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OG Michael Myers

He thinks you're suicidal for following him around the way you do. Of course his intentions were to kill you. He made sure you knew that. But here you are.. following him and talking his ear off.

Peepaw Myers

Michael decided to play this little game. He liked the idea of pouncing on you the second you show any signs of serious trust. He wanted to see the look of terror in your eyes and hear you scream for help.

And so he waits for the perfect moment when you go home. That moment never comes though.

Michael is confused and stalks you more. It doesn't take long for him to figure it all out.

Michael ends up cornering you and gives you a head tilt of pure curiosity, there's no sign of aggression.

Feel free to explain every detail or keep it simple. It's honestly up to you. He'll take whatever you say and he will remember it. If you mention having no place to crash he won't say you can stay, he refuses to speak. Michael drags it on and allows you to think he doesn't care enough to let you stay up until you try to leave his abandoned home. One firm tug on your wrist or shirt will tell you all you need to know.

Now just because Michael Myers let you live AND stay in his home doesn't mean he likes you or even considers you a friend. You'll give him whatever he wants in return. He's honestly greedy and wants things frequently like snacks, drinks, new knives, etc. Never deny him of his late night cravings and give him permission to dig through all your belongings.. then you won't have to sleep with one eye open.

Of course he accepts you. He isn't judgemental like that. He only judges your taste in music and cooking skills. Your gender or sexuality has nothing to do with him so why would he waste time and energy to judge you? It never made sense to him.

Michael likes to put on an act. He shows you that he doesn't care about you all the time. Ignores you. Pushes you out of his way with a glare every other day. Huffs and walks away if you try starting a conversation.. that's not really accurate to his thoughts and feelings though.

He doesn't love you. He doesn't like you. But he also doesn't hate you. Michael likes to torture anyone who treated you poorly all because of your personal life choices and the way you identify. You'll never find out about this soft side, it's best that way for your sake.

RZ Michael Myers

Michael silently judges you for a long time. Not in a way that degrades you— he judges your character, picks it apart to find out why you act like this.

He's a smart man. It takes about two days and he knows everything. Does he say or do anything to tell you that? No. He continues to live life the way he does. Ignores your existence. Pretends you aren't even around. Michael wants to see if you'll eventually leave.

Days, weeks, months go by and you're still following him around. Your health looks horrible from lack of food and proper living conditions. Michael is near immortal and not completely human so obviously he doesn't react the same way most people do when living poorly. He feels hungry all the time though.. and he knows that you're hungry too. This is where acknowledges your existence for a few seconds.

You probably don't like eating dogs.. so he's nice enough to snatch food for you. More like snacks. He will not cook even if that's your dying wish.

Michael already knows about everything. You being homeless and trans. No need to open up and embarrass yourself with vulnerability.

Peepaw is in no way family oriented but he's definitely more open to treat you like someone he cares about. Only from a healthy distance.

You'll be protected, fed, kept warm during winter nights, cool on summer days.

All he wants in return is loyalty. Don't report him to the police. Don't talk about him. Give him whatever he wants from the store. And surprisingly, keep him company whenever he's not hunting.

He stares for months. Follows you like a dog but in a scary way. It takes about two years before he's comfortable with touching you. He only touches you to get your attention or to give awkward praise. Michael never catches onto his typical father figure behavior so don't point it out. Keep the peaceful atmosphere and mutual respect.

Kills anyone who wronged you. Even family and friends of yours. If you don't talk to him about who's off limits then you'll probably end up with no family.

Peepaw accepts you and always will. He doesn't care about gender and sexuality. His world isn't built on the common nonsense that the outside world has.

This version of Michael is more open to understand on a deeper, more personal level. He has no idea what it feels like to be trans and hated for it but he definitely knows how it feels to be mocked and bullied.

He's quicker to invite you inside his home. You're only some kid or teen, obviously harmless. He isn't threatened by you in any way.

More family oriented than you expected. He loves his baby sister with all his cold blooded heart. Michael will always love his mother too.

Attachments are going to form rather quickly since you're so young and small. He looks down at you every day and views you like a sibling or some kid he likes to take care of. Michael wouldn't like to be seen as your father figure. You can do that silently though. Just don't call him any names that relate to having a parent-child dynamic.

Michael is very large in height and can scare you without meaning to. Don't worry if he's stiff and looking down at you with his knife held tightly. Michael isn't thinking about hurting you. Maybe in a form of cute aggression.. nothing too serious.

Eats with you, listens to music and watches tv with you, stays up all night with you... Michael is big on quality time as a love language for anyone he is attached to. You're part of his life now so of course he will want to spend time together.

Sleeping with him can actually be very peaceful if you don't move around a lot. He's very still and prefers you to be like that too. If not you'll be held down by his weight or his unnaturally strong arms. Michael refuses to sleep without you. Both of you are very clingy at night. He likes that.

If you hold his hand he gives a good squeeze but doesn't let go. You'll have to remind him to relax the death grip. His hands are warm too. Always. A little dry though. Rough and warm.

Anxiety isn't something he experiences like most people do. He never feels those butterflies, he rarely feels nauseous. Michael doesn't worry or over think. He's confident in his ability to handle whatever is thrown at him so he won't be anxious with all the "what if" questions.

Your anxiety is completely different and he can see that from the beginning. He may have separation anxiety but that's nothing compared to your anxious self. Always second guessing. Worrying about what other people think. Doubting yourself constantly. This behavior of yours, intentionally or not, intrigues Michael. He likes to know why it happens and how to help you respond correctly to it. Social anxiety is probably the only kind he truly understands. He isn't scared of people, he's just not a fan of crowds or loud people. It irritates him. His anxiety comes out as anger, not fear.

Now with that being said — if you want him to tag along on grocery shopping or anything similar, he most certainly will. Not because he feels bad for you though. It's not about sympathy. Michael takes any and all chances to protect you. Him agreeing and leaving the house with you is easy because of the never ending possessiveness and protectiveness he has for you. It never fades or burns out. Only grows stronger the longer you're together.

×Anxiety was really piling up today and you could feel your world spinning even as you sat in bed.

×Michael wasn't home yet, he had gone out to do a bit of 'work' so he could let out some steam.

×But he couldn't help but feel a knot in his stomach when he was walking back home.

×Were you in trouble?

×He walked a bit faster, knife gripped tightly in his hand as he saw your home come into his sight.

×He jiggled the doorknob, it was open.

×You usually locked the door even if he was out.

×Now he was a bit more worried than before.

×Michael set his knife in the sink, unzipping his bloody boiler suit and tying it around his waist to reveal the black t-shirt he wore underneath.

×He walked around, looking for you until he found you in bed staring at a wall.

×He could tell your head wasn't being the best right now and circled the bed to stand beside you as he carefully tapped your shoulder.

×As you looked over at him, you could feel yourself get lightheaded.

×You were on the verge of passing out from how bad these panic attacks were getting.

×Michael didn't even have the chance to sign what was wrong before you went limp.

×He was sure that was the fastest he'd ever moved before as he caught you in his arms.

×Now he was the one being panicky.

×He looked around as he carried you in your arms, deciding that maybe he should set you in bed and get you something that could maybe help.

×So in the span of 5 minutes Michael was able to change out his dirty clothes, change you into some comfier clothes, get a glass of water, painkillers, some food, and have you comfy in bed.

×He was a bit hesitant yes, but he knew you'd be more panicky when you woke so he resorted to the last thing on the list.

×Carefully, he removed the mask from his head and placed it aside, shivering slightly at the cool air against his skin before slowly slipping in bed with you.

