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Summary: To the world, Jason Voorhees is death incarnate. To his wife, he is the man who catches falling leaves before they can touch her.
The forest was loud that evening.
Branches swayed together overhead, cicadas sang from somewhere beyond the lake, and the breeze carried the scent of damp earth after an afternoon shower.
Jason walked ahead as he always did. Not because he wanted to leave you behind, but because he was clearing the path without even thinking about it.
A fallen branch blocked the narrow trail.
He stopped.
One enormous hand wrapped around the thick limb, lifting it as though it weighed nothing before tossing it several metres away. The path was clear again.
You smiled.
“You know I could’ve stepped over it.”
Jason glanced over one shoulder. Even behind the weathered hockey mask, you recognised the look immediately.
No.
That single tilt of his head was enough. He wasn’t going to risk you tripping. You caught up to him, slipping your fingers around two of his. Your entire hand barely fit around them.
He looked down.
For a second, the towering killer who haunted Crystal Lake simply stood there, looking at your joined hands as though they fascinated him.
Then his fingers curled carefully around yours.
Always gentle.
You continued walking. Leaves occasionally drifted from the trees above, spinning lazily toward the ground. One floated directly toward your face.
Before it could touch you, Jason’s hand appeared.
The leaf landed against the back of his glove instead.
You laughed.
“Jason…”
He looked at the leaf.
Then at you.
As if he genuinely couldn’t understand why you found it amusing.
“You know,” you teased, “I can survive a leaf.”
His shoulders rose slightly.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
You laughed harder, stepping in front of him.
“Come here.”
Jason stopped immediately.
There wasn’t a force on Earth capable of making him obey another person. Yet when you held your arms open, he complied without hesitation.
He bent his knees slightly so you could reach him.
You wrapped your arms around his middle.
Even then, you barely reached halfway around his waist.
“You worry too much.”
One hand settled carefully against your back. The pressure was almost nonexistent.
You had watched him drive an axe through solid timber. You had watched him throw grown men several feet with one arm. Now that same hand rested against you with the caution of someone holding blown glass.
“You know,” you murmured against his jacket, “everyone thinks you’re frightening.”
He remained still.
“They’ve never seen this side of you.”
His thumb moved once against your back. The closest thing Jason had to absent-minded affection. You leaned back enough to look up at the mask.
“I have.”
His hand rose to your cheek. His rough, scarred fingers brushed your skin with impossible care. As if he was afraid pressing even a little too hard. You leaned into his touch.
“I love you too.”
He froze.
Those words always affected him.
Jason never said them aloud.
Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps he didn’t know how anymore. Instead, he answered the only way he ever had.
He rested his forehead against yours, the edge of the hockey mask touching your brow. His free arm encircled your waist completely, sheltering you against his chest.
The woods continued around you. Birds called. The lake rippled. Nothing dared come closer.
Not because Jason was standing there, but because every living creature in Crystal Lake seemed to understand something instinctively.
The giant in the hockey mask wasn’t hunting tonight. He was simply holding the most precious thing in his world, and if anyone, or anything, disturbed that peace.
The forest itself would remember why everyone feared the name Jason Voorhees.
Summary: Vincent has a crush and you’re a bit oblivious to it
Author’s Note: Finally working on more requests. I know I’m awfully slow at getting out new stuff. I have the attention span of a goldfish so it’s definitely not helping. Anyways…I hope you all enjoy!
This is a request fill for @stygianoir ! I hope you like it!
Warnings/tags: gender neutral reader, no physical description of reader, fluff, yearning, friends to lovers, not beta read
You first met Vincent when you were children. Your family had been close to the Sinclair family for a long time, even assisting them with their museum on occasion. Over the years, you had grown close to all the Sinclair brothers, but Vincent had become your closest friend.
It had always shocked Vincent’s family, especially Bo. Vincent was the shyest person he knew. But anytime you’d come around it was impossible not to notice how Vincent seemed to soften in your presence. He was still shy as ever but the more you showed up the more his invisible walls came crumbling down for you and only you.
When the parents of the Sinclair brothers passed away you became even closer to Vincent. They all shut the world out of their lives but you were the exception. The years passed, the town became deserted, but you stayed. Even when your own family moved away you stayed behind, not wanting to leave the brothers alone in an abandoned town.
