear up at the pressure and drip onto the sheets

leans his head closer to your ear just to make sure you hear his groans and grunts while he destroys your pussy

his favourite sight is his pearly globs of cum oozing out of your puffy, soaked hole - made complete by the fucked out glaze in your eyes as you stare at the blurry spectre of a giant between your thighs

he tentatively gropes your thighs and enjoys warming his hands by sticking them up your shirt. if you both happen to make an appearance in public, expect him to crowd around you to try and shield you form from wandering eyes - he may be yours but you're also his, so no one has a right to touch or even look at your precious body (especially not your soft tits or ass, they're for him only)

teach him to tie his hair in a messy bun or acquire a hairband for him to keep his hair from getting sticky whenever he does down on you, slurping and worshipping your pussy like it's his god-given purpose on this earth

once he tries taking you in a mating press, he accidentally discovers heaven. he can fully dwarf you in his shadow and also cradle your pretty face while erratically thrusting and groaning in that raspy voice you love. if he fucks you dumb, he's more than happy to wipe away your tears

sometimes michael hesitates pushing into you for fear of it hurting too much, unintentionally resulting in him working you up by teasing your entrance with his thick cockhead then nudging your clit, fully soaking his length in your arousal

_ _ _ _ _

ftm hcs

mikey initially gets scared if you administer hrt yourself with a needle - he knows what happens to rowdy patients who get the needle back at the asylum. however, as he slowly notices physical changes in your body, he'll marvel at your form developing before his very eyes

michael's sadistic side comes out when he spanks your cock until your sloppy boycunt is drooling onto the mattress. he makes sure to gently slip his finger in your hole every so often, his delight in your whines is very evident when you can feel him throbbing under you

his strong forearms easily hold down your hips to stop them from rutting into his mouth whenever he sucks you off, making you shiver with every thrust of his tongue. his dick is neglected while he goes to town, not that mikey minds at all. he knows he'll be able to go balls deep after you've cum at least once to loosen up for him

due to his strength, he'll keep you still even while you become overstimulated, the pleasure bordering on pain but he's too far gone to care - this man becomes so pussydrunk that he can barely process that he's stained all of the material in your immediate vicinity with your arousal; your pants, his shirt, the carpet and not to mention the couch or bedsheets from his erratic wiping of his fingers when they get too slippery

loves to have you bouncing on his cock - grabbing your hips until they're bruised to control the pace and depth, pushing you to take all of him inside

sometimes if you look extra delectable while attempting to reach something off of a high shelf, michael may not be able to control himself and his craving for your taste - he will bend you over with no hesitation and make out with your cunt, nose glistening in your folds as his chapped lips graze against your tdick and his chin dripping with your pre. his massive hands groping your ass as he spreads your legs for better access

the rhythmic clapping of his heavy balls slapping your sopping cock is forever engrained in his mind, sometimes resurfacing at the most inconvenient times - he will be forced to rush home in the middle of an attempted spree just to feel your body against his

_ _ _ _ _

mtf hcs

mikey initially gets scared if you administer hrt yourself with a needle - he knows what happens to rowdy patients who get the needle back at the asylum. however, as he slowly notices physical changes in your body, he'll marvel at your form developing before his very eyes

michael chases the sensation of having you pressed up against him while you're wearing clothing he's gotten you

he loves you feeling pretty whenever you're on top, tucking your hair behind your ear and using his thumb to swipe his cum off your chin

he will make you do your makeup before you fuck, needing you to feel as beautiful as possible while he absolutely destroys your hole - lipgloss smeared, mascara running, hair mussed and bruises all over your hips. he views you as a goddess, so expect him to make you feel like one

when you guide him to take your balls in his mouth, he'll eagerly suckle on them then return to your tip for his reward, eager to lap up your arousal with obscene slurping noises and proud huffs of satisfaction

he has a small shrine of your panties he's borrowed, keeping the ones with the dainty floral details for 'creative inspiration'

mikey gently squeezes on the back of your neck when preparing to take you from behind - he cannot simply cum from you squirming in impatience and grinding into him, he's not even inside you yet (it would be a waste quite frankly)

as his stubble rubs you raw whenever he eats you out, prepare for the bubbling heat beneath your skin to return tenfold whenever he fucks your thighs like a madman

_ _ _ _ _

sorry if writing quality dropped, this took so long lmao. art the clown is next btw, look out for that.

thanks for reading. lmk if you liked it. if i got anything wrong, don't hesitate to tell me.

stay safe.

[slasherstories123]

I've had this idea for a while but I can't write for shit😭 could you do RZ Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees with a s/o who's been with them for a while and just absolutely have their hearts and the slashers find the horrific sight of their s/o on the brink of death. The cause can be anything and Please have the s/o live I'm a sucker for happy endings❤️

Rz! Michael and Jason’s reaction to their s/o on the brink of death

Tagslist: @dootys @callmemeelah @mehidktbh @slash3rl0v3r @the-anxious-youth @beanbagbitch @mrs-heelshire @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better @oneofvincentscandles @sleepypersonblog @alexxavicry @vexeliers-breakroom @l0sercat @naxxsstuff @beel-mcburger @charliedawn @emychan @bunnysenpai31 @slasherscrybaby @turdmongler @kawaistrawberry21

Rz! Michael Myers

Michaels cold manner came ever since he was in that sanitarium.

In this case, when he sees you nearly dying, he did things you’ve never seen him do.

You were sick. Very sick, and if you didn’t get medical help soon you’d die. When he came back he saw you on the floor.

The silent man stared at you for a few seconds before falling to his knees. Dropping the knife as he squeezed you for dear life. Michael didn’t know what to do, he can’t let you die. It won’t sit right with him, sure he kills lots of people but it doesn’t feel right to know that you’re dead. You’re kind to him, and cared for him like his mother did. He didn’t kill you and you accepted him. You looked up at him while letting out a bad cough. “Mike… when did you get here?” He didn’t move not let out any grunts in response. Grabbing on your shoulder when you tried to get up.

“I’m so sorry Michael… I didn’t want you to see me like this..” Thoughts raced through his head, he can’t go out like this, they’ll take him down and will think that he killed you. There’s only one option left…. He snatched his mask off, his dirty blond hair covered his face. You were taken back by the sudden movement but was too weak to do anything. He picked you up and walked out. He can’t drive, he doesn’t know how to. Michael’s used to walking, if he can walk all the way back to haddionfield, then he can surely walk you to the hospital.

Once you were taken into proper care, he left you there to heal, but would watch you from afar until you were free. He stayed by your side more after that happened. You didn’t mind, you couldn’t blame him either, for the first time in his life he was scared, scared of loosing you.

Jason Voorhees

One of his victims found out that you were on Jason’s side and got angry, stabbing you in the stomach before running off.

Once Jason saw it he was livid with anger, how dare they do that to you?! He didn’t stop until the guy was dead.

Once he did, he rushed back over to you, seeing that you took the knife out of your stomach, which in your case was a stupid move to do.

Jason freaked out as he looked around for something to stop the bleeding, he took his brown jacket off and put pressure on the wound. He was freaking out on the inside, trying to listen to what his mother was trying to tell him to do.

He tried his best to listen while making sure you were still awake, you didn’t dare open your eyes, but you did it for him, your eyes burned with tears. He felt bad. Luckily the stab wound wasn’t terrible, you just couldn’t move until the healing process was complete. You kept zoning out from time to time which made him tap your arm, begging you to stay awake for just a little while longer . He gently picked you up and took you back to the cabin you shared, now dealing with the wound with actual medical supplies. Then placing you on the bed.

Jason cared for your every need, and when there was nothing else left don’t him to do, he’d rest the side of his head on your stomach as his way of apologizing for letting it happen.

[lebenspurpur]

what do they smell like

AN: I know I did this before, but I need to correct myself. Plus, it was like 2 years ago, so..

ℝℤ 𝕄𝕚𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕖𝕝 𝕄𝕪𝕖𝕣𝕤

Most of the time, he smells like sweat and that sweet coppery odor of blood.

That changes whenever he actually decides to take a shower and change his clothes.

Suddenly he smells like nothing. And I mean nothing.

If you inhale deeply enough, you might get a faint whiff of sanitizer, like the kind they use in hospitals, but that's it.

You can decide for yourself if that's a blessing or a curse.

𝕍𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕊𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕣

Paraffin wax.

So he smells like plastic and, like, the worst kind.

Maybe you need to convince him to use some bee wax candles for a change. Or some wax that smells like something nice, at least.

Which makes me think of another headcannon: Vincent hates the smell of cheap scented candles. He can not stand them. You'd think his nose might be desensitized to bad smells by now, but no.

The only scented candles he allows in his basement are the expensive ones, with real dried flowers or some good essential oils.

Other than paraffin wax, he smells like his body wash, which is the same as Bo's.

(You can not convince me they do not share one. Maybe buy him some nice shampoo while we're at it.)

The smell of the wax easily overpowers anything else, though.

𝔹𝕠 𝕊𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕣

Bo prides himself on owning some really nice cologne.

So, if he applies that, he actually smells really nice.

Other than that: cigarettes.

I feel like he actually has a nice smell, though. He smells like someone who'd call you sugar, if that makes sense.

𝕃𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕊𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕣

I know, we have the ongoing joke of Lester smelling bad, but I've changed my mind.

Of course, after working, he smells very bad. Like a dead animal that has been cooking in the sun for way too long.

But he's a clean boy! After he takes a shower, he smells like a mix of leather and something flowery, airy. Kind of like a freshly picked bouquet of wildflowers. Don't ask me where that comes from.

When he's been crafting something, he also smells like hot glue and wood, but it's not powerful enough to be unpleasant.

𝔹𝕣𝕒𝕙𝕞𝕤 ℍ𝕖𝕖𝕝𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕣𝕖

Dust.

Like, you know when something smells old because it's been standing somewhere without being touched for too long?

That's what he smells like.

He doesn't need to, though. He probably has an arsenal of really expensive perfumes and colognes standing somewhere in that mansion.

After he meets you, there's a slight chance that he'll take more care of himself. And in that case, he will finally use those fragrances.

As soon as he does that, he smells like that mansion looks. Rich, educated, charming, handsome even.

𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕞𝕒𝕤 ℍ𝕖𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕥

Hay, dry earth, Tommy smells like a hot day on a field.

When he spent some more time in the basement, the smell becomes even earthier and damp. Like a crypt.

Though, most days the 'warm' smell is stronger and it's really wholesome. When you hug him, it feels like you're hugging a cat who's been lounging in the sun for a while and got all heated up. (I just want to hug him, man.)

𝕆𝕥𝕚𝕤 𝔻𝕣𝕚𝕗𝕥𝕨𝕠𝕠𝕕

Now, that man smells bad.

Rotting corpses, vomit kind of bad. It's not good.

When he does his makeup and actually showers, it's not that bad anymore. Then, he just smells like the makeup he applies (you know, the stuff they paint children's faces with?) and (probably Baby's) body wash.

𝔹𝕒𝕓𝕪 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕖𝕗𝕝𝕪

Baby loves sweet perfumes, especially when they have a fruity note (pun intended).

She has a few fragrances she always uses, and they make her smell really nice, and really sweet, kind of like candy.

If she doesn't apply those, she smells like lotion and body oil.

Pretty, that's what she smells like.

ℝ𝕁 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕖𝕗𝕝𝕪

Motor oil, leather and rain.

Motor oil from working on the trucks all day long, leather from his jackets. Where does the smell of rain come from? Don't ask me.

He smells really masculine in that sense, like a ride on a motorcycle.

𝕁𝕒𝕤𝕠𝕟 𝕍𝕠𝕠𝕣𝕙𝕖𝕖𝕤

Do corpses emit smell if they're still alive?

Well, Jason does.

He smells like wet earth, rain, and the forest. A really grounding smell overall.

Hugging him feels like laying on the forest ground after it has been raining for a while. In a nice way, though.

It's really refreshing, and really pleasant.

𝔸𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕒 𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕘

Amanda uses really nice body wash. Something that smells like pine needles.

Other than that, she smells like old metal and disinfectant.

Old metal, because she spends half of her days designing traps and disinfectant because of John.

[nymphbunnyys]

How will Asa, Bo, Michael, Jason and Jesse react to the fact that their girlfriend already has a child?

This is kind of adorable and the idea of such scary men with such little beings kills me. All of these will have the kid as a female because…. I don’t know, but scary men with the sweetest little girls is too cute to me.

I’m doing peepaw Myers because… yes. May be a bit out of character for him but I’m sorry he deserves some love man.

Michael Myers

- if I’m being honest at first Michael ignores your kid completely. As much as he can I mean.

- he.. loves you, yes. But it’s not his, and even if it was I doubt he’d pay much attention to it either. But he’d never put your kid in harms way and he’ll remind himself to be extra careful when he’s around them.

- he won’t admit it… but the kid starts to grow on him. One night, you’d manage to get Michael to actually sit down with you and your daughter for dinner, his fists sat completely still atop the table, eyes burning at the food that your daughter decided not to eat.. to which Michael did the same. He refused to eat. You knew your daughter had a fondness over who she called “mommy’s big monster” she was always at his heel, tugging at his sleeves, trying to get him to play games with her. Fuck she even called him daddy on occasion. But he refused.. silently blowing her off every time. Until now.

- the phone rang endlessly, annoyance running through your demeanour as you left the table to pick up the phone, answering to your daughters father. Michael knew by now that the conversations had always ended horribly, and so did your daughter.. His eyes averted back towards her, watching as she sulked at the piece of chicken in front of her. He blinked before watching his hand grab his fork and take a bite into his chicken, nodding with a soft smile on his face. This was unlike Michael. This wasn’t Michael’s usual characteristics. But something about the way your daughter sat.. oh so sadly over hearing mommy fight over the phone. Too many memories were brought back to him and he was determined to not let her feel those things. He softly leaned over towards your daughter, grabbing her fork instead and eating a piece of her chicken, his eyes burned into hers watching as they lit up with shock causing him to widen his eyes and open his mouth pretending to shocked. A soft giggle left her lips, little hands pressing into his white beard to push his face away.

- he chuckled quietly. Letting out a grunt of satisfaction And the two ate together. Don’t worry they sat with you to eat too.

- he probably sits in his recliner with her once he’s grown more attached. She’ll be curled up, little legs on either side of his sides head full of messy hair, thumb in mouth and comfy on his chest while they watch her favourite Disney princess movie under a warm blanket. It’s a cute site, such a vile monster with such a sweet little angel, something about her brings a soft side out of Michael not even one you could bring out.. and he’s alright with it.

- he could get used to this.

Bo Sinclair

- he really doesn’t care too much, he’s definitely a bit nervous whenever you’re daughter is around, he knows her dad isn’t in the picture so he feels like he’s got some shoes to fill and it freaks him out.

- his nerves more or so come from his own problems. It being, he’s afraid he’ll be like his own father. Even though your daughter isn’t his.. the first day he met her he felt like he had some responsibility over her, felt some sort of protection over her. So yeah.. his fear of turning out like his dad and treating your daughter the way he was treated haunted him for a while.

- Bo loves her like she’s his own honestly. He’s always carrying her, making sure she’s eating properly, giving her baths, taking her on rides outside of the town.

- Bo has a set rule that every Friday It’s “daddy daughter day” that means no one’s else is allowed to be with the two. He’ll get her dressed and they’ll go on a trip to the park, go to her favourite stores. Get her favourite snacks, have picnics, whatever she wanted really.. Bo spoiled her rotten. And it was always the best day ever.

- your daughter is glued to him like super glue. Most nights you can’t even sleep properly because the two take up the whole bed. She follows him everywhere he goes even into his garage. Little does she know.. she’s a big help when luring victims in. All Bo has to do is pick her up and set her on his hip, and she’ll have the victims gushing over her cheeky little smile.

Jason Voorhees

- big boy is very scared. Not of the kid but.. just. Being around your kid? Like I said, big boy. He’s big. The fear of knocking your kid over, or doing anything to harm them is utterly terrifying to him.

- mask stays on if she’s ever around. He’s too scared of making her scared of him it’s the last thing he wants, for your kid to be scared of him and you hate him for it.

- he’ll take her on fishing trips. When the cabin is silent and no campers are around he’ll drag the old boat his momma tucked away in the old storage shed, getting your daughter to help him push it into the lake. Even though her little arms couldn’t actually push the boat he’ll make sure she knows she did most of the work, pointing towards her arms to show her how strong she is.

- it’s a tight fit for him, his legs are tucked towards his chest and his arms are struggling to move around as the boat can’t really carry him but he makes sure your kid as enough space to sit comfortably. Holding her little fishing rod with a happy smile on her face.

- I think having your kid around makes him.. also feel like a kid again. Except, a happy kid. She heals his inner child. Most nights, he’s fallen asleep with her, he’ll be cuddled in her little bed, her pink and purple blanket covered over his shoulders while she snuggles close to him under the blankets, book in hand while she reads him her favourite bed time stories. He won’t sleep until she’s asleep just so he can make sure she’s safe.

- he likes to bring her things. Wether Jason be out tending to campers he’ll always come back with something for your daughter. Teddy bears, jewelry, stories the children kept around the camp, and so on. He’d even make her things. Now he wasn’t really crafty but he did his best. Making her dolls out of sticks and so on.