×Michael half sat half laid on the bed with you on his chest, allowing you to listen to his heartbeat while his hands rested on your hips and traced small circles into your skin.

×He couldn't fall asleep with you sadly, he needed to keep an eye on you and make sure you were alright before you woke.

×And once you did, Michael was quick to ground you back on earth with his huffs and quite rough pats on the head.

×With a glass of water and some snacks, you explained to him what was going on and he listened with the same expressionless face he always had.

×He could tell this explaining was getting you anxious again so he pulled you back against his chest, now sitting criss-cross with you in his lap and his arms around your waist.

×He let out a deep sigh, letting his head rest in the crook of your neck as he cleared his throat.

"Safe here."

×He grumbled out, voice rough and scratchy from almost never using it.

×But it was oddly relaxing and allowed you to stay in this softer moment with the Shape of Haddonfield.

×That was until you decided to tease him a bit later and he bit your ear.

×He tried his best

×××

Explaining why there was a serial killer in your bed wasn’t high on your to-do list. 

He’d shown up a half-hour ago, letting himself in the door you never kept locked—why worry when the Boogeyman was your kind of, sort of, maybe boyfriend? You’d immediately pointed him to the shower, a request he was used to by this point in your relationship. You loved him and all, but not so much the smell of rats and dirt and garbage. You could hear the shower running now, the door not closed fully because Michael didn’t care much about privacy. You walked by the door, ducking inside to grab his boilersuit and throw it in the wash. His mask and rusty knife sat on the counter by the sink, also needing a good cleaning, but you were sure he wouldn’t let you near them. There were some lines you didn’t even try crossing. 

You left the bathroom without looking at his silhouette behind the shower curtain, feeling like it was an invasion even though you’d barely see his outline. You were basically just killing time until he got out of the shower. You checked on dinner—spaghetti, garlic bread, and a salad, wondering if Michael would sneak out of bed in the middle of the night to eat like he normally did. The sauce was simmering, fragrant with spices. You wondered if you should eat now to shore up your strength, especially for whatever Michael had planned for you. 

Down the hall, the shower cut off. Too late to eat a full meal, you realized, and grabbed a piece of garlic bread. Moments later, Michael was walking out of the bathroom, fully nude, mask in place and knife in hand. 

“I hope you aren’t planning on going out like that,” you joked, watching him walk down the hallway toward you. You chuckled at your lame comment as he stopped in front of you, putting you chest-level with his naked body. Despite the uncountable badly healed scars, he was still in pretty good shape for a man of his age. His muscles were firm, legs strong. Your eyes slid down his body, taking in the line of his half-hard cock. “Thinking about me in the shower?” you asked, waggling your brows. 

Michael, as usual, didn’t respond or acknowledge you in any way. You’d never heard him speak, never really heard anything but heavy breathing, and once, a groan, from the man. He was a good listener, though, letting you ramble on about whatever silly thing popped into your head, still and silent. 

“Want to eat now?” You asked, already knowing the answer. Michael didn’t shake his head like he normally did, instead grabbing your wrist to pull you in the direction of your bedroom. His hand on you was firm, maybe even skirting the edge of harsh, and he tugged you along after him as he walked back to your room. You were glad he decided to drag you back there—you’d never tell him this, but he didn’t exactly have the knees or back for a fuck against the wall or on the couch, he was almost three times your age. 

He pushed you back against the bed and you went willingly, tugging off your shirt and kicking off your pants and boxers as you did. He followed you up onto the bed, slotting himself between your legs with an ease borne of practice. “Hi,” you said awkwardly, staring up at him from your mound of pillows. He discarded his knife somewhere off to the side, both of his hands coming to your sides to squeeze the flesh there. They ran up your chest, lingering over the scars from your double mastectomy—he was fascinated by the thick scars, often stroking or toying with them. You wondered if he understood what they were from. It didn’t matter, anyway. With Michael, you never had to worry that you didn’t exactly look like your average man. He didn’t seem to mind. You’d explained it to him once, when he’d been petting your scars in the afterglow of some mindblowing sex, so you knew that he knew, in theory, that you were transgender. 

You were pulled from your thoughts as the lips of his mask brushed your lips, eyes widening. It was rare for Michael to initiate affection of any kind. Slowly, as not to startle him, you raised your hands to the edge of his mask and started rolling it up. He allowed you to, stopping just above his nose. His face, what was visible, at least, was just as scared as the rest of him. Your hands on either side of his face, he leaned in for a kiss. It was surprisingly slow, for him, and tasted like mint from the toothbrush you left out for him. His teeth dragged over your bottom lip, asking for entrance, and you granted it with a little groan, locking your legs around his hips. He rutted against you, his hardening cock slipping past your heated core. You were more focused on his tongue in your mouth, silencing your little noises and playing with your own. It was as responsive as you could get him to be. He supported himself with one arm over you, the other straying back to his knife. 

You startled as the cold metal pressed into your side, but you weren’t afraid of him. It ghosted over your ribs, pressing in and drawing a raised, red line in its wake. “Michael,” you began sternly, “you can’t use that knife. I’ll get tetanus.” You wracked your brain, trying to think of the last time you’d gotten a tetanus booster. It was probably recent enough. 

That was a good thing, because Michael didn’t seem to be listening to your complaints about possible diseases. The knife dragged over your hipbone, scoring a line of red that had blood welling up in its wake. It stung, the blade dull, more of a tearing sensation than a smooth cut. You sucked in a breath, pulling him close for another desperate kiss as he pressed the flat of his blade against your core, cold pressure on your engorged clit. 

The threat was enough to make your rolling hips still. The knife wasn’t sharp enough to accidentally cut you, not really, but you wouldn’t put it past Michael to try it anyway. The blade pressed harder, spreading your folds, the tip of it a sharp pressure against your entrance. What little slick you produced after years of hormone therapy coated the knife. “Michael,” you warned against his lips, not quite telling him off, but not fully supportive. In theory, Michael Myers fucking you with his knife was hot, enough to send a pang of curling heat to your gut. In practice, it sounded messy—not to mention painful. The knife withdrew, dragging back up your stomach and he was rutting against you again, thick cock sliding against your core, wet with precome and your slick.

He traced a path up your chest with the knife, cutting in enough to send rivulets of blood down your sternum. The blade reached your neck, traced almost lovingly over your jugular, and then he was pulling back slightly, running the flat of the blade over the seam of your lips. His single eye stared down at you as you opened your mouth obediently, cleaning slick and blood off of the knife. It dipped into your mouth, a gruesome imitation of a blowjob, and you hollowed your cheeks, sucking on the rusty metal. It tasted like dirt and copper, unpleasant but heady. He slid it deeper, and tears welled in your eyes as it scraped against the back of your throat. If he forced it any deeper, he’d truly be stabbing you. You took it as the threat you knew he knew it was. Your tongue laved against the blade, mouth lolling open to show him the twist of your tongue against the metal. His breathing turned harsher, lips opening just the slightest amount. For a second, you felt the pressure increase against your throat, and you fought not to gag. You knew he was thinking about it, about killing you. You rutted harder against him in response, tears welling in your eyes as you fought off your gag reflex. The taste of copper flooded your mouth before the knife withdrew and he was surging forward to kiss you, licking up the taste of life, threatening to tongue fuck your throat for another taste of your sweet blood. 

