Here's where my dirty mind comes out

His ‘what the fuck?’ is written all over the still way he watches you and the furrow of his brows from behind one of his more casual paper masks. You chuckle, the feel of his thumb brushing back and forth over your leg lulling you, and tell him all about stumbling across the little stuffed abomination at a farmers market and the man regaling you with the tail of the severed plush head of a Star Trek doll that he’d customized and the body he’d sewn up by hand all in the likeness of Haddonfield’s most prolific masked killer: your technically boyfriend.

‘Technically’ because Michael didn’t put a name to shit — you were his, there didn’t need to be anything else to it — but he sure loved to act the part.

When you sweep his hair out his face after explaining and kiss him, lips pressing to his mask-covered cheek, you have to be extra careful not to damage the mask‘s light material. At this point, though, you’ve gotten so used to his homemade masks that when you follow that peck up with a kiss to his lips from the wide grinning slot he carefully cut for his mouth you’re not even worried about accidentally ruining it.

The way his lips don’t purse back against your own is a constant, but when his hands tighten over your thighs and he pulls you closer it’s the greatest gift and a significant sign of his hard won trust.

Michael doesn’t do much with the plushie of himself, but he does keep it.

Takes to stashing it in various places around the house for you to be startled by when you open the pantry and the blank eye holes are just…staring back at you. Sends a shiver down your spine and a jolt to your heart every time even if you calm down fairly quickly, but no doubt, if he’s around, you’ll turn from the plush only to be startled by Michael too.

Michael who’s snuck up on you, horribly quiet for such a giant of a man, and whose nearly ebon eyes behind his mask and curtain of hair are tinged with a sick amusement.

If Michael isn’t trying to scare you into a bad fall, I don’t think he’d do much with the plush otherwise.

In fact, if you favored his mini me over him — in his mind — at least, he’d probably gut the plushie of himself. Leave it as some sort of fucked up mangled offering. Tiny body displayed with sticks through its disconnected limps and head for your very startled consideration.

Irritated. He’ll be irritated by the plushie, mad like fuck that he’s vex at all, and ultimately just want the thing gone. Your attention was his.

If that doesn’t happen, though, you’ll find mini Michael sitting on the real man’s work table, Michael himself crafting a mask with whatever supplies you’ve…supplied him with while the plushie watches over his work.

It doesn’t mean anything to Michael that the plush is watching, that’s just how he’s positioned it. But it reminds him of you and that does matter.

You take a picture anyway, and vow to never show the polaroid to Michael lest he tear it up for the chance to get your anger pushing up against his.

Mostly, the little plush serves as an unwavering companion for you on cold nights when he’s far from your home hunting down ghosts and killing any sorry people that stumble across him that he deems in need of a good gutting, or maybe a strangulation.

Two days before October 31 is about to make it back around and Michael’s about to start his walk for the heart of Haddonfield you’re reading on your couch with a playlist going — anything from the “The Ghost Is Here” to “Spookie Coochie” to “God Of Thunder” playing — when he drops mini Michael in your lap, knocking your book or device aside.

Michael doesn’t elaborate, but it’s clear from how he’s dressed that he’s going, and you’re not unaware of the time of the year so you only kiss him goodbye and tell him to come back to you because you are unerringly selfish.

Before he leaves the house in full Michael will find you wherever you are and press a reciprocal kiss to your head, whether masked or not, and you tell him bye like he’s your blue collar husband off to a long shift and not the serial killer who’s claimed you as his off to make the streets of a small town in Illinois run red.

On Halloween nights it’s hard to keep Michael home, so you don’t even try anymore. Leading up to the night you do celebrate the holiday, however, carving pumpkins and listening to some kind of metal or rock playlist he prefers, or watching a movie with Little Mikey in your lap in his tiny brown coveralls and the actual Michael sitting flush beside you as he violates his own Jack o’ Lantern.