- safe to say he loves her very much. He’s her big teddy bear. And she’s his little teddy bear.

Chromeskull/Jesse Cromeans:

- Now. I know I said Bo spoils his s/o’s daughter but Jesse. Now that is different. Your daughter is spoiled spoiled. Gifts whenever she wants, whatever she wants, wherever she wants. Now he doesn’t just spoil her he spoils you both rotten. Your his girls, he’s gotta spoil you both.

- he’ll 100% have tea parties with her. Once work is out of the way he’s home sitting in her chair with a pink tutu too small but he’ll manage, nails painted pink and a pretty princess crown atop his head. His large hands will grab the cup and bring it to his burned lips, pretending to sip whatever she decided was in the cup.

-“aren’t I a pretty princess?” The text to voice would come through the phone as you laugh softly at his comment, watching your daughter nod quickly and wrap her little arm around his shoulder, sitting happily on his lap while her other hand place eyeshadow on him.

- he probably met her really young, so she kinda grew up thinking he was her dad. And he was more than happy to take part in that role. so it’s safe to say she’s a pretty big daddy’s girl.

- you’re a bit hesitant to let Jesse bring her to work, but he keeps her in the office sat directly on his lap and that’s where she stays. While Jesse has meetings with Preston, your daughter is playing with Jesse’s blazer, giggling quietly at how angry Preston sounds. Jesse softly scuffing at her reactions.

- she runs around with his mask. You have to tell her to be careful as the mask is quiet heavy, if she trips and falls Jesse would have a heart attack then and there, freaking out like a paranoid mother.

The collector/ Asa Emory

- he’s a bit.. distant from your daughter. I’m not sure Asa is really a family man. But he try’s? For you.

- he’s strict. She’s not allowed near his office. She’s not allowed to touch his things. She’s not allowed physical contact with him. She’s not allowed… really anything to do with Asa. He’s cold towards her, and as much as it pisses you off part of you can’t really blame him?

- Asa had.. a pretty traumatic childhood and due to who he is now, bringing that upon yet another person I don’t think he could handle it. Especially someone so young.

- although he has his rules, he isn’t always like that. He’s very much the same as he was with you. He was cold, there was rules and then.. they were slowly forgotten about. He came around. Slowly, but surely.

-it’s different with you of course, and he still turns a cold shoulder towards your daughter from time to time, but he’s began to bring her things. A porcelain doll as of recently made its way into your daughters room. Sat perfectly atop her dresser, she wore a baby blue dress, hair blonde and curly, eyes bright blue. Her lips were cheery red along with her blushing cheeks. She looked, kind of like your daughter. Maybe it reminded Asa of her?

- when bringing it up he’ll refuse that he did it, get mad at you even for thinking he’d do something like that. God y/n you know how he feels about your daughter why would he give her things? But he’s wrong, he knows he’s lying, though he’s not a family kind of guy there’s a part of him that really does care about her. But he scares her, and he knows he does. He’s scared to hurt her, so keeping himself distant is his way of trying to not scare or hurt her.

- but he does open up more. One night you left the two alone, begging him to watch her as something came up for work and you really needed to be there. She had already been in bed so it wasn’t entirely a big deal. Until it was. She woke up an hour or two after you had left, leaving Asa sat completely still and quiet on his sofa listening to your daughters feet softly tiptoe towards him.

-“Asa..” he slowly looked over his shoulder, his knuckles turning white from gripping onto his jeans. She rubbed her eyes softly, letting a soft yawn escape her lips. “Yes.” He uttered, trying to keep his voice down not wanting to alarm her. “You think… you could read me a story” she paused quickly looking at him properly. “Please.”

- fuck. How could he say no..

-so he stood up slowly, walking past her towards her room, stopping once he stood in her doorway and looking back at her. “Well come on. Let’s get you to bed bug” he may have shocked himself with the sudden nickname, but he only told himself it was a way to soothe her.. no other reason at all. Her smile melted him, watching as she hurried past him and hopped into her bed, grabbing onto her cockroach plushie. Yeah. Honestly you thought they’d get along considering her love for bugs but because Asa never paid any mind to her, he never really noticed till now. His eyes searched her room carefully not fully realizing her slight obsession. Books about bugs, bug plushies, a butterfly in a jar, etc.

- maybe she wasn’t so bad..

[yeyinde]

Hello :) English isn't my first language , so please correct me if anything is wrong . First of all you're writing is ABSOLUTELY AMAZING ! ! ! I don't know if you're taking requests but if you do can you please write an RZ|Michael Myers x shy reader , in which Michael comes home after a kill and finds his S/O showering and can it be smut ? But , if you don't take requests right know and you don't want to write about Michael , that's totally fine . Anyways , I hope you're having a wonderful day <3

ahhhhh, thank you so much!!!! 🖤🖤 i am absolutely taking requests, and i do write for Michael (i have been working on some peepaw Myers smut on the DL for a bit now, so my apologies if some of OG Myers mannerisms bleed in), but love all versions of MM, so thank you for giving me an excuse to flex my hand with some RZ Myers~

and sorry for the delay! i wanted to get reacquainted with RZ Myers so i spent some time watching the films again to get a better grasp on his movements, mannerisms, and the little idiosyncrasies i could spot!

i really hope you enjoy this! and - sorry, again: this kind of got away on me, and its maybe-sorta-kinda clocking in at 11K. oops. 🥹

⤷tw: gratuitous smut, fluff, mentions of gore and death, Michael being Michael, dom!Michael

You tell yourself you're not nervous, that there is nothing to be nervous about in this strange little microcosm you've fallen inside (snatched, dragged, locked in a gilded cage where you are tucked away from a world that might lash out and hurt). 

No, nothing at all. 

In this ethereal, otherworldly place inhabited only by two (and your cat - cats, really, because you love all of your strays equally) there is no set routine; therefore, there is nothing to be worried about since something like this could only be fretted over had you the luxury of normalcy. Of established rules. Regulation. Schedule.

It's silly to worry, then. Silly and stupid and pointless. 

You're not nervous. You're not.

But the anxious knot that gnarls inside of your chest spools and thickens with each passing minute calls you a liar. 

The clock in the corner ticks the time down like an augury, and your eyes bounce between it - this ugly grandfather clock with a pendulum that hangs too much like a noose for you to ever enjoy the sonorous lull - and the back door, as if in those scant microseconds, he would appear in the doorway, head hanging low to avoid clunking his forehead off the trim - because he's just so tall, just so massive -, and would just be standing there, watching you. Like he always does. Staring. Assessing. 

For such an indomitable, unfathomable mountain of a man, he's surprisingly catlike. 

A silent, stealthy jaguar hidden in plain sight. 

(There is a predator in this picture!, your aunt shares on Facebook. Can you spot him?

You never do. You don't have an eye for locating hidden danger, and when you scroll down, spotting the cat lurking in the red circle, you realise you weren't even close.)

When you look at the back door once again, there is nothing crowding the archway. No one lingering near the basement stairs. The open hallway is empty save for your bins lined up in the small mudroom that connects to it by a set of three steps on the halfpace.

You know the layout of your house like the back of your hand, just like you know the places he likes to hide. To wait. The little enclaves barely conceal the sheer, absurd bulk of him, and they're all empty. 

You hear nothing. Not the rattle of the lock. The creaking of the cellar stairs. Nor the unmistakable sound of his muffled breathing. 

You're not worried. Saudade doesn't belong in your heavy chest. 

Tick tick tick… 

There is nothing to be worried about. 

Tick tick tick… 

Your gaze tears away from the door, the clock, when the familiar jingle of the local news station cuts through the tenebrous clouding your living room. 

The man - clean, sharp, greying around his temples - jogs a stack of papers on the curved desk, his mouth set in a grim line. 

It's been nearly a month since you've seen him last. 

He comes and goes like the many strays you pluck from the alleys and take home, nursing them back to health, feeding them until they're plump and nourished, and then letting them wander back from wherever little corner they originated from, knowing that you'll see them again when the rats thin and the new litter is able enough to hunt on their own. 

Scarcity is what brings your family together. 

"...A series of murders are once again shaking up the county. No curfew is set as of late, but the police are urging the public not to wander at night alone, to stay in large groups, and to lock all windows and doors…"

Hunting in Haddonfield is scarce lately. 

You taste copper on your tongue before your bottom lip starts smarting as your teeth break the flesh. Your tongue rolls out, smoothing over the irritated skin, and wiping away the droplets of blood that pool in the seam of your mouth. It's salty, astringent. The metallic tang makes your mind wander, drifting to him. 

Like a magnet, your eyes are pulled back to the hallway. 

The taste of blood reminds you of him. The thick, heady scent of rust seems to exude from every pore on his body. The burning miasma of decay. Death. 

(Danger, something in the atavistic recesses of your mind spits. Danger and doom. Demise.)

"...Seven more bodies were found-," you blink, gaze focusing on the dim hallway that sits, stagnant, vacant, and turn your head back to the television. Faces flash on the screen behind his head. Their names sit in a little white rectangle below the last image of them alive, happy. 

The one in the middle looks familiar. A familiar stranger. 

It hits you when you spot the little mole on her chin. 

The bubbly clerk at the mum'n'pop grocer on the outskirts of the city. She always pretends to ring up your tampons and pads, but each time you sit in your car and glance at the receipt, they're never there. 

It's done with no words. She isn't seeking recognition, or plaudits.

The last time you saw her, she added a bag of chocolate clusters to your order, perching them on top of the box. You walked in looking like death and hunched over from the cramps that turned your face nearly ashen with pain that day. No words. No inclusion of nearly nine dollars and forty cents on your bill. She even grabbed the expensive brand - the one that uses all-natural ingredients. 

She winked when you looked at her. A secretive little thing meant only for you. 

And now - 

You suck in a shuddering breath through clenched teeth. The temperature drops. Your teeth ache from the cold. 

Sometimes you like to pretend that the world doesn't exist outside of the four walls that close in around you. That everything else is a bad dream, an illusion. It's just you on this lonely island on the outskirts of a town that bred the unequivocal evil that haunts the shadows and hunts down those misfortunate enough to stumble in its ravenous path. 

Just you, him, and your cats. 

And he, of course, is the shapeless chasm of evil skulking the town and butchering the lovely shopgirl who gives you free chocolate when you wander in like an omen of death. 

It's not his fault. 

The excuse is thin. Sorrow gnarls inside of your chest, edging into the anxious thrum that steady billows up, polluting you with that fretful, nauseating sense of worry. 

You know you can't just mark down the residents that are off-limits. No such thing exists to him. The concept of unkillable is as confounding to him as this whole thing is to you.

But - 

As much as you like her - liked - you've made your choice, haven't you? The sorrow is overwhelmed by the worry. 

What if the police found him? What if someone hurt him? What if, what if, what if - 

What if he never comes back? 

This whole thing started on an ephemeral moment of happenstance. You wandered out into the alley right beside your house, pstpstpst'ing in the dark with an open bag of Temptations whilst you searched for that little stray who ran off with your socks - the cosy kind that keeps all your toes warm - when you stumbled into a wall. A warm one. Fever-hot. A hand lashed out of the caliginous recess, sealing around your arm before the gasp in your throat had a chance to pass your lips. 

It felt like a vice. 

The unrelenting coil of iron wrapped around your arms, squeezing the bone with such unfathomable force that your knees quaked from pain leaking into your forearm. 

The bag dropped from your shaking hands, spilling shrimp and lobster flavoured cat treats all over the dank, grimy alley floor. 

You couldn't see anything through the gloom or the sudden vertigo that ensnared you when you glanced up, trying to catch a glimpse of the mass of pure strength perched in front of you. Your head swam as the man's sheer length stretched on for aeons, never ending, roiling up nearly two metres tall. 

Your knees buckled. 

His hands gripping you was the only thing that kept you from collapsing into the murky puddle below. 

Through the town, murmurs erupted about the Shape. His history leaks blood and misery - mayhem and calamity follow him wherever he wanders. He's an omen of death. Decay and pain, murder, is his auspice. 

He's pure evil, the flashy doctor on the television set ground out, tone severe. His brows furrowed tightly together as everyone else around him hurtled blame and reason. He ignored them, his gaze unwavering as he stared into your very being through the monitor. Stay away from him. If you see him-, there was a hitch in his voice; and then, solemn. The silence of the newsroom was palpable: well, you'd be better off praying for a swift death. 

And so, that's what you do. 

"Please, please-," you don't pray to god. Gods. Your pleas are meant for him even though the black eyes that gleam in the low moonlight that hangs over you like a portant all tell you that it's futile. He doesn't listen to prayers. Your breathless orisons fall on deaf ears. 

You think about your cats. The ones locked inside your house right now with no escape. Food will run low. Water. You don't have many friends that keep up with you often enough for them to notice your absence. 

It's then, at that moment when his hands squeeze and your bones creak under the strain, that you wish you didn't prefer your own company over that of others. Cats. That if you weren't so docile and content to be alone, someone would notice the glaring lack of you, and rescue the poor strays you trapped inside your charnel. 

"Please," you choke, eyes burning with tears that stream down your face in rivets. It's your last adjure, plea, to whatever humanity is left to rot inside of him. "P-please just open my door…? My cats are inside, and I-"

The clouds overhead split apart. The milky glow of the moon illuminates the dim alleyway, cutting through the tenebrous cloaking the being that grips you from the shadows. 

The murky light makes the deep splashes on his chest look almost like ink. 

You thought it was his head. 

Oh, god. You'd been pleading with his chest this whole time. 

You glance up, nervous, shaking, and are met with the waxen mask, creased with age and covered in grime. Blood, perhaps. The sight of him, the way the back of your head has to nearly rest on your spine to stare at his face, makes you shiver. Makes your hands tremble and your heart thunder inside of your chest.

It would be very logical for the blood in your veins to run cold.

But with the intense, piercing way he stares down at you, chin tipped toward his chest, it spumes molten, liquid heat that rushes through you with enough force that you feel a little dizzy with it. 

Oh, no… 

Oh -

He bends down, and the thick, metallic scent of blood overwhelms you. Dirt. Sweat. The miasma of rot makes your heart give a painful thud. Fear. Terror. 

(And something else.)

His breath turns stertorous. 

You brace yourself, tensing for the sudden paroxysm of a vicious attack, your mind flashing with all the things you did, didn't do, should have done, and will now never get the chance - 

- He lurches, and then like a pendulum, swings back. 

You're jerked forward when he falls into the trash behind him, clattering against the bins stacked up near the garbage shoot. 

The silence that settles over you is smothering. 

You expect him to get up, to finish what he tried to start, but he doesn't. He lays, motionless, in the gutter. His grip on your arms slackens, and they fall, limp, to his sides. 

It's then that the damage to his torso reveals itself to you. The blood coating his body wasn't, entirely, foreign. 

He's injured. 

You hesitate. 

You should leave him here to die. Call the police. Thank your sudden stroke of luck. Kiss the ground and look for some deity to worship for this salvation. 

You should, but you don't.

(You've always had a soft spot for dirty strays.)

He comes and goes, now. Like the many cats you feed. 

Wandering around before slowly ambling back to your house in search of more sustenance. 

Somewhere in the muddled awakening, when he blinked his eyes open and found himself staring at the white popcorn ceiling in your living room, catching sight of you careful dabbing at the sweat drying on his brow after the rupture of a fever, you - and your house - become something victual for him. 

It was tense, at first - and really, it still is - but in the interim of patching together the gory remnants of his abdomen and breaking down in the solitude of your bathroom, huddled in the basin as water rippled across your skin in a baptism of sin, you found purpose in the murkiness that enshrouded you. 

The dubious morality nearly crippled you, leaving nothing but an empty husk of regret and terror as his skin knitted itself together, sealing over the wound that, had it been left in the trash, would have killed him. The infection, poisoned blood, animals - it would have all contributed to a corpse in the alley. 

The stench would have drawn notice to his final resting place, and the reign of terror the chasm of evil, the Shape, brought to your town would finally be over. 

And yet -

There was something itching in your pericardium that made leaving him alone feel tithe abysmal as the brief relief of letting him die. 

This is your fault. 

Your lip aches. Your tongue lolls over the broken skin, soothing the sting. 

Whatever it was that made him decide not to kill you when he felt your hands on his forehead, when he saw you trembling in the corner, gasping for breath and praying for a swift end, is a mystery to you. 

But maybe there is no logic. You feed the strays because you want to. 

You buy the extra cat food, and litter, and spend your earned money to get them spayed and neutered and cared for, not because you have to, but because you just do.

And maybe it's the same for him. 

You're somewhere in the middle of unkillable - for now - and nourishment.

Or you were. 

Then something inside of him snapped, evolved. 

You weren't here when he slipped inside of your home like he belonged, flinching at the state of him dripping gore in your mudroom, and then slowly, cautiously, skirting around him, fretting in the background. 

You weren't there.

No -

You were at the vet. 

When you returned, cat cradled under your arm and dozing off the effects of anaesthesia, you were met with an eerie silence, and bloodied footprints pacing across your floors. 

You had just enough time to set the cat down on the landing when his hand lashed out through the aether once more, grabbing your delicate neck and slamming you against the wall so hard the photos you hung (all pictures bought from Ikea to make your mudroom a little less drab) clattered to the ground, cascading glass and broken wood over the messy floor.