Michael dropped the knife off to the side, forgotten, and his hands were back on you, sliding down your body, fingers dragging over stinging cuts, smearing blood along your torso with a touch that was bruisingly hard. Your heels dug into his back, pushing his body against yours with a moan as you arched your back, pressing into the pain. His lips left yours, trailing down your throat to trace the cuts with his tongue, cleaning up your blood. His mouth was a balm against the dozens of nipping wounds, but you wanted more from him. 

“Michael,” you whispered, throat sore and stinging from the cut that bled down your esophagus, “fuck me.” His eye flicked up to meet yours in the darkness of your room, black and reflective like an animal’s. Tapetum lucidum, it was called, and it was impossible in humans. Another thing that set him apart from a normal man. 

For once, he obeyed you, straightening up to grab the bottle of lube off your bedside table. Besides making him shower, this was probably the only thing you’d taught him to do. Years on testosterone had essentially stopped your body’s natural lubrication, making penetrative sex painful without a little outside help. He slicked up his cock, his fingers, wet with lube, slipping over your folds, two fingers roughly nudging inside to coat you with lube. A gentle lover Michael was not, but you were into the perfunctory motions, the disinterest he seemed to have in foreplay that wasn’t violent. 

The only warning you got before he pushed into you was the slip of his fat cockhead against your slick opening and then he was tearing you apart, friction enough to make white sparks dance behind your eyes. It hurt like it always did, but you moaned anyway, pushing into the sensation as he slid all the way to the root, not pausing until he was fully seated within you. You bit your lip, hand coming down to rub at your swollen clit until the pain started fading int a tight, white-hot pleasure. You could feel your body clenching around him, instinctively trying to force him out, or maybe draw him deeper. Either way, it wasn’t working, he held himself perfectly still, and the only way you could tell he was feeling anything at all was his heavy breaths that puffed next to your ear. 

You dug your heels into his back, urging him to start fucking you as your fingers teased tight circles around your clit, your other hand drawing his face back to yours. Your lips dragged over his scratchy white beard, mashing your lips against his in a panting, open-mouthed kiss as he began fucking you with deep, hard thrusts. He was unforgiving, the angle of his hips sparking a painful pressure in your guts as he probably got a little too close to your cervix. It made your body cramp and clench reflexively, and you rolled your hips along with his thrusts, forcing your body down hard onto his cock. It hurt in the best way, it was almost euphoric, a heady mix of pain-pleasure-pressure against your insides that lit up your brain like an electric shock. 

You writhed against him as he fucked you harder, obscene squelching echoing in your ears, almost drowned out by the moans that spilled out from between your desperately locked lips. Your toes curled, hands shooting to Michael’s back, nails dragging against his skin, drawing blood in their wake. You held on for dear life as he plowed into you, barely faltering as he kept his pace. The only sign that he was working hard at all was present in the harsh pants that bled into your mouth. The hand that wasn’t occupied propping him up strayed to your throat, pressing down enough to restrict airflow without entirely blocking it off. 

Lightheaded, your hips bucked against him as your orgasm caught you by surprise. You bit his lip hard enough to make it bleed as you came, back arching while fireworks bloomed behind your eyes, a gasping, drawn-out moan slipping free of your lips. He swallowed down your noises with a groan, fucking hard into your convulsing, vice-tight cunt. He didn’t make a noise when he spilled his seed into you, the only indicator of his own orgasm was the way his shoulders relaxed just slightly. He fucked into you slowly, forcing his seed deeper in an animalistic display of ownership. 

You were both left breathing hard in the afterglow, his masked forehead pressed to yours. It was… surprisingly peaceful. Your fingers came off his shoulders stained with blood from where they’d bitten into his back. You grinned at him, lopsided and dopey, and kissed his bleeding lower lip. He was still against you, not returning the kiss. You were used to his stoicism post-orgasm, pulling him down and against you until he was laying on his side, your back to his front. You tangled your legs with his, and his arms came around you slowly, a parody of a lover’s embrace—but was it really parody? Michael’s nose buried itself in your hair as his breathing slowed back to its normal, steady pace. It was almost hypnotic, lulling you into a half-asleep state in the wake of your lovemaking. 

There was a laundry list of things you needed to do, but all of those things paled in comparison to a little one-on-one snuggling with Michael Myers, which was rare enough to begin with. He was usually the love ‘em and leave ‘em type, disappearing in much the same way he appeared. Maybe he was getting sentimental in his old age. 

×Let's start off with the fact Peepaw here cannot keep up with you.

×If he spoke more often you swear you'd hear him go 'Im too old for this' more times than you could count.

×The amount of emotions you can express so easily honestly baffles him.

×He can rarely show you affection and here you are a little ball of fury and emotions running around.

×Has thought of just tying you up so you can stay still.

×You can often find him tilting his head at your chaotic nature, his lips tugging into a slight smile under the mas as he watches you do your thing.

×Being a bit older than you means he doesn't have as much energy as you do.

×He's constantly lounging around with a newspaper in hand or watching the news as he snacks on some candy.

×No he won't indulge in your chaotic deeds.

"Awh c'mon Mikey!! I'll get you more candy?"

×...

×So what was it you wanted to do again?

×You've gotta bribe him with candy if you want something.

×Though he does do things on his own accord as well.

×If you're having a real emotional day, he'll allow you to cuddle up next to him and eat some sweets with him as he drapes an arm over your shoulders.

×Literally doesn't give a flying fuck about you being a guy or transgender

×His reaction was an awkward thumbs up

"Hey, Michael? I'm a guy...not a girl..."

"🧍‍♂️👍"

×He did offer to give you a DIY top surgery once

×You of course declined

×Michael couldn't see why but spend thousands of dollars doing it professionally i guess

×if you're the type to not get any of the surgeries, he's fine with that. He'll always see you as his boyfriend (or even husband if you're lucky)

×no matter what you do to your body or how you see yourself in the mirror, you'll always be Michael's chaotic little boyfriend <3

×He loves getting attention from you. He's kind of an attention hogger

×Does his best to show you some love back but it's Michael Myers, it's hard alright give him a minute

×He has stolen what ever flag(s) represent you.

×You're welcome ಠಿ_ಠ?

×××

You weren’t supposed to be touched like this by anyone but Michael. You’re all his. Yet here you are, at a friend’s party after a fight with Michael, allowing an old friend of yours to touch what isn’t his. Michael knows he’s not the best partner in the world, but he makes up for it by protecting you and loving you so intensely it scares you.

The obsession he has with you is not easily matched by past lovers. His love for you is dark and twisted, yes, but it’s genuine.

The scene in front of him is painful. Rage inducing. He’s only a few feet away from a window that allows him to watch every single moment you spend with this other man. Closer to your age, of course. Insecurities flow through his mind, maybe you’re doing this because he’s too old for you. That thought doesn’t stay long. He won’t dwell on it when he plans on showing you who’s better.

Michael waits back at your house. He really wants to kill and practically bathe in blood and listen to screams of agony by those he hunts mercilessly. And for the first time in a long time, he holds back on that urge. He’d rather hold onto this anger for you, to give him all the energy he needs so he can simply prove a point.

Once he hears your keys jingling and the doorknob twisting he stiffens. Hiding behind your bedroom door. It’s dark and you won’t be expecting him to be here as he usually storms off and leaves for a few days after heated arguments. Not to be petty or childish, it’s to protect you from himself. He’d hate to do something he can’t undo.

He listens carefully and mutes his heavy breathing. Cursing the mask for making it obvious. You finally push open the door slightly more, ignoring the fact that it won’t go all the way against the wall. In your head it’s probably messy clutter that you don’t have time to even look at and not your serial killer boyfriend waiting to pounce on you like a deadly animal.