On Halloween night itself Michael goes out to wreak havoc, to show Haddonfield (or any manner of other shit humanity has to offer) his singleminded wrath.

While waiting for him to get back you’re…anxious (you shouldn’t be, but you are; the world never did much for you anyway). And worried, you stay up all night with the stupid plush of Michael held to your chest.

Waiting, you fiddle with the plushie’s hands— legitimately worrying that someone might’ve murdered your bastard murderer for being the beast he was.

The world was a fucked up and fickle bitch though, and Michael was nothing if not a product of it, so really you knew who you were cheering on as you hugged the plushie of him and glared at the expanse of life outside of your window. Mentally, you couldn’t help superimposing the sight of the trick or treaters and their wary guardians wandering the streets with the image of Michael somehow managing not to draw attention to himself as he lumbered down *Lampkin Lane, knife in hand likely dripping blood and all sorts of malintent in his eyes.

So, fuck yeah, you’d wait for him to come back, and you’d press little kisses into plushie him’s head in the meantime.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!! 🎃

I love Michael in Halloween (2007) so bad, holy shit! He’s just got a lot going on in that head of his. I just wanted to do something cute with him!

The plush in the banner is another Kidrobot one btw.

* I said Lampkin Lane bcs that’s where the Myers house is in a few continuities, but I’m not entirely sure if it’s the same in the reboot and don’t want to check rn, so 🤷🏾‍♀️.

Another night full of toss and turns.

The heat from the large blankets became unbearable, and you kicked them off with a huff. Sleeping wasn’t the same without him; you should’ve known not to grow too attached to the idea of it, yet you let the small moments get to you. You turn to the empty spot on the bed, then over to your phone. With the press of a button, it turns on, and the screen light blinds you. A groan leaves your lips at the harsh lights, squinting to turn down the brightness.

“It’s three in the morning,” you groan.

Usually, Michael would be back by midnight, or sometimes at one in the morning, but that was the latest he’s ever been. You’ve been tossing and turning since nine at night. It frustrates you how much you relied on his presence for a good sleep, but your mind wouldn’t shut up unless you knew he was safe and sound. You then sit up with your back against the headboard, pulling your knees close to your chest. Each blink made you want to keep your eyes shut, but now your mind wouldn’t rest.

You felt the air shift. A strong presence entered your home; you knew it could only mean one thing. Michael came back. Sometimes, you found it funny how the mass murderer of Haddionfeild always came back home; you didn’t know whether he returned for you or just for a place to stay. The bed creaks as you stand to your feet and put on your fuzzy house shoes.

Going downstairs wasn’t your first thought; however, you shuffled to the bathroom first to obtain the medkit under the sink. The pit of worry in your stomach was practically eating you alive as you made your way downstairs. A deep sigh leaves your lips once you reach the last step, reaching out to the light switch that turned on the living room light. Michael was there. The first thing you noticed was his bloody hands; it didn't look like it was from his victims.

“Hey, you’re hurt,” you said through the silence.

You watch as Michael turns his head towards you in the doorway, rubbing your tired eyes that were soon full of worry. You stood there with your medkit. He sat in the large black leather chair, the dark circles of his mask stared at you before turning back to the wall. His cut-up, bloody hands got your attention. Someone must have cut his hand in self-defense. The wooden floorboards groan with every step you take towards him.

Michael kept his bloody hands in his lap. You wonder if he could even feel pain anymore. Or maybe he could, and he just didn’t care about being hurt due to always getting beaten up by his victims. But you did. You always cause a fuss whenever he comes home hurt, but a cut-up hand was the most tamest injury he’s sustained that you’ve seen so far. Carefully, you walk towards him and stand in front of him.

“May I see your hands?” you ask with your hand out.

You didn’t grab him, nor pull him towards you; it was his choice to take your help or not. You could hear the faint sounds of his breathing as he slowly raises one of his bloody hands. Now that you got a better look at the injury, you saw that it was more of a gash rather than small cuts; the fresh gash bled and stained his hands.