His breath comes in great, heaving rasps; anger seeps into every crevasse as his eyes, feverish with bloodlust, bore down at you. 

The apoplectic fury that roars through him is sudden, unexpected. He'd been so docile toward you thus far. Your defences lowered, almost, when weeks passed and he made no move to end your life. 

He crept around your house like he belonged, watching you from the doorway of your bedroom as you slept. It was the most he'd done to shake your sense of comfort and privacy. 

He never touched you, except that time in the alley and when he'd first woken up, both times grabbing you out of reflex rather than intent. 

This - 

This is purposeful. 

The quick rise and fall of his chest makes your toes curl in confusion, fear. 

Why now? Why he is - 

He leans in, the wheezing breath sounding muffled and garish behind the latex, and then he - 

Sniffs.

It's so unexpected, so jarring, that your head thumps against the wall when you flinch. 

Why is he - 

His hand reaches up, grasping at the wispy, tangled hair of his mask, and with a great tug, it's pulled from his head, and dropped - discarded - on the floor. 

You've only seen him barefaced when you lugged him into the mudroom, and settled him on the carpet between your couch and coffee table. It wasn't his choice; you'd removed it in your search for additional injuries. 

This, however, is all him - his choice, his decision.

And it baffles you. 

You don't know why he took the mask off, why he's so angry - why he keeps coming back, why he stares at you so much, why he does what he does, why you - 

You find out with the briefest flutter of his eyelids narrowing at you. His nostrils flare. And then he moves, plunging his head closer to you until your foreheads are pressed taut together, and suddenly - unexpectedly - his mouth is on yours. 

He doesn't move. His lips are lax. It might not even be a kiss, you don't think, but then his head tilts, slanting his mouth over your own, and his lips part, only just, and it's then that you realise that he is kissing you. 

Or in proxy of it, anyway. 

He mimics the right movements, but there is no action beyond that. It's almost as if he doesn't know how people kiss, just that they do, and this is what it looks like when you stand off to the side and watch. 

Movies. Real life. The images you've seen play in your head over and over again, lining up perfectly with the way his head moves, the way his body leans into you, bracketing you against the wall. His hand around your throat keeps your chin up, your head immobile, while he cocks his head to the side in a mockery of romance that's so utter endearing you nearly pass out from blood that rushes to your cheeks. 

Oh, god. 

Michael Myers is kissing you. He doesn't know how, but he's trying, and it's - 

Oh, god. Oh -

It changes the chossy foundation established between you. 

Michael stakes a claim on you, on your house, that is incomprehensible to you; this abstruse chasm in which you're precariously balanced on the precipice, gazing in at the inscrutable abyss that looks back at you, and kisses you, and pulls you close, and smothers you with the sheer absurdity of it all, is confounding. Beyond reason. 

You haven't initiated any of it. 

All the lines crossed between you were at his hands, his whim. When he strips you bare and looms over you like a starving breast, a ravenous god, you let him - willingly, eagerly - but you never breach those parameters on your own accord. 

The abrupt physicality of your evolving - something - with Michael Myers wreaks havoc on your poor, straining heart. The embarrassment comes in a maelstrom. You skirt away from his grasping hands, gasping and flushing scarlet as the blazing heat of his body sears your skin. 

It's too much sometimes. 

To go from near death, to a ramshackle symbiosis of sorts - a ghastly, unspoken agreement in which you are not to be killed provided that you aid him when he comes skulking through the alley, and meandering about your haven like the very same alleycats you pluck from the barren streets -, to this, is, well, odd, to say the least. 

Was it there the whole time for him? Did he look at you with his lidded gaze from the onset? Did that dark hunger spool inside of him from the beginning or were the embers flamed by something you did after? 

Was it the empty house he wandered into that set him off? 

(Does it really matter?)

"...If you see any suspicious figures, do not engage, and call local authorities right away-," click.

You toss the remote on the cushion beside you, leaning your head back on the rest, gazing listlessly at the ceiling. The swell of panic hasn't subsided, but it's all futile. 

Michael has no collar. He comes and goes on his own, driven back to you by that strange unknowable thing that makes him desire you, that makes him tug you on his lap and paw at your body until you're quivering from his touch. When he finally sinks inside of you, all thought is dissolved into frayed synapses that spark, filled with nothing but pleasure. Logic, reason, questionable morality, the existential ennui that drapes over you like a stormcloud, only seeps into the tenebrous when he is around. 

And he hasn't been around for nearly a month. So, it comes in vicious waves, now. 

Maybe he found whatever he was searching for in your flesh, and didn't need it any longer. Maybe the tremble in your hands caused by his touch, the briefest brush of his skin nearly overwhelming you, and the etiolated countenance you carried when he loomed large and imposing, in your space, was disinteresting to him. 

You've seen it before in the others, haven't you? 

Hunger satiated. Thirst quenched. They wandered away from you, no longer needing the aliment you provided. 

You should be thankful that his curiosity has been abated. 

(But like most things you ought to be, you aren't.)

The only constant with Michael is a trail of bodies and the habitual sense of fear and unease as he lurks in the crevasses of Haddonfield, waiting to happen upon his next victim. 

He leaves you in a state of pell-mell and uproots your bucolic existence with his confounding presence, and the strange way he fits you inside of his world. 

Your thoughts are plagued by uncertainties that make your stomach churn with knots; a festering mass of unease and anxiety. 

You need a distraction. 

Your eyes glance furtively toward the hallway - barren as it has been for the last month - before the little sigh of dejection passes through your lips. 

It's silly to worry. 

With one last hopeful glance at the still empty hallway, you rise from the couch, and drift toward the washroom adjacent to your bedroom. You'll scour the nerves off under the scalding nozzle, and then watch something cheesy and stupid - a mindless movie you turn your thoughts off before falling asleep. 

Peanut Purrter and Jelly swarm you when you stand, mewling for the food they already ate, and you bend down, scratching behind their soft ears. Out of all of the cats, these two are the most affectionate. They never leave your side, either. You picked them up out of a bin, took them home, and they quickly decided that the outdoor life was just not for them. 

It happens sometimes. 

All their wants are fulfilled in the sanctity of your four walls, and they seem content to live out the rest of their days wandering through the halls, and watching the birds from out the window, or the fish in your tank. 

Jelly pushes his soft, orange head into your palm, eyes slipping shut as his loud purrs fill the hallway, and you can't stop the little thought that slips out of the recess where notions of grandeur and impossibilities are let to rot, wondering if one day, Michael will find that, too. 

(And then, embarrassedly, selfishly, you wonder if it would be with you.)

You bury your flaming cheeks into Peanut's lush fur, and use her as a shield to hide the silly little thoughts that roll inside of your head late at night. She's happy to go along for the ride, content to paw at your hair and flick her tail over your arms. 

"How stupid," you murmur into her fur, the flush spreading like a fever. 

She bleats in response.

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The shower eases the tension that builds, settling the cortisol that pools inside of you.  

Thoughts of Michael slip down the drain, but only just. He lingers in the periphery - has since you first found him in the gutter and dragged him inside - like an inescapable shadow. Your hands scrub over your face in a futile attempt to wash the blush off your cheeks. 

It's easy to push the idealistic musings into the chasm that chews them up and spits out realism. 

It's the worry of the unknown that refuses to relent. 

Is he hurt? Did he get caught? Why hasn't he come home -

Home. 

No. This isn't his home. His home is a dilapidated house in the suburbs of Haddonfield. 

Your little bucolic abode on the fringes of the wilderness is not home to him: it's a refuge. A place to get his needs met and lay low. 

A means to an end. 

The thoughts gnarl inside of you, festering under the weight of uncertainty.

You wish you could ask him, but even if he was here, you know you wouldn't. The words sat on your lips so many times before only to be swallowed down quickly by the fear of rejection, of pushing him into a corner. 

You reach for the soap and wonder where this is heading. Maybe he wouldn't return. Maybe he didn't need you anymore.

Maybe -

There is a rustle. A looming shape just outside of the blue cover. And then your curtain is wrenched back. 

The startled scream is smothered in your oesophagus at the sight of him, brooding, massive. He takes up all space in your small washroom - so tall that he has to duck his head down to look at you lest his view is hindered by the curtain rod. 

(Can you spot the danger? You didn't even know it was there-)

He appears almost as quickly as he disappears. His eyes never waver as he watches you huddled under the scalding spray of the shower head, hands curled between your breasts as you lather a bar of soap in your hands. 

(Sea salt and eucalyptus. The loam scent reminds you of him.)

You flush, hunching further as his usually impassive stare hardens, brimming with an intensity that is only matched when he's angry or victorious after a kill. 

Michael peels back the shower curtain, exposing more of your nude, wet flesh to his burning gaze. 

"M-Michael-," you start, stuttering over his name, but the rest turns into a breathless huff of surprise when he pulls off his mask, and ducks under the rod keeping the curtain in place, clambering into the shower behind you. 

As soon as the water hits the leg of his jumpsuit, grime and dirt bleed off of him in rivets, turning the pooling liquid black. The brackish water sloshes as he steps in beside you, looming over you. 

The shower seems comically small in comparison to the length and width of him. His shoulders hunch, head dropping to avoid hitting the waterproof ceiling. You shuffle back, numb with surprise at his unexpected appearance, and with the way he moves - agile and graceful, despite his size. 

He fills the space, pushing you back to the opposite wall with the nozzle directly over your head. It reaches to his sternum, the weeping spray drenching his jumpsuit until it's nearly black from the water and the dried blood that runs down the length of his torso. 

It must be uncomfortable, you think, but he makes no move to undress, and seems completely unbothered by the oddity of the situation. 

It's been a month. Not much has changed. He is still the same strange - deadly, dangerous - man he'd always been. Always is. 

Your smile is a touch wobbly, filled with nerves of a new kind; the same anxious thrum wells inside of you at the sight of him. Your mind oscillates between terror, fear, and that primal pool of self-preservation that quickly rips through you, and bellows to stay still, to hide so that the hulking predator can't see you, can't devour you; and the unmistakable sense of relief at the sight of him standing so close to you. 

He's here, your mind chants like a broken record, tone shifting like a swinging pendulum between nervousness, fear and happiness, solace. 

Michael has a tendency to wring out every iota of intensity in each emotion you feel. There is no slight, no halves - it's whole. All. You're never slightly happy to see him. You're exuberant. You're never a little scared of him. You're terrified. 

You've never felt this way about anyone else before. The visceral emotions he makes you feel leave your mind spiralling on a downward descent off the edge of a steep precipice. 

And even now, with him towering over you like an inescapable wall of pure strength, you're wracked with tremors from the force of the relief, the conflict of fight or flight, and the undulating sense of contentment at having him so close to you. 

"Michael…" you murmur again, caught between terror and need. 

The slightest narrowing of his eyes is all he gives you in response. His chin dips down, meaningful, purposeful, and you know, you know, what he wants. What he came for. 

Covered in blood that doesn't belong to him, fresh from the abattoir he makes of your town, you can't help the thrum of want, need, happiness that spumes inside of your chest, consuming the worry, the fear, in one quick bite. 

It's gone, dissolved by hydrochloric acid and the unrelenting urge to close the chasm between you and the bulk of his body where you stand, barely brushing past the last rib of his torso. Michael knows. Of course he does. 

You were naïve in the beginning when you assumed him to just be a mindless killer; that the eyes that gazed at you were vacant and unseeing. 

Michael Myers is more observant than you could have ever fathomed. 

Nothing escapes him. 

Not the tremble in your lip, the spasms of your shaking fingers, the glistening water that runs down your flesh, already prickling with goosebumps despite the steaming heat of the shower.

He can see the need, the want, brimming up in your eyes as you gaze at him fleetingly, unable to match his stare, and overcome with that burning tang of embarrassment, shyness, that overwhelms you when he stands too close. 

He can see the war in your mind: 

Yearning for proximity until all you can feel is his heavy flesh on yours, merging together into a muddled mess of euphoric pleasure.

And;

The hesitation to get too close. The nervous thudding of your heart when he moves, like a scared little animal of prey stumbling upon a resting predator. Unsure what to do. How to approach. And if you even can.

It becomes too much. Your eyes drop - submissive, docile - to the white panelled floor below, watching the blood run over your feet, staining the mat pink with the gory residuum of seven - known - victims. It makes you recoil slightly, toes curling in the river of ichor. 

Michael’s head tilts. Another display of impatience. 

Right. Your teeth sink into the soft bed of flesh. Nerves turning to ash. 

Your hands shake when you reach up, knuckles brushing over the metal chain of his zipper as your trembling fingers grasp the pull. Michael keeps his intense, heavy gaze on you as your fingers spasm, too nervous to take the lead and undress him. 

Like a skittish little mouse under the paw of a cat, you tremble. Paralysed. But not with fear - with nerves. 

It's been a month, you want to say. You're not prepared. You're not - 

It's a lie, though. You laid in bed for the last four weeks with your hand under the covers, and his name on your lips like gospel. 

If anything, you're over-prepared. All too eager to feel him. To let the boogeyman take you. 

The thoughts running through you make you shiver. In your musings, Michael's head tilts.

The amplitude of his patience is deep, but not endless. 

His hand reaches up, closing in your own. His palm swallows your hands with an effortless ease that makes your knees quake. 

The implication in his action is clear: hurry up. 

You nod, mostly to yourself and you scrounge together the nerve that is quickly being eroded by the cascading water pouring over you. The grind of the metal teeth peeling back on the zipper, the rush of the water, and Michael's deep, even breaths are the only noise that fills the small - too small - shower. The muted cacophony echoes against the ceramic walls, reverberating through you. 

The zipper snags on the grove, and can go no further. You swallow thickly, eyes darting up to catch a glimpse of his expression covered under the damp, tangled curtain of his long brown hair. An inky abyss stares back at you. Under the impassivity of his expression, the vat of unfathomable black churns and froths with intense, burning fervour.  

He shrugs his shoulders, and the jumpsuit slips down from the weight of the water, pooling at his ankles. 

You flinch when his cock springs up, freed from the loose confinement of his overalls, and you think you catch a glimpse of his canines when he spots the bloom of blood spuming under your cheeks. 

You peek up at him, stomach knotting with a flutter of nerves that batter relentlessly at your soft lining, anxious to escape the prison it's kept in. His teeth are hidden by the even seam of his lips, expression veiled with a thick veneer of that same implacable nothingness that's reflected on the latex laying dormant, forgotten, on the carpet. 

When you finally meet his gaze, Michael's eyes flutter. And then he drops. 

Michael sits in one swift movement, dropping down to the shower bench behind him. His knees jut forward on the seat that's far too tiny for someone so big. 

Without him looming over you, you feel like you can breathe again. Quick breaths are eagerly stolen into your starved lungs. His proximity alone makes you sweat, makes you feel like you're being smothered. Hypoxia sets in until you're dizzy with it.

His hand reaches out, wrapping around your arm in that same too-tight, too firm grasp he always uses. 

It would be a lie to say he doesn't know his own strength by now. Michael Myers is very aware. Very attuned to himself in a way that you don't think any other person could ever manage to be. There is no unknown with him, no indecision. No unease. When he does something, it's always with purpose. 

So, when he takes hold of you like this, a shade away from burgeoning pain, you know that this, too, is done with meaning. And when your gaze drops to the floor, unable to meet the burning smoulder that stares at you, expectant, waiting, you see the purpose very clearly. 

He's hard. 

The moment your gaze brushes across the pearlescent precum pooling on his flushed, engorged head, his cock twitches, jerking against his broad, firm stomach. 

The hot water is limitless with your tank. It'll never run out so long as the electric light keeps it burning. But the spray that grazes your skin feels icy compared to the heat thrumming in your veins. You feel hot. Feverish. 

Panting into the steamy, oxygen-starved basin, you hastily snap your eyes shut, squeezing them tight to stem the sudden torrent of want that rages inside of you at the sight of him - knees spread in the perfect picture of languour, one hand on you, an effortless shackle keeping you from escaping, and the other limp by his side, knuckles brushing against the ceramic shower seat. 

He's probably tilting his head in that way he's wont to do - a little dip of his chin that conveys and implacable: well? and you can almost hear the accompanying, what are you waiting for? echoing in the stifling chamber. 

Your face is on fire. The embers flicker and drop sparks across your chest, spitting at the tips of your ears. 

You can't - 

Well. You simply can't. 

But Michael doesn't understand the concept of no, of wait, of this is too much and it's been so long and he's too -

Overwhelming. 

Everything is: his presence, the way his intensity feels like physical weight bearing down on you, his absurd size, his indomitable prowess and strength that sometimes makes your knees buckle and your limbs slacken in fear, his insatiable appetite -

He's hungry. Your teeth chatter from the shiver that rockets down your spine. 

There is no preparation for when his hands seal around your waist, unamused by the embarrassment that overtakes you. It happens too fast for you to keep up. His muscle coil, tightening, and then you're being heaved up into the air, suspended over his lap by nothing but his brute strength. 