Michael keeps his spot and refuses to out himself until you’re completely comfortable. He hears you sigh and change into night clothes. He even hears your stomach rumble, and he knows you’re tempted to go make something quick and easy to eat. That’s when he gets ready. The second you go to squeeze yourself through the cracked door, he slams it shut with force.

Your heart stops and thumps so hard in your chest you begin feeling it in your throat. He’s angry. Really angry. The way he is staring and breathing, and gripping his knife, you already know why. You weren’t as slick as you thought, he caught you red handed earlier without you seeing his silhouette in the distance.

Speaking is impossible. You’re too afraid to say the wrong thing, too scared to lose your life. And surprisingly that’s the first, other than the first time you met him. You felt safe enough to scream and shove him hours earlier and now you’re terrified to breathe wrong.

Michael takes notice very quickly of your energy. All misty eyed, shaking, glancing at his knife, and slowly trying to back away. You’re genuinely afraid of him and he likes it. He hasn’t seen this fear on you since the day he crossed your path. It feels nostalgic. He missed this. Still, he has himself under control not to kill you. He doesn’t want anyone else after you, so why be wasteful?

Michael has enough love for you to let you know he won’t kill you. He drops the knife. Towering over you with a hand firmly grasping your neck, gently squeezing to guide you down. That’s when it clicks for you. This isn’t about hurting you, it’s about owning you. That’s when the heat starts to ramp up between your legs. Heart beating fast out of arousal, not fearing for your life anymore.

With a lick of your lips and a strong inhale you begin doing what he’s asking for. And you’re more than willing to do it. For some odd reason you’re not even angry he’s demanding it. You’re enjoying the way he’s treating you. You’ve been bad, and now you have no choice but to make up for it.

Michael isn’t shy about sounds. The second your hand and warm, wet mouth wraps around his cock is when he grunts and groans. Hand on the back of your neck, forcing you to go faster, pushing himself deeper into your throat. He ignores the gagging, the teary eyes from it, and only pulls you up to let you catch a single breath before shoving you back down, his hips bucking and fucking into your throat harder than he ever has before. It’s not long before he coats your throat with his cum, hot and salty.

You gasp for air, finally able to breathe properly. Still, you can’t find it in you to complain. You’re dripping wet at this point, aching to feel him inside of you. He knows that, too. Which is why he won’t give it to you just yet. Instead he yanks you up off your knees and shoves you into the wall, his hand cushioning your skull. A sweet gesture among the dirty, rough encounter.

He tilts his head at you, staring you down, taking in the beautiful view. You look pathetic in a way he deems worthy of, not in a ugly or embarrassing manner. You’re his fuck toy right now, and he’s loving every second of it. The power trip and ego boost he’s having is almost better than killing.

Michaels hand reaches down to rip off your clothes, top and bottom. You’re bare and pressed against him and the wall. You feel his long, thick fingers glide right down the middle of your folds, soon rubbing your clit in a strategic way that tells you he’d been paying attention and watching whenever you get yourself off thinking he’s not around. It’s hard to stay still and quiet. He’s good at it, too good.

Just when you think he’s going to pull his hand away after your first orgasm, he speeds up. Your legs tremble and your stomach tenses, nearly cramping after he brings you to another climax. One hand on your throat, the other rubbing your clit so perfectly. He squeezes when you try to get away from it. Silently telling you to take it.

With a mess on the floor and dizzy head from lack of oxygen, you’re left feeling partially numb and weak in the legs. Michael finally pulls his hand away to make you suck his fingers clean, and you do so without hesitation, looking him right in the eye. You can feel his cock harden again against you, just in time to fuck you into oblivion on the bed.

Michael has you screaming into your mattress, tears and sweat dripping off of you. He fucks you deep and hard from behind, shoving your head down, holding your ass up for you since you lost the strength to hold yourself together. It’s blissful, loud, messy, and the best you’ve ever had so far. Your toes curl and you cry out, losing your voice. Another orgasm. It starts to become painful. You’ve lost count of how many he’s given you.

Michael then stops for a split second to flip you over. Now you’re on your back, trembling and sitting in your own fluids. He finally tones it down by being less rough, but still going fast enough to bring you to another orgasm. You’re saying his name over and over, clawing at his back and the sheets, practically begging him to finish inside of you. And he does just that. One last rough thrust into you and he grunts loudly, breathing heavier than ever before and finally releasing his grip on your poor throat.

Both of you lay there, throbbing in pain and pleasure, catching your breath and letting your heart rates drop. He eventually pulls out and steps back off the bed, tilting his head and admiring what he had just done to you like a work of art.

His anger dissipated. Still jealous knowing what you did, but definitely less worried about you leaving from how you’re barely even functioning after his treatment. He finds it in himself to be a little nicer and clean up for you. Ripping the sheets off and throwing a new, clean blanket on the bed. Wiping you off with a random shirt he finds on the floor. And then he remembers. You were hungry before, you’re probably starving now.

Michael isn’t much of a cook, he eats most things raw. But he knows you prefer actual meals that are cooked. He leaves the room and comes back with a sandwich and chips. Not ideal, or that filling, but all you have to do is ask for more and he will get it. He holds the sandwich for you, wiping off sweat from your face and feeds you at a pace you prefer.

You lift your face to receive the usual peck on the lips, shrugging as Brennan drops onto the couch beside you. “A little, yeah.”

“Here, let me help,” he offers instantly, reaching for you before he has even finished shucking off his boots.

“It’s not that bad,” you wave him off. “You should save your energy in case one of our fighters needs mending, not waste it on my little boo-boos.”

“I’m off-duty for the rest of the night, so I can use my energy however I please. And nothing is ever a waste if it improves your comfort.”

You duck your head at the gentle reprimand in his voice. He has almost fully trained you out of the mindset that your own well-being is less valuable than that of everyone around you, but occasionally, you still slip up. You always have to consiously remind yourself that although you’re not at all important in the grand scheme of things, you are important to Brennan personally.

“I just meant there’s no need to exert yourself over something so minor,” you amend. “You must be tired.”

You’ve seen for yourself how exhausted he tends to be at the end of a long day filled with patrols, strategy meetings, and mending sessions, if anyone has been injured. Inside the privacy of your quarters, he can shed all pretenses along with his uniform, slumping into your arms for some much-needed cuddles, which regularly leads to him falling asleep with his head pillowed on your lap while you play with his hair, even as he mutters about getting up to do this or that. It’s adorable, but the dark circles under his eyes are not.

Today, those aren’t very pronounced, and you note no other signs of weariness either. It doesn’t make you feel any less guilty about the idea of causing him additional work.

“Never too tired to take care of you,” he replies. “And precisely because this is something small, mending it won’t even take much energy. Come on, I know how much the itching bothers you. Let me help. Please.”

It’s the please that breaks your resolve. Brennan isn’t going to relax until you let him fix this.

“Alright, alright… Thank you, love.”

He smiles like you’re doing him a favor, and not the other way around.

Sliding your hand into his, you pull it toward you to kiss his knuckles before letting him lift your arm for inspection.

He studies the rash with a disapproving frown. “How long were you outside?”

“Too long, apparently,” you sigh, shrugging. “I kinda lost track of time.”

“Hmh.”

He takes your arm between his healing palms, beginning his work at the wrist you were scratching. The rash receeds. The scratch marks you left disappear along with it, because Brennan doesn’t do anything by halves — if he’s mending you, he’ll mend everything there is to mend, no matter how insignificant it may be.