“Thank you, Mike. Let’s wash your hands first.”

You quickly made your way to the kitchen, and he followed you silently. You did your best to wash his hands gently with warm water and soap, washing around the gash. You went back over to your medkit and grabbed it, opening the white box to grab a sterile gauze pad and placed it directly over the gash on his hand, then you used the white bandage to wrap around his wrist that made its way up to the cracks of his fingers.

You finally sealed it off with tape and did the same thing to his other hand. Once finished, you closed the white box.

“You gotta be more careful out there, Mike,” you said gently. “You’re lucky you don’t need stitches.”

He didn’t move. A relaxed sigh left your lips. Waves of exhaustion hit you now that you knew he was safe and patched up. You’d change the bandages later, after you got enough sleep. You retrieved the box.

“If you want to sleep with me, you know the rule: no coveralls in my bed, you know where your pajamas are.”

You made your way upstairs and put back the medkit. It felt like a massive weight being lift off your shoulders once your body hit the bed that now felt comfortable. As your eyes close shut, you felt at peace. The bed dipped. Tiredly, you open one of your eyes to see Michael in his blue pajamas. It was hard to find ones similar to the coveralls he wears everyday. His mask was still on. He’d never take it off, not even to sleep.

A sigh left your lips as you close your eye to sleep. You felt your body relax, falling deeper into dumber, until a large hand gripped your throat with a firm grip. Your eyes shot open as Michael made you turn your head in his direction.

“Yes, Mike?” you say tiredly.

The grip loosen, yet his hand never left your throat. It took him a while to teach him to make his grip less tight on your neck, it was his own weird way of touching you. His thumb rubs your chin, then snakes its way up to your bottom lip. Gripping your throat was one thing, but he never put his fingers up to your lips before. It made you sit up, as groggy as you were, it had to be something important…right?

You take his hand off of you to hold it. Yet he pulled back, you were too sleepy to figure out what’s wrong.

“I don’t know what you want Michael.” You say with a yawn.

Michael points to the inner palm of his hand where the gash was, then up to his masked face. You did a slow blink with confusion written all over your face. He did the motion again, but more so pointed at his masked lips rather than his face. It then made sense. You always kissed his injuries after patching him up. It must not have crossed your mind to do it, but it surprises you that he actually paid attention to you doing it…and taking a liking to it.

A smile forms on your lips as you take one of his hands. Pressing your lips to the very center in a kiss and did the same for the other one. “Is that better?”

Michael took his hand away afterwards. Stiffly lying down on his back. It was the closest thing you’d get to him relaxing to sleep. Now it was your turn to lie down with him. Your arms wrap around his arm and you rest your head on his chest. He still was still stiff, but didn’t pull away. You soon began to learn that he didn’t mind, if he did, he would’ve pushed you off…he’s done it a few times before.

It’s cold in your apartment and no amount of blankets fixes that.

Your heater went out and you’ve been waiting for it to get fixed. Until then, you sufficed with blankets and Michael whenever he stayed the night. After a round of amazing sex, you’re quick to slip on some sweats and a sweater before diving under the covers. You curl up against Michael, pressing your cold feet against his thigh. If it bothers him, he makes no noise or movement indicating so. He is still naked, save for his mask. Unless he eats you out, he never takes it off… Not that you minded.

Still, you shiver and press your cheek against his chest. He lays stiffly beside you and you almost chuckle. He used to fuck you, or do whatever to you, and then leave. But after he spent the night nonstop eating you out, he sleeps over… or at least lies over. You’re not really sure if he sleeps or not. 

Once enough body heat builds up under your mountain of blankets, you fall asleep against Michael. 

It’s cold once morning rolls in but what else is new. You’re sound asleep, your back curled against Michael’s side and he is awake, staring up at the ceiling. Too cold and your body is almost too warm. 

