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smolfog · 3 months

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Haven't drawn these 3 in a bit, also changed up Shys colours a bit so he looks like a corn snake!

#my ocs #my original characters #my art #my original stuff #digital doodles #my original character #size difference #sunset #Shy #Shiloh #peepaw cloud #breezie

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notanartificialintelligence · 8 months

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@somerandomdudelmao 's comic have taken over my mind so much Im seeing it in the fucking clouds

does anyone else see it?? or am I just Insane

#im probably just insane #cass apocalyptic series #cass apocalyptic au #cass apocalypse au #uncle tello #clouds #peepaw leo #rottmnt #tmnt #save rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #save rise of the tmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #al post

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starbright9994951 · 8 months

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it's SO OVER FOR ME ACTUALLY. Jing Yuan. Oh, oh how i LOVE YOU. he is such a guy,,, an old man...jaded by the horrors of war and strife...the people he loved either dying before him or turning into people that would never recognize him the same way that they did to him once in many years ago. the way he's called the dozing general because. everyone he loved had already slept and went to a place that he could never reach. i just love him so much 😭😭😭

#hsr #honkai star rail #jing yuan #HE IS THE PEEPAW I WILL GIVE HIM EVERYTHING I JUST WANT HIM TO BE HAPPY #his entire backstory is so full of love that you can really hear the loss when it comes to him talking to or about dan feng #and also the high cloud quintet #and then blade #old man so full of love #i love him he deserves to be spoiled for once ARGGHH

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si-mt · 1 year

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look at those eyebags. peepaw gonna short circuit for not resting

#neural cloud #help peepaw

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undercoverpena · 7 months

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PEEPAW JOEL THOTS???!

oh gosh, this one makes me a touch nervous ⬇️

joel miller x f!reader warnings: smut, p in v, roof sex, injured!joel, sneaking around bill and franks, female and male receiving head.

🔥 think he has sex with you on the rooftop of some old building, maybe it used to be a library or a hotel, it’s not romantic but it becomes it, because he takes a second to appreciate how vast everything is, and you keep rutting your ass into him as you stare off. maybe the sun is peered out from the clouds, after you asked if they could stop a second, and he doesn’t want to but he relents, and then he sorta sees a speckle of what you do. the world from here almost looks normal, and then his hands come to your hips, halting you from backing into him, grunting an “enough.” and you shoot him a smirk over your shoulder, and fuck, like this, it’s photograph worthy. which is why he suspects he doesn’t actually stop you from moving your hips, just tells you to lean over the brick/railing, peeling your jeans down as he wets his hand with his spit as he slides it between your thighs, murmuring close to your ear that it's a "good view."

🔥 he's hurt his arm after coming into contact with another person/group, and you fuss, trying to clean it and he stops you, tells you it’s fine, "m'not even hurt". but he can see you're chewing your lip, fingers holding your chin, "I’d do it all again to keep you safe" and you just stare (because the two of you don't talk like this, it's all under the surface, displayed in actions rather than words). so you just crash your lips to his, his good hand pulling you onto his lap. mouth sliding down your neck as you undo his jeans, tells him if he’s not even hurt, he can make you feel good. and the man is nothing but determined, “you think I can't fuck you right when I’m hurt, huh?” him teasing you before telling you to climb on top, you sinking down on him, breath punched from your lungs as you take him to the root, "you can take it" talking you through it even if he’s the one hissing if he moves his arm. and your breath is all ragged as you get closer and closer, clothes still coated in some fuckers blood, his knuckles split, teeth gritted. and your eyes meet his as his hand grips your hip, both sharing a similar thought: i'd do anything to keep you fucking alive

🔥 you winding him up one day about how he looks miserable (more than normal), tiredness likely a factor, his bones weary, needing rest. so you offer to take him in your mouth after a shower back in some river. your fingers wrapping around his length, telling him to lie back, make a pillow from your jacket, asking if you can look after him, beads of water falling down his gruff, frowning face. “maybe my mouth can put a smile on your face.” and he shakes his head, “what y'mouth magical?” and you smirk, because he doesn't remember that time early on when he'd taken a pill and mixed it with booze that he'd said something similar. so she just sighs, “actually, someone did once tell me it’s life changing.” and he just licks his lips, nodding at you to go on.

