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Bestie. I'm here to ask for some peepaw fluff. Anything with him being clingy and protective.
Dont feel pressured to write this but if you do- thank you. <3
Anything for you my love 😘
Tw: mentions of mental illness, angst that turns into fluff (partially inspired by your interaction with @slasherslutmoth earlier, I’m glad you took your meds Moth ❤️)
Loves a Killing Game
You sat with your head in your hands, staring out the window and waiting raindrops collect at the bottom of the windowsill. A small draft could be felt, leaking it’s way into the room and draining it of any warmth that previous lived there. You counted the drops, one- two - three, then you’d lose focus. Your brain was anywhere but with you.
So you instead began to hum a tune, something simple, something you’d heard before. Anything to drone out the endless voices in your head. They’d gotten so loud recently. Your medicine bottle was completely full, despite filling it at the chemist nearly two weeks ago. But it didn’t matter, they didn’t make you feel better anyways. So you sat, and you counted and you hummed.
“Maybe I could fix up the house?” You said to no one in particular because there was no one there to listen.
But the more you dwelled on that thought, the more it felt like a good idea. I mean, the draft was killing you, and the creeky floorboard on the 4th step was driving you insane. It beat waiting around for him- he’d be back soon but the waiting was always the worst part. So you dragged yourself to the shed in the backyard, letting the cold water soak you without a care in the world. It felt refreshing. You smiled as you felt the familiar mush under your feet, from the deepest groves he’d walked so many times.
The shed was dingy, like the rest of the house, but it had its charms. You thought back to what it must have looked like when it was first built. That thought made you smile, not quite reaching full potential but it was a smile none the less. Before you knew it, you were back inside, bag of random tools at your side and and old song still playing in your head. But it wasn’t good enough, wasn’t loud enough, so you grabbed a speaker from your room and plugged it in.
The day passed quickly after that. One thing after another fell into place, everything was looking perfect. No more squeaky floors, or rusty door hinges, no more draft in the window or leaky faucet. Everything was right as rain for all intensive purposes. But it still didn’t feel like home, no you were missing something for that. And that something was late.
Your mind began to race again.
“What if he got caught? What if he’s hurt, what if they finally killed him!”
The overwhelming sense of fear and dred set in, you felt yourself spiralling. You sank into the newly fixed staircase and held your head in your hands, letting your tears fall freely. But that’s when you felt it, warmth. It startled you. You jumped nearly falling down the rest of the steps, but strong hands stabilised you.
“Micheal?” Your voice came out weaker than you’d hoped.
“You’re here, you’re home. How are you?”
It was a stupid question really. You knew he wouldn’t answer, but you couldn’t help it. You loved this man… that’s it, you were in love with Micheal. No wonder your brain thought to him whenever you were having a hard time. You wanted nothing more than for him to be at your side and now he was. It was now that you noticed his pointed stare. You knew there was no use avoiding the inevitable but you stalled anyways.
“Do you like what I’ve done with the place? I couldn’t even hear you come in this time.” You joked.
Micheal was always stoic, at least from what everyone else could tell. But he was different with you, not very many people were allowed to call him Peepaw, even as a joke, and live to see their next day. You could see a glint of amusement in his eyes. What you didn’t know however was that he knew where all the loose floorboard were in the house, he just hated starling you.
Something in Micheal squirmed when he saw your discomfort. He hated how you looked when you were scared, or worse, crying. But he never really knew how to express this properly. The first few months he knew you he kept coming up with schemes to kill you. Telling himself over and over again that if he just got rid of you, this feeling growing in his chest, this aching, would go away. But every-time he had the chance, he let you win.
What you didn’t know, was that his feelings for you distressed this man very much. He never had much love in his childhood, and he was hated throughout most of his adulthood. Only in his old age did he mellow out, his rage was still there but it was quieter, more subdued. And maybe that was due to you, but he’d never admit that. This man was so distressed in fact, he did something nobody expected him to do. He visited the grave of Samuel Loomis. Although he hated the man, there was no way in hell Micheal could go to a living therapist. So there he sat, staring at the deadman’s grave with hatred, but his thoughts still wandered to you.
He thought long and hard about what the late doctor would say to him. Samuel was convinced he was the embodiment of evil, incapable of love, and maybe Michael had self-actualised that bullshit for years. But the doctor would have loved you, you tamed the beast, you proved him wrong. Samuel would tell him you were just some dumb obsession, something that would fade overtime, and god did younger micheal want to agree with that hypothesis. But he realised something that evening, something he would come to remember every-time he saw you. The Shape of Haddonfield, Micheal fucking Myers, loved you too.
So when he came home today to see you, covered in dust and crying on the staircase, he felt that harsh tug on his heart again and he hated it. He was by your side in an instant, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close to him. Your body was cold and this concerned him, in fact you were sort of damp. He hated the way you jumped slightly, but he melted when you said his name. He always loved the way you said his name. He wanted to know what made you so upset, he wanted to be angry, cause that was something he knew well. He found comfort in his anger, especially when it was felt for you, you were too delicate to ever truly feel rage like he did.
“What’s wrong?” He signed to you.
While he enjoyed your joke, he hated when you tried to hide from him.
“It’s nothing, it’s- it’s actually stupid. And it doesn’t matter, you’re here now!” You dismissed.
Micheal never wore his mask when he was home with you, a show of trust. And it was something you loved about him. The first time he showed you his face, you were starstruck, taking in every detail out of fear you’d never see it again. The man frowned at you, narrowing his eyes. You sighed.
“This isn’t a problem you can solve with your knives Micheal, as much as I wish it were.”
That’s when he understood, you were in your own head again. Micheal was used to getting lost in his thoughts, especially was back at Smiths Grove when he had nothing to do but think. But he understood you didn’t need to think right now. So he did the only logical thing in his brain. He picked you up and slung you over his shoulder, carrying you upstairs. He threw you down on the bed and you guffawed.
“Micheal what are you-“
“Stay.” He sighed.
You raised your brow at the old man, almost as if you were testing him. Letting him know you were in fact choosing to follow his instruction and could in fact get up from this bed and follow him if you wanted. I mean it’s not like he’d do anything, you’d learned at this point Micheal wouldn’t intentionally hurt you. So you waited, forgetting why you were even upset in the first place. His presence in the house already calming you down, making you feel safe. You heard some ruckus downstairs, but tried your best not to move from your spot, feeling antsy to be by his side again. That’s when he came back.
“Micheal, what are you holding behind your back?” You asked quizzically.
He approached you and held out an empty hand. You looked at him oddly before realising he wanted you to hold out yours. So you did so, and were surprised when he dropped something small in your hand. Candy. You couldn’t help but burst into a fit a laughter. The kind of laughter that had you actually rolling around on the floor and clutching yours sides. Micheal stood still, looking at you as if you’d completely lost your mind. Between giggles you managed to get out your thought.
“Is this- is th- from your secret stash? Did you just - give me- give me secret- ca-candy?”
He didn’t move at all, just kept starring at you as if this was the most serious moment in his life. He’d never been good at words, but even in his old age he still loved candy. And he also loved you, so it only made sense in his brain to share his love this way. When you realised he hadn’t even cracked a smile at your antics you knew you fucked up, so you sobered up, quickly.
“No, Micheal!” You grabbed his arm before he could leave the room.
“That was, that was very thoughtful of you, thank you.”
You locked eyes with him and looked down at his cheek, he tried to follow your eyes with his.
“Is this- is this ok?”
He nodded. You gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek, having to stand on your tip toes to do so. You wouldn’t have to if this man wasn’t freakishly tall. You placed the Candy back in his hand and he stared at it.