You sigh at the immediate relief. Only now that the itching has stopped on one arm do you fully become aware of just how bad it is, struggling to hold still and not claw at the spots Brenann has yet to get to.

“I fucking love your signet,” you mumble, eternally grateful he convinced you to accept his help.

He moves on to your other arm, pausing to squint at you in playful reproach. “That’s funny coming from someone who almost never wants me to use it.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you to use it! It just feels so unfair to make you work during what’s supposed to be your freetime… like I’m taking advantage of the fact that my amazing boyfriend happens to be an amazing mender as well.”

“It isn’t work if it’s for you,” Brennan repeats what he’s told you a hundred times before, and probably will repeat a hundred times more until you finally believe it. “And I find it much easier to enjoy my freetime when I know you’re feeling well and comfortable, rather than having to watch you stubbornly suffer from your allergies or injuries I could mend in under a minute.”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

He nods, but doesn’t rub his point in.

“There,” he says, finished with your arm. “Anywhere else?”

“My upper back and neck, I think.”

You haven’t checked in the mirror, but then, you don’t really need to. That area was hit even more directly by the sun than your arms, and itches accordingly; there can be no doubt it’s covered in the rash.

Brennan gestures for you to turn. His hands close around your shoulders, healing the irritated skin they touch as he slowly slides them inward until they meet at your spine. A little detour up your nape, and…done!

“All good?” he checks. “I didn't miss any spots?”

“No, perfect. Thank you.” You lean back into his chest, tilting your head up to press a kiss to his jaw.

The twin suns of Yautja Prime hung low on the horizon, painting the jagged spires of the clan docking spire in molten orange and deep crimson. This was no backwater jungle outpost like the world-tree den on Yautja Prime where you had first been claimed beneath the Blood Moon. Here, on the ancestral homeworld, the Yautja Empire pulsed with raw power. Massive orbital rings encircled the planet, ferrying hunting parties and captured prey between the humid equatorial jungles, the lava-veined deserts, and the towering clan citadels carved from black obsidian and reinforced xenomorph chitin. The air outside the ship was thick with the scent of scorched metal, blooming night-vines that only opened after dusk, and the distant roar of training arenas where youngbloods proved their worth against captured beasts.

Your mates’ ship—the Kainde Amde, a sleek, predatory vessel shaped like a elongated talon—had just completed its automated descent. The hull still ticked with heat from atmospheric entry, scarred from plasma fire and the claws of whatever nightmare they had hunted this time. You had been waiting in the shared den deep within the vessel, a space they had modified just for you: soft human-grade furs layered over Yautja thermal mats, filtered air scented with Earth-like flora to keep your fragile lungs happy, and a small viewport that looked out over the glowing spires. But the moment the docking clamps groaned into place and the ramp began to lower, instinct took over. You rose, heart hammering, and stepped out into the corridor to greet them.

You didn’t even reach the airlock.

The heavy metallic groan of the docking clamps echoed through the ship’s hull, a sound you’d learned meant one thing: they were home. The vibration under your feet hadn’t even settled before the inner airlock door hissed open. Two massive, armored forms filled the corridor, the scent of ozone, alien earth, and something coppery—blood—washing over you in a hot wave.

You didn’t get a word out.

K’vok’s hand, still encased in the cool, segmented plating of his gauntlet, closed around your upper arm. His grip wasn’t painful, but it was absolute, a force of nature that simply removed you from where you stood. R’thak was right behind him, a low, clicking chuckle rumbling in his chest as he pressed a broad palm to the small of your back, steering you forward. Their armor was scarred, smeared with dark, drying fluid that wasn’t theirs. The energy of them was a live wire, a predatory hum that made the air itself feel charged.

“The hunt was successful,” K’vok growled, his voice a gravelly vibration that traveled up your arm. “But the true prize is here.”

You were marched, half-carried, into the main cargo hold. The cavernous space was shadowy, lit by the faint amber glow of standby panels. Storage crates were strapped to the walls—some still sealed with fresh trophies, others containing weapons that hummed with residual power. The ramp door sealed with a final, deafening thunk, plunging you into a sudden, intimate silence broken only by the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the two hunters and the low thrum of the ship’s life-support systems.

R’thak moved first. He spun you, your back meeting the solid, unyielding edge of a reinforced plas-steel crate. “Missed you, little ooman,” he purred, the playfulness in his tone edged with a razor-sharp hunger. His mandibles flared, revealing the sharp points of his inner teeth. Before you could answer, K’vok was there, his larger body caging you in from the front. He took both your wrists in one of his huge hands, pinning them above your head against the cold crate. The action arched your back, pushing your chest out.

“Watch,” K’vok commanded, his glowing yellow eyes locked on yours. “Watch what your mating does to us.”

They didn’t bother with full disassembly. With efficient, practiced moves, they released the tactical plating covering their groins. The heavy armor segments fell away with dull clatters on the deck, ignored. What was revealed stole the air from your lungs.

Their cocks, fully erect and freed from confinement, were monstrous. Thick, veined, and the color of bruised twilight, a deep gray-purple. The distinctive, fleshy ridges that ringed each shaft were pronounced, each one a prominent bump that you knew would drag exquisitely against inner walls. They were already dripping clear, viscous pre-cum, the musky, spicy scent of it cutting through the hunt-smell. K’vok’s was a fraction thicker, the head a broad, blunt crown. R’thak’s, while slightly longer, had a more defined taper. Both were impossibly, intimidatingly huge, a testament to their species’ brutal physiology.

R’thak’s hands, now bare of gauntlets, found your hips. His claws were carefully sheathed as he yanked your lower garments down in one rough pull, the fabric tearing at the seams. The cool air of the hold kissed your exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from the two aliens. He turned you with ease, bending you forward over the crate’s flat surface. Your cheek pressed against the cold metal, your ass lifted and presented.

“So pretty,” R’thak murmured, a single claw-tipped finger tracing the length of your spine down to the cleft of your ass. He spread you open with both hands, his thumbs pressing your cheeks apart. “All soft and open for us. Knew you’d be wet. Knew you’d be thinking of your mates while we were away.”

You were. Drenched, in fact. Your cunt throbbed, clenching around nothing, aching to be filled. The vulgarity of the position, the sheer exposure, sent a jolt of pure heat through your veins.

K’vok leaned over you, his armored chest pressing against your back. He kept your wrists pinned with one hand, the other coming down to fist in your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp. He forced your head to turn, your eyes meeting his fierce, luminous gaze again. “You will speak,” he ordered, his voice a low thunder. “You will tell your mate what you are.”

R’thak didn’t wait. With a wet, slick sound, you felt the broad, ridged head of his cock press against your entrance. He rubbed it through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing the sensitive nub of your clit with the underside of his crown. The sensation was electric, a rough, perfect friction.

“Fuck,” you whimpered.

“Yes,” R’thak agreed, and he pushed.

The stretch was immediate, breathtaking. He was so fucking big. The first thick ridge popped past your entrance, and your body yielded, burning and stretching to accommodate him. He didn’t stop, didn’t go slow. He was a hunter riding an adrenaline high, and he sheathed himself inside you in one long, relentless drive until his hips met your ass. A deep, guttural sound of pleasure tore from his throat. You were stuffed, impossibly full, the ridges along his shaft creating a series of delicious, dragging pressures with every minor shift.

“Tell him,” K’vok growled into your ear, his mandibles brushing your temple. “Tell your brother what you are.”

“I’m… I’m yours,” you panted, the words forced out as R’thak began to move.