No one liked having you around more than Vincent. He was never bothered by your presence. He felt comfortable with you, safe even. You made him feel things that he had never felt before and it left him confused. He was fond of you, he knew that much, but there was a deeper longing that he didn’t quite understand. Vincent had never been good at communication. He was often silent and even when he desired to say something the words just wouldn’t come out. Art was his language. All of his emotions came out through his hands. As he sculpted and shaped the waxy surface of his preferred medium, he found himself thinking of you.
It went on like that for years. He would spend most days with you. If you weren’t lounging with him at his house he was following you around, listening to you speak and watching you as you worked as if you were the finest piece of art in a museum. He would study you when you weren’t watching, taking in all the little details about you he couldn’t help but notice. And when you would turn your attention to him and look at him he could feel something flutter inside him that he hadn’t felt before. You would make him feel something he couldn’t describe and at the end of the day he would turn to sculpting to express those emotions.
Before he knew it he was absentmindedly sculpting you from memory. During the stillness of the night, while his brothers slept upstairs and you were cozied up in your own bed in the house next door, he molded the beeswax into the shape of you. He tried to include as many details as he could. He worked slowly and carefully, treating the sculpture with care as he carved the very essence of you.
He was already finished before it truly hit him. As Vincent stared down at the bust of your face he realized that he was longing for you. It felt strange. He saw you every day so surely this longing was misplaced. What could he possibly long for if you were already in his life? And then he realized that it was more than a longing, it was love.
When you arrived at the Sinclairs’ house the next morning you were surprised to see Vincent waiting outside for you. He held something behind his back as he nervously looked down at his feet.
“What do you have there, Vincent?” you questioned as you approached him.
He hesitated before slowly pulling a sculpture from behind him. He outstretched his arm, holding out the bust towards you. As you took it into your hands you realized you were staring at a miniature bust of yourself.
“Oh, wow. Vincent, this is amazing!” you said as you held up the bust. You turned it in your hands, examining it. There were so many small details. It amazed you that he even noticed such little things about you enough to include them in the sculpture. It was so beautiful and made you feel seen.
“Did you do this for me?” you asked.
Vincent nodded. You swore you could see the tiniest crinkle of skin around his eye through his mask, as if he was smiling underneath it. You looked down at the sculpture once more, truly taking it in before looking back at him.
“Thank you so much. This is amazing,” you said. You moved closer, pulling him into a short hug which he reciprocated.
“I’m going to put this on my mantle. I don’t want the wax to melt out here in this heat. Wanna walk with me?” you asked. Vincent nodded his head once again and followed you as you led the way to your own home.
The next morning, just like every morning, you headed to check on the Sinclair brothers once you finished breakfast. You made your way outside and walked the short path to their house. When you knocked on the door, you could hear Bo call out from inside telling you to come in.
“Good morning,” you greeted.
“Morning,” Bo said. He sat at the dining room table, drinking a cup of coffee as he read the newspaper.
“Whose car did you nab that from?” you asked, knowing that your hometown didn’t have a running newspaper office anymore. You also knew that the brothers had grown rather protective of the town and would run off strangers.
“Mind your business,” Bo said. He reached in front of him and lifted a short stack of papers in the air, waving them a bit to get your attention.
“These are for you,” he said.
You made your way to the dining room and took the papers from his hand, sitting down across from him to examine them.
The papers in question were drawings. Three separate sketches of your face at different angles and lighting. You slowly flipped through them, staring down at the artwork in front of you.
“Wow,” you mumbled quietly.
“Vinny did those last night. And this morning. He didn’t sleep,” Bo said.
“Really? He stayed up drawing me?” you asked.
“Mmhmm,” Bo hummed as he flipped another page of his newspaper.
“Why would he do that?” you asked, setting the art down in front of you.
“He likes you,” Bo shrugged.
“Well, yeah. Of course, he does. We’re friends, after all. But I don’t see why he’d stay up all night over me.”
“No, not like that,” he huffed, “You can’t tell that you got him lovesick? I’ve never seen him so in love before…or at all.”
“In love?”
You were dumbfounded. Somehow the thought of Vincent being in love with you never crossed your mind. But the more you sat and thought about it the more it made sense. You were even sitting in front of physical proof.
“You’re saying he’s been making art of me because he’s in love with me?” you asked.