He feels his cock twitch with interest and you're just laying there against him, so pliant and willing. He turns over so his chest presses against your back. He lifts his mask enough to bury his nose against the nape of your neck and inhales deeply. His dick hardens further against your ass from your scent.

Not much interests the Shape except for killing. But then he spotted you. The urge to kill wasn’t present but instead something else. Something equally as insatiable as the urge to kill. Your smile seized up his chest, the way you talked and laughed made him feel lighter, and the way your body feels pressed against his drives him more insane. He is old, he knows that, and he kills. But with you? He is something else and he likes the pleasure that comes from you.

So willing. 

He remembers you talking to him the other night and how you'd be fine waking up to sex, and that solidifies his growing desire.

His rough hand slides under the large sweater you wear, feeling your warm, soft skin. You were so soft. He liked that. He trails his hand to your front and slowly dips it underneath your sweats. He's pleased you didn't bother to put on panties afterwards. His large hand cups over your mound and he lets out an indiscernible grunt at the heat coming from your core.

Michael dips his fingers through your folds and easily finds your clit. He practically knows your body inside and out at this point. He rubs slowly circles around your clit, trying to get you wet enough. Soft little whimpers leave your parted lips and you shift in your sleep. He lets his fingers dip lower and feels you start to get wet. He grunts softly and can't stop himself from latching his teeth onto your neck. He doesn't bite hard just yet. He wants you awake for that.

You've been so open to whatever he wants. You're just as insatiable as him.

Michael shifts, pressing more of himself onto you as he touches you. His thick fingers start to prod at your entrance and you moan breathlessly in your sleep. He likes your noises. He likes that he's the cause of them. He slips his middle finger inside you and grunts softly at how tight you are. He grinds his palm against your clit to stimulate you more for his cock.

A sharp moan leaves your lips and your hips roll against his. He thinks you're stirring awake but your eyes remain closed and your breathless sounds are inconsistent. He feels your arousal start to really coat his hand and he grunts at the wet, sloppy noises coming from your pussy. He's half tempted to get his mouth on you again, but he knows that'll wake you. He wants you to wake up as his cock enters you.

He works you open slowly, letting you get wet enough for him to get two fingers in you, then three. He brushes over that spongy spot inside but never fully pressing against it like he normally would. He maneuvers his free hand under your body so he can palm at one of your breasts over your sweater. You whimper again and he can practically feel your cunt sucking his fingers deeper.

Slowly, he removes his hand from your sweats. He yanks them down as much as he can, revealing your ass and wet folds to him. He easily moves your legs and shifts his hips perfectly so he can enter you. He reaches down and guides his cock through your folds before sinking just his tip inside of your heat with a grunt. 

Michael slowly inserts his ring and middle finger into your mouth, the two fingers that were inside you. He strokes your tongue and thrusts as if it were his length. Your lips tighten around his digits for a moment and you're sucking both on them and air through your nose. You make a sharp noise and blink away, to which he removes his fingers from your mouth.

“Michael-?” You sound so groggy it is almost adorable. He doesn't give you much time to process anything as he slowly sinks into your cunt in one thrust. You let out a mix of a moan and gasp as he fully sheaths himself inside you.

“Oh… Oh fuck. No wonder I was having the best dream ever.” You chuckle softly as his large hand holds your hip in place. He starts to move, slow and steady as he savors the tightness and warmth around his cock. You moan again and again each time his thick head rubs against that spot that makes soft uh uh uhs fall from your lips. Michael presses deep inside you, his breathing deepens against your neck as he takes what he wants. 

His hand presses your hip down and you're practically on your stomach now as his thrusts quicken, his free hand now holding your other hip. He bites your neck hard this time, his breath hot against your flesh. You cry out and whimper at the pain but the pleasure of his deep and rough strokes inside you. The blankets drape over his frame as he fucks you in earnest. He can feel you starting to tighten around him, all while you were getting slicker. He yanks his mask back down now that he's marked you and really starts to move. 