And oh, how he moved. He fucked you with hard, fast strokes, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. The pace was punishing, exhilarating. Each thrust jolted you forward against the crate, your tits rubbing against the cold metal. The sound of skin slapping against skin, wet and lewd, filled the hold, mingling with R’thak’s hungry grunts and your own sharp cries. Every ridge on his cock raked over that sweet, deep spot inside you, building a coil of pressure so intense it bordered on pain.

“Mine,” R’thak grunted, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “But not just mine. Ours. Say it.”

K’vok’s hand tightened in your hair. “Say it.”

“Yours!” you cried out, the pleasure tearing the confession from you. “I’m yours! Both of you! Fuck!”

R’thak’s rhythm became erratic, his thrusts deeper, more frantic. You could feel the base of his cock swell, a subtle thickening that promised more. “Gonna fill you up, little mate. Gonna pump this cunt so full of my seed.”

His climax hit him like a quake. He drove in one last, brutal time, hilted himself, and roared. You felt it, the hot, violent pulse deep inside you. It wasn’t a trickle; it was a flood. Thick, hot ropes of his cum shot into your depths, coating your walls, spilling out around the tight seal of his cock. The sheer volume of it, the scalding heat, triggered your own orgasm. It ripped through you, a silent scream contorting your face as your cunt clamped down rhythmically around his still-spurting length, milking him for every drop.

He stayed buried for a long moment, panting, his body shuddering against yours. Then, with a wet, sucking sound, he pulled out. A gush of his cum followed, dripping down your thighs, a lewd testament to what he’d done.

You were barely coherent, sagging against the crate. But K’vok wasn’t done. He released your hair and your wrists, only to hook his arms under your shoulders and haul you upright, your back against his still-armored chest. You were a mess—sweaty, trembling, filled with one brother’s cum.

R’thak, grinning widely, his cock still glistening with your mixed fluids, came around to face you. He leaned in, his tongue—long, pointed, and rough like a cat’s—lapping a broad stripe up your neck to your jaw. “Tastes like us,” he murmured, pleased.

“Now,” K’vok said, his voice vibrating through his chest plate and into your spine. His hands slid down your front, one cupping a breast, his thumb roughly circling your nipple. The other hand slid lower, through the mess on your stomach, down to your swollen, used cunt. He pushed two thick fingers inside you, alongside his brother’s cooling seed, and curled them. You jerked, oversensitive and raw. “Now you take your other mate. You show him how much you missed him.”

He walked you backward, until your legs hit a different, lower crate. He sat on the edge, pulling you down to straddle his lap. His own massive cock stood straight up, a daunting pillar between you. The ridges on his seemed even more pronounced, the head weeping a steady stream of pre-cum.

“Look at it,” he ordered, tilting your chin down. “Look at what you do to me. My little ooman. My perfect, soft trophy.” He guided you, his hands on your hips. “Take me. Take all of me. Show me you can.”

You lowered yourself, the broad head of his cock pressing against your stretched, slick entrance. You were already so full of R’thak’s cum, it felt impossible. You sank down slowly, a low, continuous moan escaping you as you were forced open again, wider this time. K’vok was thicker at the base, and the stretch was a burning, exquisite agony. His eyes never left your face, watching every flicker of sensation.

R’thak knelt beside the crate, watching avidly. He leaned in, his mouth finding one of your nipples. He sucked it hard, his rough tongue flicking over the peak, his sharp teeth grazing the sensitive flesh with dangerous precision. The dual sensation—the slow, filling penetration and the sharp pleasure-pain on your breast—made you dizzy.

When you were fully seated, K’vok’s cock buried to the hilt inside you, you both stilled. You were impaled, speared, utterly claimed. You could feel every ridge, every pulse of his alien blood within his shaft. He was so deep it felt like he was in your throat.

“Good,” he rumbled, his hands settling on your ass, kneading the flesh. “Now, fuck me. Work for your mate’s cum.”

You began to move, lifting yourself up until just the head remained inside, then sinking back down. It was a slow, arduous rhythm, the weight and girth of him making every rise a struggle, every fall a surrender. Your muscles burned. R’thak’s cum was pushed out around K’vok’s cock, creating a filthy, slick mess that coated his lower abdomen and your thighs.

R’thak’s mouth moved to your other breast, giving it the same torturous attention. Then his hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding the swollen nub of your clit, already sensitive from your first orgasm. He rubbed tight, fast circles, his touch insistent.

“That’s it,” K’vok grunted, his own hips beginning to meet your downward strokes with sharp upward thrusts. “Use that cunt. Milk your mate’s cock. You want it? You want this thick Yautja seed pumping into this greedy human hole?”

“Yes!” you sobbed, the coil winding tight again, impossibly fast. The overstimulation was too much—the rough fucking, the biting kisses on your breasts, the expert fingers on your clit. “K’vok, please, I want it, I want your cum, fuck, please!”

“Tell me why,” he demanded, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, his grip on your ass bruising.

“Because I’m yours!” you screamed, the words tearing from a place of pure, desperate need. “Because this cunt belongs to you and R’thak! It’s yours to fuck, yours to fill! Please!”

Your second orgasm detonated. It was a white-hot explosion that shattered your thoughts, your vision going spotty. Your cunt convulsed violently around K’vok’s invading length, a series of tight, fluttering clenches. That was all it took for him.

With a roar that echoed off the cargo hold walls, K’vok slammed you down onto him and held you there. His cock swelled, the ridges becoming even more prominent, locking him inside you as he came. His release was even hotter, even more voluminous than his brother’s. It felt like he was pumping liquid fire into your very core, jet after jet of his thick cum flooding you, mixing with R’thak’s until you were certain you’d overflow. The heat of it was immense, a branding from the inside out. He kept pulsing, his body rigid, his mandibles clamped tight to your shoulder in a possessive bite that walked the line between pleasure and pain.

When the last shudder left him, the hold was silent save for the ragged sound of three beings breathing. You were limp in his arms, a boneless weight, utterly stuffed and claimed. K’vok’s cock, still semi-hard and locked inside you by his species’ after-climax swelling, kept his seed trapped within you.

R’thak nuzzled against your side, licking a stripe over the marks his brother’s teeth had left on your shoulder. “So good for us,” he purred. “Our perfect little prize.”

K’vok finally spoke, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. He shifted you slightly, his hand coming to rest on your lower belly, pressing down where you were bloated with them. “It takes here,” he stated, as if commenting on the weather. “This hunt, our seed will take root. You will grow our young.”

The statement hung in the air, a new and profound claim.

For a long moment none of you moved. The cargo hold felt smaller now, the air thick with the mingled scents of sweat, blood, sex, and the metallic tang of the ship. Your body trembled with aftershocks, every breath pressing your swollen belly against K’vok’s armored chest. R’thak’s amber eyes glowed with something softer than hunger—pride, perhaps, or the fierce protectiveness that had grown between the three of you since that first Blood Moon rite.

K’vok’s mandibles clicked gently against your shoulder as he released the bite, his tongue lapping once at the shallow marks in a soothing gesture rare for the elder brother. “You have taken us well, little mate,” he rumbled. “Stronger than any ooman we have known. The clan will see the swell of our young and know the triad is blessed.”

R’thak’s hand joined his brother’s on your belly, claws retracted, palm warm and gentle. “We will hunt closer to home now,” he promised, voice lighter but no less sincere. “No more long voyages until a pup is born and blooded. You will teach it softness, and we will teach it the way of the hunt. A perfect balance.”

You managed a shaky laugh, voice hoarse from screaming. “You two… are going to be impossible fathers.”

