Jason Voorhees:

SFW:

Tracks mud all over your house on rainy nights

This big man loves to be babied by you. He loves when you talk to him with such a nurturing and caring voice

Has horrible jealousy issues

Has soft spots for kids

He really wants to have a kid with you, so he can treat the kid with so much love and respect

He’s so loyal to you, if you want him to kill anyone… he’ll literally do it in a heartbeat

Carved yours and his initials on a tree in camp crystal lake

leaves letters around the house for you to find with sappy things written in them

an actual gentle giant

bear hugs you from behind when you cook. he’ll wrap his arms around you and sway yours and his figure side to side.

he smells like pine like 90% of the time

NSFW:

he loves fucking you while you choke him idc. he’d start off with long, deep, strokes that stretch you so good. if you grab his neck while he does so, he pounds you even harder, and his groans slowly turn into slight whimpers

sucks at pulling out, he loves watching his cum drip out of you. With two fingers he’ll shove the cum back into your quivering hole just to see you push it out again ☺️

the mask stays on during sex, idc i don’t make the rules

loves cock worshipping. kiss along his length and lick along it too. loves fucking your throat and making you say you love it with a mouthful of his cock.

loves receiving head so much, it’s literally so slutty.

will actually fold you in half to get better angles.

Bo Sinclair:

SFW:

Loves feeling like you can depend on him. He loves the thought of being your little provider (it’s the blue collar in him)

Totally massages your feet LOL idk why. He gives you straight up princess treatment

Dude deadass acts like a dog, howls when he’s like really happy 😭

if you massage his scalp he’ll actually fall in love with you, and shudder at your touch

he’s such a simp for you in private idc what anyone says

he picks flowers for you all the time 🥺 and leaves them at your bedside for when you wake up

asks you to do his eyebrows from time to time

He loves thinking of you as his little wife. refers to you as his wife to visitors. DONT MAKE FUN OF HIM FOR THAT, he'll get sooooo embarassed lol

makes you a mixtape filled with all the numetal he listens to

has band shirts in his drawer that he throws to you after doing some actvities with each other (if you catch my drift)

NSFW:

literally a horny bastard

Is so rough and passionate

loves to fuck you in his shop and loves to fuck you over the hood of cars

actually loves to pound into your weeping hole till you scream your safe word (its "cherry pie")

doesn't moan, only growls. he's so animalistic once you guys get to fucking

Vincent Sinclair:

SFW:

he draws you all the time, you're his muse!

loves to do little art projects with you as dates

let's you braid his hair and brush out the tangles

He loves it when you paint his nails with your nail polish. Loves it even more if you guys match.

takes photos of you all the time. hangs them up all around the basement

is a simp in private and is a simp in public, you NEVER have to worry about that when you're with him.

loves taking baths with you and legit MELTS into your touch if you coddle him, baby him etc.

NSFW:

noisiest silent man you'll ever meet.

whimpers so much

loves to worship your body, thinks of you as a goddess.

he loves to pepper kisses all over your body and loves to eat your pussy while you hover over him, demandingly.

loves to be overstimulated and loves wax play.

pour wax on his chest as he lays down, eating your pussy as you sit on his face.

fucks like an absolute jack rabbit. he can go pretty fast when he's chasing his high.

Lester Sinclair:

SFW:

The biggest sweetheart

Picks flowers for you and will leave them at your bedside.

He steals lots of female visitor's items, so you quite literally always have new clothes, perfume, makeup etc.

He brings home weird animals and cooks weird things, but you love him too much to deny him.

Is super shy when it comes to affection and stuff like that. You mostly have to initiate a lot of the contact, but his goofy smile and flustered face make up for it.

Secretly wants to have twins, but actually treat those twins with love and care.

Daydreams about you and is super loyal to you.

If Bo makes a comment about you, whether good or bad, Lester will pick a fight with him and tell him not to talk about his woman.

Will ask Vincent to make a portrait of you and him to give you for V-day.

NSFW:

tease him too much and he'll actually cry

he wants to breed you so bad to the point where it's all he can daydream about sometimes.

jerks off when he's alone, whimpering your name.

This boy is a bottom feeder and will beg to eat you out at least once a day

He loves car sex and loves road head.

He will take you on various trips JUST to get some road head and maybe park in the forest so he can shoot his load into you a couple times before you guys' head back :3

RZ!Michael Myers:

SFW:

very silent and ominous man

looms over everything you do

if you cook a meal for the two of you, he will just stand beside you and watch what you're doing 100% of the time

makes papier mâché masks 25/8

makes masks for you as well with your favorite things on it (ex. if you like sanrio characters, he'll make a mask with your fave characters on it :3)

the first few nights he stays with you, you basically have to bathe with him lmao

he smells earthy like dirt and husky pheromones

holds you close to him when you guys shower together

secretly puts kitchen items and closet items on higher shelves so that you come running to him to grab it for you

NSFW:

this man has the absolute stamina of the gods

this man is the king of shower sex

loves to carry you up against the wall as if you weigh nothing and plow into your hole(s)

sometimes having you against the wall isn't enough and he'll just pound you down onto him length and use you as his personal pocket pussy

he is always dominant (sorry not sorry)

he also loves to play a hide and seek game in the woods with you. he'll chase you throughout the woods and if you're able to outrun him or be able to hide without him finding you or tracking you, you can dom him and do whatever you want with him :3 but so far he's always been able to catch up to you and find you before you can think you even have a chance.

his prize for winning that little game is a hard and rough forest sex

but if you were to win (which probably wouldnt happen) he'd def tone down his strength.

he'd let you pin him down and he'll play along with you

but once he's tired, best believe he'll stop giving into you and take you for himself

Thomas Hewitt:

SFW:

the way y'all meet is kinda funny lol

Luda saw you and thought: "wow they're perfect for my tommy" and somehow convinced you to stay for dinner

at first you were terrified of tommy

he was a big burly man with a mask on his face

he was wayyyy too nervy to even look your way when you first came about

luda explained that she wanted grandbabies, and you could see Thomas' eyes dart towards Luda, obviously this wasn't planned at all

but after a few nights with the Hewitts... you kinda liked having teatime with Luda and watching Tommy do yard work from the living room windows.