“Why don’t we share it? You can show me that new knife of yours and we can watch the news to see how much you liked it!”
He watched as your eyes lit up as you spoke, but that’s when he noticed the bottle of pills on the nightstand. He remembered taking pills back at the sanatorium. He pushed past you gentle and grabbed them, noting the seal was yet to be broken. He turned to you bottle in hand.
“Sick?” He signed.
“They don’t work Micheal, I don’t want to take them.”
He walks up to you at an alarming pace which made you back up to the wall. He stopped, normally he’d relish in the feeling of making someone feel small, but not you, never you. He gentle grabbed your hands and pressed the bottle into them.
“Take tonight, tomorrow call doctor.”
His signs were rough, he rarely ever needed them to communicate with you, but he started learning a year ago when you suggested it would help you understand him better. You sank you head but he lifted your chin gently with his had. You looked him in the eyes. That’s when he mimicked your action from earlier and leaned down to kiss you on the cheek.
“Feel better. Take care of yourself.”
“Is that an order?” You joked.
The old man glared at you.
“New knife.” He warned.
“You wouldn’t.”
You attempted to call his bluff, but he didn’t seem to be joking. So you gave in. Micheal would never threaten you unless he felt it was important, and if this was important to him, it was important to you.
“Fine. But you can’t go out tomorrow. I need you here Micheal, I want you home”.
His eyes softened at those words. He really loved the sound of that every time you said it. You were finally his, and he could call this place home gladly as long as you were in it.
“Feel better?” It came out as a question this time.
“Yes, it would make me feel better. You always make me feel better.”
You popped the pill in your mouth, dry swallowing it. You saw the familiar gentle tug on the edge of his lips. Micheal never really smiled, but it was close enough for you. He wrapped you in a hug, as if he was checking to make sure you were really real.
“No more tears?”
“No more tears.” You laughed softly.
His words were so simple yet meant so much.
“God, who knew you were such a softy Peepaw.” You joked.
When you felt his body stiffen, you used it to your advantage and broke free of his grip. You stopped in the doorway and turned to him.
“Whoever gets to the kitchen first gets to eat the last tub of icecream!” You yelled.
Despite being 20 feet in front of the man, he caught up quickly due to his sheer height. It was different when you played chase. While Micheal was still holding back, this game of cat and mouse was still fun for him. But for completely different reasons. He’d let you reach the kitchen before him cause he knew you wanted the ice cream, and you were his prize.
An: ahhh does this even count as fluff, I’m not used to writing this genre lol. Sorry if it was cringy af. But hopefully ill only get better with practice. But I like soft Micheal, peepaw is best boy. 🥺
He is possessive and does not like it when you go out in general. He especially does not like you being around people that aren't him. You belong to him and no one else should have you.
There was a time you spent an entire day at a friend's house with a large group. You stayed longer than you normally would.
Michael followed you, of course. He sees any relationship you have outside of him as a threat. He watched through the windows, tracking you from room to room, watching your interactions. The knife weighed heavy in his hand and his grip nearly cracked the handle.
He beat you home. As soon as you walked in the door he grabbed your wrists and pulled you close. The scents clinging to your clothes and skin were not your own, and not his, and that's a problem. You could hear the rage in his breathing behind the mask.
He took you to the bedroom and ripped your clothes off your body with his bare hands. They were soiled by too many other people and must never be worn again.
He fucked you for what felt like hours. He had to reaffirm his ownership of you. Mark you again. He doesn’t always undress fully but that night he needed to. He dominated in close positions, his skin against yours as much as possible.
By the end you were close to tears from how overstimulated you were. You'd lost track of how many times he gave you an orgasm and you were basically putty in his hands. He must have had more than one himself but he was not sated until all traces of others on your skin were gone.
For as angry as he was and rough as he was, he never wanted to hurt you. When he finished he stroked you almost tenderly in the spots that calm you, and held you until you'd come down. When you could speak again, you told him you still belonged to him, and he nodded once.
He's not lacking in stamina or energy in his age, and really he doesn't need that much sleep to begin with
But he knows you like falling asleep with him next to you. It makes you feel safe. He likes that you feel safe with him because you are; he would never hurt you. He's learned to stay after you fuck because it matters to you.
He's not partial to one position over another, as long as you're comfortable, but he does prefer to be able to watch you, somehow. His patience is endless and he doesn't need sleep as much as you, so he enjoys watching you.
He doesn't fully realize that he sleeps better with you too, until a time he's awake far longer than usual. The stalking takes longer and the killing goes all night. Dozens of casualties. He's properly tired when the night ends. And his first thought is you.
You have a habit of waiting up for him. When he bursts through the door he picks you up from whatever you're doing, carries you to the bedroom, throws you down on the bed and falls directly on top of you.
He arranges your body and limbs in the right position because he knows you'll let him. He slides off you just enough to let you breathe. An arm and a leg hook around you and the nose of the mask ends up in your hair.
He's still covered in blood and making a mess but he doesn't care and knows you'll forgive him. Right now he's just tired and needs to sleep, and he associates sleep with you now. And it doesn't bother him. He does not suffer from conflicting emotions and he never denies himself what he wants. When he sees something he wants he takes it. So no, the fact that he can no longer imagine sleeping without you does not bother him. It just is.
Before passing out he gives you one full-body squeeze because he knows you like that, and it's a gentle affirmation for both of you that he owns you.
hello !! First off I just wanted to say that I love your writing so much ! You write michael so well and your one of my favorite writers for him :D also I was wondering if you could write michael who has his s/o (preferably afab but gn is fine too!) on his lap cock warming him in front of a mirror and the s/o takes out her phone and starts taking photos of videos of them in that position and pretty much gets off to it (sorry if it's too explicit-)
Hello sweet nonnie! Thank you so much omg seriously this made me do that embarrassing squeak thing 🥺🥺😭 I can't comprehend being anyone's favorite anything. I'm really happy you enjoy my stories so much and I hope they continue to improve.
I am sorry this took a while. My original plan was to do a headcanon post so somewhere in the ~700 word range but life had other plans and if it wanted to be a 2K so fucking bad then it was getting written like a 2K so... yeah. It went through a massive rewrite. I hope it's worth the wait 🙏 Oh, and it's never too explicit, friend 😏
Summary: Michael does not like giving up control, but every so often, he'll let you ride his lap. When this happens, it needs commemorating.
Warnings: NSFW -- cockwarming, lap sex, vaginal sex, oral sex (m!receiving), does taking a video while fucking count as exhibitionism? I can't decide what to call that
Michael is a control freak. He refutes assertions of dominance to any degree, and he responds to any loss of control, however minuscule, with violence. He does not willfully surrender control. Not at first, anyway. Like with many things, you need to introduce the idea, and then approach at his pace.
The first time you ride his lap happens on the couch as somewhat of an accident. He often leaves his boots on, even with no intention of going out again. He moved his leg right as you walked by and you tripped over his foot. He caught you; you swatted at him and roused some playful fighting. Thinking nothing of it during your lighthearted struggling, you sat down on his lap. His eyes widened and his cock hardened in seconds.
He still dislikes surrendering control, but every so often, he permits you to ride his lap. When this happens, it needs commemorating.
He sits with his coveralls tied behind his waist, pulled and fanned enough to grant full access to his cock. On your knees between his legs, you start with a blowjob. In this position, he commands you. You may take the lead, that does not mean you hold all the power. He can grab your head, direct you, or hold you still and fuck into your mouth. A mutual understanding, a give and take. Something you had to teach him. This framing made him more comfortable. He grants you control until he decides he wants it back.