Michael moves you around like you're a life-sized doll, filled with nothing but spooled polyester cotton. And to him, maybe you are. You're a malleable thing that flushes blood red in his presence, the hue never failing to catch his rapt attention immediately, and pique that little part of his brain that wants more. Little nips decorate your chin, neck, collarbones, chest - all a buccaneer smear of blossoming brands in the shape of his teeth; his insatiable lust for that particular cardinal shade manifesting on your flesh. 

He stares at them after. Eyes fixed on the burst capillaries that pool blood just under your skin. His breath is always a little quicker when he sees them the next morning, a little raspy, ragged. 

(He'll push you, then, against the wall and take you there, eyes never straying from the soot-coloured stains smearing flaxen and violet.)

There is no illusion of control with Michael. No sense of shared power or leeway. The ebb and flow begins and ends with him - his whims, his wants. You're merely adrift in the current, clinging to driftwood as his currents drag you along. 

It's here, perched on top of him, in a position where - had it been anyone else, you might have considered yourself in control, where the truth of that really stands apparent. 

Your knees aren't even touching the bench. They're folded up, caps pressed into the seam of the wall and Michael's hips, legs folded under your thighs, and toes dangling off the edge of his bent knees. 

He holds you tight, refusing to let you go, and pulls you taut to his chest until you can go no further. 

Even with you perched atop him, he has to angle his chin down to meet your gaze. Big. Towering. Mountainous. His arms flex, muscles coiling under the tawny flesh that barely contains it, and it's the jut of his veins that makes you gasp, eyes lidding as desire spools inside of you. 

Sometimes you like to imagine what he would be like had he chosen a different path in life, one void of bloodshed and terror. A model, you think, delirious with the hard press of his body against yours - so fragile and delicate by comparison. He'd be lusted after by an endless stream of people desperate, like you, for just a graze. 

It feels a little taboo to touch him, but you're imbued with the visceral sense of cacoethes.  

Unable to stem the itch in your palms, you press them against his chest, feeling the hard plains of his body under your fingertips. His skin is warm. Chest dusted with a flaxen smattering of ulotrichous hair. It prickles against your skin when you rub your hands across his broad torso, tentatively running them up toward his collarbones.

It had taken quite a substantial amount of courage - of the liquid kind, no less - to touch him of your own accord. He seemed rather pleased when you did, when your hand reached out and felt the bulk of his forearms, so wide that there was still a finger-width of flesh poking out around your thumb and pinky. His muscles tensed under your curious prods. The first tightening of his corded arm seemed largely out of the unwonted brush of your skin on the outside of his usual demanding design. Then he relaxed. His muscles flexed, as if to show you a proper demonstration of his indelible strength. 

His skin rippled. Veins bulged, pressing taut to his flesh. 

The sight of it made your mouth water. 

Still does, you think, eyes greedily taking in every inch of his exposed skin, the expansive flesh offered to you is irresistible. Your hands roam, free and unhindered by the usual hesitation that encapsulates you. It's the distance. The time apart has chiselled open a rapacious hunger inside of you. 

Michael watches as you paw at him desperately, eyes widening, breath stuttering when his chest expands under your hands. Your palm passes over his heart, and the steady thud is almost jarring. It knocks through the haze of want that overtook you, and you find yourself almost surprised, like always, when Michael's humanity is confirmed. 

He's not a husk driven by basic needs. Evil. 

He has a heart - one that beats just like yours. 

You pull back, your palm lifting off of his chest until just the very tops of your fingers remain on his skin. 

Sometimes you convince yourself that he's a spectre. Ichor and evil are confined in the pulpy sinew of a human. A matryoshka of sorts where the exterior seems largely normal - or as normal as someone as massive as he is could ever seem - but the inside is filled with empty layers all stacked together. 

Murder. Bloodlust. Mayhem.

Carnage. Death. Decay. 

It muddles together in your mind and makes you think of him as a quietus. A being that does not belong in this realm where ghosts and demons and ghouls are relegated to the altar where they are condemned by a vicar. Cast out of the established spectrum in the material world that closes in on you like a noose. 

The dense, solid flesh under your hands confirms corporeal nature, but everything else about him mystifies you. 

A little part of you wonders if he really is a quietus prowling around in this moral plane; an escapee from the pits of hell left to wreak havoc on the world of the living to satiate that lust for calamity that brims inside of his slate-coloured gaze; the same hue as death, decay.

The same eyes that ensnare you - captivate you - rendering you mute, silent, in the echoing cacophony of the dead that bellow at you, their blood running down your drain, congealing on your toes. 

(You wonder, then, what it says about you that you're willingly perched on the lap of Stygian ilk like a poised queen on a throne of skulls. 

Right where you belong.)

You meet that smouldering gaze.

He's surprisingly accommodating today, you note, glancing at him through the wet veil that hides his expression from you. Your fingers twitch on his chest. You're overcome with another inadvisable whim - the urge to sink your hands into his hair and scrub the dirt away from his ashen locks is hard to ignore, but that might be pushing the limits of what he allows too far. 

You dig your nails into the flaxen hair on his chest instead, grounding yourself against the silly notions brimming up inside of you.

It's in those musings over your unexpected caprice that Michael's patience wears. 

His jagged nails bite into the flesh on your hips, the stinging prickle of a furze meant only as a warning. He wants something. You're taking too long. He's getting impatient. 

But the thing is: you don't know what it is he wants. 

Your lower lip juts out, and you sink your teeth into the plush skin. It would be easier if he spoke, telling you what it is you're doing wrong, or if he showed you what it was he wanted. But it's futile. 

He does neither. Michael gave you a warning, and now he waits. 

The nervous gnashing in your chest grows under the intensity of his stare. His eyes narrow just a touch, fixed on the pink slip of your appendage poking out. He's so focused on it, that you feel like you can breathe a little better without the weight of his gaze penetrating into your being. Eye contact with Michael Myers fills you with the maddening urge to roll over and show your soft belly, to bare your vulnerable neck in submission. 

Your tongue flicks up, swiping across your upper lip. His eyes follow it. 

You do it again. Again -

Just as you're beginning to catch on to what he wants, he tires of the little game you're (unintentionally) playing. 

To him, you're toying with him. Holding up a piece of meat and dangling it in front of his maw. 

You flush, stuttering out a simpering apology, but Michael cares very little for the placating words you attempt to persuade him with. The burn of his unyielding grip burrows into you again, and it's the only warning he gives before he wrenches you forward, pulling you until your breasts are flush with his chest. 

He devours the broken gasp of his name that stumbles from your lips, feasting on you like a starving beast. 

Michael is a quick learner. Almost as soon as you opened your mouth, moulding your lips against his, he picked up the finesse behind the action, and consumed you. He doesn't let you take control of the kiss - once he learnt the little things that make you pant into his mouth, moan brokenly against his tongue, his hunger grew. His kisses leave you breathless in a way no one else has ever managed. 

Like most things in your life before Michael, kissing was always just okay. A prelude. A chore. 

And now you whine against his lips as his tongue lashes out, filling your mouth in search of more of your taste. 

It's good, now. Great. Amazing. An explosive sensation of searing heat, and kiss bruised lips. You pull away, gasping for air, and feel the sting on your mouth from the force of his ardour. 

Lidded, hazy with want, you pull yourself closer to him, whimpering when his cock presses into your navel, smearing precum across your wet skin. 

It's been a month. A month of nothing. The scent of him left your pillows weeks ago, and your imagination was barely enough to quell the rapacious ache inside of you that longed for the firm, unyielding press of his body over yours. 

And now, he's here. He's yours for the taking. 

Your fingers itch again - the urge to touch is strong. Consuming. 

But you don't. You flush a deep maroon, tipping your chin away from his gaze, and rock against his lap, seeking a quiet, unnoticeable pleasure. 

He's too much. 

You can't ever bring yourself to give into the greediness inside of you, and instead take what little you can get away with. The idea of just -

Taking feels a little too sacrilegious. A little too bold. It's not in your nature to do so, and the idea of testing those implicit boundaries with Michael is a little too daunting. 

So, you cant your hips against him, squirming in his lap to abate the ache growing inside of you with what little motions he'll allow as Michael nips down the column of your throat. His mouth on his skin, teeth burrowed into your pulse point, the thick length of him so close to where you want him, need him, is too much. 

He catches the bloom of red under your skin when you blush, feels the stutter of your breath as it crawls up your throat. The want in your voice, the need, is palpable when you choke out his name. A soft, meek little thing: the coo of prey, begging so prettily for reprieve.

Michael buries his chin into the curve of your neck, forcing your head back. His hands slide, bracing over the delicate vertebrates of your spine. They're almost fluid in his hand. The bones in your body are as easy as papier-mâché for him to snap. To break. He could ruin you. Sink his canines into your jugular and tear out your flesh, letting you bleed to death in his lap. He could keep the sensual arch of your back going, pushing and pushing until he snapped you in half. You're so -

Fragile. 

His cock twitches against you, spitting prespend over your belly. His cock burns hotter than a brand, molten against your skin. 

Michael's arms tighten around you, fingers digging into the knobs of your spine. Panic wells inside of you. He's going to do it - snap you in two -

-and Michael -

-picks you up effortlessly once again, and holds you over his aching cock. 

There is no foreplay tonight. He won't slide his hand between your soft thighs to feel how wet you are for him, fingers toying with your slickness until you moan out his name in that particular cadence he likes best. He won't drag them up, making you see them glistening with your desire. Forcing you to acknowledge your want for him, to see it glimmering on his hand. Evidentiary proof that your body yearns for him. That you belong to him.

He won't because he's impatient, now. Your wiggling, the little gasps of his name, the way you cling to him and fit in his lap, have all worn his patience down to nothing. 

(To Michael, he's had nearly a month of edging, foreplay, with each of his kills that left him half-hard and aching, and on the verge of wandering back to your familiar abode to satiate the burn in his loins.)

He'll take you like this. 

And maybe later, when he wakes in the middle of the night with you slumbering peacefully beside him, in the spot you belong, he'll slip under the covers and spread your aching thighs apart, rousing you to the sensation of his mouth devouring you, tongue greedily lapping at your centre until you're a quivering mess, begging him for respite that'll never come. Not when he hasn't had you in nearly a month. 

This is only an appetiser. 

You know this by the darkening glaze in his eyes as he pulls you close, grasping you tight, until the flushed head of his cock slips between your thighs. Shuddering from the way the blunt tip presses against you, you scramble to find purchase as he steadily lowers you down. His cock slips inside, stretching you wide to make room for the rest of him. 

Michael doesn't do things in halves. 

There is the slightest hitch to his breath once the first inch passes, bringing tears to your eyes at the burning stretch of him filling you. Once he's found his mark, he leans his head down, nuzzling into your neck.

You know what's coming. You know - 

But there is no time to prepare yourself for the suddenness of being split apart while his teeth sink into the soft flesh of your neck. 

A shrill cry is ripped from your throat when he bludgeons into you, the head of his cock battering into your cervix in a way that has you seeing phosphenes with your eyes wide open. Your toes curl, fingers dig into the flesh of his broad shoulders, body spasming with the sudden paroxysm of him being seated so deep within you. 

His jaw is vice on your neck, and for a moment you fear that he's going to pull away with a chunk of your flesh, but it's gone when his teeth go slack, and his tongue runs out with rapacious greed to lick up the fresh blood that spills down your chest in pink rivets. 

You sob, quaking from the suddenness of it all, and try to abate the hypoxia from inking out your vision. The abruptness, the pain of the bite, the burn of the stretch, all knocked the air from your lungs, and you struggle to come to yourself through the overwhelming sensations he ripped through you. 

It's a mercy that he stays still, letting you adjust to his girth as he laps at the blood he spilt, nipping at your broken flesh. Michael is big. You barely had time to marvel at the size of him before his urgency to fill you became too much, but you feel it now with incredible clarity. 

It pushes to the very edge of your mettle, teasing the resiliency of your body until you feel like you're on the verge of splitting apart. Broken, irreparably, by the thickness seated to the deepest depths inside of you. You shift, wincing at the way his cock moves when you do, the base of him stretching you in a way that has you heaving brokenly into his chest. 

It aches. He feels endless. You pry your fingers from his shoulders, only slightly remorseful at the sight of four indents cutting through his flesh, and drop your hand down to your stomach. More than a little delirious on that white-hot pain, you almost think you can feel his cock through the layers of tissue, pressing against the skin of your abdomen. 

"Michael-," you sob, head spooling with the thick haze of pleasure-pain that ricochets down your spine. 

He knows what you want. What you need. He always does, and while he might be a right bastard when it comes to giving it to you when you want it, he never leaves you dissatisfied. But this - the watery stream of blood leaking over your collarbones, dripping down your breasts, is what he cares for most, and so -

You'll wait. 

You pant. Squirming on the throne of his lap in a desperate attempt to find that spot inside of you that makes you see an array of refulgent nebulae behind your eyelids. 

Your walls tremble, body shaking, but slowly, slowly, the ache inside begins to spool, coiling into something different. Numbed pleasure seeps out of the place he's nudged, seated so firmly against, and begins to leak into your bloodstream. 

The first, quiet gasp that's ripped from your chest verges on absolute bliss. It's a call. A beacon. 

And Michael answers. 

Michael plants his feet firmly on the floor, and you feel the flex, the coil, of his strong hamstrings pull taut. Too busy admiring the strength in his body, you fail to recognise the signs. His hips jerk suddenly, pushing upward with enough force to jostle you. You gasp, slipping on his hard, wet skin, and slamming into his chest. Your hands reach up, holding onto his shoulders as Michael begins to move under you - the prowess of a tiger, a caiman, pure muscle barely contained by the prison of its flesh. 

He doesn't wait for you. 

All you can do is cling to him desperately, eagerly seeking purchase from the deep, demanding thrusts he batters into your body from below. 

His mouth is on yours again, swallowing the hiccuping moans you make, the keens, as he pistons into you. The pace he sets is rough, a touch brutal: he forces himself in as deep as he can go, pauses there just to let you feel it, and then pulls out until only the tip of his cock remains, and he waits again. It's a brief second, but they come so sporadically that you can't work out a pattern, not when the firm press of his cock inside of you knocks all logic out of your head.

Synapses overheat with each delicious drag of his cock against your gummy walls until they misfire, filling with a slurry of oxytocin and dopamine, rendering you stupid, dizzy, and drunk on the thickness of him, the way he fills you, and slams into the places inside that make your nucleus accumbens coruscate like a supernova. 

His hands clench around your hips, lifting you up off of his aching, hard cock, and forcing you to meet him in the middle of his next thrust. It rattles through your core until your voice is hoarse from the cries he rips out of you. It borders on the blissful equinox of being too much, too painful, and too good, too euphoric. 

All you can do is cling to him. Let him move you around how he pleases.

His breath quickens in tandem with your mewling sobs, head nuzzling into your chest when he lifts you up, and he pants into your wet flesh, head cushioned by pillowing softness of your breasts. 

The flesh is much too unblemished for his liking. 

His teeth sink into the soft underside of your breast, leaving behind a ring in the shape of his teeth that has your walls fluttering around him, squeezing him tight as the sudden burst of pain is perfectly complemented by the brutal pleasure he forces into you, head battering harshly into the gummy walls that have you singing his name in adulations. 

The sweet sounds you make spurn him on. The brands he decorates on your flesh split and bleeds as he trails his mouth through the valley of your breasts. 

His molten mouth seals over your aching, hard nipple, and pleasure whites out that place inside your head that worries. Your hand snaps up, burrowing in the messy tangle of his locks, pushing his mouth firmly into your chest, unwilling to let the way his tongue feels rolling over your buds go. He's sadistic, you think, fringing on utter delirium. He'll let go. You know he will.

His body rumbles with a growl when you tug on his hair, forcing his mouth to stay latched onto you. It vibrates over your sensitive flesh and makes you paw at his chest when the pleasure liquifies, roaring through your core until you can taste the cosmos on your tongue. 

It's not a warning. You know this because his mouth turns harsh, ravenous. He brutally fucks into you, pulling your body down to meet him with each thrust until you're howling his name so loud that you're sure the police department can hear your echoing cries rattling through the city. 

Your body dissolves in his hold, limbs turning phospholipid. The only thing keeping you together is his burning hands on your flesh as he moulds you in the ways he wants, bouncing you on his lap as molten pleasure courses through you. 

The coil tightens. Michael pulls away from your nipple, pushing his head between the valley of them, and pants into your sternum. The deep, haggard breaths he takes has you shuddering over him, so close now that you can feel it spreading liquid bliss through your body, pooling in the pit of your belly. 

Pleasure congeals in your marrow, and all at once you're on that precipice, careening over as you cum on his cock, sweet hymns falling from your lips as Michael's cock bludgeons deep inside of you. 

His hips shift, canting into you in a thrust that feels distinctly weakened, lax, compared to the others, and it's then that you hear it. A little grumble in the pit of his chest. He batters inside of you in quick succession, hands gripping you tight enough that you wonder, vaguely, drunk on the feel of his cock spearing into you, if he'll break your ribs before he finishes. 

In the muted slurry of your mind, you have the wherewithal only to glance up at him through your wet lashes when another rumble reverberates through your being.

And really -

It's enough to send you careening over that precipice once more.