Tommy was scary but was oh so respectful towards you.

sometimes when he's out doing yard work for the house, you'll walk out in some short shorts and a tank due to the scorching heat and give him a tall glass of lemonade. which he'll take graciously and chug that thang in front of you

Something so simple like that makes his heart pound

luda will ask you to make dinner one night and tommy falls in LOVEEE with how you cook.

his dream is to be a loyal working husband for you

children are definitely on the table for him but i think its more of a breeding kink for him/seeing you all plump and pregnant by him.

NSFW:

For a long time, you and Tommy couldn't really do much due to the waiting before marriage beliefs that were instilled into him

he hates the thought of disappointing Luda so its probably gonna take some convincing to get this man to be bad with ya

once you succeed... this man gets pussy drunk soooooo easilyyyy

tommy's weight crushing you + him pounding into you over and over again through your orgasm...

he doesn't even hear your begs to stop

he's so engrossed in the feeling of you squeezing him, the feeling of your tits in his hands, he fucks you raw, like a sex crazed, hungry man

his favorite place to fuck you is in the barn

he'll bring a pretty soft blanket for you to lay on and maybe even a pillow, just so that you wont dirty your pretty gingham yellow dress this is his favorite look on you, no i will not be explaining lol

he's very silent when he's deep in it

Michael Myers

Similar to Jason; You’re not hearing a single noise from him. His vocal cords could be missing for all you know. But you will hear lots of his eerie breathing. Whether it’s measured and calm or strained and staggering, those are the only noises you might hear before he’s suddenly in front of you.

And he actually lives for scaring you. Will press himself into your back when you least expect it and relish in your gasping. Loves to watch you from dark corners and see how long you take to figure out. Your guard is gonna be up for the rest of your life honestly.

Does he use sign language? No! He was taught it during his time in the asylum, so if you sign to him he’ll understand just fine. But he refuses to use it himself. His silence is a choice, it’s a way to isolate himself further into his role as The Shape. He honestly doesn’t care if you understand him or not, he doesn’t have anything he wants to say to you that he can’t say through actions.

When you’re yapping, you’ll get the occasional head tilt and if you’re really really lucky, a thumbs up or down. That’s all you’re ever gonna get from him. He might as well have fallen asleep honestly, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference under his mask.

Bubba Sawyer (Leatherface)

So while he doesn’t “talk”, he is most definitely not silent. This guy babbles like nobody’s business, he grunts and squeals, he goes around making all sorts of noises to himself when he’s in a real good mood. If he’s actually ever quiet for an extended period of time, that means he’s in desperate need of a hug honestly. A lot of his rambling does almost sound like words, but he can never quite fully get them out coherently. His tone is usually enough to let you know what he’s thinking though.

And while he can be decent at sneaking when he’s locked in, hunting someone down, that basically never applies to you or the rest of the family. Drayton constantly yells at him to stop parading around the house, his large frame is bumping into anything and everything. Plus he has a touch of echolalia, so any fun noises he happens to hear are being imitated ten times over. You can hear him coming from a mile away.

Does he use sign language? …he tries. Much like verbal communication, he tends to be really clumsy and struggles a lot with it. First of all, it’s gonna take a while for him to memorize even basic signs, although he does have a wonderful time learning from you. Secondly, once he does get them in his head, it doesn’t always translate well to his hands. His big fingers tend to get caught up in each other, his movements sometimes get too jittery and sloppy to properly show what he wants to say. It’s just not in his skill set.

That being said, he’s still so incredibly expressive. You’re able to tell his happy stimming from his nervous stimming, he makes a lot of “uh huh”s and “nuh-uh”s, not to mention the way his eyes sparkle through the mask. And every time you talk to him, the entire world fades away so he can focus on you, just because he finds you utterly fascinating.

(Sorry no Thomas Hewitt, haven’t seen the movie)

Vincent Sinclair

I imagine he’s on the slightly-more ‘realistic’ range of being silent. As in, completely quiet most of the time, but he still lets out little hums and sighs to let you know what he’s thinking. The very occasional airy laugh, sometimes a groan.

He’s either tip-toeing or stomping, no in between. When he’s in a good mood, usually while focused on his art, he has a way of dancing around the room gracefully, like he’s barely touching the floor. And when he’s not, you can definitely hear it, his feet hitting the ground hard as he paces. He doesn’t like sneaking up on you though, he gives you a lot of gentle touches to let you know he’s around.

Does he use sign language? Yes! I think it’s something his parents would’ve had him learn once it was apparent he was non-verbal. Unfortunately, Bo purposefully avoided learning any and Lester only knows a little, so he used it less and less after their passing and he isolated himself into his work. Once you come along, however, and he figures out you know sign he falls right back into it. He’s a bit brief and minimal with what he chooses to say, but very poetic and careful with his words.

He also likes to leave you a lot of handwritten notes, usually accompanied by little doodles and sketches. Mostly of you, telling you how pretty you looked while you slept or how wonderfully that shirt you wore complimented your complexion. Every now and then, you’ll find smiley faces and hearts randomly drawn onto your hands and arms. He never fails to let you know he’s thinking of you.