K’vok’s chest vibrated with a rare, deep chuckle. He finally began to soften inside you, the locking swell easing, but he kept you seated on his lap, cradling you between their bodies like the most precious trophy in the galaxy.

Outside the sealed ramp, the twin suns of Yautja Prime dipped below the horizon, and the first stars of the hunting grounds winked into view. Inside the Kainde Amde, the three of you remained tangled together—human mate and two victorious hunters—bound by blood, seed, and an unbreakable claim. The next hunt would wait. For now, there was only this: the quiet after the storm, the promise of new life, and the fierce, eternal love of the brothers who had chosen you above all other prizes in the universe.

The cargo hold lights dimmed to standby amber as the ship’s systems cycled down, but the heat between your bodies never cooled. Under the ancient codes of Yautja Prime, the triad was sealed once more—not just in pleasure, but in legacy. And somewhere deep in your core, where their combined essence still burned, something new and powerful stirred, ready to carry the blood of hunters into the next generation.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.

• But those 5%

• There has to be those funny weird moments.

• These are skill young Yautja afterall.

• We all saw how Scar pulled a prank of Lex

• There is a level of immaturity still being broken out of them

• Dek even had a few moments despite trying to act tough.

• So there are some comical moments despite trying to attack and claim their spots with the skull of their Xenomorph or Hunt.

• Wouldn't be the first time a Yautja went in for an attack and messing up a bit.

• Even Celtic on a solo mission before he went to earth had attacked his prey and unfortunately was met with a rather ungrateful fall. Cursing as he fell down the side of the cliff bouncing on rocks- or the far too loud squeal that left him when he managed to catch some air.

• A few Yautja have even found themselves waddling through mud since they were trying to use some tracking and fell in- Sucks having a heat signature at times especially if it means trying to crawl through mud

• Or even humiliating things as trying to use the restroom and getting caught.

• Nothing like trying to take a piss and being eye to eye with your hunt...

• However the most common 'comedic' moment in hunts is when a tool breaks.

• Yautja when they are learning are purposely given shit equipment, so having a moment were something just stops working-

• Not exactly the most prideful of moments. Especially if you see the Yautja fiddling with it, or even hitting it with their palm like it was a shitty remote in order to get it to work.

Mini Story! - Yautja Reader

Your father Sh'Rai looked at you, his arms crossed over his broad chest. A rumble in his chest as he was confused- you had informed him you had completed your hunt..

Yet he saw no trophy?

'Where is the Trophy (Y/N)?'

'On the Ship-'

'Why is it on the ship?'

'...I don't know how to get it off of the ship'

He paused genuinely looking confused at his now Blooded child.

"Show me-"

The Elder slowly turned his head to the side as he looked at something he'd never actually seen before.

A Xenomorph with a spear through its neck up its mouth and awkwardly into the ships side- but it's entire torso was the problem... Protruding out of the the side of the ship with both legs shot out in their direction as if someone tried to shove it through a small hole and its body was cramped and now stuck out since it hadnt broken the skin the acid actually didnt break so the leathery hide turned into a plug truly a one in a million chance.

He stood there as he watched the recording of inside of the ship.

You had fought well a swell of pride going through his chest, you had hunted and fought well even when the creature found its way to yoir ship spearing it though however in a awkward position.

Watching the recording as you stood there for a moment clearly trying to catch your breath.

'Well I killed it on the ship... And uh, I couldn't get the spear out of it. So I was gonna pull it out once in space-'

He watched further as then it seemed once out of orbit the Xenomorph torso shot through the hole of the ship crumbling in on itself.

'-It plugged up the hole with its body and now you don't know how to get it out'

'Without destroying the ship further..'

'Or your Trophy..'

The two of yoj stood there, Arms crossed over your chest in the exact same pose. Head cocked to the side as you mentally tried to figure out how to get the rightful trophy free.

'Maybe...'

You started but stopped.

'How about-'

Sh'Rai started but also stopped. Moving forward a second and leaning in to scope out a solution but saw none

...

'Damn the Ship get your Trophy'

He finally said as he waved his hand off and walked off the hull of the ship. You growling to yourself as you looked up the ceiling of the ship and closed your eyes, Pulling your knife from your side and pouting.

Which slashers are boob men?♡

˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ RUSTY NAIL

He is on the top of the list for a reason. He’s the leader of this list for a SPECIFIC reason.

Literally the biggest tit man of his entire century, like he is an absolute MENACE. 

You could be talking to him, no matter the context of anything, and half way through the conversation his eyes will slip down to your boobs without fail. Your areola’s are your eyes to him.

Karma does get him, because he’ll get insanely hard embarrassingly fast and start humping ANYTHING for relief, your tits are an aphrodisiac for him. 

He has a love hate relationship with bras, he LOVES the way your boobs bounce against the fabric and they way they spill out of your bra when he’s fucking you too hard–Yet he doesn’t like them because he likes easy access, like the fuck do you mean he can’t “warm his hands’’ against your plump flesh?

He’s a disgusting pervert, when you are sleeping he’ll yank up your shirt and take pictures of your boobs, pictures and videos of him groping your flesh so hard it bruises. He has a hidden iCloud folder in his phone of him sucking your tits while you sleep. You always wake up to him moaning and humping your clothed pussy.

He’ll subtly start leaving those pills in your online shopping list that make you produce milk, giving you subtle hints of what he wants. Expect a lot of comments about milk, like a lot. 

He’s HORRIBLE with the “got milk?’’ and cow jokes, they come off as horny and needy rather than funny. Then will always escalate to him begging to breed you with his pups. :c

He can’t keep his focus around you at all, he’s so good at being cold and mean–But literally all of that melts when you jump in his big ol’ lap and shove your tits in his face. He crumbles like a damn cookie and becomes all submissive and needy.

You cannot look me in the eyes and say he isn’t the type to beg for soapy boob pictures when you're in the shower. He will send you audios of him WHIMPERING as he jerks off to just the thought of seeing your boobs covered in soap studs.

You have permanent discoloration on your body and bruises from how hard he gropes you, he will always apologize after and soothe your inflictions—But he is MEAN with his grip. It always feels like he’s trying to rip you apart when in reality he wants to live in your skin.

Gets grumpy and upset when you won’t let him suck on your nipples, like he literally pouts and gets all cold and distant until you break. 

LOOVES it when you ride him, he’s not even looking at your face. He’s nose deep in your chest, drool running down your front as he pathetically groans into your hot flesh.. His drool is down your naval as you give him a one way ticket to heaven.

Give him a boobjob and he will marry you /srs

The pure concept of seeing his throbbing shaft between your heavy flesh, his pre dribbling onto your soft skin as you jerk him off with your shoulder boulders–He’s gotten cum in your hair because he genuinely squirts from the view.

People think you are being beaten because you have nasty bruises only someone could get from a car crash, but it’s just his meaty hands pawing away like a cat making biscuits. 

When you do start producing milk he will look up what makes production last longer and what certain foods or supplements make you produce a lot, he wants that bang for his buck.

You’ll have to literally rip him away from your sensitive chest from how long and hard he stays there, he’ll lay on top of you till your body goes numb as he latches on drinking from you like you are the fountain of youth.. He’s sucked you dry to a point where it takes a week to recover and start producing again. He’s a big man okay? He needs the milk for his “growing bones.”

When you're sitting on his lap to relax, he’ll subtly bounce you up and down on him to watch you jiggle. Your recoil genuinely rewires his brain back to factory settings.

Gets mad when you try and clean up the mess he left on your chest, he claims it’s “good for your skin’’ and natural lotion. Now you know why your lotion was so creamy this morning.