“That’s my theory. Why don’t you go ask him yourself?” Bo said.
“What? No. I…I can’t do that,” you said.
“Suit yourself. But just know that I’m right.”
And Bo was right. You had no idea how you couldn’t see it before.
The wax sculptures, the drawings, the fact that he followed you around like a puppy. It was right in front of your face the entire time. Vincent was in love with you. Or at the very least he had a serious crush.
You stayed up all night, pondering on Bo’s words and all of the now very obvious loving gestures that Vincent had been making. You tossed and turned in bed before you gave up on trying to sleep altogether. Rest just wasn’t coming easily to you, especially when you had started to feel a strange sense of longing for Vincent.
You got up from bed and quickly got dressed, making your way out of the house once you were finished. It had cooled off outside significantly and there was a full moon shining above, illuminating your path to the Sinclair house. When you got to the top of the stairs at their front door you gently knocked. Standing there in silence, you waited until you heard a faint shuffle on the other side of the door. The chain lock on the door jingled around and the door opened slowly to reveal Lester, the youngest Sinclair brother, standing before you.
He yawned as he scratched at his scalp, looking you up and down as he did so.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” Lester asked.
“Is Vincent awake? I need to talk to him,” you questioned.
“Yeah, come in.” Lester moved to the side, ushering you in the door with his hand and closing it behind you.
“He’s down in the basement working on something. He hasn’t been sleeping at night lately. You can go on down. You know he won’t bite,” Lester said.
“Thank you, Les,” you said.
“No problem.” He sat back down on the couch and you slowly walked to the basement door, opening it and making your way down the stairs.
When you got to the bottom you saw Vincent at his work desk, scribbling on a piece of paper. His back was turned from you and he was hunched over the desk, lost in whatever he was working on.
You knocked on the wall, getting his attention. His posture straightened quickly in his seat as he turned in his chair to look at you.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You could see Vincent huff slightly as if he was annoyed. He turned back to what he was doing as you walked into the room, admiring his unfinished work throughout the space. The entire basement smelled of beeswax and the various candles Vincent would burn throughout the day. A lot of his work station had a buildup of melted wax from him making sculptures for so many years.
“You sure do stay busy down here,” you mumbled, stopping at the edge of his desk where he sat. When you glanced down at what he was doing he quickly covered it with his hand, attempting to hide the paper from you.
“I’m not allowed to see?”
He shook his head and flipped the paper over quickly, keeping it concealed from you.
“I understand. I won't peek,” you said.
You took a look around once more before your eyes locked on Vincent again. He fiddled with a sculpting tool while you stood next to him. He seemed more nervous than usual. You had gotten good at reading his body language over the years and you could sense that he was a bit on edge. It seemed like he wanted to tell you something but you knew that was never his strong suit.
“Are you okay?” you asked.
He gave a quick nod but didn’t look up at you.
“I wanted to come thank you for those drawings. They were absolutely beautiful. And I wanted to ask you something kind of important,” you said.
That got his attention. Vincent looked up from his work desk, giving you his attention. He motioned with his hand for you to continue speaking before resting it on the edge of the desk.
“What’s with all of these little…tokens? Are you just using me as art practice or is there something else going on? I don’t mind being your muse but is there something you’re not telling me?” you asked.
Vincent was almost always silent but you could hear the faintest sigh as if his secret had finally been uncovered. He slowly turned, grabbed the paper he had hidden from you, and handed it over. You took it into your hand and looked it over.
It was another drawing of you. This time it was paired with a simple phrase at the bottom that made you pause. Written in Vincent’s handwriting were the words ‘my love’ under the sketch.
“Vincent…”
Your hands trembled slightly as you gripped the paper. Your eyes scanned over it again and again as you stood there, thinking back on all the years you’ve known the man sitting beside you. You could feel tears welling up in your eyes and you tried your best to blink them away before they streamed down your face.
Vincent turned his head away and his shoulders slumped almost as if he was embarrassed that you were seeing the artwork. You set the paper down and rested your hand on his shoulder.
You brought your other hand up to his mask, gently turning his head to look up at you from his position.
“There’s no need to be embarrassed about it,” you said, tilting his head up so he was looking at you, “I love you too. I only wish I had realized you felt that way sooner.”
Another sigh came from Vincent, this time sounding relieved. He hesitated before standing up and pulling you into a hug. He wrapped his arms around you and held you close. You swore you could feel him relax into you.