Billy Lenz

Honestly he almost didn’t make this list, because he’s anything but silent. Majored in blabbering with a minor in being a siren. His lips basically never stop moving, he likes to loom over you and narrate everything in his own filthy language. When he does get quiet, it’s eerie, it means something is wrong and you should probably be very worried. But otherwise you’re getting front row seats to every single thought that’s being passed through his head, no matter how dirty or senseless or repetitive.

Despite this, he is very quiet as he moves around and he lives for scaring the shit outta you. He’ll bite his own tongue until it’s bleeding just so you don’t hear him as he lurches up behind you, giddy at your cluelessness. He delights in hearing you scream for him in lots of ways. Despite some sporadic hand gestures, I think he’s learned to be very careful and tentative with his movements. Can’t be caught making a racket in the attic, after all.

Does he use sign language? Doesn’t need to. He’s hyperverbal, if anything. However it would probably be useful for him to have a way to talk to you when he’s lost in a panic and only repeating the same four words over and over, eyes glazed over and holding onto you for dear life. But don’t bother bringing that up, he’ll become very offended. If he was put into an asylum or psyche ward at any point, he definitely got one of the other patients to teach him all the of cuss words and naughty things to say in sign. He uses those quite liberally, actually.

And echolalia to the max. You yelped while stubbing your toe once, and three days later he’s still repeating that same noise at every opportunity. Whenever you ask him a question, it’s likely his answer is gonna directly copy something you’ve said before. This guy loves being a parrot. Any sound he finds remotely interesting is going into his index of ‘noises to make whenever I damn please’. This is especially apparent while watching movies with him, he copies all the sound effects, but especially gunshots and shattered glass. And screams, he loves any and all screaming, actually. This is cute and all until you’re trying to go to sleep and he just…doesn’t turn it off.

Brahms Heelshire

So he definitely can talk…but most of the time he doesn’t care too. Unless speaking will directly benefit him, he prefers to be quiet and observant. It’s a habit he got from living in the walls and his existence being ignored most of his life. So a lot of staring at you, all the physical affection you could ask for, only a few necessary words exchanged. He does enjoy listening to you speak, though, adores the sound of your voice.

Just like Lenz, all his movements are cautious and mindful, unless he’s absolutely pissed about something. And while you don’t get the feeling he’s purposely trying to scare you, he does find it pretty cute to see you jump in his presence. He’ll mutter a small “sorry” while wrapping his arms around you, as though he doesn’t have a massive grin under his mask. He also has a thousand secret passages and pathways around his massive house and many, many ways of spying on you. Basically, you’ll go hours without seeing him and being absolutely oblivious to his whereabouts while he’s been following and watching you through the walls like ‘wow, we’re bonding :)’

Does he use sign language? Nope. Even if he was a bit of a quiet kid, it wasn’t enough to justify his parents having it taught to him. And they certainly weren’t going to bother after the fire. He’s reclusive, but his struggles with communication are more of a social issue than a verbal one. He probably knows other languages though, something dumb and fancy like Latin. Or maybe French.

You weren’t supposed to be here. 

Crystal Lake wasn’t a place for outsiders, not anymore. 

It belonged to the ghosts, to memories, to the vengeful force that kept its borders clear of the living. But you came anyway, drawn by something you couldn’t name.

At first, Jason watched from a distance. 

He had spent years in the shadows, becoming one with them, learning how to be unseen. He expected you to leave, to take one look at the abandoned cabins and whisper the same fearful stories that had kept others away. But you didn’t.

You stayed.

You walked along the lake. 

And then, one day, you left something behind, a single flower, carefully placed at the edge of the water. 

Jason didn’t understand at first. Was it an accident? A meaningless gesture? 

But when he found another the next day, and then another, something unfamiliar started inside him.

You weren’t afraid.

You should have been.

But you spoke to him, even when he didn’t answer.

“I know you’re there.”

The first time you said it, Jason almost left.

But you didn’t chase him. 

You didn’t try to find him. 

You simply sat by the lake and talked, your voice gentle as you spoke of things that didn’t matter.

No one had ever spoken to him like that. No one had ever spoken to him at all.

He told himself it was nothing, that you would leave like everyone else, that you were just another momentary presence in a world that had never been meant for him. 

But then, one evening, as you walked through the woods, you tripped on an exposed root, falling hard against the ground.

Jason moved before he could think.

He caught you, his hands large and unsteady, his body tense as if expecting you to recoil the moment you realized what had happened.

Your skin was warm beneath his fingers. 

Too warm. Too soft. 

It had been so long since he had touched another person since anyone had been this close. 

He waited for you to scream, to pull away, to look at him with that same wide-eyed horror.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you exhaled, your hands bracing against his chest as you steadied yourself. And then, so gently he almost didn’t believe it, your fingers brushed against his wrist.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Jason flinched. 

Not because he was afraid, but because he didn’t know how to process something so foreign. 

Kindness.

He stepped back, disappearing into the trees before he could see the look in your eyes.

But you didn’t stop leaving flowers. You didn’t stop whispering soft words into the night.

And Jason didn’t stop watching.

Days passed. Then weeks.

You were determined, and patient in a way no one had ever been with him. 

Slowly, cautiously, Jason let himself be seen. 

First, just shadows at the edge of your vision. Then, his figure stood farther down the shore as you sat by the water. 

And then, one day, he let you approach.

He never spoke. You never asked him to.

Instead, you sat beside him, close enough that he could feel your warmth but not so close that he felt trapped.

"Do you want me to leave?" you asked one evening, your voice soft as you turned to him.