You moan around his cock, lavishing the stretch of your lips and his weight on your tongue. You intend to make a mess later so you don’t bother trying to keep it neat. You lick and suck and spit on his cock, keeping a hand at the base so you can use it on his shaft when you need to break for air. His eyes lock on you, focused and voracious. His posture slumps as he tries to relax, let you do the work, but the tension in his legs gives away his growing need.
When he can no longer temper his breathing, you stand. He pulls you forward between his legs to access the buttons on your pants. He likes to undress you himself. He frees your pants and panties from your hips and has them around your ankles with one tug. Giggling, you kick them aside to straddle his lap.
He rakes his fingers up your sides to pull your shirt over your head. His rough hands across your silken skin make you shudder with bliss. You invested in front-clip bras to stop him from breaking them in his impatience. His eyes evince his thoughts as he frees your breasts: he cherishes how he gets to unwrap you. The softness of your body mesmerizes him to no end.
You use his shoulders for balance to tease his cock with your lips. Not taking him inside yet, only stroking his length with your cunt. His cock twitches and you chuckle with a hint of sadism. He keeps his arms rested on the chair, every muscle and tendon straining with the urge to seize and dominate. His hands turn white with the intensity of his grip. A mere sliver of blue remains in the eyes that bore into yours, pupils blown wide with lust.
You align his cock with your entrance and take your sweet fucking time sinking down. When you seat yourself on his lap, his single heavy exhale releases something wicked into your blood. A sound that sweet cannot go to waste with impatience; a sound that sweet demands tender torment. You force your own arousal down and resist the urge to ride him. Leaning forward, you drape your arms over his shoulders and kiss his masked cheek. His eyes follow, and you hear him swallow.
“Michael,” you sigh against his ear. You shift your hips enough for him to feel it, not enough for it to matter. You swear you can feel his pulse through the cock buried so deep inside you. You can’t stop yourself from giggling. “You’re taking this very well.” His hands open and close. The thighs supporting you flex and contract. He swallows again, thick and dry, followed by the faintest grunt. He tries to goad you on with his eyes.
You bring a finger to your lips in thought. “Hmm… I wonder… how long you can last?”
You run your hands down over his shoulders and across his chest. Even under a cloth barrier, the planes of muscle and jagged scars respond to your touch. You circle your thumbs over his nipples and they harden in an instant. For once, his decision not to remove his shirt brings you relief; otherwise, this would be over. His whole body jolts, his cock twitching inside you, and still you do not move.
You cross your arms behind his head again and flash him your teeth. “Can you control yourself, Mikey?”
His lower eyelids constrict. Imperceptible for anyone else but for him, shooting daggers. He steels, and you smirk. You adjust your position with delicacy, so as not to stimulate him. You toss your head back and stretch your arms, careful about your hips. His legs flex again. Your phone on the table next to him catches your eye. You can’t reach it without moving, so you tap his arm and point. “Hand me that?”
He obeys, head empty. A brief twinge of guilt tugs at your heart when he places it in your hand. He has no idea what this thing is. He doesn’t much care to, either. In the past, you showed him how it takes pictures and videos, and he does not mind you recording him, that you can tell. You never share them with anyone, you never post them anywhere. Any photos or videos you might take of him belong to your eyes alone. He knows what it does; he knows he can stop you if he doesn’t like it. He knows he can tell you to delete anything—you have before, and you will. He is safe with you.
The standout feature of this room belongs to the grandiose floor-to-ceiling mirror. Pointing your phone’s camera at the mirror, you snap a picture of yourself in his lap. Then another. You arch your back a little, straighten your shoulders, tilt your head, releasing the shutter as you please. The stark contrast between your states of dress entices you, a mixing of filth and freedom. His gaze follows yours to the mirror, and when your eyes meet through the reflection, your face burns. Heat and electricity spark, relaxing you from the waist down. You want to fuck yourself on him until you pass out, but you can’t. Not yet. So you shudder through it and go back to being smug. You start a video.
“Damn, we’re hot,” you say. You pinch-zoom on the screen to better showcase his cock inside you. With you seated to the hilt and him still clothed, the camera cannot see much of how he fills you. No one except yourself will see this video, but you still narrate.
“Mikey’s being such a good boy right now. He wants to fuck me so bad but he’s behaving for me, aren’t you?” You keep the camera pointed at the mirror but turn your head to look. He makes a frustrated sound, somewhere between a growl and a whine, and works his arms again. You giggle. “See? Nerves of steel.” Heat stirs between your legs, your cunt throbbing with its own need. You bite your lip, but a small sigh escapes.
Michael’s hips buck on impulse, and you have to push against him with your free arm. You choke back a moan; if he causes any sound of pleasure from you, this ends. “Ah ah ah,” you taunt, “not yet.” Your legs quiver and your cunt screams for friction, but you beat it down. You want this video for the nights you have to spend without him. “I think I’m prettiest when I’m in your lap. What do you think?”
His hands constrict around the swell of your hips and the frustrated, guttural moan from him almost makes you cum with no contact. You stifle a reaction, but you know he can feel you shaking. You got that sound on video. And to his credit, he accomplished all that without moving either of you. You rub one of his hands. “It’s okay. You can touch, but you can’t move.” You want to give him permission to taste, too. You cannot cross the mask boundary yet, though, and definitely not with a camera rolling.
He sits up straight so he can reach you, and resumes his earlier ministrations. His hands roam, enraptured by every dip and plane, every hill and valley. Fueled by carnal lust, the frantic and heated sex between you and Michael has little room for moments like this. Exploring one another’s bodies for the sake of it. The fear of him saying no stops you from asking. His attention intoxicates you. His enthrallment with the parts of yourself you dislike makes your heart swell, and you… you want to do it back. He will undress for you, now; you’ve seen all of him, and he does not seem self-conscious, but he still keeps space. Problems like these usually lead the two partners to have a conversation, but. Well.
You rip your thoughts back to the present. Michael’s breaths punctuate with little gasps and groans. His hands tremble as they stroke and fondle the softest parts of you. Panning the camera down, you guide one of his hands to your breast. Your thumb directs his to swirl around your nipple. You gasp as he continues to play, his other hand mirroring on the opposite side. The cock inside you twitches and throbs, and your cunt responds in kind.
In honesty, you did not expect this to last long enough to frustrate you, too. The amount of control he shows here attests to his life as The Shape. The Shape is patient, restrained, and retains the upper hand by remaining composed while his victims fall prey to their fears. Tendons and veins bulge through his skin from stress and frustration, but when his hand slides home around your neck, his grip tempers. You present your throat to him: his fingers adjust without constricting. At the edge of sanity and coherent thought, he will not hurt you without an invitation.
Fuck.
You pan your phone back to the mirror to capture this moment of discipline, then flip the video to the front-facing camera. Leaning forward, you whisper to him through the mask. “You’ve been so good for me, Michael.” Your free hand tugs the collar of his shirt away to expose the crook of his neck. You check the framing for the camera and adjust, still mindful of your hips. “You’ve been making me feel so good. I want to return the favor.”
You brush the bottom of his mask aside so you can lick the base of his neck, where his shoulder connects. You plant a kiss, then lick again, then suck a mark into his skin as far as you can get, for as long as he allows.
He growls with his entire chest and rises to his feet, bringing you with him. Your yelp of surprise dissolves into laughter as your phone clatters to the floor, video still recording. He does not make it to the bed. He drops you both and fucks you into the floor. Seated on him for so long, you did not feel how wet your arousal made you. Cartoonish squelching accompanies his thrusts and colors your wanton moans with childish laughter. You hope he doesn’t think you laugh at him. Friction never felt so good. Him atop you, taking back control, taking you for himself, fucking you the way he wants, the way he knows you need. You cry out for him, begging him, yes, yes, yes.