His eyes flutter, full lashes dusting over his ruddy, wet cheeks. His chin tips back, jaw clenching to bite back the groan you feel ripple through his chest. You stare, mesmerised as his Adam's apple bobs. His fingers squeeze you tight, pushing your hips down on his lap as he struggles to fill you with every last millimetre of himself. 

Michael holds you steady, powerful thighs flexing under you, and then he lifts his hips, bludgeoning into you with enough force that you cry out his name, eyes widening at the deep pleasure, the burn of the stretch, the too-full feeling of him forcing his cock as deep as it will go. He jerks once, twice, and it knocks the air from your heaving lungs. Liquid heat fills you as he spills himself inside of you, and you mewl at the feeling of being too full. It's too much. Your eyes roll back as he grinds his cock inside of you, chasing the frayed ends of that intoxicating cudgel of pleasure that ripples through the two of you. 

Your spine is liquified. Body dissolves with the spray of the shower that patters across your back. 

You slump in his grasp, falling against his heaving chest. 

It's too humid. Too hot inside the shower, but your legs are mush, bones brittle and charred from the surge of electrifying pleasure that lacerates through your being. You can't move. Won't. You gasp wetly into his chest as the deluge of bliss spools inside of your veins. 

You blink, then, dazed. 

When Michael fucks you, it always ends up feeling like a battle. Like you rolled out of the combat zone, battered and bruised, aching in ways that sex shouldn't make you feel. 

But it's good. So good.

He's ruined you. Now, forever. You don't think you can live without the feelings he wrings from your being - the white-hot pleasure that rockets down your spine until you're screaming hymns in his name. 

It's the sensation of a freefall of a vertiginous precipice, and the unrelenting waves of panic that envelops you as you spiral downward toward an unseen end. What lay at the bottom is hidden by the murky abyss that spools inside of your mind whenever he's close, chasing out all logic and thought, all reason, until you're putty in his hands. 

You slump in his lap, sucking in desperate gasps of balmy air as your body reassembles; atoms fusing, molecules merging until you're flesh and bone once more.

You can't speak. Your throat aches, ripped raw with the force of your cries, but you whimper out just to confirm that you are, in fact, alive; that his intensity, the brutal way he fucked you, didn't send you into the heavens. It's a coo drenched in repose. A satiated sound. Lax and languid. 

Sagging into his chest, your limbs melt. Bones turning once more into putty. Reassumebed just to dissolve in his hold once again as the electrifying aftershocks of the post-orgasmic haze thicken in the spiralling slurry of your mind. 

Your head nuzzles into his chest. Another sigh passes your stinging lips, ghosting over the thick expanse of his chest. 

You could sleep like this. 

Tired eyes smeared with the residuum of many sleepless nights blink, wet, sticky lashes fluttering over his skin. It's a struggle to stay within the confines of reality. Your mind slips, easing into that metaphysical place where nothing except these four walls and the solid bracket of his body exist. The world fades into the aether. Forgotten. Discarded. Nothing matters but you and Michael. 

Under your temple, his chest rumbles with another sound that makes you keen in response. The modern synapses have faded into ashes, leaving nothing behind but pure primalism. 

And when your predator calls for you, you answer.  

It's the only affirmation he needs. His arms close around you, locking behind the soft curve of your ass. The movement makes you purr into his chest. The coarse dusting of hair tickles your nose. 

You're slipping, slipping - 

And then Michael stands. Abrupt. Purposeful. 

You squeak at the sudden movement, eyes snapping open, and dizzy vertigo overtakes you as your weight drops into the solid plinth of his arms. 

Michael's breath ghosts across the shell of your ear in something that might be almost mirthful, humourous, had you not known him. 

A burning flush singes the apples of your cheeks and the skin of your chest when he moves, and the motion jostles him - his cock still deep inside you. 

"M-Michael-," your whimper ends in a gasp as his spent cock twitches inside of you at the sweet way you mewl his name. "You-"

He ignores you, stepping out of the shower without even bothering to turn it off. 

He makes no move to grab at the fluffy towels you keep in the closet by the sink, nor does he seem bothered by the puddle of water each footstep leaves behind. You shiver when the cool air grazes across your wet skin, burrowing your head deeper into his neck, greedily seeking the warmth that seems neverending with him. 

In half the steps it usually takes you, he arrives at your bedroom, slipping inside with ease that warms your chest. You know he isn't the type to dawdle or worry about preamble, but the familiarity and comfort in which he moves inside your space, your home, fill you with the threads of contentment, happiness. You hide your blossoming grin, this silly little thing that tugs at the corners of your lips, into his flesh, and breathe in the loam scent that still clings to him. The heady musk of ozone and humus that is so uniquely Michael it makes your heart flutter. 

When the squall of that mushy affection recedes and your face isn't making the most outrageously gooey expression, you pull back, glancing up at him. 

You'll dry off, dress, and slip beneath the sheets with him beside you, finally getting the rest that evaded you for nearly a month. You wriggle in his grasp, straightening yourself for when your feet meet the ground. 

But it doesn't happen. 

Soaking wet, he stands at the end of your bed, and then turns on his heel, dropping down with you still perched in his lap. You gasp, jerking upright, but he doesn't let you go. 

In a fluid motion that leaves you reeling at the absurd agility of a man so damn big, he tightens his arms around you and shuffles on the bed until his head is under the pillow. He sinks into the mattress, unbothered by the way the bedding sticks to your skin, and the growing wetness under his back. 

The deep heave of his chest as he exhales in something that can only be utter contentment quickly dissolves the protest that pools on your tongue. They stick to the roof of your mouth before being swallowed down when his arms wind around you, closing out the modicum of distance that separates you as two beings. He tucks you under his chin, securing you to his body. 

You barely surpass sixty percent of his overall body weight, and the fact quells the little fear inside of you, the one digs in deep and says, oh no, you're going to crush him. Michael seems more than content to use you as a weighted blanket, his body lying supine on the bed that feels much cosier with him in it. 

Weeks of fretting over his safety are dulled under the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and the feverish heat of him that seeps into your marrow, making you repose in the unintentional succour his arms bring you when they wind around your back, locking you against his chest. 

There is no escape from the prison of his arms.

This gilded cage sometimes feels too overwhelming, too stifling, too much, but he wasn't the one who locked you inside. You shut the doors of your accord and handed him the key - free to come and go as you tended to your plumage and your strays. 

All thoughts and fears are adrift in the somnolent haze that fills the anxious flurry of your mind. Who cares about the linen? About morality and the consequences of lying with a devil. Does any of it matter when his arms around you feel like home. 

You nuzzle your cheek into the coarse hair on his chest, pressing your ear against the steady beat of his heart. Your pericardium pickles. Ataraxia floods your being.

"Welcome home," you murmur. 

And under you, Michael sighs. 

[pinkslashersimp]

✨🌸aaaaahhh!!! I saw you wrote for harry!!!✨🌸

✨🌸If it's not any trouble could you do harry and Michael (whichever is fine!)✨🌸

✨🌸How would they react to a s/o who's short? Like she climbs on counters to reach things?✨🌸

✨🌸And to give them little head pats she stand on her tip toes?✨🌸

✨🌸I thought it was a pretty cute idea! Thank you!✨🌸

HELLO!! tysm yes i absolutely can write this for u i ahve been WAITING for someone to request harry i love him sm 💗💗💗

i’ll do both harry and michael since i have sm love for them 😭💗

also i’m so so sorry it’s taken such a ridiculously long time to reach your request! I’ve had so much on and had 0 time but thank god it’s all slowed down now, honestly tysm for ur patience it means the world to me

TW: Reader is a girl, OG Michael is an asshole, implication of violence but not rlly dw

if any of this triggers u pls pls scroll and keep urself safe🤍

Harry and Michael with a Short!S/O (not poly) 🌷💗

Harry Warden

If I’m being honest I don’t think Harry wouldn’t really notice your height so much at first

Oh you’re shorter than him? okay??? most chicks are...????

Honestly the dude pays 0 notice to it at first, hes so used to towering over people it doesn’t catches his attention

He does, however, enjoy when you kiss him before work and you have to lean up and place your hands on his shoulders;)

He really notices when you start climbing on shit

He came home one night after an excruciatingly long day of mining, wanting nothing more than to eat something warm and flop down on bed with you

“Where’s dinner?”

“I’m just- in the process of- making- hold on.” You struggle out, as you try to reach for the spices Harry had so cruelly placed on the top shelf. In exasperation, you climb onto the counter and reach up for them again

The whole time he’s stood in the doorway, mask off, staring at you completely bewildered

“D’you, uh, need help?”

Starts lifting you up to reach things because he’s worried one day you’ll fall when he’s not home and hurt yourself badly

Plus he just likes the feeling of being taller and stronger

OG Michael Myers

Absolutely notices and takes pride in it.

You’re shorter than him? Good.

Likes to deliberately annoy you by placing things you need as high up as he can, so he can watch you struggle to get them.

Bastard man

Sometimes just to be mean he’ll stand directly behind you as you try to reach for whatever item he put just out of your reach.

Y’know, just to let you wallow in the fact you’re so tiny.

And so you’ll ask him to grab it for you, which he does, with a very big smirk hidden under his mask

Very much enjoys grabbing your waist and leaning you into him whenever you stand on your tip toes to kiss or touch him

Is quite annoyed when you begin climbing on counters to grab your bag hes placed on the top shelf, or using the broom to slide it towards you

Why aren’t you relying on him?

Just a very mean man tbh

RZ Michael Myers

Notices, and absolutely does not give a shit.

The man is 6’9, everyone he meets is smaller than him and you make absolutely no difference.

Until one day he hears you yelling for him from the living room

Making his way downstairs, he takes note of your annoyed expression, and cocks his head to one side

You point up the the car keys and ask if he can please pass them to you because you’ll be late for work.

Which is when it clicks. He borrowed your car, and forgot you usually leave the keys by the side of the door, and he’s placed them all the way on top of the coat rack for some reason.

Gives you a little kiss as an apology and then waits for you to leave for work.

So he can place everything high on the shelves and playfully watch you suffer when you come back from home

Is more than amused to see you climbing on top of the furniture to grab your purse

Will always stand behind you though to make sure you fall into his arms rather than the cold hard floor

[revelinginthedarkrooms]

Yandere!Michael Myers x Reader - Fascination (Female)

| MASTERLIST |

Fandom: Halloween (Rob Zombie)

Pairing: Michael Myers/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NON-CON, implied kidnapping, obsessive/possessive behavior, choking, vaginal fingering, oral sex, deepthroating, size difference, implied/mentioned breeding kink, belly bulge, somnophilia, referenced vomiting

Notes: This took me three fucking days to write and is purely indulgent kink hell. (Ugh, I’m rusty.)  RZ Michael has always been my favorite (and no, it’s not because my name is Angel - er, Angela), and I’ve finally mustered up the courage to write for him!

Please note that I DO NOT promote real-life sexual assault. This is merely a work of fiction meant to be erotic. If sexual assault is a trigger for you, then I would advise you leave this oneshot now.

Fingers pressed eagerly against you, cupping your pussy as a thumb rubbed methodical circles into your clit.

You squirmed and jolted and whimpered against the man who held you to his chest, his heavy breaths hot against your ear. Pleasure bloomed in the pit of your gut with fingers slipping past your wet folds, pain chasing behind with the pressure of his hand squeezing your neck.

How had you landed in the clutches of Haddonfield’s worst nightmare? Even you struggled to figure that out, and the sensations of his fingers fucking into your dripping cunt did not help.

You gripped at his left arm, feebly trying to pull it away from your neck, but that only earned you a deep growl and a tightening around your windpipe. Black danced around your vision as you struggled to gasp, the pain a toxic tango with the arousal deep in your belly.

“St-- stoh--” you choked, tears prickling your eyes as you clawed at his coveralls before your head fell back against his shoulder, the latex smooth and unsettlingly cold against your cheek. “Ulgh--!”

Michael’s heart was pounding against your chest, the most emotion you think you’d ever seen from the silent killer. He leaned forward as if to see his handiwork when he pulled his hand from your panties, making your hips jolt again. Slowly pulling apart and sticking his fingers back together, he admired the translucent tendrils of arousal that clung to them like webbing.

Your chest heaved with panting breaths, your body quivering in both the cold and your cooling pleasure. When he brought his hand closer, you could smell yourself on his hand - and it made your stomach clench; from nausea or arousal, you couldn’t tell. His other hand trailed from your neck to your cheek, and his thumb prodded at the side of your mouth.

Weakly your lips parted, and you let out a muffled moan of protest as he stuck his fingers in. The tang of your sex filled your senses, danced on your tongue and made you choke as he pushed them fully inside, nearly hitting the back of your throat.

A huff, perhaps of amusement, and his fingers popped out of your mouth, leaving a string of saliva between your tongue and his hand. His other hand stroked your cheek before going back down to your throat, pinching loosely while the other disappeared into your panties once more.

A guttural whine escaped your throat when a third finger prodded through your lips, splaying open with the other two already inside. The stretch bordered on uncomfortable, but thanks to how wet you were they easily pressed against your walls. His thumb continued to press on your clit, and unwanted, delicious electricity sparked through your body as your hips jerked and jolted in his lap. The bulge in his coveralls pressed snugly against your ass, hot and twitching with every accidental grind against him.

A low groan vibrated through his throat and sent a pleasant buzz through your head, still nestled in the crook of his neck. As if rewarding you, his thumb pressed harder at your clit and coaxed you into your first orgasm of the night.

You screamed, back arching as the coil of arousal in your belly snapped, and waves of electric pleasure shot through your body and ended at your pussy, convulsing and gushing around his hand.

Michael’s breathing quickened, and his free thumb stroked along the edge of your jaw in a cruel facsimile of a lover, the danger belied in the soft touch of his hands, the way his arm loosened slightly around your neck and trailed down to cup your ample chest.

It took all of your might not to cringe away, knowing the worst would return. Your neck still bore bruises from when you first woke here, sore even as your pleasure overrode your pain.

His fingers squeezed you through your nightgown, the soft fabric all that stood between him and his prize.

You didn’t have the energy to fight.

Shivering as he took his right hand out of your panties, you gasped when he moved to grab the knife at the bedside table. Your entire form stiffened against him, trembling slightly as he brought it closer to your face; it was as if he was warning you to behave.

Slowly, the knife lowered. You squeezed your eyes shut, tears trickling down your cheeks.

When the blade caught on the elastic of your panties, a low keening sound left your throat. In one movement the garment tore down the center, the blade barely missing your sensitive sex. The knife was returned to the table, and he grabbed at the ruined fabric, yanking it from your legs. Your knees clacked together, your eyes following your panties as they were flung across the room before landing on the cold floor.

His arm forced your legs back open, and with a yelp you were lifted from his lap and rested on the bed with your beet-red face shoved into the blankets. Your hands immediately sought purchase on the bed when your hips were raised further. Your knees rested atop his crossed legs, and a rustling caught your attention.

Before you could turn to look at him, he shoved your face back into the blanket, a muffled exclamation your only protests as something soft and ticklish hit your bare ass.

Your fingers clenched on the ratty old blanket when you felt a hot breath against your core and stubble scratching against the back of your thighs before he forced your legs back open. Your pussy involuntarily clenched, a rippling shiver going up your back. A test, a cautious stripe licked up your lips made you jolt backward. His hands gripped your hips tightly, forcing you to stay still as that same tongue trailed back down towards your clit.

An aroused huff warmed your pussy as you felt him press his face harder against your ass, teeth and tongue exploring your quivering sex with the voracity of a starving man in the face of a feast. Lewd squelching and slurping filled the room along with your breathy moans as you attempted to muffle your voice in the blanket. A stale taste hit your tongue as you bit into it, and you quickly pulled back out of disgust.

“Mmmmmmm...” You could hear - and feel - him groan against you, the vibrations rippling through your pussy and making you arch your back in ecstasy.

“Agh... fuck,” you hissed quietly, biting your lip as his tongue pushed deeper. You had no way of knowing whether or not he’d done this before, but at the moment it didn’t matter. His entire mouth engulfed your sex and he was eating you as if you were the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. Despite how much you didn’t want to, it sent a warmth through your chest, a stab of confidence in the face of insecurity. “Michael...!”

His fingers tightened their hold on your hips in response to his name rolling off your tongue, his tongue pushing for a certain spot that made you gasp.

“Michael!” You squealed again, feeling his thumb brush against your clit. The jolt of electricity made you shudder beneath, your fingers almost numb from cold and how tightly they were twisted in the blanket.

Another deep, heady groan left him as he pulled back - just as your orgasm was fast approaching. You whined, hips shaking, as he set you down.

Your arm was grabbed, your pliant body yanked into his and stealing the breath from your lungs. As you turned, shocked, his hand covered your eyes and lips met yours. The tang of your arousal hit your taste buds, and you let out a surprised breath from your nose as he pulled away and shoved you down into his lap.

Warmth blossomed against your cheek, as well as something big - and hard. You swallowed, looking back up only to see the mask on again. Though his eyes weren’t fully visible, you could feel him staring down at you. No words were needed: you knew what he was waiting for.

Grunting as you got up onto your elbows, you stared at the bulge in his coveralls fearfully. Trembling fingers found the buttons at his neck, and you stared up at him with bated breath.

Michael stared back.