His secret was finally out in the open. He loved you. And you loved him back. He wanted nothing more than that.
I am so obsessed with my bloody valentine rn it’s not even funny i fucking love this guy
PUT ME IN A ROOM WITH HIM AND NEITHER OF US IS COMING OUT ALIVE!!!!
I am gonna force myself to write for him bc while I have writers block rn I’m seeing way too many people say “oh make a bot of him” instead of “ooo make a fic of him” for fandoms in general and I refuse to let the evil ai win.
he realises you really like it when he wears those grey sweatpants…
a/n: found this pic on pinterest and it’s like i turned feral beast so sorry for any typos or bad writing in general >.<
it was an accident at first, really
you’d been together for long enough that you had started feeling comfortable showing up at his apartment unannounced, much to his chagrin
well — he says he’s “inconvenienced” (bateman talk for mad) and even has the furrowed brows to match, but somehow each time you make a surprise visit your favourite sorbet flavour is always set for you on the paolo piva
read: he told his doorman to let him know the exact millisecond you walk through the front doors of his building
he would hate for you to catch him unaware, all messy from his extracurriculars (he definitely doesn’t just want to make sure he’s looking extra put-together for you)
on one such surprise visit, as your fist is just about to make contact with his door, it opens up to reveal patrick; hair damp and tousled from his shower, skin moisturised and a pair of low sweatpants clinging onto his hips
and, considering just how much of his chiseled skin is on show, no calvin kleins to match
patrick bateman in sweatpants? hell must have frozen over
you never suspected he even owned anything casual like sweatpants of all the things but the way your heart starts to pound lets you know you’re not upset at the view by any means
you know he caught you looking at his happy trail with the way his eyes scrunch up ever so slightly, his way of genuinely smiling, and the doorway he blocked is now wide open as he beckons you inside
what a bastard
“so, sweetie, what did i do to be graced with your presence this evening?” he says in that practiced way of his as he pushes some stray hairs out of his face, unsubtly flexing his strong arms for you in the middle of his sterile living room
to anyone else, this would’ve been a gaudy show of vanity, and it is, but it’s also patrick’s way of “inviting” you to hug him and give him a chaste kiss hello that always leads to something more
because, of course, it would be beneath him to have to ask his girlfriend to show him some attention
at first he starts to get mad that you haven’t made a single move towards him but the heat from his rising anger quickly dissipates further down as he realises that you weren’t ignoring him, you were just transfixed on his perfect body once again
he genuinely grins like a shark once he’s realised
“my eyes are up here, y/n”
what a sexy bastard
his wink, despite how cheesy you may find it, makes your stomach do somersaults and you find yourself on your knees, swallowing him as deeply as you can in record time
ever since then he’s taken to wearing those sweatpants as often as he can around you, especially during those occasions when he needs the extra reinforcement
e.g. arguments (he can distract you with his print), those almost-but-not-quite apologies he loves to give (he can distract you with his print), birthdays (he can gift you the exclusive experience of getting to lay eyes on his print), etc.
very versatile if you ask him
100% gets jean to look through designer catalogues and choose which sweatpants would “tastefully show off the years of exercise i’ve put into building my physique yet still be welcoming enough to women.”
he already knows which ones he wants and considering how god awful her work outfits are (he rolls his eyes internally and probably externally too, it’s like she doesn’t care that her youth, and therefore beauty, is fading with every minute and her chances of finding a decent guy in this building diminishes with each prudish, ill-fitting pair of slacks), he’s immediately disregarding any suggestions she gives
he does this because he knows it makes her uncomfortable thus making his work day slightly more tolerable knowing he has the power to alter someone’s mood with one little request
but also because he’s an attention-whore and that’s his way of dry-begging for compliments
she deserves a raise
speaking of, he absolutely detests talking to luis but figures that a…guy of his particularities will know a thing or two about these things (hint: patrick is desperate to be told he’s perfect after a day of being confused for halberstam if you can’t tell already)
this is another reason why he has such a fondness for you: you’re the rare female who can actually dress well without needing his input AND without making yourself look like a cheap slut in the process
patrick is always rocking a semi when he wears grey sweatpants, it’s part of the manipulation tactic
he can’t give you everything straight away, oh no, you’ve got to beg — but he’s also got to entice you to him somehow
it’s a fine line to balance but patrick has this all noted down in some hidden diary strategy document anyway
‘y/n called my saint laurent sweatpants “male lingerie”. personally, i find the term to be a tad bit effeminate for my tastes but i will allow her to use that contrived phrase IN PRIVATE as i believe it will deepen her feelings for me and allow me to manipulate her more freely.”