Jason knew he should nod. 

That would be the right thing, the safest thing. But he didn’t.

You smiled then, something small, and it was the first time Jason wondered if maybe, just maybe, the world hadn’t been entirely cruel.

The first time you touched his mask, he stopped breathing.

It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t anger. 

It was deeper, something raw.

Your fingers were careful, tracing the edges of it with curiosity, not force. And when your hand dropped away, you didn’t try to take it off. 

You simply looked at him, really looked at him, as if trying to see the man beneath the legend.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” you murmured.

Jason didn’t know how to answer, so he didn’t. 

But later that night, when he found himself standing by your cabin, watching the soft glow of your lantern flicker through the window, he realized something terrifying.

He didn’t want you to leave.

He didn’t want to be alone again.

And for the first time in his life, Jason Voorhees understood what it meant to love.

Not the kind of love found in whispered promises or gentle words, Jason had never known those things, never needed them. 

Love, to him, was something unspoken. 

It was the way he lingered near, ensuring you were safe. It was the way he stepped between you and danger without hesitation. It was the way he let you touch him, let you stay, let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t doomed to be alone forever.

So when the day came that someone tried to take you from him—when they entered his woods with cruel laughter and careless threats—Jason didn’t hesitate.

They would not take you.

They could not.

And when it was over, when the threat was gone, Jason expected you to fear him.

Instead, you reached for his hand.

"You're not a monster," you whispered, squeezing his fingers in reassurance. "Not to me."

Jason had no words. He never did. But when he pulled you close, when he let himself feel the warmth of your body against his, when he let you hold him like he was something more than a nightmare, he knew.

You were his.

And he was yours.

No one would ever take you from him again.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

You’re too pregnant to chase after your 4 year old, the most you can do is waddle. You brought him outside to help you get the laundry off the line. You should’ve known better. Midway through, he decided it wasn’t for him anymore and to go running to the barn.

Waddling after him isn’t very effective, he just giggles and runs right into the barn. “Matthew! I’m serious!” There’s silence for a moment. One thing you’ve learned about being a parent is that silence is never good. Ever. “Matt? Sweetheart?” Another moment of quiet. Another. And another. And—

Thomas busts out through the doors, Matthew being tickled in his arms before he puts them on his shoulders. “Jesus! You both almost gave me a heart attack!” Matthew giggles, “Sorry, mommy”. Tommy leans down so you can give a kiss to Matthew’s head while he’s still on his shoulders. You give Matthew a forehead kiss and Thomas one too.

“Come on, both of you. Mama’s almost done with dinner and she’ll kill you both if you come to her table dirty.”

___________

You’ve tried to help Mama with meals or chores but she shoos you off. She did this to you with your first pregnancy too. Her and Thomas barely let you move a muscle every time. Matthew turned out a lot like Tommy. A big, chunky baby with dark thick hair and eyes. The only thing he got from you was nose. You hope this time your baby will look more like you. Though, you don’t mind another cute baby that looks like your husband.

The only part you do mind is how big the baby was during birth! It felt like you were pushing out three at once. Especially with nothing for the pain, it was hell. But again, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You love your baby, even when he’s a little butthead sometimes. You love Thomas just as much. He’s been nothing but caring since the beginning. He was scared to be a dad, terrified. But Luda taught him everything he was worried about and didn’t know. Now look at him.

Speaking of Luda, she was more than ecstatic when she found out you were pregnant the first time. She sewed all of your maternity dresses and all the baby clothes. She was more than happy to have little ones running around again.

Thomas made toys out of wood and managed to find some of his old ones up in the attic. You will never forget the first time Thomas held Matthew. He cried. Sobbed, actually. He held him so gently. So, so gently.

___________

“Matthew, baby, use your spoon.” You say to your son in his highchair as he picks up the corn with his hands. Matthew copies his dad by eating with his hands or just mouth. Thomas has tried to use cutlery after you all realized but it’s less comfortable for him. Luda and you are really trying to teach Matthew table manners.

“But dada doesn’t!” “Yeah, well, dadas a big kid, you aren’t. So, pick up your spoon please and eat your corn right.” After a very exaggerated pout. He picks it up and starts eating.

After dinner, you carry Matthew to bed. “But I'm not tired, Mommy…” “Mhm, I don’t buy it, love. You fell asleep at the table.” You say as he rests his cheek on your shoulder. You manage to tuck him into bed and start on a story. He’s out like a light on the third page.

You sneak out of his room and manage to get out without noticed. You go to you and Tommy’s room. He’s there, getting ready for bed. He turns around when you open the door. “Matthews out like a light. I think playing with Jediah really exhausted him.” Thomas grunts in agreement. You change and get into your night dress. You don’t even hear when Thomas comes behind you. You only know he’s there when he places his hands on the bottom of your bump and lifts.

You groan and lean back against him. He doesn’t know how good it feels to have those extra pounds lifted. “Tommy, don’t move. Please…” You feel an amused huff in your shoulder as he leans down to rest his head there.

He guides you gently into bed, not letting his hand up. And when he does, he only goes to massage your back. You turn over to face him. “I love you, Tommy…” He grunts and leans down to nuzzle his face into your neck. He loves you too. More than you know

i just wanna thank everyone for reading! The amount of support i had with this story is incredible. I’ve had lots of ups and downs while making this but everyone’s interactions and comments made it all worth it in the end. You all are amazing and thank you for reading!

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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.

This all eventually coalesces into you finding Michael sitting at your dining table two days later, eating the last of the pot of food you were coming to put up for your lunch for work the next day, and staring intently down at the plush of himself that he’s acquired where he’s strangling the poor thing in one hand.