“Shit, I'm close. I'm so close.” You mumble out, trying to arch your back to take him even deeper. His hips snap against your ass and he groans–actually groans– by your ear. He's making more noises than normal but he doesn't care. He can tell you like hearing him and that's making  you wetter. He plans to make more noises in the future.

“Michael-!” You cry out before it shifts into a moan. Your pussy rhythmically pulses around his cock and your juices coat him.

Michael grunts again and pulls out, his hand gripping his cock as thick ropes of cum shoot out into your stretched, clenching cunt. Some of it lands on your thighs or ass but for the most part it pools and sinks into your pussy.

Before you can react he sinks his cock back inside you. You moan deliciously as he thrusts slowly, fucking his cum inside you. Your warmth is addicting and so are you. He's getting soft, but the way your squirming and mewling is all he needs right now. 

Michael's hips come to a stop and he's rolling you back on your side with him right against your back, his cock still inside you.

“Good morning to you too.” You chuckle tiredly as his arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close to him. You pull at the blankets that shifted off your bodies and press yourself backwards against him. 

Jason Vorhees

He thinks you’re dying. His mother did not bother to teach him a single thing about periods and, as far as he knows, blood means injury. Every month, no matter how much you insist you’re okay, he’s doting over you like it’s your last day on earth. Very grateful when it ends.

Yes, he will bring you anything you want or need. He will ransack the camp grounds for any medicine. He will hike several miles to the nearest gas station if you ask for a chocolate bar. He will personally hold your head up so you can drink water without moving. Please tell him he’s doing a good job.

He’s also the only slasher on here that won’t have sex with you at all while you’re bleeding. He gets really flustered about sex in the first place, but doing it while you’re “injured” is totally unacceptable in his mind. Your undead gentleman.

Bubba Sawyer

He’s the second, but not last, slasher on this list to not know what a period is. Drayton is the only one in the family who has an inkling of an idea what you’re going through, but why would he ever bother to have that conversation with his brothers?

Like Jason, he assumes you’re hurt. Unlike Jason, he’s not too shy to investigate. The first time he sees a little blood on your thigh while you’re sleeping, he panics and fully rips off your underwear to see what happened. Once you calm him down and assure him that everything is okay, he cries tears of joy.

He will bring you cups of water and put his large, warm hands on your lower stomach to ease your cramps. He could easily spend the whole day cuddling you into relaxation (before getting yelled at for not doing his chores). Also, I don’t see his bed having any sheets, just bare mattress. So those stains are never coming out.

If you want painkillers, you’ll have to ask Drayton, who buys them for you once you mention it’s a female thing. Small note, but if the twins ever catch wind of your cycle, they’ll cause you literal hell with teasing. This whole family is very repressed.

Otis Driftwood

An asshole. He’s such an asshole. In general, but especially when you’re on your period. He’ll make you beg for a Tylenol, complain about the prices of your pads/tampons, and insist that you don’t get “too bitchy” with him just because you’re bleeding. He just likes riling you up.

Doesn’t hide his very obvious blood kink. I’m not gonna make this overly smutty, but he makes sure that his hands, face, and crotch are all thoroughly red at one point during your cycle. And he doesn’t bother showering until the next morning either.

Baby is a little kinder about it. She’s still teases, but there’s a lot more love in her tone. If you guys ever sync up, Otis makes a huge fucking deal over “having to deal” with both of you.

Billy Lenz

Only half-knows what a period is. He thought that women lose all their blood at once a month then continue as normal. Is very disturbed when you inform him that it lasts multiple days.

He thinks your pain is a little funny. He’ll giggle at your groans and poke you in the stomach just to bug you. But he’s not totally heartless, he’ll still reheat your pad and give you back massages. And sloppy makeouts. He’ll never pass up the opportunity to makeout with you.

Doesn’t stop being a little pervert though. Loves the smell of blood coming off of you. Insists that he needs to eat you out to heal your pain. Will jerk off over the used pads that you leave in the bathroom trash can.