makes you grind against him when he’s wearing them, big hands guiding your hips in a way that seems sensual at a glance but is simply because he doesn’t trust you to move the way he likes, and groans every time the wet spot beneath you grows bigger and darker
will absolutely have you wear his ruined sweatpants after everything is said and done
usually he’d find that kind of thing unhygienic but his brain seems to constantly be finding new loopholes and exceptions for you without his permission
“fuuuuck, y/n, just like that. you’re such a dirty slut for me.” he groans out into the crook of your neck, hot breath tickling your sensitive skin, like he’s been critically wounded.
his hands, those large, veiny hands free of any callouses and soft from a life of privilege, guide your hips with no trouble. he pays no mind to what you want to do, instead using your body like a puppet made for him to control at his every whim.
“p-patrick! i’m getting close!” coming without his permission is a big no-no, but the way you can feel his hard dick through the premium cotton of his sweatpants has your eyes rolling back in sheer ecstasy.
your head is violently yanked back by the very same hands you were admiring and he snarls but continues to use the hand still on your hips to move you faster, his own hips moving in perfect synchrony.
“only good whores get to come, are you a good whore, sweetie?”
before you can even begin to work out what your strained vocal chords can say
“come to think of it, good whores would probably jump into the lap of any guy wearing grey sweatpants so tell me — are you a good whore, y/n?”
his tone has turned murderous yet miles more passionate than it was just a few moments ago and the grip on your hair only tightens with each movement.
you almost fell for his trap in the heat of the moment but with your impending orgasm on the horizon you know you can’t afford to make a single mistake.
“i belong to you! just yours patrick! only yours! only you can make me feel this good, only you can wear valentino sweats and make them look priceless i swe-“
before you can finish your senseless rambling, he yanks his pants down a touch and immediately sinks into your soaking pussy, biting down on the fist that was in your hair at the way you immediately clench down on him as your orgasm hits you like a freight train just from the feeling of him.
he uses you like a toy as you convulse through the pleasure, your body slumping forward as if all the energy had been completely drained from your body.
that is until you feel a hand snaking down between your bodies to reach your sensitive bud, patrick’s dulcet tones asking, no — commanding you to come again.
you wake up the next morning clad in nothing but the grey sweatpants from the night before and a note on your bedside table.
“get those dry cleaned asap. charge it to my card and get yourself a nice dress for tonight - patrick”
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.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
ft. Michael Myers (Halloween franchise)
Day 10 - Oral Sex, Punishment, CNC **D.D.D.N.E., mind the warnings
Warnings: Nsfw (MDNI), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, consensual noncon, oral sex (m!receiving), punishment, dark romance, slasher horror elements, canon typical violence, rough sex, possessive sex, you guys are roomies lol, he's nicer at the end...but reader loves him when he's mean, predator/prey, hunting hide and seek, sub/dom, lowkey toxic relationship but what do you expect from him
Synopsis: You shouldn't have been defiant...cause now you were hiding in the bathroom and--crap, did the floorboard just creak?
Word Count: 1613
Michael Myers x Fem!Reader (nsfw)
A/N: UMM AHH UMM ERR-- I love Michael Myers
(he was my halloween costume 3 years back lol)
...
Anywho--if you love dark romance and horror and smut, this is for you
You’d fucked up. You knew you had the moment the word left your mouth. ‘No.’ How incredibly damning those two little letters were, for the instant you’d spoke it in a wavering voice, the monstrous shape behind you had stilled.
In the past few months, you’ve shared this Haddonfield house with an…unconventional roommate. In that time, you’ve learned to fear his stillness. It often meant his mind was working, those slithering thoughts of darkness spiraling and knotting, the embodiment of pure, senseless evil.
You regretted denying him—it had been a momentary lapse in judgement. You’d been cleaning the dishes after a long night, head throbbing with the stress work had inflicted, when you felt his presence enter the room. It wasn’t that you heard or saw him, only that you could sense his tangible
You’d gotten too comfortable with the uneasy routine of living with Michael. You’d thought you were safe, assuming that since you’d laid together before, you were exempt from his violence. You had thought wrong.