The mask is off, though Michael is no less expressionless for it, and when he does finally glance at where you’ve frozen in the doorway his pale blue eyes are icy. His head hardly tilts, but you‘d feel the full brunt of that stare anywhere; deceptively blank and teeming with dark intentions.

The significance of the gesture is lost on you. Michael knows it; the otherness that consumes him and wants him to routinely, emotionlessly consume you too knows it.

You’re the only person he’d unmask around; diminish himself for, briefly losing his single-minded focus for the pursuit of pain both relative and meaningless. Whether others or his own.

After a beat, once you’ve already broken out into a nervous sweat and started tingling pleasantly at his attention in equal measure, the man continues eating directly out your pot.

The scene is tense — like it usually is when he’s not fucking you limp and brainless, let’s be real — but you eventually unstick your stiff feet and walk further inside. Michael though? Michael straightens the closer you get, shifts from where he’s been hunching over his food to knock the pot away (spoon dropped inside) and reclines some in your dining room chair.

It sets your heart off in a confusing flutter-pound.

—

“I see you’ve invited yourself back in,” you start a fortifying breath later.

His marred, nicked and crooked fingers tighten around the plush and then it’s face is being slammed into the table. He holds it there as he watches you jump at the sound of his knuckles hitting the tabletop.

It amuses him, you’re sure.

Giving him a low look, you roll your eyes at him, lashes fluttering.

“Oh sure, take the last of my food and all I get in thanks is you trying to scare me.”

Michael’s head tilts.

One corner of his mouth twitches, maybe, upward and your blood freezes in your veins.

Blue eyes darken to a stormy grey and a shiver twitches up your whole spine. It’s hard to keep up your mask of casual indifference when he emotes.

On him it’s not natural, and it always sets your instincts off. You’re in nothing but an oversized Halloween themed t-shirt and panties, you were both in no shape to go hauling ass out your front door and not stupid enough to think you’d even get that far before he hefted you off your feet and ended your life as you knew it.

Still, you wouldn’t be you— in this position if the threat of his wildly swinging non-moods were going to seriously hinder you.

Narrowing your eyes, you step closer.

One step.

Two.

Three, and your umber skin kisses the dark blue of the mechanic’s coveralls he’d barely allowed you to chuck in the wash a week ago.

Secretly, you’d switched it out for a near identical pair minus the dried blood and various cuts along the thick fabric. Whether he’s noticed or not you wouldn’t know.

If he does, he’s fully let you get away with it for now.

The tension in the air is thick enough to pull taunt.

Michael’s stormy gaze meets and consumes your murky brown waters; swallowing your gaze whole like what you see of his soul from beyond his eyes could psychically kill you where you stand.

When Michael’s hand snaps out to catch you around the leg, you’re expecting it and sidestep out of his reach. Don’t let him hook around your knee to pull you down into his lap.

The skin around his eyes tighten the tiniest bit as you circle around the table away from him, biting back a laugh the whole while.

You turn your back to Illinois’s favorite prolific serial killer, start halfheartedly washing the couple of dishes in the sink like you hadn’t deemed them able to be undealt with until tomorrow less than two hours ago.

Behind you the sound of the legs of his chair scraping against the floor meets your ears, and the ratcheting up of your pounding heart nearly drowns the noise out in your mind.

This— this delicate balance here? The push and pull of what you did and didn’t give Michael, and how easily, was what kept him coming back and you still breathing.

You’re mostly sure of that, at least.

No other sounds come from behind you. Not the clunks of his footfalls in his heavy ass boots. No casual shuffle of fabric rubbing together with every ambling step.

Nothing.

Anyone less familiar with this particular bump in the night would think he hadn’t moved at all. But you know better, for one.

And for two?

Out of the corner of your eye a few seconds ago, from one blink to the next, his mask had disappeared from the edge of the table.

The Boogieman’s come out to play.

Lashes fluttering, you’re basically playing in the water by the time you notice any shift in the air behind you.

And, really, by that point there’s no telling how long Michael had been waiting, watching for the exact moment you finally felt his presence at your back at all.

All too suddenly your lungs close in on themselves as if you’re in the direct path of a falling tree.

No breath hits the back of your neck to ruffle the tiny tight curls there, but the subtlest of sighs rings through your eardrums despite that.

The soft thunk of something stuffed and compact, the plushie, hitting the floor to tickle the heel of one of your feet is all the warning you get before he’s on you.

Sure, you duck, try to escape the prison of his body, but it’s a failed attempt from the start. Michael takes swift hold of a fistful of your hair or grabs you by the scruff of your shirt before your knees even have the chance to bend in full. His heavy, unhurried breaths fill your ear when he drags you back, and you let yourself fall limp, head relaxing against his heaving shoulders and a tiny squeal of a laugh falling past your lips.

Fire.

You were playing with fucking fire and smiling in the face of it.

Michael’s other hand falls against your hip and immediately clamps down like you’ll fly away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

Your knees buckle.

The Shape of Haddonfield snarls, more breath than base, but you’re so used to the little tells he gives by now that he might as well have howled, and you know before he knocks your feet apart with those heavy work boots that you’re going to be a soaked, well fucked mess by the end of this.

—

By the time Michael’s done with you, your curls a mused mess and legs shaky after his rough fingering and the hard stretch of his girth battering your arousal slick insides, you’re still not sure why the sight of the plush had triggered him into making you cream all over his considerable length while he held you over the sink, but you’re not complaining.

Shit, by the time night falls in full you’re drinking tea or hot cocoa or whatever with him very much holding you hostage on his once again clothed lap, and Michael’s gone back to eating. The mask is on this time, though, just folded up to give him access to his mouth.