Several long moments of silence passed before his hands found yours, completely engulfing them. He attempted to move your fingers so that they undid the first button before pulling back after failing to do so.

You nodded quietly before scooting closer, deftly undoing the first button. Quiet snaps echoed through the empty room along with his breathing as more and more of his toned body was revealed. Soft skin and muscles that ran hard under your fingers as you trailed them down his chest in awe before directing your attention to the line of button-snaps that trailed down to his straining crotch.

A silent breath left your parted lips as he leaned back on his hands, the coveralls revealing more of his toned physique. Despite your fear of the one they called Boogeyman, a flicker of desire kindled itself when you finally undid the last snap, and when Michael shifted you were able to pull out the erection twitching against his stomach.

It bounced free of the fabric and was weighty in your hands. Sizeable and girthy, the dick you held pulsed with warmth and elicited a deep groan from the man above as you began to stroke it. Squeezing softly, you shifted your grip so that you could fit your whole hand around it. A creamy, almost pearly substance was already leaking from the tip.

Michael’s hips jerked, pushing his dick further into your hand, and the feeling of being intently watched made shivers go up and down your spine. When you dared a glance up at him, from what you could see of his eyes they were half-lidded with arousal burning in his stare.

One of his hands trailed up your cheek, making you flinch - his thumb caressed your jawline, then trailed up towards your scalp. You braced for the pain, but the only thing he did was tug you closer to his dick.

“Ow-- what, what?” You winced, looking up with confusion. “You mean...?”

He tugged again, and your lips barely pressed against the flushed tip.

Tears gathered in your eyes as you nodded silently. Stroking up the shaft a few more times, you hesitantly opened your mouth and took the head inside.

At the feeling of your tongue against the underside, he let out another huff and leaned his head back, yet he kept his fingers tangled in your hair.

The taste was... nearly indescribable. The sharp cut of sweat, the tang of precum that reminded you of your own... He smelled musky, of masculine pheremones that lit up places you didn’t know you had. The fullness in your mouth meant drool gathered at the corners of your mouth and seeped slowly down your chin, damp spots appearing in his lap when they dribbled off your jaw.

You whimpered when his hand in your hair urged you further down on his cock, the tip dangerously close to making you gag despite not having taken him all the way. Michael didn’t seem impressed, and instead forced you to take him in farther.

You gagged as his cock was shoved down your throat. You could almost feel bile rising, but miraculously you were able to shove it back down before you could vomit - you just knew that if you were to puke all over The Shape, he would surely behead you right here.

Breathing through your nose was hard, harder than fitting his thick cock in your mouth and down your throat. Gurgling gasps punctuated each thrust of his hips towards your face, his breathing growing raspier and raspier until--

--he pulled you back and you gasped for air, eyes wide and teary, chin sticky with drool.

He stared at you for a few moments as if admiring his work, and he tugged at your hair again to get you to get up.

You struggled to your knees, one hand on your throat, the other on his knee for balance. You glanced back and forth, from him to his dick and back again, confused. It was still twitching with belated release, head red and weeping sticky, viscous precum - and then he grabbed your hip, tugging you forward and into his lap.

You yelped when you were turned and sat down between his crossed legs, dick snug and wet against your ass.

No.

You’d thought he would just be content with messing around with you... you hadn’t thought he’d actually want to...!

Michael lifted your hips, positioning himself with his other hand.

“Please, please don’t do this, no, Michael,” you pleaded quietly, trying to twist around so that you could get a good look at his face.

Your appeals to sympathy didn’t work, however, and he squeezed your hip tighter in a bruising grip before pressing at your pussy lips.

Despite your own thoughts about the situation, your body was eagerly aching for him. Your pussy was pulsing with need, dripping and easily parted when he pressed into you.

“No...!” You keened, pushing back against his chest as the head sank into your pliant cunt.

Thanks to his teasing, you were able to take his girth; but the uncomfortable stretch threatened to burn from inside as he shoved in with a long, shaky groan.

“No,” you hung your head and sobbed. “Michael, please... I’m sorry, please pull out...”

He didn’t listen. If anything, he seemed annoyed at your desperation and jerked his hips towards yours, filling you with one move.

Your scream echoed in the empty bedroom as the his cock bumped your cervix head-on, your stomach swirling with nausea and a deep pain that threatened to make you vomit.

Michael didn’t seem to care, pulling you back against his chest, his hand resting over your navel as he began to bounce you on his cock. His breathing was heavy and quick, and you could feel his pulse racing from where your head was nestled over his bare, slightly-sweaty chest.

When you looked down, you almost felt sicker - with every thrust inside of you, you could see a protrusion underneath the killer’s fingertips - and he brushed them across it gently, almost affectionately. What was he thinking?

A sharp gasp escaped when he paused just to turn you around. Once you were facing that disturbing, emotionless white mask, he lay you down so that your head rested on the pillow and grabbed your legs, only to throw them over his shoulders, his pace suddenly increasing when his hands returned to your waist.

You cried out, hands scrabbling for purchase to keep your head from hitting the frame with every thrust against you. Hot tears soaked the pillow you lay on, your lips bitten and raw from how hard you tried to stifle your voice.

The Shape’s head was tilted back in pleasure, soft grunts muffled by the mask as he studied you with a searing stare.

“Mi- ch-- ugh-- haa--” the breath was punched from your lungs as his hips shifted, fucking you deep. A delicious fullness settled in your mind like a fog, leaving you dazed and groggy.

Your nightgown was bunched up around your shoulders like a scarf, leaving your bare body on display. Briefly, one of his hands left your waist to cup one of your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh and rolling his thumb around your pebbled nipples. You shivered, bringing one hand up to grab at his.

He squeezed once more before interlacing your fingers together, bringing your arm above your head.

Why was he doing this? If he wanted to violate you, why bother pretending to care?

“Michael,” you mewled, arching your back with a choked gasp when his thumb found your clit. “Agh-- MICHAEL! FUCK!”

Much like before, your arousal was sharply building, spurred by the pressure rolling your clit. You squirmed and cried, the friction of his cock and the electric jolts flashing through your stomach almost too much to bear.

Michael leaned over you, your knees knocking almost painfully into your ribs as he pinched and rolled your pearl, intent on dragging you into an orgasm.

Not a few seconds later, it hit you like a brick, and your mouth opened in a silent scream, eyes flying wide as your back arched off the pillow. It took a moment for your voice to follow, and a straggled scream wrenched itself from your throat at the waves of euphoria.

Michael grunted as your pussy clenched around him, and he thrusted a few more times before pressing himself as far as he could inside you.

A powerful feeling, something warm shooting inside, made you writhe against the mattress. Still he kept you locked in place, watching you intensely as you worked your way down from the high.

Even when he was finished coming, he didn’t pull out. Not even as your eyelids began to flutter shut in exhaustion, not even as you let out a wordless mumble of protest, hands coming up to push at his broad chest.

Michael, for his merit, was seemingly patient with you now, grasping your hands and holding them down, gaze washing over your exhausted, sweaty form: your heaving breasts, your flushed face, the hair that clung to your damp skin, your fluttering stomach (and the bulge that snugly remained, something that sent new heat to his softening cock).

As you finally lay back, a sudden drowsiness creeping up onto you, you felt him grow hard again.

“No...” you mumbled, a pained moan escaping your agape lips as he began moving inside you once more.

You couldn’t fight. All you could do was succumb.

You should’ve known he was never going to just let you go.

[thrasher-slashers]

Request from my friend; @stranger0star ! Thanks hon!

RZ!Michael Myers fluff…

A nightly routine…

CW: none tbh, just Michael being unsocial and a murderer, G/N reader, face mask, just fluffy, kinda OOC??

You stared at Michael watching him finally walk down the stairs from cleaning himself up. He had come home from one of his… moments. He looked at you from where he was standing, he looked tense, he still had his mask on, which was odd, considering the fact he usually took the mask off when he was alone with you now.

“You okay Micheal…?” You asked, standing up. You walked to him and he took a step towards you, you looked up at him, then to his hair peaking through the mask… then to the lips of the mask, where a hole was so it was easier for him to breath… you noticed a dark substance on his lips. “Micheal… did you get hurt?” He turned his head to the side a bit, yes… he was hurt.

You move you hands slowly up to his mask, waiting for him to stop you, or let you move it from his face. He made no moves to stop you, and you slipped the damaged mask off his head, he was still sweating, his long hair sticking to his face… some blood was in it. Micheal still isn’t real good at cleaning himself up.

He looks at you through his hair, and you looked worriedly at him. “Micheal, you gotta tell me when you get hurt or else I can’t help. I’ve told you, I’m not a mind reader.” You said chuckling light heartedly at the end. He nodded, letting out a huff, he knew… he knew you weren’t a mind reader. But he also knew, you knew he was bad at expressing anything.

You looked at his face, he obviously got punched in the nose, and it was still dripping blood, you took his wrist and coaxed him into the kitchen where you kept some first aid items.

“Does it hurt?” You look back at him, he touches his nose and jerks back from his own touch… you nod to yourself ‘yup, definitely hurts.’

You pull down some aids, and a nose bandage , you look to him and pull some paper towels from your paper towel roll on the counter and pointed for him to sit in a chair beside the dining table…

He sat, and looked up at you as you approached him. You gently dabbed the blood from his mouth and lips, he looked to the side, seemingly embarrassed to have you so close to him.

You held the tissue up to his nose. “Hold this.” He replaced your hand, holding the fabric in place. You took the bleed bandage out of the pack and put it over his nose, before moving his hand and warning him: “this might hurt.” And putting a nose bleed plug in his right nostril, and jerked back, looking at you with furrowed brows. “Michael.”

He huffs and lets you fix the plug.

“We’ll take it out in a few hours, I don’t want you bleeding everywhere….” Then you pull back and look at him, he’s still not making eye contact with you.

“Are you hurt anywhere else…” he thinks for a second and shakes his head. You nod and stand up, looking back at him. He’s staring off into the window over the sink into the forest. He has an almost defeated look on his face.

You think for a moment…. “Mikey.” You say to get his attention, he looks at you through is hair, he loved the nickname you gave him. “Wanna hang out with me? You seem upset. We could do something fun together?”

He looks at you then to the ground… the marble flooring in your kitchen seemed really interesting to him right now…he’d love to hang out with you, but he doesn’t want to accidentally push you away from him, usually when he’s upset after an… altercation. He stays to himself.

Finally he looks up at you, and nods. You smile.

You motion him to follow you up the stairs, he stands up and follows, watching you.

You make it to the bathroom door and walk in Turing on the light, seeing Michaels coveralls still in the floor, now he was wearing a black t-shirt you bought him, with K O R N written on it. And some sweat pants, they’re comfy.

You walk to the sink and open the cabinet under it, finding your face masks. You pull two out… both were red, and had black hearts on them, your favorite brand… Michael tilted his head looking at the two packs of face masks. He’s seen you do this before, you usually only do it when your stressed, so he gets a bit worried…

then he realizes. You know he’s stressed. You want to calm HIM down… he watched you move around, he could feel his heart thumb faster in his chest, he knew you cared at least a little about him… which still stunned him, but he doesn’t know to what extent…

You looked up at him after pulling your bottle of witch hazel and some cleansing pads out of the top cabinet.

“I know you probably don’t really… like self care? But, it’s good for you, and it might make you feel better, you never know till you try.”

You noticed while mid sentence he seemed to be in a train of thought, a blank expression, you could in his eyes it was something serious, and he was looking directly at you. “Michael?” You say softly to bust his thought, he blinked and looked at you, really looked at you. You smiled at him, he looked down his hair covering his face.

“Your okay, I get lost in thought too…” you sigh, and then ask him to actually step into the bathroom with you… you pointed to the toilet to actually have him sit down, because… he was… tall.

He sat, and looked at the pad and the bottle of liquid you had in your hands.

“This is Witch hazel, it doesn’t stink I promise.” You say putting some on the cleansing pad you had.

He watched you, his eyes darting, when you went to wipe the pad across his face he flinched. “It’s just cold, it won’t hurt.” He trusts you, so he relaxes and lets you wipe his face gentle, around the bandage on his nose, under his eyes, which he closed after a bit. You ran it gently over the scruff lining his lover jaw, his temples and forehead. You pulled back and he opened his eyes, looking up at you, it felt weirdly fresh to him… he waited to see what you were gonna do next.

You pulled out another pad and put witch hazel on it and started to wipe your own face before Michael grabbed your wrist, you looked at him… “do you… wanna wipe my face?” You ask, odd for Michael to want to do such a thing but it’s the only thing you could think of… he nods, and you get flustered for a second and then hold out the pad to him.

“Go ahead.”

He wipes your face extremely gently… almost like if he made one wrong move you would shatter. Under your eyes, ghost like strokes. Under your jaw, your nose, your cheeks. He wiped your forehead with the pad then sat back on the toilet, looking up at you. you nodded, he did it right.

Then Turing to the face masks, you show both of them to him. “Which one you want? Strawberry or cherry?” The strawberry was bear shaped and the cherry was cat shaped… he pointed to the bear. You nodded and skimmed the back of the package , then opened it. “It’s gonna be cold.” You warned, before unfolding the almost slimy mask before putting it on Micheal’s face. He makes a noise at the new texture on his face, you snicker.

“Yeah it feels weird at first.”

You turn to yours and open it putting it on, you press on it, getting use to the cold feeling on your face.

“Now we wait about… 25 minutes.” You say, looking out the package again…

Michael pokes at the mask on his face, his hair keeps sticking to it, you breathe out a laugh and look in the cabinet, you pull out a head band and look at him still trying to get hair unstuck from the mask.

“Hey, look” you held out the head band, he tilted his head.

You put it on, pulling his hair back, you could now fully see his face and his piercing blue eyes… you smiled at his expression, feeling the headband around his head. Something new to him.

“C’mon.” You say, waiting for him to follow you. You walk to your bedroom and walk to grab the remote on your nightstand… “what do you wanna watch while we wait?” You ask, looking over at him still standing in your doorway… Michael has always been hesitant to enter your room, even when your in there. He knows it’s your safe space, and he doesn’t to ruin it.

“Micheal. I trust you… you can come in.”

He looks and you and slowly steps in, just kinda awkwardly standing there watching you flip through streaming apps on your TV.

He looked around your room, it had a calm aura, it was always dark… never to bright, unlike his room… well… what used to be his room… your room wasn’t.. blank. It was cluttered almost, posters lining the wall, fairy lights across the ceiling, dark curtains covered your window. You also had quite a few stuffed animals laying on your bed and in your room in various areas.

You motioned for him to come sit on you bed, he noticed you were now sitting in the center of your bed, apparently you found something to watch.

Ge walks closer and sits on the edge look at what you chose to watch… it looked to be some animated move.

“Get up here, stop being weird.” You said flailing your arms childishly…. He scooted up next to you, and you leaned back into your pillows, there was still space between you… you bed was pretty big, it was a queen.

The move started and you looked to Michael who was cross legged, he was touching the face mask, still kinda grossed out by the texture. Then you looked to the move getting comfortable…

You sat like that for awhile, until Michael shifted. He faced you, you still looking at the TV screen, he moved closer to you and pulled you towards him, which startled you a bit. You looked up at him, a light blush on your face.. which he wouldn’t see because of the face mask. You don’t protest when he pulls you into his lap, he was warm… warmer the the teddy bear you were just cuddling with.

He lets out a breath, he didn’t really know what he was doing, he just wanted to hold you. So he did. You didn’t seem to mind a single bit, which to him, made him very happy. He layed his chin on your head, and watched the move.

Soon… you both were unconscious, snuggled into your mattress and stuffed animals. Micheal holding you like his life depends on it.

Masks and movie forgotten… you snuggled, safe… protected. Nothing can hurt you… your bears’ got you. 🖤

———————-

No thoughts only Mikey Bear 🖤

[missjellyhead]

HEADCANON | slashers favorite sex positions | fem!reader

Inclui Brahms Heelshire, Billy Lenz, Bubba Sawyer, Otis Diftwood, RZ!Michael Myers

note: uh... hey? I got excited about this one. And thank you for 100 followers! :D

Warnings: nsfw.

BRAHMS HEELSHIRE

Cowgirl.

Brahms is spoiled.

He doesn't want to take the slightest effort.

He just likes to lie back against the pillows, hold your thighs tightly, and let you move as you please. As long as he comes, everything is fine.

Brahms whimpers so needily, eyes closed as you ride on his cock.

When he's close to coming, he thrusts his hips up desperately, seeking his own pleasure.

If you allow him to take control, he'll moan loudly and fuck you until you can barely support your own weight and fall onto his furry chest.

But if you stop him, just wanting to tease him a little, he will whimper and stubbornly try to move.

You can punish him for being such a naughty and greedy boy, and Brahms will be begging for your touch like a puppy.

BILLY LENZ

Accepts anything. He just wants to fuck you senseless. But when you turn 69--

Hearing and feeling you gagging against his cock as he just devours your pussy is perfect.

And Billy is definitely addicted to his pussy.

Could eat you for hours and hours like a starving man. He never gets tired.

Billy also loves doggy style.

He'll throw you onto the bed as soon as he gets a chance to come out of the attic, and he'll fuck you hard and sloppy from behind until he comes.

In fact, after he cums, he keeps moving.