There will be times where you randomly wake up and see him sucking on your chest, he’ll do it to wake you up.

The type to shove his beer between your boobs when he has to use the bathroom, he only trusts you with his drink afterall!

Shit he uses your boobs as his own damn purse, he’ll put his wallet, phone, hands–anything down that cleavage.. Then stick his hand down your shirt to grab whatever he needs.

Banned from going with you to Victoria Secrets. Last time he came you needed help clasping a bra, he came into that tiny stall and the next thing you knew you were in the AIR while he plowed away into that puffy cunt.

Why yes he does in fact have a picture of your boobs in his wallet, tysm. ♡

‧˚꒰🐾୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ THE BEAST

This big ol’ monster wants nothing more than you to lay on top of his body and smother him half to death with your chest. That is his dying wish, check his will.

Your chest (and stupidity) is what saved your life, not realizing he was a ruthless monster killing ravers one by one in this abandoned warehouse. When he came up behind you to shove a glowstick in your eye you started GRINDING against him.

He was so stunned at your stupidity and audacity, like he did not know what to do with his hands when you dragged him over to a secluded spot and got all comfortable in his lap. Shoving that rusted welder's mask against your heavy flesh–OOOO this mountain of a man is out. Like whattt? He was going to kill you? Nonsense. He would NEVER kill you. 

He adores getting up behind you and cupping his gloved hands on your tits, squeezing and fondling them. Doesn’t help you have an obvious size difference, he can just loom over you like the grim reaper and squeeeezeee to his heart's content! You love a good grope. And he’s a massive pervert who shamelessly stares down your shirts.

You aren’t allowed to wear bras, why would you do such a thing and suppress his stress relievers? How heartless of you.

Despite his coldness and lack of emotions, you can always tell when he’s in a daze with you. His little window to his rusted welders mask fogs up beyond belief, and you can audibly hear him panting like a mutt.

Looovees to be the big spoon, is it because he wants to fondle you in your sleep? Yes, he’ll take off his gloves at night before going to bed so he can have “natural hand warmers’’ 

His favorite place to put his hands is your underboob, he likes the weight you have.

Your boobs have officially become his pillow, he outright refuses to use a real pillow. On top of your tits so he can hear your heartbeat is enough for him.

Any bikini top, tank top, or tube top–Literally anything skimpy has him frothing from the mouth like he has rabies, he does very much enjoy the view.

When you complain about back pains or chest pains he will appear out of nowhere and become your bra. He loves it when you lay down with your back against his chest, giving him the perfect opportunity to hold you.

When you complain about chest pain he’ll always come massage you, coming to relax your sore muscles and nerves.

Nipple pincher 2000. It’s almost like a habit for him, he just likes to pinch your nipples till they are all perky.

A whore for seeing your nipples hard, is also the type of man to grab any baggy shirt you're wearing and pull it back to watch the fabric cling to your figure.

Will randomly push you against random things to watch your chest squish down.

Likes to push your tits down onto his crotch whenever you're using his belly to prop up your phone, you can always feel his monstrous bulge against your ribcage.

Adores it when you sit on his shoulders and use the top of his head to rest your chest on, his hands always squeeze the hell out of your thighs as he leans his head back into that perfect chest.

You can hear him chuffing against your skin out of sheer comfort, this behemoth is sooo happy with you. You can hear him chuffing too..

Likes it when you wear fur lingerie, a two piece bikini made out of faux fur against your pretty skin.. He makes you grind against the fur till you jolt from it sticking to your sloppy pussy before he stuffs the fabric in your small hole. ♡

૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა  ASA EMORY – “THE COLLECTOR’’

The song “shoulder boulders’’ by S3RL is in his playlist, you cannot look me in the eyes and tell me otherwise. 

He takes great interest in anatomy & biology, which also applies to you. Especially you, he has a “medical record” book and it’s just you.

Will have you sit with him completely naked as he does a full body examination on you, this can and will include him wasting 20 minutes trying to stimulate milk production and getting irritated when it doesn’t work.

This man is a whore for pretty lingerie, I’m not talking about conservative lingerie. I’m talking about mid 2000-2016 lingerie where being sexy was not a crime, his favorite piece on you is apron lingerie. Especially the cute black & pink polka dot one with lace that can barely keep your tits in. He’ll make you stay dressed like that all day and do the most house-wifey shit ever, he edges himself the entire time. Just being a big pervert and watching you from afar as he squeezes the hell out of his cock.

During sex he’ll make you wear tank tops or a bra so he can watch the recoil of your plump flesh bouncing with every violent thrust, he’ll get too impatient and horny and ends up yanking them out.

You purposely tease the hell out of him knowing how weak he is, you’ll purposely stretch or lay your tits against a counter–Or when you hug him ensuring he can feel your nipples touching him. 

It’s gotten so bad he comes prematurely every time you hug him, you embarrass him so bad. 

Likes to drag his serrated knife along your cleavage, making small cuts and lashes to lick up the blood and suck the wound clean.

When he catches you he’ll cut off every last bit of your clothes off of your body and replace it with rope, he loves the way your tits squeeze together behind the rough twine and how you struggle. His fingers always find their way to rub the rope burn away from your skin.

Makes you sit in his lap as his index fingers teasingly rub your nipples in small circles till they bud, he ties up your wrists together so you can’t go down and touch yourself.. Instead you make a big mess all over the front of his jeans because that drooly pussy won’t stay shut.

Strips you completely naked and makes you run in the forest as he hunts you down, you never hear him chasing after you so it always takes you by surprise when he suddenly grabs you and slams you in the mud to break your poor cunt on his dick for hours..

Also has trail cameras out in the forest, and in the house.. He gets off with watching you without your knowledge. ♡

૮꒰˶ ⁠❛   ˕ ⁠❛˶꒱ა  BUBBA SAWYER – “LEATHERFACE”

He feels INSANELY perverted and doesn’t want to admit he drools over your chest. It’s not that he feels like it’s immoral or anything–He just doesn’t want to scare you. :(

He’s tame with his obsession at first, hell you don’t even notice. You think it’s sweet he loves to lay his head on your chest and listen to your heartbeat lull him to sleep as you snuggle him close. 

He loves to lay his head on your chest, when you're sitting in his lap, when he’s laying on top of you, your boobs are his certified pillow.

His perversion becomes a bit obvious when he begins to start groping you nervously, feeling bad and like his hands aren’t supposed to be there! But your hands cupping his and putting them under your shirt so his thumbs could grind against your nipples and make them nice and perky–How could he say no?

His hands squeeze and grope with more vigor and confidence, happy you were enjoying and consenting to this.

His big meaty hands worship your chest, thumbs rolling over hardened nipples as his fingers greedily squeezed your flesh. He was so stupidly in love with you, and so so so happy you loved him back!

Like the others he gets off watching you bounce as he’s viciously dicking you down, he’ll put you in bras, shirts, tank tops, bikini tops.. Just watching your heavy set bounce so hard from him pounding you, loves it when you are on your back or on your side so he can see the way you jiggle.. 

Sometimes the dumb brute goes a little too fast and hard and ends up having you pawing at the bed or him trying to get him to slow down as his thick cock destroys your tiny hole, he can’t help it his wife is so pretty!

Bubba loves to fill you up with his potent creampies and slowly pull out so he can watch your stretched out pussy spurt out his cum all over him, seeing your pretty little chest that’s adorned with bruises and bites heave desperately as you squirt out his mess all over his tummy. ♡