You expect consequences for teasing him for that long. Michael remembers. He may not strike next time, he might not strike for a few more encounters, but every snap of his hips promises retribution. The Shape is patient, restrained, and only attacks when his prey least expects him.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I really love the way you write Michael Myers. May I request a nsfw one-shot of him?
Hello nonnie! Thank you so much for your request. I'm always down for some NSFW Myers. I tried to keep it broad so you can picture any version, but I'm so weak for OG Mikey and it might show 😅 Because things got 🔥spicy🔥 and nothing was specified, I went with an afab reader, I hope that's okay!
Michael Myers x AFAB!Reader
Word count: 2,502
Summary: Michael finds you after a successful hunt to fuck you senseless. That's it that's the plot
Warnings: NSFW — rough sex, vaginal sex, light improv'd bondage, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, bit of a breeding kink
Oh, the light hurts. You shield your eyes while groping behind the shower curtain to start the water. Every movement highlights your exhaustion as you shed the last of your clothes and wait for the steam to rise.
The time between saying goodbye to your friends and getting into your car eludes you. You can’t check the time because your phone is still in the pocket of the coat you discarded somewhere before the bathroom, but your creaking joints confirm the late hour. Far later than you planned to stay out. You want to sleep, but the woods and the bonfire still cling to your body. A quick shower, then bed.
The hot water on your fatigued muscles makes you sigh with relief. You try to work out some of the tension as you wash. Winter nights seep through every sinew and care not for the five-pallet bonfire ignited against the chill. But fire must always extinguish, and when the flames die, the cold penetrates deep. You thank the people that lived here before you for their investment in an industrial-grade water heater. Fixated on relieving the cold from your system, you do not hear the boots that tread through your house.
Metal scrapes against metal when the shower curtain parts. To your credit, you don’t scream; although, perhaps you should. Knife at his side, blood dripping from his mask and clothes, Michael glares at you through blackened eyes. His chest heaves from the weight of his breath, huffs amplified by the cheap latex.
“M—” He gives no you chance to react. Arms of steel constrict around you and hoist you out of the tub, unfazed by the spray. You kick behind you and manage to shut the water off with only a mild ricochet up your ankle bone. The knife still clutched in Michael’s hand grazes your naked flesh; the shudder it inspires both tantalizes and terrifies. How many people he must have killed tonight, if his lust can’t wait until you’re dry.
He throws you on the bed, evaporating your previous exhaustion. The chill targets your damp skin and hardens your nipples. You resist the urge to cover yourself. He likes a little fear in you, likes the way your nipples react to the slightest touch. Him still fully clothed, dripping blood at the foot of the bed, and leering at you with the gaze of a predator prepared to kill, eat, and then fuck the carcass rouses some intimidation.
Michael unzips and sheds the coveralls, removing all bottom layers but leaving his shirt. He climbs on the bed, cock red and throbbing, a bead of pre-cum already glistening on the tip. Foreplay is lost on him when the hunt still stirs in his blood. The knowledge that you are the one he craves after the bloodlust is not enough, the only thing that can sate his appetite brings heat and moisture to your loins.
“Michael,” you moan, arching your back and opening your legs for him. He pushes them out of the way and descends on you, aligning his cock with your entrance and pushing in to the hilt on the first thrust. The brief second of pain gives way to pleasure at the familiar stretch and fill of his cock inside you. Balanced on his hands above you, he pounds into you without reserve. Your cries of ecstasy vibrate against your ribs and off the walls. A pitch and texture no partner has ever pulled from you, sounds you never knew yourself capable of making.
Grunts and growls resonate from behind his mask. With his lust at its most primal and animalistic, he still resists making any sound. The bed sways and creaks from the raw power in his hips; he only fucks you like this when the night goes well. When he targets an entire group, stalks them through the day, and come night, leaves no survivors. No performative positions, no sensuality, no thoughts, only carnal desire. He kills them and then he fucks your soul out of your body.
“Fuck, Michael,” you gasp, grabbing his arms. His knees touch down long enough for him to twist his arms out of your hold. Pinning your wrists, he resumes his merciless rhythm. The slight change in angle hits that sweet spot deep inside you and you scream out for him. You try to meet his hips, but your capacity for thought diminishes when he hits there again. Every brush of his lower stomach against your clit serves only to torment you and you want to touch yourself to finish it, but you can’t.
Warmth and pleasure radiate from your cunt down your legs and up your stomach. Slick gushes from your entrance and dampens the sheets. Inhaling no longer provides oxygen and you pant uselessly under him. Vibrations still tingle at your throat, but no sound reaches your ringing ears. Static dances across your vision and you call his name again, begging for anything, anything he wants, take everything, fuck, Michael—
He stills and grunts through gritted teeth, barely audible over your wanton moans. His cock pulsates inside you, filling you with his warm seed. The almost gentle massage from his pumping cock is such a stark contrast to the way he fucks you. His chest heaves with the force of his breaths, slow and strong and sending tremors down his arms.
You can hear yourself again, and you sound pathetic. Tears trail down your cheeks and you wiggle underneath him, desperate for the friction to continue. “Please, Michael,” you beg, “please don’t stop, fuck, Michael, fuck me, ke—”
He brings your wrists together over your head, trapping them both in one hand. The other reaches behind and down to massage your clit with as little remorse as his earlier pounding. His cock, still inside you, rocks with the more docile movement of his hips. Your arousal heightens again and you struggle against his hold so he will force you down. Spine arched, hips bucking, legs shaking, until all the tension and pressure finally release. Your entire body convulses with the force of your orgasm, and you allow yourself one prideful giggle when his hips twitch. He loves when you cum on his cock.
He strokes you through the last of your orgasm, only stopping when your shocks pull away from him. Releasing your wrists, he straightens his back. A vertebra pops. His cock slips free of your heat while he adjusts your positions. His erection has not softened. You feel your mouth dampen and lick your lips in anticipation. Whatever god or devil made this man forgot to include a refractory period.
The veins in his arms protrude from under the skin. It takes an effort not to reach for him. You want to stroke those bulging veins, taste them; as of now, he only allows your mouth on his cock. As delectable as that is, there is so much of him left to explore. He will touch you where you ask, but he permits little reciprocation. And never undresses above the waist.
His hips continue their unconscious motion, rubbing the tip of his cock against your heated skin while he decides how he wants you. He looks… he looks human. The thought puzzles you, but sends a wave of relaxation through your limbs. You reach for the words through the fuzz in your brain. Something in the way his fingers curl around your legs, the way he had to catch his breath after his orgasm, and now, the way his body still seeks you out, you see the humanity he tries to hide with that mask. Damnable affection tightens in your chest, washing over you a softer kind of warmth.
One leg he pushes to the side. The other he lifts, resting your heel at his shoulder. You stretch for him and push your hips up. His eyes rake over your naked form, and he swallows. He pushes inside you again, carnal urges abated. He rolls his hips, taking his time to sink to his full length. One hand keeps hold of your ankle, the other roams as it pleases, or settles by the curve of your ass.
With a contented sigh, you wave away the bothersome thoughts. He bends your raised leg so he can lean forward to fondle your breast, curving around the outside and kneading the nipple with his thumb. You moan and lean into his touch. The tendons in your leg pull taut, but you ignore them; hell, they can snap for all you care right now. Any attention he pays your body needs cherishing and needs rewarding. Placing a hand on his, you guide him across your chest to the other side. He plays with you a minute longer before straightening his spine again. The speed and force of his thrusts increases.
“Fuck, Michael,” you moan, “you feel so fucking good.” You giggle, sanity slipping. “I want you to cum inside me again.” His hips snap, chin tucking as he chokes back a sound. You giggle again. “I want you to fill me. I don’t think you gave me enough.”