He’d stopped just behind you, his hot breath fanning across your neck through the mask. You’d ignored him as he stood there, watching, unmoving, invading your space. It was the only thing you could do when he did things like that. But when you’d continued to scrub at a stubborn dish without looking at him, you’d felt his large and calloused hands grab your waist. You’d nearly dropped the slippery dish into the sink in your surprise.
“M-Michael, wait, I’m doing the dishes right now,” you had stuttered out quietly, trying to focus on the task at hand. But as always, he hadn’t cared about your thoughts or feelings on the matter. His hands had moved higher to grope at your breasts punishingly, unmistakably a sign of claim and power over you.
And that’s when you’d made your fatal error.
You’ve been hiding in the bathroom for nearly half an hour since then, sitting in the tub with your knees drawn to your chest. Your heart hammered with the quick speed a small rodent might’ve had, and you felt like one too…trapped and terrified of the predator lurking about on the hunt.
Although you sat there without a sound or shadow to indicate he was near, you knew better than to assume he’d given up. It was more likely he already knew where you were—enjoying the psychological torture of making you wait for his inevitable retribution against you.
Just when your legs were beginning to cramp from the uncomfortable position, you heard the softest creak. You recognized it instantly, knowing that just outside the bathroom there was a loose floorboard that always made a soft sound under foot. It was the only thing you’d heard, for Michael was incredibly quiet despite his size…but it was enough of a warning for you.
The shower curtain was ripped aside with such menace that you cried out in fear. Your frantic eyes widened as you stared up at what appeared to be pure malice taken form. Michael loomed over you for two tense seconds, just long enough for dread to form a pit in your gut. And then he was grabbing you.
You screamed, kicking and thrashing as he hefted you up with a grip force that nearly shattered your fragile bones. Would he throw you into the mirror? Choke you out against the wall with your feet dangling? Drag you by your hair back to the kitchen, where he’d grab a knife from the block? He was wild in his fits of violence, in his thirst for death.
But he did none of those things. In his eyes there was a different kind of hunger, still none the less of dangerous magnitude. He half-carried, half-dragged your body out from the bathroom, your weight and resistance nothing in comparison to his inhuman strength.
You flailed as he dragged you down the upstairs hall, using a boot to kick open the bedroom door and hauling you inside. You yelped as he threw you onto the bed forcefully, so much so that you nearly hit your head against the headboard when your body bounced.
You scrambled to shield yourself, to cower and beg his forgiveness…but he hadn’t moved from where he stood at the foot of the bed, a formidable and menacing predator. Again, that stillness you so greatly feared.
“M-Michael, please, I-I’m sorry…” you whimpered out weakly, trembling on the bed.
He only stared at you, and though the eyeholes of his mask were two pitiless voids of black, you could feel the burning heat there. Frightful, you watched as he raised one lethal hand to the collar of his coveralls, and grabbed the zipper there.
The sound of it dragging down filled the room, and a cold draft fell over you, your skin erupting into goosebumps. “Michael…” you pleaded, crawling back on the mattress as he disrobed just enough to pull free his erection.
God, his size was monstrous. Larger than any man you’d seen before, and larger than you might have thought physically possible. You would’ve feared it wouldn’t fit if you didn’t know any better. Afterall, it had fit last time…and the time before that.
Michael approached, and you gasped as he wordlessly grabbed your ankles, pulling you so roughly to the edge of the bed that you felt the painful heat of rugburn on your back. You forced your limbs to move, to push at him weakly, to defend yourself…but it was useless. You were thrown about, forcibly rotated so that your head was suddenly bent over the edge of the mattress.
Both of his hands gripped your head tightly, not enough to hurt but enough to promise punishment if you acted up again. You sniffled a little, and forced your body to go limp. You knew he wouldn’t tolerate any further defiance from you—the threat was clear in the ragged breathing behind the mask.
You watched as he positioned himself at your mouth, and when his fingers balled painfully around fistfuls of your hair, you opened your mouth, submitting to him. There was no easing in, no mercy. He shoved his cock so far down your throat that his happy trail was pressed against your chin.