He super stimulates you without even realizing it, focusing only on himself.

He's noisy. Very noisy.

And it doesn't care if the sorority house is full or empty. As long as it's just the two of you in the room, he's in for some fun.

But it usually comes out of the attic during the night.

Good luck explaining to the other sorority girls what those late-night sounds were.

Speaking of the attic, he loves to fuck you in there too.

It's dusty and musty smelling, but Billy feels safe there.

He has you up against the wall, chest pressed against your back, and makes you practically scream with pleasure.

Anyway, he really loves many positions and it's hard to choose a favorite.

BUBBA SAWYER

I believe Bubba is a little shy about sex, although he is quite excited.

But he's afraid he can't satisfy you, and he's afraid you won't find his body attractive.

So it takes him a while to feel comfortable having sex with you.

And when that happens, you have to guide Bubba and teach him what to do.

If you are as inexperienced as he is, you will learn together and it will be nice and fun.

And when he has enough knowledge, has experienced enough positions, one of his favorites will be cowgirl.

He likes you to have control over him and do what gives you the most pleasure. It's also amazing that he has such a beautiful girl jumping on his dick. Bubba almost can't believe it's real.

And he loves to see your breasts bouncing. If he gets the chance, he'll have your nipples trapped between his lips as you ride his fat cock.

If he's not holding the sheets between his fingers, then he'll have his hands on your hips.

It will leave fingerprints because he squeezed you so hard.

It wasn't on purpose, honestly. He'll apologize later, fearing you'll get angry.

And if you tie his wrists to the headboard and sit on his face, he'll freak out.

Do it. He loves to please you.

Is kinda sloppy about eating pussy but so excited. Hope you don't mind the amount of saliva.

(And if you want to return the favor, pegging this man. He'll moan so needy~).

OTIS DRIFTWOOD

I honestly think Otis is a disgusting man. With a lot of fetishes, and a lot of boner, and a lot of time left to fuck you to exhaustion.

And speaking of fetishes, Otis has foot fetishes. Your foot, specifically.

It's not like he's going to masturbate looking at your feet or anything.

He just likes to pay special attention to his feet as he pushes against her sensitive, wet pussy.

And honestly, he doesn't even care if it makes you uncomfortable or not. Just take his dick and let him play with your body as he wants and as much as he wants.

So he likes to have you lying in bed, legs up, shins over his shoulders. That way he can just pull his legs forward and play with his feet. It will kiss and lick them while looking into your eyes.

Also likes to have you on all fours.

Shake your ass and Otis will be inside you in a few milliseconds.

Will spank your ass and pull your hair, pushing your face into the sheets.

(If you let him fuck your ass, he'll get you in every possible position. He gets wild).

And it will degrade you badly, all the time. (Does this outside of sex too).

RZ!MICHAEL MYERS

He'll make you lie face down on the bed, then he'll lean over you, put an arm around your neck and fuck you deep.

He's not really choking you unless you ask him to.

He likes how he looks bigger on top of you. Even if you are close to his height, he definitely has more muscles than you.

Michael isn't very vocal, but he lets out little grunts and his breathing becomes ragged as he rolls his hips against your ass.

He also likes to have you leaning over any surface that may be: kitchen table, countertops, coffee table in the living room.

That's because he likes to watch your cock disappear into your pussy, feel your legs shake as you try to get used to the size.

If he is particularly lazy that day, spoon position. It's still deep and strong, but slow.

The important thing is that he makes you come deliciously and he comes deep inside you.

(Loves to fuck you against the wall. Put one leg on his shoulder and let him stick his tongue in you. He'll hold your hips, not letting you dominate the situation. Michael likes to be in power, especially when he's making you feel squirm).

Sorry for any spelling mistakes, English is not my first language

[angelbarelywrites]

♡ slashers scenarios | sharing a bed

♡ fandoms; The Boy, Halloween, Texas Chainsaw Massacre (original + 2006), House of Wax, Dead by Daylight, slashers (general)

♡ characters; Brahms Heelshire, Micheal Myers, Thomas Hewitt, Bubba Sawyer, Vincent Sinclair

♡ reader; gender neutral

♡ cw; very suggestive content, implied smut

♡note; swapped out billy in this one bc i can’t imagine him sharing a bed with someone and not getting literally pornographic

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

Brahms Heelshire

> Once he decides he wants to share the bed, he finds the biggest guest room bed and brings all of the comfiest pillows and blankets he can to make it perfect

> For you more than him, but he doesn’t feel too hurt when you push half of them to the foot of the bed

> It was a lot even for a king bed

> You’re reluctant at first, not used to sharing a bed

> But you find he’s very hard to say no to once you’re in that deep

> He tries to give you space, but it’s not long before he’s wrapped around you, clinging for dear life

> And he almost immediately falls asleep like that, head tucked into your chest

> You sigh and try and relax, petting his hair

> And you fall asleep with your hand still tangled in his black locks, holding him close to you

> You wake up to him nuzzling your neck and practically whining

> “Baby…wake up…”

> You’d ask him what the problem was…if you couldn’t feel it against your leg

> You spend most of the morning still in bed, lazily fixing his predicament

Micheal Myers

> He doesn’t get why you want him to do this

> You know he doesn’t cuddle

> You know he usually gets restless and wanders at night

> But there’s no reason to say no, and even he can’t stand how sad your pout is

> You hum and stretch, tucking yourself in and look at him expectantly

> He takes off his boots and lays on top of the covers beside you, stiff as a board

> You have to coax him to even take the mask off, but he still won’t relax

> You quickly realize he’s used to high security psych ward bunks, not big comfy queen beds full of stuffed animals

> “…do you…wanna sleep on the floor?”

> He pauses.

> Shakes his head and closes his eyes.

> After you finally fall sleep, he sits up, intending on leaving

> But you look so peaceful…he can’t help to stay and watch you. Just for a little while.

> When he touches your cheek, you press into his hand. Maybe a while longer.

> When you wake up he’s still staring at you, hand long gone from your cheek

> But once you blink awake, it creeps somewhere else..

Thomas Hewitt

> He’s almost nervous of the idea

> Y’all are certainly intimate with each other - just as intimate as you would be if you were married like his mama was planning

> But what if the family noticed you were in there? He’d kill Hoyt for calling you anything nasty-

> When he sees you in skimpy PJs, he immediately forgets his worries

> He has a huge bed because he’s a huge guy, so when you curl up in it alone, it’s almost comical

> He’s staring at you as he climbs in after you, cautiously removing his mask

> His shoulders relax a little when you smile up at him, still so amazed you can stand to look at him

>“Hold me?”

> He grunts and takes no time in pulling you flush, spooning you. He’s more relaxed than he’s been in a while, sure he’ll fall asleep in no time

> Until you give a tiny sigh and shift your hips, innocently adjusting

> It doesn’t take much for you to set him off- he’s touch starved and obsessed with you.

> Along with feeling him against your ass, you can literally hear his breathing change.

> “…Tommy baby? Want me to take care of that?”

> It takes another two hours before you fall asleep, both sticky with sweat and sated, your head laying on his broad chest.

Bubba Sawyer

> He’s so happy to have a sleepover- even if you live right down the hall in the same house (I cannot imagine you dating him and being allowed to leave the farm tbh)

> He gives you an updated tour of his room- he’s very happy to show you the collection of polaroids of you he hung up.

> You were wondering where those went

> Finally he drops you on the bed, giggling quietly

> It’s old but comfy, and he has plenty of stolen pillows and blankets, and even some stuffed bears

> He strips right on down to his heart boxers, leaving his mask on for last

> He takes it off slowly, giving you that shy look he always does

> You grin and open your arms and he’s more than happy to scoop you up with a coo.

> By the time you’re settled, you’re curled around his back

> He loves being the little spoon, even if he’s a big brute

> When you wake up he’s bursting back into the room with some slightly burnt toast for breakfast

> It’s a sudden wake up call, but a welcome one

> And you repay him in tons of kisses, all over

Vincent Sinclair

> Like some of the others he’s hesitant

> But you want him to relax, he’s been working so hard- so you take him away from the studio, and into your room

> You’re not even letting him so much as sketch until he sleeps

> He tilts his head and is almost pouting, trying to guilt you - even more so once you help him remove his wax

> Until you coax him into his stomach so you can massage his back, that is

> You’re clumsy and certainly not a professional, but your hands on him is enough to melt away the stress

> He suddenly rolls over and grabs your hips as he hears you yawn

> It’s your turn to pout down at him

> But eventually you relent and let him cradle you close to his chest as he hums a nonsense lullaby

> You keep him trapped in bed the next morning as revenge, again straddling him before he can get up to leave

> But this time, you’re most certainly not yawning

[6lostgirl6]

A Night To Dismember

Pairing: Michael Myers x Fem!Reader

TW: Detailed Gore, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Sexual Assault [Not by Michael], Slightly Possessive Michael, Protective Michael, Mature Audience only!

A/N: Requested by my bestie @prettywhenibleed! I really hope you enjoy this and it was an absolute pleasure to write this for you!! Love you, my favorite slasher whore! ❤️ This isn't my best work, I'm afraid, forgive me.

The Smith's Grove Sanitarium operated according to a schedule that was consistently set in motion without interruption. No authorized doctor employed by the sanitarium, however, would have foreseen this. Medical specialists thought they were completely familiar with Michael Myers' behavior. He was docile and kept to himself, despite being the most dangerous and threatening patient in the hospital. 

But if you left him alone, there was a chance he would treat you in a similar fashion. The sole exception would be if touching his masks or otherwise bothered him. Even being among other patients was something he never enjoyed.

You were a new patient, recently exiled from society and your family because of your dreadful infatuation with fire and burning objects of interest. Your arrival left the building in absolute shock. On your first day, you were assigned to the recreation room. When you entered the room, your initial instinct was to walk over to the largest and most dangerous man within the sanatorium while grinning brightly. You only watched him work on a paper mache mask while standing over his hunched figure in the corner of the room, his hospital-approved supplies scattered along the table. 

You thought the colors were stunning, which you happily expressed. 

As a precaution against Michael harming you, guards stood by the recreation room's entrance wielding batons. Michael, on the other hand, did the exact opposite, giving you a cursory glance before grunting and slackly pointing for you to sit next to him. 

It was like you and Michael had your own timetable inside the sanitarium, and this went on for the next few months without fail. As directed by his psychiatrist, Michael was permitted to create his masks in the recreation area in the mornings. You would follow not far behind and take your normal seat beside him at a table chosen at random, apart from the other patients. You would merely watch him create his masks and ramble about whatever was on your mind. Michael never responded to the conversation, but that didn't stop you from talking to him because he had his own style of doing so without words. You have grown accustomed to deciphering his thoughts from his basic grunts and gestures.

"Hey, Mikey." You said with a smile, taking a seat at your usual spot next to Michael's side, placing your tray of food onto the table.

Michael was in the middle of placing wet paper mache on the face mold for his mask, his fingers caked in colors of paint and residue from the paper mache. He paused for a moment, giving you a small grunt as acknowledgement before returning to his activity.

You smiled more, chuckling at his usual ways of communicating as you watched him craft. You've always been interested in his masks and the variety of patterns he would use for each one. Many of his masks had their own unique qualities. However, you knew to only look, not touch.

"I see you're adding bright colors this time; are those happy pills finally working?" You teased him, nudging him softly with your body.

Michael huffed through his nose, which you learned was his way of chuckling as he shook his head at you. In the past, It took a while, but you had a better understanding of Michael's gestures and emotions than the doctors.

Simply because you treated him like a person, not an experiment.

"Maybe next time then." You replied, turning towards your tray before glancing at his project once more. "You're really good at that, Mikey. You're really talented."

Once again, Michael paused his movements, his stained fingers holding the paper mache while his eyes remained downcast. His fingers twitched before he resumed, and you almost thought you said something wrong.

"I didn't mean-"

You were cut off as Michael grabbed another mold from the table, pushing it in your direction. Your eyes widened slightly as you pushed your tray out of the way as Michael's slow movements brought other materials in your direction.

Still in slight awe, you watched him turn towards you, and your eyes connected through his favorite orange mask. You couldn't help the way your heart skipped a beat at the way his eyes stared into your own, seemingly piercing into your own soul.

The doctors were wrong; his eyes weren't soulless, nor were they black, resembling a massive void of nothingness. They were blue, similar to a clear sky or the glimmering waves of the ocean.

He huffed before pointing a finger at the materials and then towards you. He wanted you to mold with him.

"Thank you, Mikey." You said softly, a bright smile on your face.

When your eyes met Michael's, he was unable to comprehend the sensation in his chest. Usually, when his sight fell on their figures, individuals would tremble or turn away. He wasn't concerned by their fear of the facility's most dangerous patient. He actually benefited from the fear he instilled in the hearts of many who came to the sanitarium.

Yet you didn't...and he liked that.

He liked that you weren't scared of him, speaking to him, or even touching him like you've been these past few months. The thought of you being scared of him made him feel...hollow.

When you started working on your own mask using the materials that were laid out on the table, Michael couldn't help but covertly place a palm on his chest to feel how his heart was refusing to settle down. He almost wanted to groan in annoyance, hating the way he liked being around you and having your attention.

He had been content with his solitude for a long time, He preferred being alone and had been for many years. However, the notion of you leaving him made the murderous itch inside him threaten to resurface.

He decided that he would keep you with him, protect you with everything he has, and extinguish anyone who threatened to ruin that. With darkened eyes, he returned to working on his mask.

On that day, you and Michael became closer.

You weren't born yesterday and you certainly weren't born stupid. Trouble was afoot in the institution and it was either happening under the doctors' noses or they simply didn't care enough to investigate. Over the past week, you would hear feminine screams down the hallway in the women's section of the institution during the late hours of the night. Last night, the screams could be heard two doors down from your room.

The screams and cries began when a new guard was appointed to the institution, supposedly replacing a well-known guard who was at the age of retirement. Due to your paranoia, you would sit on the edge of your bed, watching the door in the chance of someone entering your room when they weren't supposed to.

During the days, you would spend all you could with Michael, hoping that your association with him would make you seem off limits to mess with, or you hoped. Yet, Michael couldn't protect you when the sun went down and the men and women would return to their respective cells on opposite sides of the institution.

Tonight, you were following the same routine, sitting on the edge of your bed and watching the door. Your mind was in shambles, trying to come up with a plan in that chance, that horrid chance of the new guard coming for you. You hoped it wasn't what you were thinking, and for once, you prayed.

God never heard your prayers, and he certainly didn't now, especially when the jingling of keys were heading down the hallway, towards your room.

Michael couldn't sleep and when he couldn't sleep, he would simply pass the time by creating more masks or painting designs onto them. He was sitting at his desk, the surface covered in paper mache, markers, paint, and crayons. He was in the middle of adding a touch of red when he heard the distant sound of screaming.

His annoyance was disguised under his mask as he sighed and tightened his grip on the crayon in his hand to the point that it almost broke in half. He puffed again at the commotion and went on, indifferent to the screams. Perhaps a patient was making a scene during the nightly check-ins.

In order to block out the noises, Michael withdrew within the walls of his mind. It was a way that allowed Michael to escape freely from the confinement of his cell. He would always imagine a life outside the institution, with you. He would imagine the way he would protect you and provide for you. The thought used to sicken himn, but now he enjoyed it, the possibility. The sound of keys jingling, seemingly opening his cage, caused him to pause, though. With a loud crash, the cell door swung open, and shouting could now be heard outside of his room.

"Want some, freak?" The guard asked him in an mocking manner while Michael remained at his desk, his back to the guard. Michael immediately understood what the guard was pulling when he heard the feminine screams and intended to ignore it. 

He continued to ignore his surroundings, ignoring the rage building within his chest. The sound of his bed creaking didn't deter him from continuing on with his activity. However, it all changed when the victim screamed one word.

"Michael!"

You.

Your trapped figure on his bed, with your nightgown pushed up so that only your thighs were visible, caught Michael's attention as his head whirled around. Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, which streamed down your cheeks as you sobbed and struggled. His eyes quickly shifted to the guard hovering over you, and he developed tunnel vision instinctively.

A ferocious roar erupts from Michael's mouth and takes hold of the guard by the neck and collar of his shirt, throwing him off balance. In the midst, you shakily brought yourself to a sitting position, fixing the bottom of your nightgown to cover yourself. Your eyes watched as Michael picked up the guard, pinning him to the wall with eerie silence. The man in his grasp was yelling in pain and fear as Michael kept him pinned, his legs dangling in the air.

"L-Let go! Let go, you fucking punk!" The guard cried out.

Michael did not like that, not at all. Without a second thought, Michael hurled him into his desk, his art supplies falling to the ground in a cluster of clangs while the man groaned in pain. Like a predator stalking his prey, Michael's towering form stalked over to the smaller male, his eyes black as night and void of any life or mercy within. His large hand reached out to grab the same red colored pencil,

Michael's next action seemed to be a blur, he body launching onto the guard and stabbing him with the colored pencil, his resiliant strength making the pencil tear through flesh and muscle.

You watched in a sickening twist of fascination and awe, watching as Michael stabbed the guard over and over, leaving no body part untouched, the man;s screams filling the room. Your heart felt warm, knowing that Michael was willing enough to kill someone for you.