You do end up having to throw the plushie in the wash when he’s done with you completely though. Little Mikey’s filthy with a combination of the water that splashed onto the floor and whatever filth lives at the bottom of Michael’s shoes at the end of an all day stalking session.

More than likely he’s been watching what new poor fucks have been lied to and dealed down into moving into his old house, but you don’t ask Michael shit like that anymore.

The last time you’d questioned him actually going out and leaving the immediate vicinity of your house without you the asshole had taken to kidnapping you and showing you exactly what he’d been building to in the weeks leading up to then. There’d been chunks of people in your hair by the end of it all and you’d stayed trembling nearly the entire day afterwards.

You’d come to terms that morning when he was lugging you back home, copper sticking to your nose even miles away from the carnage, with the reality that you weren’t getting out of this until either Michael got caught or one of you put you out of your misery.

Michael has claimed you by this point, for good and for bad there was no walking away even if you got a plea deal and went into witness protection, you’d read up on how he’d tracked down Laurie after every time she’d thought she’d seen the last of him.

You were doomed.

Michael stays not giving a fuck about the plush after the instance in the kitchen, but he only has so much self control.

All it’ll takes is one— one night for that plushie to get tore the fuck up for real.

Michael catches you after coming in for the day. He hadn’t been anywhere this time, really, just outside staring at the wildflowers wilting in your backyard and daring the autumn sun to burn him. You’re curled up on the couch and so pretty, so ripe for the taking, that his mind instantly jumps back to that night you'd asked him what he was up to. To the irresistible smear of inky blood against your malleable skin and the wide, frail look in your doe eyes as you watched him impale a father and son together with a cut metal rod while hardly breaking a sweat.

To the shameful flush of desperately un-acknowledged arousal that’d made you warm to the touch still doing rounds in Michael's mind to this day.

Michael’s breathing grows heavier behind his truest face, his mask. He does not want in the traditional sense, but part of him craves that underlying darkness that seeps from you, so desperate to be free. The part of him that is not just The Shape and his unfeeling mission, the compulsion to stalk and haunt and corrupt; the part of him that occasionally pulls his curiosity to the front, that satisfies only with bloodshed and can’t help but crave the hunt.

Cock just starting to stir at the memory of you so ashamed and blood splattered, Michael creeps up on your prone form— only to stop in his tracks when he catches sight of the item in your hands.

Over the course of your afternoon nap you’d gravitated towards little Mikey and were now cuddled all the way up with the plushie held tight to your chest, fake hair ticking your chin and all.

Michael barely stews over his decision for a second before snatching the plush from your arms and startling you awake.

A foreignness lashes at him: irritation. He’s…irritated by the plushie, startled like fuck that he’s vex at all, and ultimately just wants the thing gone. You were his, that's how this worked. He’d thought he’d made that clear in the kitchen, but apparently he needs to be more direct.

The plushie meant fuck all to him otherwise; he could barely muster up the energy to be insulted, the thing was tacky at best but what did he care?

Well apparently he cared (or something close) a lot with you thrown in the mix.

Sure, he wasn’t particularly cuddly but he held you after making you squeal and squirt on his cock and didn’t kill you— didn’t break you like he so easily could, that was plenty cuddly enough. Certainly more consideration than anyone else got from him.

Goddamnit! He lets you wash his clothes and order him into the shower and untangle his hair. He cleans up after himself when he eats, he only tracks blood on your floors when it amuses him, and nevermind the fact that he lets you amuse him at all. When you get pouty he pulls you into his lap and traces whatever bruises and healing scratches he’s given you with his hands or his knife until you start to whimper sweetly for him and curl into his embrace.

A woman cut you off in your driveway and almost made you crash the other day, made you tremble with rage that caught his interest in you all over again and made him crave, and he’d taken time out of his own schedule to track down, terrorize and stab her to death less than a week ago.

The plush was an insult. It had to go. It didn’t get your attention more than he did, nothing did. That’s how you two worked and that’s how he liked it.

Michael absolutely waits until you’re more coherent, but still squinty-eyed and yawning, before he shakes the plush in your face. For about seven seconds you’re nothing but confused, for another five you catch your bearings enough to think that Michael looks pretty cute holding his minime with its adorably tiny fabric knife (like he does when he’s actually sleeping without the mask, not just pretending to be, and looks deceptively sweet with his head on your pillow or your stomach and auburn hair splayed beneath his head). You have exactly two more seconds to think about rushing to take a picture when Michael shifts the plush, grabs it at both ends, and beheads it in front of you.

Blankly, you can only blink at him for damn near a minute afterwards before your eyes travel from where he dropped the tatters and freed stuffing to the floor, and an unnerved calm settles in your gut at the way Michael isn’t looking away from you and was just waiting for your eyes to lock.

Someone was definitely more bothered by the tasteless, but cute plushie than you’d thought.

“Feel better?” you deadpan against all better judgement. Michael doesn’t laugh, you’ve never seen him near any emotion close to even mild amusement, but The Shape does look away and then go about his business without any more fanfare.

When a few days later Michael whips out one of your bigger chef’s knives from the block — one you frankly don’t even use because it’s a little too much for you, but that he thinks is a beautiful sign of untapped destruction — you can’t even pretend to be shocked. Clearly there was still some lingering resentment over the plush of him that you’ve since misplaced the tattered remains of, and you’d figured he wasn’t done making his point even then.

By this point he’s got you so well trained that when he taps the cool, flat part of the knife against your thigh, asking permission in a move for him that’s becoming less rare the longer you’re together, you moan at the feel of the metal against you warm skin and are spreading your thighs for him before he’s even settled to look over you on the bed.