The next snap of his hips is a warning. You yelp with pleasure. “Michael,” you tease. His eyes lock with yours, and for a moment, your certainty he won’t kill you falters. Arousal flushes your face and gushes between your legs. “You almost broke me before. I want you to break me.”
He stills, and you panic. He pulls out of you and disappears behind the bed. When he stands up, he circles around the bed, carrying something out of view. He catches your arms in a death grip and binds your wrists with a rope. Where the fuck did he get a rope? This rope is not sexy; this is a rope from a hardware store used for labor. All things considered, he does not tie it too tight, though the course material bites and chafes your skin. He ties the other side to the headboard.
He rounds the bed again and kneels on the mattress, pulling on your hips to test the bindings. Satisfied, he resumes his position from earlier, with any trace of sensuality left behind. He uses your raised leg as a fulcrum to fuck you with the full strength of his hips. Skin slaps against skin with a brutal tempo; the fainter thump of his balls against your pussy sweetens the sinful melody. Sounds leave your lungs without your consent and you revel in it. Relish the way he makes you lose control, the way he makes you want to lose control, surrender to his will and be his plaything forever.
Without warning, he releases your leg and flips you onto your stomach. The rope twists and snags on your wrists. The wind leaves your lungs and you grunt against the unexpected switch. He pulls your hips up, forcing you onto your elbows and knees, showing off the impressive curve of your ass. His hands stroke down and up, admiring the globes of muscle. You arch your spine lower to present yourself. Begging him to take you again.
Flattened fingers circle your clit and caress your lips. Your tormented whine heats his blood and makes his cock throb. He guides his cock back to your entrance, buries himself deep, and waits.
“Michael,” you whimper, “what are you—” you try to ride him, but your binding reaches its limit and threatens to tear your skin. He pulls back until only the tip remains inside you and you groan. When you said you wanted him to break you, this is not what you meant. “Oh fuck, Michael, please, fuck me. Rail me.”
His breath hitches. Smirking to yourself, you keen again and bend in the most whorish way possible. “Fucking ruin me, Michael.”
His responding thrust damn near kills you. The entire bed moves and you laugh through empty lungs. The headboard clatters against the wall, the mattress creaks, your moans reverberate off of every surface. Tears escape from behind closed eyes and cool your face with your wild movements. His violent pounding shakes your entire body.
Submission seeps through tendon and muscle; your limbs weaken and relax. The mounting pleasure surges, relaxing you further in a feedback loop. Your quivering arms beg to give out. “Fuck,” you whimper, low enough that he may not hear you.
He pushes against your hips with his own and you feel him shift inside you. Something brushes your back, and something else snakes under you. Adrenaline snaps you back to reality and you fight against it. Until you hear that familiar muffled breathing right next to your ear.
Michael. His shirt ghosts across your back, his arm encircling you under your bust. His other hand moves as needed to help impale you with his cock. He has never done this. He has never fucked you close, never allowed so much of his skin to touch yours. His shirt rides up and you can feel his abdomen driving him into you.
Your shaking breath devolves into sobs, and a shudder resonates through every nerve. The change of position requires him to roll his hips to stay inside, and the resulting angle and motion massage your sweet spot with every thrust. More tears trickle down your cheeks and saliva dribbles out the corners of your mouth. You want to beg him to hook his fingers in your mouth, but your lungs can’t spare the air. The only sound left in you now is a desperate whimpering.
One circle of his fingers around your clit pushes you over the edge. Your orgasm rips through you and you gasp for air. Full-body shudders rack you to your bones and you feel yourself spasming around his cock. He pounds and rubs you full through your climax. Panting, moaning, tears streaming down your face, drooling on the sheets, slick running down his legs, and he does not stop stroking your clit until he hears pain.
With you spent, he resets his posture and takes what he needs to finish. Unconsciousness beckons you, blurs and darkens the world around you. You blacked out for a few seconds of your orgasm, and now you don’t notice his. The bindings around your wrists disappear without him coming into view. The rest of the night catches up to you again and the weight of your own body suffocates you. Aching and sore, you try to pull yourself into a sleeping position, but you can’t find your limbs. You mumble, “yeah… you broke me,” unsure whether you speak or dream.
Strong arms scoop you up and arrange you how you like to sleep. A pillow materializes under your head, blankets cover and envelop your tingling skin, a thumb wipes away the damp on your cheek. In the morning, you will think the gentle hand cradling your face as you fell asleep was part of the dream.
Summary: Michael Myers is less than a foot from you, staring you down from the black cavities of a vacuous face. His coveralls are stained with bullet holes, ribbons and patches of blood. But then he collapses, unconscious. You make the decision to take him home and clean up his wounds. The true severity of your situation doesn't sink in until it's too late to turn back.
Warnings: NSFW -- Mild Blood, Blood and Injury, Vaginal Sex, Wall Sex, Fear Play, Choking, Frottage
Being alone outside after dark is, in general, not a great idea. The plan was to go for a walk in the woods to clear your head, but then you got lost. The last whispers of sunlight through the autumn canopy faded around half an hour ago, and your phone’s battery is getting low. Whatever stress may have been relieved by the walk was replaced with the fear of dying alone in the woods.
The spot you picked was not very large, just a cluster of walking and hiking trails on the Derby-Haddonfield town line. You breathe a frustrated sigh of relief when you come across a trail marker. Not the trail you started on, but it will get you back to civilization. Your phone’s battery holds on long enough to let you know which way your car is before dying.
Walking on a forest road alone at night is not much more comfortable, but at least it feels familiar. Someone’s house is within view, but your car is in the opposite direction. You round a bend and see your car parked in front of the trail head on the side of the road. The only thing you can do at this point is laugh. It’ll make for a good story, at least.
Movement in the brush to your left grabs your attention. You continue on with a feeling like you’re being watched. You try to reason away your rising panic while quickening your pace. When you reach you car, heart in your throat, you fumble trying to get your keys out of your backpack. How does everything you put at the top of the bag always end up at the very bottom—
A pale face reflects off of the window. A scream gets caught in your throat, the only sound you make just a choked gasp. Your backpack slides off your arm into the dirt. The handle of the hunting knife you packed mocks you when it collides with your foot. Cold drips down your spine when you confirm who was haunting you. Michael Myers.
He’s less than a foot from you, staring you down from the black cavities of a vacuous face. His coveralls are stained with ribbons and patches of blood. Bullet holes—some still bleeding, some not—mar the fabric. Fresh blood drips off the tip of his knife, clutched in his right hand. His breath comes in deep, loud exhales. Feet shoulder-length apart, arms at his sides, he’s hunting. He’s hunting you.
Every attempt to scream fails to get past the blockade. No matter how hard you try, your tongue puts pressure on the back of your throat to keep it back. This is how it happens in those not-quite-nightmares; you can’t scream, and then something awful happens. Faced with death in reality, you can’t even manage to plead for your life. Tears well in your eyes.
Michael takes a deep breath, shifts his weight onto a forward foot, and has to catch himself with one hand on your car. You jump out of your skin. The other arm is on your car now, too, caging you under him, the mask inches from your face. His breath only exiting through the eye holes of the mask would be comical if you weren’t about to die. With only the half crescent moon illuminating the night, you still can’t see his real eyes.
With one last frustrated breath, Michael Myers collapses onto you. That scream breaks free, echoing and bouncing off the surrounding trees. He tries to right himself with no regard for the knife in his hand, but it clatters to the ground after a few seconds. With one shoulder still on the car, he slides down onto a knee, then his backside, and then his entire body appears to go limp.