Brahms Heelshire

So we all know that Brahms was never taught a single thing about female anatomy. However, he did relentlessly stalk you within his own house before you guys ever officially met. I think it’s possible that he saw you getting and dealing with your period through the bathroom walls at some point and he was just like Oh. Okay.

Might’ve pulled a Billy and been weird with your used pads don’t judge him okay

Being totally obsessed with you, he doesn’t mind your blood all the much. Whether it’s on his sheets, clothes, or skin. He doesn’t care as long as you’re with him. He might be able to sense that you’re a little more irritable than usual, so he tries to be an extra extra good boy for you.

He also has a habit of copying you and it doesn’t stop on your period. When you take a painkiller, he wants to take one too. When you eat chocolate, he eats chocolate. When you nap, he wraps his limbs around you and listens to your breathing until you wake up.

Right now he’s being hypocritical. Fresh off a kill, his adrenaline is through the roof and he can’t help but to stop and stare at a couple in bed. The man is going down, she’s being loud, and the noises bother him, he can’t wait to slash their throats and feel the hot blood splash against his neck and mask.. yet he hesitates. Not to get off to the scene in front of him, but to study what’s going on. Michael’s brain won’t let this image go, even after he’s gotten the satisfaction of killing them.

The painfully slow walk back home is long enough to frustrate Michael even more. He’s thinking of you, wanting to hear you scream from pleasure, he’s itching to taste you. The thought alone gets him hard, and his chest is full of a heat. He won’t bother cleaning off this time, he rarely does anyways. You don’t seem to mind anymore as long as it’s not too much. He likes that.

He’s eerily quiet when entering. His footsteps and breathing being the only thing exposing his presence. Once the front door is shut and locked he makes his way to your room, pleased with the fact that you left the door cracked open. Locked doors send him into a mental spiral, he will break any and all doors that are locked in your house. You’ve learned that the hard way.

You’re sleeping peacefully. A tilt of his head shows his admiration for you, taking in how perfect you look unconscious. He feels a certain way knowing you feel safe enough to sleep knowing he could be right there standing over you at any moment. You trust him with your life when you really shouldn’t, and he takes pride in that fact. Michael would never truly hurt you. Accidents happen from time to time. But causing pain on purpose isn’t what he wants for you. He’s all about making you feel good, especially right now.

Michael snatches all the sheets and cozy blankets off the bed. Leaving you bare and exposed just the way he likes it. He can hide, you cannot. That’s one of his rules. You have yet to see his face. That’s another hypocrisy of his. Don’t count on him working on that anytime soon either.

Your eyes flutter open, his figure looming over you in the dark like a true monster in the night, but your chest doesn’t squeeze in fear. Instead, you let out a breath of relief. He’s home now. It’s been a few days. You’re always on edge hoping he’s safe and not caught by authorities whenever he goes on his sprees.

“I missed you, please lay with me.” Is all you say in a quiet, tired voice. Eyes fighting against the weight of wanting to go back to sleep. Michael doesn’t respond like normal. Usually he flops right down next to you in exhaustion. This time he grunts in disapproval, not liking the idea of sleep just yet.

Michael towers over you, soon weighing you down with his own body weight, chests barely touching each other. He reeks of metal from all the blood soaked into his coveralls, at least it’s not dripping like last time. Still, it has you holding your breath. He takes notice. After a moment of thinking to himself, he pushes his insecurities aside and takes off the top half, allowing his chest to be seen and to be flushed against yours, the heat coming off of him being enough to make you break a sweat.

Words never lead him, his actions do. And you know it’s clear what he wants by the way he’s staring into your soul, his gaze lowering to your lips. You give him grace and meet him half way, pressing your lips onto his. It’s soft at first, and he doesn’t mind it for once. He’s trying to stall, trying to think of how to start all this. He has never done it before.