Your eyes bulged at the aggressive thrust, the tip of him bullying into you so deep that you felt your throat bulging at the intrusion. You heard him grunt low and staccato, before he withdrew and promptly shoved back into your mouth. You tried to breathe through your nose as he began a ruthless, fast-paced rhythm, gagging on him with very little reprieve.
You loved it. God, how you loved it. Being used by him, the simple pleasure you got from submission. There was a dangerous thrill that came with being intimate with a cold-blooded killer, and you were addicted to it. No matter how rough he was, how unreadable and punishing…you knew you’d never be satisfied by anyone else.
You salivated as he face-fucked you, eyes screwed shut as you felt your undergarments become absolutely soaked. His hands forcibly moved your head up and down to meet his thrusts, and you heard a deep groan escape him. Michael never was very vocal, but god how you went wild at those occasional, quiet noises from him.
He ravaged you unapologetically, using you for his pleasure and punishing you for your defiance all in one depraved, terrible act. You took it all, choking and crying, desperately aroused by your darkest fantasies come true. Maybe you were messed up too—corrupted by his innate, saturated evil and the shadows of his soulless existence.
You reached a trembling hand down your body to touch yourself, desperate for any sort of friction. It wasn’t out of mercy that Michael allowed you this, but out of carnal dominion. He wanted you to enjoy this—wanted your body to twitch with erotic ecstasy as he brutalized you in the way he knew you craved.
And god, how you did. You were so turned on that you were coming undone with the lightest of touches, crying and whimpering as best as you could with a mouth full of cock. Your throat vibrated with your sounds of pleasure, and the sensation sent Michael over the edge.
There was no warning as he spilled his seed down your throat with a quiet, strangled sound. Up to that point, his pace had never slowed or eased up; but now it stopped altogether, his dick shoved as deep into you as possible.
Fully sheaved, he held your head against his groin, forcing you to take every last drop of his spend. When he was finished, he released you, taking a small step back so that his half-hard cock slid out from your lips and fell wetly against your cheek.
His breathing was heavy and slightly ragged through the mask, and you blushed at the feeling of his black, empty eyes burning holes into you, your hand still buried in your pants. His aggression had dulled, his lust satiated at last.
He eased you back up into a sitting position, his hands falling to his sides as he watched you wipe your mouth clean with your wrist. You were high on endorphins and hormones, feeling perfectly content.
When he didn’t move to join you on the bed, you cocked your head at him curiously. “I’m alright,” you murmured quietly. “I enjoyed it. I always do… Now, come to bed?”
And he did—not because you held any real, enforceable power over him…but because he wanted to. He wanted to lay with you, and hold you, and never let you go.
✶ . there’s a very high probability that he will sleep with your closest friend out of nothing but pure spite. if you’re considered desirable (well of course you are), then anyone orbiting you is fair game—your friends are his friends, after all.
✶ . he won’t feel sorry for you. he pities himself. sulks at the idea that you made him feel this way, even if you never actually cheated.
✶ . if he’s feeling extra petty, patrick will call escort services, ask for girls who look almost like you: same hair, same eyes, same general build. if they meet the criterion, he’ll give them the same lingerie you have (not your set, but an identical one he bought separately).
✶ . he’ll fuck them real nasty and imagine it’s you, but the more real it feels, the more violent he gets. needless to say, once the illusion wears off, he’ll kill them off.
✶ . he goes home and start #looksmaxxing: obsessively plans a new skincare routine. he modifies his workouts, schedules a facial, even thinks about investing in a tanning bed. vanity drives him.
✶ . jerking off to slasher flicks, violent porn or even snuff films as a way to cope, but all he’s thinking about is you.
✶ . substance abuse.
✶ . he’ll call you and leave a voice message that starts uncharacteristically sweet. “pumpkin, how was your day? i missed you…” his tone tender but awkward, like he’s a schoolboy gearing up to ask his crush out. but as the message goes on, his words grow increasingly demented and senseless; at this point he’s basically narrating his murder fantasies and calling you a slut.
✶ . at the office, he’ll blurt out weird, unprompted things to his secretary, like, “maybe it’s easier to be with someone who doesn’t know who you are.” or “you ever think people fall out of love because they get used to someone’s face?” then he’ll go back to flipping through his GQ. poor jean won’t even know what to say. just gives a small, unsure smile while he pretends he never said anything at all.