You stare down at him, incredulous. Fresh blood continues to drip out of wounds you did not notice before, puddling on the tarmac. His head rests unmoving on the rear door, chest still rising and falling with shallow breath. Slow and steady, you retrieve your pack and unsheathe the knife from its holster. You tap his massive boot with one foot.
No reaction, but he is still breathing. Without looking away from him, you unlock the driver side door and open it. The light on the bottom of the door illuminates the shape. His eyes are closed. You kick his foot again with a little more force, looking for signs of consciousness. When he doesn’t respond, you take a moment to curse the universe for this unwanted moral dilemma.
First you kick his knife away. Then you lower him to the ground to open the back door. He is not the first unconscious person you’ve had to manhandle into your back seat, but he is the heaviest. You sit him up, get him as high as you can from this side, before rounding the car and opening the opposite rear door. Spine crushed, legs burning after such a long hike, you hook your arms under his armpits and heave. Inch by inch you back him into the car until you’re outside again, and can use the edge of the vehicle as leverage to get him in past his knees. You make sure his head won’t get slammed before closing the door, round the car again, and tuck his legs in.
When you’re in the driver’s seat, you adjust the rearview mirror to make sure you didn’t just imagine that. Michael Myers is in the back seat of your car. Bleeding all over the upholstery. If he wakes up he’ll probably try to kill you. A snort turns into a laugh. You right the mirror and start the car. What a fucking night.
The ride home is brief, and you make it there in record time. For the whole drive you were practically vibrating with nerves, constantly checking the back seat to see if he’d woken up or stopped breathing. It was too dark to tell. Would it be better for him to be alive or dead?
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
You get out of the car like it’s any other day, shut the door like it’s any other day, open the back door like it’s any other day. It doesn’t look like he’s breathing. Tentatively, as one extends a hand to an injured beast, you tuck your fingers under his mask to find the pulse point. Faint, but beating.
With how many times he knocked against the front steps, the doorframe, and every loose item on every shelf, it baffles you that he’s still alive. But he is alive, and he’s in your guest room, and you don’t actually have a plan. You turned on all the lights in the house as if it would matter. You massage your temples; this is one of those impulse-control problems that keep getting you into trouble.
You unzip the coveralls. Spots of them are nearly black from blood, and you want to vet the damage. Pause to check if he awoke, then free his shoulders and arms. Most of the scrapes and scars on his arms are old, or from his walk in the woods. There is a scab on the top of his shoulder that could have been from a bullet grazing him.
You notice for the first time that his left hand is bound with a strip of fabric. You unwrap it with caution. A blade of some sort stabbed clean through the front and back of the palm. The wound is large enough to see through. Fresh, yet it barely bleeds.
You grab the first aid kit out of the bathroom to dress the wound properly, then rest it at his side. His undershirt is saturated with blood. You lift it just to inspect the area. Six rounds of varying depths. One in particular stands out to you: over his abdomen, the bullet is not fully embedded, like it hit something it could not penetrate. Another glance to check if he awoke, then remove the shirt.
A gash close to his knee still bleeds. It is deeper than any of the others, could be a bullet, but the coveralls are in the way. You don’t take your eyes off of him while you remove his shoes. With a deep breath, you grab both sides of the fabric and work them down his legs until you can slip them off. The bloody mess settles over the discarded boots.
You crouch by the side of the bed to inspect the wound. It is deep, and too large to be from a bullet. You probe with the tweezers in the med kit just in case something may be lodged in there, but find nothing. On anyone else, this would need stitches. You know how to sew, but you don’t know how to sew up a person, so you open your phone and find a video tutorial. Once the tear in his leg is haphazardly stitched, you work on the bullet holes. The one that was not fully embedded comes out without a hassle, but the others are more difficult to see. You move his body a little further onto the bed so you can sit and get closer to them.
Up until this point, you avoided thinking about the bulge in his briefs, but sitting right next to his hips makes that more difficult. Another glance at his face shows he’s still asleep. Your cheeks start to burn when you decide to look just once so you can go back to concentrating. It’s unbecoming and you would slap anyone else for it but just acknowledge the thought to make it go away. His size does not strain the fabric, but leaves a suggestive outline where it pulls the garment tight. Curiosity satisfied and face still warm, you return your attention to the bullets.
Blood trickles after their removal. It stops before long, but you consider stitching them, too. From the look of his torso, no one has ever mended his gunshot wounds before. The pale skin, stretched over subtle hills and valleys of toned muscle, is littered with scars. Knives, bullets, and other shapes—improvised weapons, maybe. People trying to get away, or to subdue him. But there are some that look much older, in places that are always covered by clothing, that healed while he was still growing.
Your gaze settles on his head. Blood splatters paint the face of the mask, adding contrast to its unnatural white pallor. There is blood on his neck; it could be from someone else, or it could be his, something that trickled down from inside the mask. You could remove it, check for injuries. His identity isn’t a mystery, the police must have a photo of him already, no harm in it, right?
You scoot closer to his head to wipe the blood away with a delicate hand, as if the mask were his skin. You try not to think about the dried specks that were definitely not from tonight. With how beat up he was, you couldn’t tell the difference between his blood and any possible others on his coveralls, but on the mask… whoever bled this is probably dead. They were probably hunted and toyed with until they made a mistake, or until he got bored of playing and was ready to kill them. They died suffering. They died afraid.
You take the discarded clothes—and everything in the room that looks even the slightest bit sharp—to the hallway, shutting the door with care behind you. If he moves, you want to hear it. There might be some other things you can throw in the machine with the coveralls to justify doing a wash. Something tells you he won’t be concerned with getting the stains out. You stop that train of thought in its tracks and focus on busying your hands again. When the washing machine is loaded and running, you force a practiced, purposeful exhale.
A few stray clothing items come to mind when you think about replacements. Left behind by friends or ex-lovers, you can’t really remember anymore, but in your head they look his size. You dig them out, then return to the guest rom. The door is still closed. Your hand hesitates on the handle, and again when you turn it. For the first time since he appeared in the woods, your heart races. You push the door open.
The lights are off. Your survival instincts barely have time to scream at you before a hand emerges from the shadows and pulls you in by the neck. The slam of the door as it shuts sounds like the last nail in your coffin.
Everything you were holding falls to the ground. Your hands fly to the fingers at your throat, struggling to pry them away. Michael pins you to the closest wall. Something small and edged threatens the notch at the base of your throat; you had the foresight to remove any sharps from the room but did not think about the lightbulbs. Fuck.
Black hollows bore holes in your head, but the glass at your neck does not move. He breathes heavy but slow, the sound amplified by the mask. His head tilts just barely to the right. Michael is clad in only his underwear and his mask, but you’re the one who feels naked. He’s studying you. Or trying to make up his mind.
Trapped. Cornered. Powerless. There is no way to describe this fear until it has been felt. There is no preparing one’s self for this situation, even if you kind of curated it. Which is why you are completely unprepared for how many emotions are responsible for the sweat under your arms and brows, how hot your cheeks are, and how very obedient your limbs are to his handlings. The pulse in your neck jumps out at the glass, almost daring it to kiss your skin. Your eyes never leave his when you dare to speak against the weapon at your throat.
“I brought you some clothes,” you start, “the ones you were wearing are in the wash. You, uh, you kind of passed out on me, so I took you home.” He stares intently, his loud breaths the only response. You gesture with your eyes as best you can without moving. “You were pretty beat up, I… wanted to help you.” Your whole face burns with the admission. “There was blood on your neck, I thought it might be yours but I didn’t want to take off your mask.”