His hands find a way down, roaming around your body, gripping and groping in odd places. It’s a bit too rough, but it’s the normal. You don’t pay much attention to it. You never expect him to know how to be gentle. It’s not really in his nature. You are expecting the usual routine though, for him to grind against you and pull down your underwear to slide himself inside of you. To have his face in the crook of your neck, muffling his grunts. It doesn’t happen, and he catches you off guard by lowering himself, eyes focused between your legs.

Now you’re nervous. You didn’t expect this to happen anytime soon. You had no idea he even knew about it, let alone wanting to try it. You instinctively close your legs and shake your head, urging him to come back up with a slight tug of his forearm, fighting your own arousal from the idea of him eating you out.

Michael asks you to reconsider in the best way possible, a soft, passionate kiss. A groan into your mouth. Grabbing your hand and having you feel how hard he is. He’s trying to ask you to let him do it by showing you he truly wants it. Knowing him, he won’t ask again if you say no again. You know you’re safe to say no or withdrawal consent at any time. That eases your mind. Maybe you’ll tell him to stop if it gets too uncomfortable or nerve wracking. He will listen, he always does.

Michael gets off of you and stands up by the edge of the bed, grabbing your ankles and dragging you to the edge as well, tilting his head and looking down at you, his rough thumb caressing you wherever it can reach. Trying to ease your mind.

Before he starts anything he needs to find a way to hide his face from you during it. He grunts and knocks down your bedside lamp, glass breaking and scattered on the floor now. It’s pitch black, but it’s not good enough for him. He steps back and leaves you to wonder what he plans on doing. Your eyes track him the best they can in the dark, but you’re left with only auditory clues. A sharp rip of clothing is obvious, and you’re only hoping it wasn’t one of your favorite shirts.

Michael returns, pulls you up to sit up, your face level with his stomach. Your neck hurts from having to always look up at him. Thankfully it’s not for long. He took a ripped piece of clothing to make a blindfold. He wraps and ties it around your head, making sure it’s not too tight but tight enough to where it won’t slide off. You’re completely at his mercy. He could literally do anything, and it slightly worries you. You decide to trust him still, no point in backing out now. You’re about to experience something you’ve always daydreamed about. You’d feel silly for not taking the chance when he’s in the mood for it.

Michael then pushes you back down to lay flat on the bed. Legs wide open. Eyes unable to watch the man you’ve fallen for finally go down on you. Your heart beats out of your chest at the sound of his muffled breathing becoming clear, the drop of his mask hitting the floor. Everything in you desperately wants to rip off the blindfold and see what he looks like but you keep yourself in line, knowing that could have consequences. Maybe even a deadly one.

Michael isn’t wasting any time. Your underwear is ripped off effortlessly, somewhere on the floor now. His hands hold your waist in place, pinning you down to have more control. Once he’s kneeled down and in position himself, he can’t help but to tease you, to see if you’re just as needy and excited for this as he is. Your response is to whine and buck your hips the best you can to his hesitation. You’re all hot and bothered now, you really don’t want him to back out. Michael couldn’t be any happier with your desperate attempt at feeling his warm mouth and tongue. His cock throbs and he has to control himself, he’d love to fuck you right then and there.

The second his face is in between your legs, it’s instant pleasure. A shiver runs down your spine. His hot breath, tongue, and beard mixed together is heaven. He’s sloppy with it, it’s wet and messy, and he loves it. He finds your clit easily from previous experiences of rubbing it for you. He sucks, licks, and sometimes dips his tongue inside of you, not knowing where to keep it at, as he’s learning all your sweet spots still. He finds it shortly after, your heavy breathing, moaning, and leg trembles being the only thing that tells him he’s doing a good job.

Embarrassingly, you don’t last long. You tense up and moan louder than you ever have, making a wet mess all over his face. It starts to hurt from how good it feels, and he doesn’t stop. You try to make a noise, to say his name, but it fails. All you can do is tremble and shake in pleasure, unable to comprehend the last orgasm before he gives you another.