Lastly, Michael stabbed him until his chest, stomach, and face was shrouded in punctures, cuts, and wounds. With one last jab, the colored pencil stabbed into his neck, making the man gurgle on his own blood.

"Michael..." You whispered, your eyes taking in his bloodied form as he slowly turned to you, heaving himself up and moving towards you. It was as if he was a trained dog hoping he made his master proud. However, you were nothing of the sort. When he was close enough, you wrapped your arms around him, pressing yourself into his strong form. "Thank you..."

Michael gave a small huff, hesitantly touching your head with his bloody palm, staining your strands with the bodily fluid. Without another word, Michael pushed you away and grabbed your hand, pulling you off the bed and heading towards the door.

"Where we are going?" You asked in confusion, following behind the behemoth of a man down the stark white hallway.

In response, Michael tugged on your hand and you decided to go along with whatever he had in his mind. He saved you after all; even when he didn't have to, he did. It made you feel safe and protected in his presence.

"Alright, Alright." You muttered, your figures turning a corner and out of sight.

Red and white.

Those were the colors you would never forget. The way the walls were coated in blood and bodily fluids of various nurses and guards that laid along the floor in mangled messes.

Michael was strong, very strong. You remembered the way he smashed a guard's skull in with his fingers alone. You shuddered at the thought, crossing your arms and staring at the wall in front of you as you waited for Michael to finish off his last victim. A nurse arriving at the right place at the wrong time as Michael ambushed her, his hands around her throat as he strangled her.

Michael walked over to you, his muffled huffing practically hovering over your ear as he showed you shoes and coat. You stared at the items with a blank expression, wondering what he wanted you to do with these.

He huffed before shaking the items in his hands, motioning the items towards you. You sighed before taking the items with a small smile, throwing on the shoes and coat. You felt the warmth of the fabric soothe your cold figure.

"Thank you..." You muttered softly, looking up at him as he stared down at you.

He couldn't help but think you looked...cute.

He offered you his bloodied hand, which you instantly took and followed him to the exit. You both were finally going to be free and it was all thanks to him.

After a few hours of walking, your feet were beginning to ache and the adrenaline from earlier was wearing off.

After your fifth yawn, Michael stopped in his tracks, turning towards you in the middle of the field. He simply stared at you as you bent forward to rest your hands on your knees.

Michael, I need to rest for a moment. Please my-" Your words were cut off when Michael stormed over to you, grabbing you roughly around the hips, hoisting you into his arms. His arm went around your waist, while the other held your back in a bridal style fashion.

Your eyes widened from his sudden roughness, however you couldn't complain as you basked in his warmth, nuzzling your face in the bloodied fabric of his robe.

"Thank you." You said, closing your eyes and allowing yourself to finally relax for the first time tonight. You didn't notice the way Michael was staring at you in his arms, his darkened eyes filled with something unknown, dangerous...maybe even a little bit of caring.

Silently, he turned and resumed walking through the field, making sure to keep you safe as you began to doze in his arms.

Finally, you were his.

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@prettywhenibleed @ghoulgeousimmaculate @britany1997 @rottent33th @slaasherslut @bluecoolr @the-pinstriped-hood @flower-crowned-lady @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @azzy-ozborn @strrvnge @repostingmyfavs

[lussiane333]

hello friend, love the slasher posts

Ok so we all know that scene in Halloween when the nurse chick (I completely forgot her name) was kissing and biting micheals hand. Could you do that but with his s/o like how would he reacte if it was someone he ......likes?

Hello there!

That scene.. I'm jealous.

(Any version) Michael Myers x Reader NSFW!

(It's me, of course it's NSFW, what else did you expect ;P)

Kiss it better

Michael knew that you liked his hands.

It turns out that besides the brutality, his hands could still give pleasure.

The way you ogled when he grabbed something, when he placed his hand on your thigh and circled his thumb on your skin, so light and soft. Or when he gripped your neck tightly, Michael savoring the sweet sounds you made, as your eyes watched his flexing arm. Your hand placed on top of his that held your neck, feeling his strong grip.. 

The way your eyes were practically heart shaped, when he came home all dirty and bloody, his hand gripping the knife so tightly it made his veins pop out even more.

Michael knows it all.

He also knows that he could easily crush you with them. One hand and you would be gone.. It's not only erotic to him. He feels a strange sensation in his chest when he thinks that you know about the things that he has done with his hands, and you still look at them like it's a holy picture.. He's aroused but touched too.

So now imagine, Michael coming back home with a big bruise forming on his knuckles. It was still red, maybe the victim kicked him or threw something at him, tried anything just to save themselves. 

Tried..

"Let me kiss it better.." You said, giving Michael the most prettiest gaze you could. 

Michael's eyes were on you. It didn't even hurt and he was eyeing you for trying to baby him like that, but he gave you his hand anyway.

You felt heat creep along your neck as you found yourself kissing his palm. Then you began to suck and bite just gently on Michael's fingers.

His eyes widened slightly, all focused on you and the way your mouth moved, your eyes on his as you held his wrist. 

Oh he likes it. A lot.. 

When you softly moaned and bit down harder, applying the perfect pressure with your teeth, he lost it. 

He would put you against the nearest furniture and fuck you hard, pushing his hips forward to sink his cock into you over and over again, his fingers in your mouth, muffling the sounds you made. 

'You like it so much, now take it.' He thinks, as he pushes his fingers down your throat more.

He wouldn't be able to hold back the soft moans that escaped him. Seeing you sucking on his fingers while he's deep inside of you? Yeah, that does something to him.

Michael would definitely give you hints to do it again after this..

Coming home after another bloody night and you would see a big scratch on his hand. (He actually did it himself) He would stare at you, showing you his hand and if you wouldn't get the hint, he would put his thumb on your lower lip, pulling it down gently and lean closer to you just to whisper a soft, almost inaudible: "Kiss it better." 

[rzyraffek]

Slashers with housewife s/o

(She/her)(swf) I was writing it for hour and it didnt save tnere is a lot of dialogue this color is slasher talking and this one is s/o. Its mostly written for fun Request open

Thomas Hewitt

P r o t e c t

He is triple cousious with his victims now! He would not forgive himself if one of them hurt her! And I dont thinl s/o likes gore so dont go near basement hon pls

*tommy vibing outside* "Uhhh Tommy? Theres some guy in livingroom" 🤨😨

Even tho she is hausewife he is hausehusband so yall Just vibe while cooking and cleaning

The Micheal Myers

"Micheal make sure to wear something under this jumpsuit, its cold outside!"

S/o getting him a phone and texting him every second he's out

Please Micheal stop killing people in our livingroom, this carpet costs more that my kidney

Once he gave her a knife he stole from some girl that tried to Defend herself

I can imagine s/o texting him stuff like "at 5pm u better be home, i made your favorite food" he will speedrun to home, he loves food

Collector

*phone rings at 3am* "Honey why you calling me, im at work?" "ASA THERE IS HUGE SPOODER IN BATHROOM HELP I CANT PEE" "omygod not again"

Due to s/o being often home alone (he is busy man) she will probably find some sort of hobby?(obviolusly) I can see her learning how to do crocheting. LIKE IMAGINE: "Asa i made you this cute sweater Look!" (There are to ways he will answer that) option1: "yeaah thanks that suuuper cute will wear it for sure"(never wears it) option 2: "what kind of abomination is that"(will wear it at work)

Bonus points if the oomgomgomg IF SHE MAKES SWEATER WITH MOTHS ON IT OR COCKROACHES (you know the funny gif with spining cockroach?yep this one) HE WILL LOVE IT(secretly) He would love to wear it to work but Hes afraid of destorying it (No, because imagine Arkin living in hell and the guy that tortures him for months just cames in cute sweater with cockroaches on it)

Yaujta

"??? Mate u mean u want to stay here and take care of nest while I go out??? I mean sure? Eem take care??" Confused af, like in his culutre both partners Hunt and tbh theres non long lasting relationships, only to make babis so it is weird.

He wants her to stay by his side 24/7 so he will be grumpy

But idea of her making amazing food while he is out just for him is too good to pass

Especally if its made of foods that he hunt, brings him pride

Imagine learning him how to use fork "nono honey u grab it like that and stab the food. Nono gently nonoo oh noo *break plate* "why use that when im litteraly apex predator hon imma-*eats whole plate of food with plate*

Billy lenz

F o o d

He loves food she makes

She hangs out in house so its win-win.

He will hug her alot and try to take her attencion from whatever she does to him!!

"Billy go help me chop carrorts for dinner!" *billy speedruning from upstairs* "🥺whar are carrots?"

Brahms Heelshie

"Mmm :) " "Brahms stop staring at me and help me clean kitchen' "yes honey :("

He does not rule in this relationship

He may act intimitading but He is just a shy bean

He does not know how to food, he will try to eat uncooked potato while shes not looking mmm forbiden apples

Hush man

Hes into that, prefers his wife to be like that

He loves picking her up and runinning arond hause

No matter how long yall are into relaionship he will be nervous before any dinner u eat together or be so happy everytime he sees her after he comesback home

Found it in my drafts!

[osirisisv]

Here.

What you always wanted. 🍬💕

Michael is too shy to kiss you yet, he hopes this is enough <3

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY!!

From our beloved boy mickey 🥰❤️💕

[nymphbunnyys]

hi! I love the way you write and I was wondering if u could do Asa, Jesse, and Michael with an s/o who’s a famous (but unknown) horror game designer? Like they make all their games themself and their development set-up is in the basement

If this is too specific or hard feel free to turn it away, ur my fav slasher writer and I love ur fics ❤️❤️

Why would I turn this is away?! This is actually so cool. As someone who’s into stories and horror, at a very young age I always wanted to create games or even comics dedicated to horror so this was actually really fun to write! Also I love you so much, I’m your favourite slasher writer? Like what the heck?! I hope you like this munchkin, XO.

Also I deeply apologize for not writing as much I finally have a job again so I’ve been busy with that and saving for my PC, but I promise stuff is still coming out, I’m also in the process of trying to better the way I write sooo bare with me.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬? 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐒𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐨’𝐬 𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐨 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐫

TW; none that I know of?

GN!Reader!

𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬

- honestly I feel like Michael would think this is.. actually kind of interesting. A lot of times he’s some what impatient to get home just so he can get his way into the basement and watch you create your own little worlds.

- in a way, it helps him escape? That and he can relate due to the horror themes.. but when he watches it’s almost like he’s the character. Watching so intently as you test the game, the character making their way through corridors and flashing their flash light at sudden noises. It almost felt real. Maybe you took inspiration from your murderous boyfriend, either way he thinks it’s fascinating.

- One night when watching you code and test the game you’d recently been working on, he noticed the frustration boiling under your fingers, watching as you occasionally picked up your pencil to scribble, watching as they went back to the keyboard to pop up the coding screen and quickly going back to the game. “Michael, I’m doomed.” The man ever so slightly jumped, the comfort of the quiet now gone. He tilted his head a bit looking at you and then the screen. What could have been the issue.. it looked great. He softly cocked a brow and sat back. “I can’t come up with an antagonist for the game.. nothing absolutely nothing at all comes to mind.”

- The two of you sat in silence once more, listening to the music that played from the computer the music that was supposed to make the killer of the game come out, it’s que for the coding to jump scare the poor pixelated protagonist. But nothing could come to mind. Michael sat for a long moment and on a whim.. pointed to himself. Michael usually wasn’t of much help and didn’t care to help you with most things but this had been something he’d taken a liking to and if Michael likes it then that’s when he’ll help.

- you looked at him with a glint of curiosity in your eyes. That’s actually.. not such a bad idea. I mean.. fuck even though the man did what he did he had.. a pretty large amount of people who liked him so why not.. make a game about him.. people do it all the time.. ‘based on true events’. He was a genius. You gave a soft peck to Michaels cheek before going back to your game, creating the antagonist to be the one and only.

-Michael Myers.

-… you’ve probably fuelled his ego though.

𝐀𝐬𝐚 𝐄𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲

- I mean. Definitely isn’t interested in games but he understands what having hobbies is and doing things to thrill you so he’s all for it. He might occasionally tell you that you should add something like this.. or that, maybe put that in there. I mean he would know right. Horror.. is what he does.

- oddly enough whenever he does this it’s almost like he’s criticizing you on how to do things but he’s not.. he just wants to help in some way, show that he’s not such an asshole and does care for your interests. But it does come across as if he’s criticizing. He Never really learned how to tap into giving good criticism.

- he likes it because he doesn’t have to worry about you when he’s at the hotel. You’re content in the basement, tapping away at you work and listening to music, and when he’s home.. it’s maybe a little too quiet. He doesn’t normally get a hug when he comes home, or a kiss. So he’ll open the basement door, bring you food and deliver a kiss to your temple.

- “eat. You’ve been at this all day.”

- quickly walks upstairs so he doesn’t have to hear you thank him for being so sweet.

𝐉𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬

- uhmmmm that’s cool, but can you maybe bring a laptop with all that stuff cuz, he doesn’t want you in the basement he wants you by his side at work.. 24/7. So if you can find a way to bring that with you then uh I’d suggest do that.

- it’s not that he doesn’t want you to do what you’re doing, your job is great he just. Wants you time.

- all the time. Even if that means you have to bring work with you everywhere you go. He makes sure that you aren’t interrupted though, he makes sure you have a comfy chair right beside him and have room on his desk to set your laptop and all your work on. He likes to set his work aside at times to watch you, ask you questions about what you’re making and sometimes to test the game.

- I won’t lie.. Jesse probably likes the idea of games, like Michael he sees it as his own world, he can be somebody else, somewhere made up.

- the amount of times you hear the text to speech from his phone to tell you to add little skulls here and there is ridiculous. But you like to the little ‘I’m so proud of you’, ‘this looks amazing dear’

- he loves your work. He is very very proud of you and how much effort you put into it.

[slasher-male-wife]

Horror characters with an s/o who's love language is biting

So I'm sorry for barely posting anything in forever I've just been in a bit of a funk for awhile. Anyway @k1nn1e-0n-ma1n was super insistent I write this so shout out to him and his Bo Sinclair brain rot. This also was slightly inspired by @osirisisv RZ Michael Myers drawing.

Includes: Bo Sinclair, RZ Michael Myers, Otis Driftwood, and Doomhead

Warnings: Violence kind of, Bo and Otis being a perverts kind of

Bo Sinclair

Lester was a biter as a child and Bo has a very high pain tolerance so you biting him doesn't hurt it just surprises him. He honestly didn't know what you did until he looked over and saw you biting his hand.

"The fuck are ya doin'?" He'll ask verbatim. He's not mad, he's just confused as to why at 5:47 on a Tuesday during him watching reruns of some 80's show you decided to bite him.

When you say it's a love language he immediately thinks it's a sex thing. You will quickly shut that down and he'll get a little less excited.

"I still don't understand why ya did that darlin." He'll say before pulling you either on top of him or underneath him and just holding you so you can't bite him again.

On occasion he'll let you bite him again, but if you do it when he doesn't want you too he'll storm off to wherever and ignore you until you make it up to him.

RZ Michael Myers

He has a very high pain tolerance but when he feels you biting him he'll immediately push you off of him or put you in a headlock. He won't let you out either unless you beg him.

He is very confused as to why you bit him, because to his understanding you're not supposed to hurt the people you love.

He's going to probably disappear for a few days to think this over, and because he doesn't want you to bite him again for a little bit. But he'll come back more understanding.

You can bite him, but only when he's prepared and you're willing to 'play fight' because let's be honest, play fighting with Michael is basically him thinking he's playing and you fighting for you life. Could put you in head lock again.

He honestly might just roll up his sleeve and indirectly ask you to bite him. But this will happen after a lot of talking about how biting him means you're not trying to hurt him you just love him.

Otis Driftwood

"Did you just fucking bite me?" He asks you. And honestly no matter where you bite him it's a bad idea because he would taste like cigarettes, blood, and dirt.

Will be mad until you explain you do it because you love him and he'll laugh. Will also think it's a sex thing but you quickly shut that down. He's a little disappointed but doesn't mind too awfully much.

He doesn't mind as long as you give him a proper warning before you do it. If you catch him off guard he'll honestly pull his arm or whatever part of him you bit and leave you alone for a few hours at the least

Because he's a little freak he'll ask you to try and bite him harder than you normally do it to see how much pain he can handle. You can probably draw blood before he tells you to stop.

Overtime he learns to love it and honestly doesn't mind too much anymore. If a victim tries to or actually bites him he'll laugh and tell you about it later. "Don't worry honey, they weren't as good as you."

Doomhead

He’s not exactly lucid all the time so he might not realize you’re biting him at first. When he does realize it he pulls his hand away and laughs about it. "Do I taste good to you or something sweetheart?"

Will tease you about it non-stop. Brings it up all the time even if there's nothing to do with it currently. He'll have a hard time understanding that you're doing it "out of love".

He might honestly buy you a dog chew toy as a joke if you bite him often enough. Or like one of those baby teething toys. He will laugh so hard about it, especially if you get embarrassed about it.

That's not to say he doesn't like when you bite him. He can find the repetitive feeling calming and it honestly might make him feel more lucid at times. But he'd never ask you to do it. He might gives you hints though