His head tilts again, a movement so small and gentle that it feels out of place with the man’s reputation. Heat and arousal flicker between your legs. You feel the urge to close them, but you don’t dare to move. You’re on a precipice, staring down a predator that defies understanding. Doctors can argue behind their marble walls, pop psychologists can write their think-pieces, and it’s all bullshit. This, right here, is as close as anyone ever gets to knowing Michael Myers.
Your hands still clutch the one at your throat. You force them to surrender their hold. You keep the point of contact for a few breaths before lowering them, your movements as slow as the tilt of his head. You might be imagining it, but you swear you feel his eyes follow your hands. “I don’t mean you any harm, I just wanted to help.”
He straightens his neck, and his shoulders tighten in a way that does not feel good. Something warm and wet drips onto the exposed skin of your chest. The iron tang of blood wafts under your nose. The glass clenched in Michael’s right hand bleeds its wielder instead of its captive. He huffs in frustration before throwing his weight.
The scream catches in your throat again. He pulls you forward and a surge of adrenaline has you running before you can think it. As if he expected it, Michael steps to the side, catches you again, and slams you against the wall face-first. What should be pain reverberating up your spine is an arousal you’ve never entertained. You fantasize about things you’ve never brought up with past lovers—pain as pleasure, submission beyond being on the bottom, but it wasn’t this. A threatening hand pins you by the nape of your neck and your nerves beg it to take more. The impact to your skull knocked just enough of your senses out to not censor the desperate moan that leaves your mouth.
The invisible threat of the glass teases your imagination and fear. Michael’s other hand is not on you, and you can see nothing but a sliver of a corner of the room. Unable to see, unable to move, any control you may have had is gone and… you may have handed it to him on purpose. Your limbs splay, opening for him just enough to be noticeable, and if you could move any part of your torso you know your back would be arching into his touch. Panic and survival instinct war against your arousal, reminding you that this is not foreplay, this man is a murderer and he’s trying to kill you. The dissonance is nearly enough to make you faint.
“Fuck,” you choke out against the drywall. You struggle to breathe, and it sounds more sultry than panicked. The fingers around your neck twitch. In the silence and oxygen-deprivation, you swear you can hear his head tilt again.
His right hand, still holding the broken glass, presses against the back of yours. Something is tickling your hair; his mask, maybe? He is over a head taller than you, and the sounds of his breathing are coming from above. The arousal between your legs is becoming uncomfortable and causing you to squirm. You find purchase on nothing, can only wait for what he’ll do, and that fact fuels the heat more.
Yes, it was his mask tickling your hair. His head peers around your shoulder, almost in view, as the hand on your neck migrates forward, the fingers wrapping around to grip you by the throat. You tilt your head up without thinking, welcoming the motion. The digits hook into your pulse points, permitting you to breathe but limiting blood flow, and possibly monitoring your responses. Ghosts of his shape tickle at your clothes as he moves closer, his breath heavy but even. When you feel his hardness against the small of your back, any grip you had left on your sanity vanishes.
The movement of his hips is slow at first, almost unconscious, but before long he is rutting against you. Part of your shirt hitches up and reminds you that Michael is naked, save for his mask and underwear. All of the muscles below your waist relax and moisture pools at your entrance. Your sex is burning, desperate for friction or some type of relief, but from this angle you’ll get none. You make a pitiful sound, and he loses his rhythm for a second.
“Fuck,” you beg, “please…” Pleading for your life or his cock, you’re unsure, but something here needs to give. For that, he will need to relinquish his current handholds. You lean into him a little, ignoring the strain from the hand he still presses to the wall. He freezes. You can hear him thinking. Debating. Finally, he snaps against you in a quick shove, stay, and retracts his hands. A faint clatter informs you he tossed the glass aside.
Denim fabric tears, the buttons and zip of your jeans pop and scatter as this man literally rips your pants and panties off and down. The responsible part of you wants to yell that there are condoms in the nightstand but he’s already rutting against you again, bent at the knees so the curve of his cock glides against your folds, brushes your clit, and tickles the tuft of hair above. After the amount of teasing you just endured, that alone threatens to make you cum. You angle your hips away from the wall to give him more room. When he pushes inside you, white flashes behind your eyes.
His thrusts are greedy and fervent, lacking much rhythm. Pressed so flush against the wall, you can barely meet his motions, and without a tempo it would just make things awkward. As it is, you can barely think beyond the way his girth stretches and fills you. Bordering on too big without becoming painful, hot steel wrapped in satin massages your clitoral nerve with every move. The desperation in your gasps and moans only encourages him to take what he wants.
His grip on you varies, starting at your hips, then a hand on your shoulder, back to your hips, one at your neck, at your ribs, like he can’t decide where to put them. Your considerable height difference does not lend itself well to this position in the long run, but would it be a fatal mistake for you to initiate a switch?
“Michael,” you pant. Arms braced against the wall, you begin to push away. “Try—”
His arm wraps around your front to claim your throat again, fingers pressing into the pulse points to cut you off. An instinct you’ve never experienced carries that command through your bloodstream and weaken your extremities. Vision blurred, ears ringing, the next few seconds are a bit of a haze. Every fiber and nerve reorient to obedience under his touch.
When you come to again, you’re laying on the ground with Michael above you, his hand still tight around your neck. He surrounds you on all sides, caging you in with his limbs, but keeps few points of contact apart from the hand at your throat and his cock pounding you into the floor. Labored, frantic breaths escape from behind the mask. His eyes are open wide and boring into yours. Your face burns hotter under his scrutiny.
Using your throat as the point of leverage, he adjusts the angle and cadence of his hips, eyes never leaving yours. Pleasure and adrenaline mount in your blood. The unrelenting rhythm against your sweet spot, so deep inside that his skin rubs against your clit, the hand around your neck depriving you of oxygen and those eyes demanding the life out of your body all without making a single sound… He’s stamping ownership into you with every thrust and you plead with him to take it.
You reach for your climax with a breathy cry, legs wrapping around his hips and squeezing as your whole body contracts and convulses around him. He loses his rhythm momentarily before recovering and rides unrelenting through your orgasm, carrying it out until you tremble and whimper from overstimulation, before his breath hitches and he stills. His cock pumps inside you, filling you with warmth. Though your eyes had rolled back and closed through all of this, you still felt his stare burning against your eyelids, laser-focused on that same spot. His nails dig into your skin, and through the haze, a little voice wishes they were his teeth.
When you awake from the aftershocks, his eyes still drill into yours. His softening cock slips from you, and he moves into a crouch above you, pinning you at your joints. Free of the tantalizing hormones and endorphins, you can finally process the true severity of your situation. All of that heat and warmth radiate out of your skin, replaced with a terror that chills you to the bone.
This wasn’t romance or courtship, nor was it a hookup or a fling. The standard rules do not apply. The rules are his, and he’s telling you them right now. Michael Myers just took possession of you. You are his, to be used at his discretion, and he knows you’ll give in to him freely. This only ends when he decides it ends, and it doesn’t end with you alive.
My current project is taking longer than I anticipated so I thought I'd post this here. For some reason I posted this on AO3 and not Tumblr. This is the same story as this Back Against the Wall, but from Michael's perspective instead of the reader's.
Word count: 1690
Summary/preview: This happens sometimes during the hunts, his cock becoming hard, but never in response to physical contact. If they ever touch him, it’s in an effort to escape or hurt him. This one was trying to escape, now they’re… trying to pleasure him. That's new. And not entirely unwelcome.
Warnings: NSFW -- dry humping, frottage, choking, masturbation, some good ole violence
Back Against the Wall
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The hunt always starts with a drive. Residential streets in suburban America, where the back door is always unlocked, even if the front door has a bolt. Sidewalks that haven’t been repaired since the day they were lain, that still receive foot traffic in the age of anxiety. These are towns where bad things happen elsewhere, to other people.