Michael is enjoying every minute of this. He’s holding you down, one of your legs up to get a better angle and he dives right in again, wanting to get another orgasm from you. He loves everything about it. The smell, taste, and noises coming from you. He found another obsession, something he won’t forget or want to stop doing unless he’s satisfied.

You can’t count how many times you’ve came, you’re becoming weak and tired, and Michael finally pulls away from you, licking his lips and grunting in pleasure. A wet spot on his pants tells him he came just from giving you head, which is something he hasn’t experienced before. He’s always coming inside of you, never in his own clothing. It feels dirty, new, and addictive.

Michael knows you’re worn out. You don’t even say anything, or move. He knows he did good and his ego flares up more than it should. He doesn’t bother cleaning himself off, but he does wipe you off so you’re more comfortable. He puts his mask back on, unties your blindfold and helps you move higher up on the bed, your weak legs giving you nothing but a tingling sensation.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but you do wake in the middle of the night to see him masked up and holding you from behind, the evidence of everything still showing in his pants, on the bed, and floor. Heat rushes to your face in embarrassment, but quickly shake it off knowing he loved it just as much, if not even more.

Jason Voorhees

Jason’s yearning is heavy. He’ll follow you through the forest with silent excitement like a hunter after their first doe of the season. He tries to make himself smaller, softer in an attempt to not scare you, though his size and silence do anyway. Jason leaves offerings like bait; flowers, candy, whatever he sees and thinks you might like. He loves you the only way he can — by protecting you. It’s worship.

The Grabber

The Grabber’s yearning is an illness dressed in silk. You feel it in the way his voice softens when he says your name, the way his bare hand rests around your throat — not to hurt, but to remind you that he could. He watches you with that damned mask hiding his truth, pretending control, but you can feel it each time he speaks; the desperation lacing his voice. He doesn’t understand love, not in the gentle sense that someone as soft as you deserve. His is a dark possession that aches, a distressed urge to keep you where the world can’t touch you. Every time you flinch, he whispers, “I don’t want to hurt you.” and part of you believes him. You are the only softness he’s ever craved, and he needs you to stay.

Thomas Hewitt

Thomas’s yearning is slow, patient, and devoted. He can’t say what he feels, so he builds it instead. Little gestures stitched into every day; a gift a thought you’d like and waiting for you to join the table before eating. You’re the one thing that makes him believe there’s something gentle left in him — how could he let that go? He watches you with soft eyes, adoring every feature like it’s the first time. His yearning isn’t loud, but it speaks volumes.

Brahms Heelshire

Brahms’s yearning is frantic. Like he’s drowning and you’re the air he’s desperate for. His affection comes as whispers through the walls, gifts he leaves where you’ll find them, and the way he trembles when you say his name — God, he loves the way his name sounds on your tongue. He wants you to see him, to never, ever leave. His love is unbalanced, fevered, but achingly sincere. You can tell how badly he wants to be good for you, even if he doesn’t fully know how.

Hannibal Lecter 

Hannibal’s yearning is an art form. He is precise and utterly consuming. You are his muse, his fascination, the line between devotion and destruction blurred into something so beautiful. He doesn’t starve for your body so much as your soul, the way your mind moves. His love is a sonnet written in blood and expensive wine. When he looks at you, it feels like being studied, painted, and devoured all at once. You’ll never know if he wants to kiss you or consume you, maybe both. He has paintings of you on his wall. To be yearned by him is to be owned. 

Vincent Sinclair 

Vincent’s yearning is quiet. You see it in the way he sculpts, how every curve of wax mirrors you with precision. He doesn’t speak his love, but trust that he shows it. His hands that glide across your face and skin, memorizing every inch, the polaroids of you that adorn his workspace — the man spends every moment thinking of you, replicating you with wax. He loves like an artist loves their masterpiece.

Bo Sinclair