The permission is for cutting you; otherwise, if he wants the knife while he fucks you the knife’s coming into play regardless of what you could say.

The cutting might too, even if you decline, but so long as he didn’t kill you you would count your blessings. You had people to check in with after this and you’d like to live through many more of those phone calls.

You were his, though. Michael just needed a bit more scars decorating your umber expanse to show for it. So what if he liked how sweetly you trembled for him with the knife held to the side of your neck and his hand planted on your head, curling in your kinky hair, while he took his time fucking his cock far down your throat and stared in a detached sort of awe— a morbid facination at the tears gathering in your eyes that you let run freely down your plush cheeks rather than blink with any more frequency and take your gaze off his own for too long.

How you scream his name until you’re hoarse, drooling against your sheets with tears of equal ecstasy and pain in your eyes, almost makes up for the plush. Almost. When he grips you a little tighter and lifts you from your position ass up in front of him until he can fuck you while resting back on his haunches, your entire front fully exposed to him, you just wrap a hand around his neck and think nothing more of it.

At most, you’re expecting him to hold the knife to your throat again. To play chicken with your life like he likes to while your head’s thrown back and you’re squeezing your walls down on his thick cock and he’s fucking up into you so frantically he’s grunting. You’re almost anticipating the cold bite of him nicking shallow cuts into your thighs that’ll be fully healed in a few days, of the burst of pain and then the pleasant tingle that’ll travel through your body and have you convulsing into yet another orgasm.

When he raises the knife out in front of you both differently than you’re used to, you have half a second to note the position’s off and even less time than that for the cold biting certainty of your impending demise to wash over you before you’re cumming, screaming and leaving your own marks on his skin with your nails. Michael meets his own orgasm in your wet cunt, fills you up so good, and then you catch the barest hint of glinting metal behind lidded eyes, pray he has enough mercy on you to let you die quickly, and Michael plunges the knife clean through one corner of your stomach, impaling you hard and deep with the biggest knife in your collection while he holds you still in a facsimile of a hug.

No lie, when you wake up in the hospital you’re more than a little shocked. Sore, with a pounding headache and a dry throat, too, but mostly shocked to your core. You’d thought for sure that man had killed you. For a bit you legitimately consider you may be a ghost before you tune into the steady sound of your heart monitor and a nurse comes in to check on you.

Somehow you’re unsurprised when the nurse claims you drove yourself to the hospital. They say it’s only been a day, and send you home with a prescription to pick up after a quick checkup.

You’re questioned some, but ultimately everyone knows Michael’s still at large and in charge — even if he’s been more dormant than usual when loose on account of having you to focus on — so it doesn’t last long before you’re dismissed on that front either.

Logically, you know you didn’t drive yourself because you’d for sure passed out, so you only scream a little when you unlock your car door to find Michael lurking in the back seat. Michael sits up with abdominal muscle alone, his mask off, and his hands immediately snap up to lift your shirt. He doesn’t do more than narrow his eyes the smallest amount before forcing you in the backseat and driving you back home while you curse him and his entire bloodline along the way.

Michael 100% ambushes some poor soul to steal you some fast food and a cookie, but you can’t bring yourself to care, chewing around your food while glaring heavily medicated daggers at a Michael who’s only covered in your long dried blood through the rearview mirror.

Play with fire and you were bound to get burned eventually, though, so you can only keep up your anger for so long when that thought plus one of the pills you picked up lulls you into a false calm. You’d been messing with Michael fucking Myers, you knew something would give eventually. You just hadn’t thought it’d be this, whatever the wound that’d only barely missed your spleen meant.

Now, he’ll dump what remains of the plush he’d collected for his own supervision and let you sew it back together. It’s a shit apology, you’re not even sure if it’s an apology at all, you don’t think he feels remorse, but he procures a needle and thread for you from somewhere that wasn’t your house and sits with you pulled to his chest as your favorite music buzzes in your ears and you do a valiant enough job of re-stuffing the plush and sewing little Mikey’s head back on (whether you needed to watch a tutorial or not).

The whole while big Michael only hooks his chin over your shoulder, stares blankly out the window to your backyard as the leaves turn orange and yellow and sweep to the ground to decay, and rubs his thumb over the bandages covering the still raw, still healing wound he gifted you.

Michael had scarred you, fully and irrevocably, purposefully, and there was absolutely zero denying that you were his now.

Michael will also not be able to keep his hands off that scar once you heal, so be prepared for that.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!🔪🎃

Michael had a Raggedy Anne (or maybe Andy) plush in his lil sewer dwelling he made for himself underneath the old Myers house (his house ik) in Resurrection btw. I think it’s the one Laurie had in the psych ward, because Michael don’t never let shit go, and he stabbed needles into its eyes like in HII, but I still think it’s adorable that he took the thing at all so I figured I’d mention it.

Anyway, all the Michael Myers plushies I’ve ever seen (not the knitted ones) have been the ugliest shits on the planet (imo), but let’s pretend for a second that that’s not the case. The made up one in this fic is kinda cute fr. The plush in the banner is from Kidrobot.

Also, I cannot stress enough how not fun I think Michael would be to be around. Love him, love writing him, but I cannot fathom him being good company outside of how quiet he is verbally (I’m sure the man makes hella noise outside of that when he wants) and how succinctly I think he’d disassociate when he has nothing to do. I really have to stretch my brain to write imagines with him that have any sweetness, it’s so hard for me. I make him feel more emotions than I do when not writing him in an ‘x reader’ capacity, too, so that the s/o angle works better with me; when I write Michael like this I’m playing around with the idea that the man is still anywhere in The Shape at all, that whatever came into Michael at six hasn’t 95% consumed him, and has only, like, 65-75% consumed him instead.