He finds them in the daytime. It’s in the way they walk. The way they move, the way they sound, it’s a flicker of warmth in the chill that draws him in. He watches, he follows, he stalks, chasing that warmth. The chase is as satisfying as the kill. Even if the need that drives him will never be sated, it does not bother him, because it’s all that he is.
There were six. Now there are two. The other four are strewn about, repositioned as needed to instill fear in those that remain. He knows the remaining two are both upstairs, and takes his time ascending the steps. One pair of footfalls ended accompanied by the unique sound of sliding doors, the other disappeared midway down the hall. He does not acknowledge the person-sized table he passes, or the shuddered breath from within. He opts for the one hiding in a closet in the far room.
The whimpers from behind the sliding doors are faint, but present. He stops in front of them, just breathing for a few beats, before putting his fist through the panes. Her scream rips through the silence as he breaks the doors down. When the bottom half of the door breaks, she crawls out, and he lets her get ahead. He follows behind with an even, thudding pace until he can take a fistful of hair and yank her backwards.
The knife clutched in his right hand pierces her mid-back, sliding clean through fabric and flesh. Still holding on by her hair, he removes the knife and stabs her again and again as blood gushes and squelches from the wounds. Their choked grunts are cut off with a frigid gasp when the knife penetrates something vital. When he lets go, her body collapses uselessly to the ground.
Michael regards the body at his feet for a moment before resetting his posture. His head turns slowly, taking in his surroundings. The coveralls he wears tugs with every minuscule movement, hinting at the strength of the muscles underneath. His whole body is attuned to his pursuit, the hunter in his element.
Finally, he turns his attention to the console table to his left. The design on the twin doors make them appear deceptively narrow, but the table overall is large enough for a petite adult to squeeze in. With a single tug, the doors snap off their hinges, and he thrusts a hand inside. They kick back as forcefully as they can manage from their cramped position, and pull themself out through the opening of the other door. He strikes with the knife, but misses, only knocking her down instead of stabbing. It’s enough time for him to get back on his feet and loom over them.
Grabbing them by their shoulders, he picks them up and slams them against the wall. Their scream as he pulls them upright—just barely out of reach of the floor—shoots a thrill up his spine. Their struggling is more like squirming for how little it accomplishes. They whimper too, but it’s… odd. Not the right note. Their head is turned, the tendons in their neck strained, lower lip clenched under teeth. Their fight response sent their hands to Michael’s wrists, but instead of trying to push him off, they snap away again. They fidget like they’re combating their own urge to fight him.
He pulls them away from the wall and slams them into it again, putting a foot forward to add more of his weight. They yelp, but it’s off again. Everything about their body language says they’re afraid, but that sound… sounds more like the noises their friends were making earlier. The ones he skewered together with one of the posts of the ostentatious bed they coupled in. The headlights of a passing car briefly sheds light on their face: flushed bright red under their eyes and cheeks. When his grip tightens around their shoulders, they choke back another strained sound.
His head tilts.
Fisting the hair at the base of their skull, he pulls them and throws them against an adjacent wall. The air leaves their lungs when their spine impacts, and he clamps his left hand around their throat. Their eyes are open, now, and he presses forward with more of his weight. As they struggle to find purchase with the floor, the knee of his leading leg ends up between their legs.
His prey’s pupils are blown wide, the muscles of their throat fighting to work. He feels friction on his leg; their scrambling becomes almost rhythmic, and they’re deliberately pushing down onto him. They make another sound, desperate and feeble and something else he can’t describe, that sends electricity up his spine. As his eyes widen, theirs close.
Seconds away from passing out, he relieves the pressure on their throat. They gulp air back into their lungs between gasps and coughs. He raises the knife again to jam it into the wall. The need to kill is giving way something else, something heating his blood in a way the hunt does not. He grabs their left wrist with his free hand and pins it above their head, next to the knife. Shifting his weight, he tucks his head in and presses his body against theirs.
They make that same sound again, but louder. Heat pools in his groin. Both of their hands clutch the wrist pinning them to the wall, but they’re using it to pull forward, not to force him away. Weight fully supported by his leg, they move up his thigh until their hips meet. His cock hardens so fast it almost makes him dizzy.
This happens sometimes during the hunts, but never in response to physical contact. If they ever touch him, it’s in an effort to escape or hurt him. This one… was trying to escape… now they’re… trying to pleasure him. They’re aroused by him. Yes, that’s the word. The violent way he handles them excites them. That’s new. And not entirely unwelcome.
Their expression changes, a nervous frustration. Their fingers tuck into the web of the hand that still claims their throat. They grind into him with fervor. “C’mon, you can—”
He digs his fingers into the pressure points on their neck to shut them up. Their whole body goes limp, mouth open, eyes hooded, and an instinct tells him to bury his cock in their pliant body. That desire disappears when one of their hands clasps the back of his neck and a leg hooks around his hip.
He releases their throat to fist the hair at the base of their skull and throws them away. They land in a heap of limbs near the window at the end of the hall. He reclaims the knife from the wall, stroking the blade once to remove any flecks of drywall. He approaches slowly, letting his full weight punctuate every step. The knife feels exquisite in his hand again, familiar, but the rage he feels is different. Every muscle tense, chest heaving, cock straining, he towers over his final victim.
Squealing tires. Flashing red and blue lights. Slamming doors and shouting voices. One in particular, a frantic, high male voice at the end of its wits, diverts his attention. Dr. Loomis shouts orders at the growing number of officers and cars. Some circle the house, others barricade themselves behind the doors of their vehicles, armed with shotguns and assault rifles. Disjointed pounding on both entrances to the house vibrate from below.
His grip on the knife changes. The prey at his feet no longer interests him. This isn’t anything he can’t handle, but it will be annoying. Killing as a means of defense or escape is less gratifying than killing for sport. He resumes his full height.
“Run,” the thing at his feet says. He regards them again, just as one of the vehicles outside turns on its flood lights to illuminate the façade. Light isn’t a disadvantage, but he doesn’t like it. He prefers the shadows, and if they bring another around back, he won’t have any. Perhaps it is better to run now, while he still has the dark.
He should kill them so the police fail to save anyone, or just for the hell of it, but… a tickle at the base of his spine tells him no.
He vanishes before the police get the doors down. The woods behind the house are dense and go on for about a mile. By the time they give up trying to capture him inside, he’ll have made enough ground for them not to catch up.
Ghost sensations travel up his leg to his groin, heating his blood. His cock, still partially erect, hardens again. He ignores it until he can’t anymore. Stopping behind a tree, he unzips the coveralls and takes his cock in hand. This is a chore; it doesn’t happen often, and usually recedes once the hunt is over.
Memories of pressure, friction, closed eyes and parted lips, sounds he could feel in his nerves. His breathing is heavy and uneven, the memories replaying in his mind. Indescribable pleasure and heat wash through him in waves, and he cums in thick ropes onto the forest floor. Chest heaving, he slumps against the tree for a moment.
He tucks himself back into the coveralls and makes his way through the forest until he finds a road. He follows it just behind the tree line until a car makes its way around. He enters its path, and the driver loses control, barely missing him. When they step out, he chokes them until he feels their trachea snap under his fingers, takes their car, and discards all of the memories of the prey he didn’t kill.
Preview: You’re trapped in a game of cat and mouse with Michael Myers. There’s a part of you - a part you work hard to suppress, lest the repugnance of it cost you all of your relationships - that doesn’t want to escape, that wants to know what he’ll do if he catches you. Arousal no longer pools in your gut, it’s burning in your chest, infecting your terror with lust. You’re not fighting to get away anymore, and you know it; your body is inviting him to do something.
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