Alright, bye!

You're standing in the kitchen, facing him like a guilty child, holding two plates.

Dinner.

He's sitting at the end of the table in his usual chair, like he was born in it. Maybe that had always been his assigned seat.

Micheal.

Massive. Unmoving. Masked.

He never eats in front of you, but he always watches you cook and eat. Sometimes you catch him staring at the steam rising from the ceramic pot you brought from home.

"I am… leaving" you say finally.

No reaction. He breathes once, slow, through the mask.

"Just for some months" you add quickly, because he is staring, and you feel stupidly nervous, even though this man has seen you cry over onion chopping before.

"I return. I will. Okay?"

His shoulders expand with one long inhale.

You set one of the plates in front of him.

He never says "thank you", not that you ever expect him to. Michael isn't... very vocal.

He only accepts things. He takes. And for a reason you cannot explain to anyone, you never mind giving.

"My aunt is sick" you continue. "Back home. I must help her. Paperwork, doctors. All that shit."

Your voice sounds too soft, too apologetic. You swallow.

"I leave next month."

There. You said it.

Michael still doesn't move. But it's like the room changes shape around him.

He didn't like your announcement.

Still, you think that's the end of it, but he becomes different.

He disappears for two full days, which he never does.

You don't sleep. Not because you miss him, right?

You're actually afraid someone hurt him. Which is insane, because he is the something that hurts people. He's the Shape.

Then he comes back one night, covered in dirt and leaves, like he's been walking in the woods. He goes straight downstairs to the basement and slams the door behind him so hard the walls shake.

You jump, proceed to stand frozen with your stupid cup of tea in hand.

He's very mad.

The next days only get weirder.

Your suitcase disappears. You find it hidden behind the boiler, and try to laugh it off. Coincidence?

Your passport vanishes. You find it inside a ceiling tile! That one is harder to laugh off.

You put your ticket on the counter –just to check something...

Gone in ten minutes.

You find it folded under the pillow on the old couch upstairs.

You look at him and say "You are not funny."

He tilts his head. The mask seems petulant.

He even starts following you again.

He hasn't done that for months. Not since the night you discovered him. Caught him living in the abandoned house you had just bought. And decided not to scream, not to run, not to report him.

Maybe he kept you alive because you didn't lie to him. You'd looked at him and said "This is your house. I only fix it. Cook in it."

That had been enough.

Now the stalking is back.

You catch glimpses of the white mask across the street. Near your workplace. Behind the tree when you take out the trash. You can't even close the curtains without finding him already outside.

You open your bedroom window one night and snap, "Do you think following me will make me stay?!"

He's standing at the edge of the backyard, like a statue.

"You are being—how do you say—childish!"

He doesn't even flinch, unwavering.

"I will come back" you insist. "I did not say goodbye forever."

Nothing.

"Then come inside" you sigh, exhausted. "It is dinner anyway... Dinner time."

He obeys instantly.

Three days before departure, the phone starts ringing.

You pick up.

Breathing. Heavy. Familiar.

"You know I know it is you."

Nothing.

"You are a giant. The whole phone line shakes when you call! Where are you calling from?"

Silence.

"This is not going to change anything."

Click.

He still comes to dinner, sitting across from you while you talk about your day. After you've gone to bed, he still eats the food you make. And you try to ignore the new tension that lives between you as best as you can.

Packing day.

Your ticket is printed.

Important documents hidden.

Bus schedule memorized so he can't steal it.

Lesson learned.

You drag your suitcase to the front door.

Michael appears in the hallway without a sound. He blocks the exit completely. That awful mask stares down at you, full of judgement.

You grip your coat tighter.

"Move" you say softly.

He doesn't.

"Michael. Please."

And you guessed it...

Nothing.

He just stands there, breathing through the mask. His size makes the whole hallway feel like a coffin. You can't fit past him unless he allows it.

"I told you. Am coming back."

Your voice cracks and it annoys you.

"Do not make this harder."

Exasperated, you try to push past him.

His hand comes up, fast, and grabs your suitcase handle, ripping it from you like it weighs nothing.

You gasp.

His other hand presses against the door. He's silent, but Michael's silence can be rude.

"Stop this" you whisper. You step closer. A little too close as a matter of fact, but he doesn't step back.

"I am not leaving you, it's not personal. Am—I'm only going home."

His shoulders move. One jagged breath.

You touch his arm, careful.

"I feed you. I keep your secret. I care for you. You know this."

He drops the suitcase. You hear the heavy thunk against the floor.

"I will return" you say again.

"You wait for me. Yes?"

He stares.

His hand comes up, not rough but not gentle either, and grips your wrist. He isn't trying to hurt you. He's trying to hold you here.

Keep you.

The world shrinks to that grip.

"I will want to come back... If you let me go now."

A long pause.

Then… he does.

Michael lets go.

You grab your suitcase again, and this time he lets you make it to the front door.

Stepping outside, you realise your heart is pounding like crazy.

You don't look back. Can't afford to.

The bus drives away. The town disappears behind you.

Airport.

Plane.

Airport.

Another bus station. A different continent.

The public phone rings. Loud and insistent. No one else hears it, making you feel it's only ringing for you.

You already know who it is.

So you answer.

Breathing.

Steady. Heavy. Alive.

You close your eyes.

"I will come back to our home" you whisper into the crackling line.

Silence.

But he stays on the call.

And stays.

And stays.

You smile despite yourself.

"I'll bake a cake to celebrate when I do."

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