🔥 I think when you make it to Jackson, the first night you're both alone is so different than back in the QZ, than the woods, than rooftops and everything in between. it’s the kind of sex that he’d have given you if the world hadn’t gone to shit and he’d met you in a bar. he takes his time, spends so long working you up, earning each moan you will give him before he can even consider burying himself in you. he's on his knees for you, even if his body protests, even if tomorrow his entire body will ache from how good tonight will be. but he knows it'll be worth it. even more as you coat his cock, desperate, needy, leaving fingerprint bruises on his skin that develop when he collapses beside you.

🔥 so, imagine staying over at bill & frank’s after enjoying some food, and a storm is rolling in, and Frank insists, but Bill hates it—insists on two separate rooms. but before you can sneak into Joel’s he sneaks into yours. hand over your mouth as you giggle, telling you that you’re gonna have to be real quiet. “not like you to break the rules, miller.” But then you teasing him about it not being gentlemanly trying to sneak into a lady’s room. “stopped being a gentlemen a while ago.” his fingers snaking inside your underwear. “c’mon baby you know how to be quiet. good enough when we’re surrounded by clickers. how’s this any different?” your panting, hand on his wrist as you pull it down to whisper, “you’re not usually doing this when we’re surrounded by clickers.” and the two of you are already on the floor, pillows and blankets surrounding them as he kisses down your body, sliding his mouth over your pussy as your hand darts into his curls. his fingers pinching your inner thigh when you make too much noise, sucks on the pulse point on your neck asa you catch your breath. begins leaving marks under the space underneath your breasts, a reminder of him there, that he's had you like this when he catches you stripping and changing, before he sinks into you. THE ABOVE ONE CONT: 👉👈 because i think I want to write this... the surroundings are so normal, he’s able to trick himself that this is like olden times. I think when you sit on his lap, he’d lift your hand from his chest at one point, kiss your knuckles—all tender, soft. before he places your hand back and rests his hands on your hips, aiding her. and I think they’d remain on the floor for a while after. him just stroking your cheek, you just lay on his chest, the storm still heavy. both lost in some make believe land that this is their house, and that maybe it’s just a night where they can’t sleep, rather than it being a night where they just feel safe (whatever that even means) and there’s so much hanging in the air, so many words they never speak, but they're safe, and together, and for both of them that's all that matters.

i cannot believe i have thotted so much in the last 24 hours.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x reader smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #jo: thots

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suggs444 · 6 months

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Bad For Buisness:

William Afton/Steve Raglan x Reader

Sypnopsis: You find out your boss, Steve, who is also your secret lover, has a false identity. As well as an unknown history. You attempt to be reasonable, to set things right, but your boss .. well, he knows you all too well.

TW: swearing, degrading, manipulating, implied sexual actions.

Authors note: Hi, Suggs here. So this is my first x reader that I’ve written in a long long time. And it’s my first ever William Afton based one too. I literally saw the movie and I was 🙈🙈 whenever peepaw was on screen. Anyways, I hope y’all enjoy and lmk if you want more / a part two. Thanks for reading !! <33

Gif by brotherdusk

“I should tell everyone!”

You protest, boldly, standing on the other side of Afton’s desk. Your arms cross in an attempt to assert your dominance in this situation - which is rare. William was usually the one with the upper hand. You were foolish to think otherwise, even now.

There he sat with his sunken frame, slouched in his office chair, hands loosely intertwined in his lap. Brows raised in mocking surprise, almost expecting, as if waiting for you to come to your senses. He stares, and you find yourself stuck for words.

You gulp, hard. Frozen in his icy gaze.

“I mean — you’re lying to our consumers! To your staff - to me! Your names not Steve Raglan ..” Your words drift off, lacking much defence and reason.

“It’s bad for business.”

You continue, proudly, pointing your chin upward. As though that sentence completely justified your debate.

William’s head tilts slightly,

“Since when do you care about business quality, y/n?”

You didn’t care. He knew it, and he knew you all too well. Well enough to know you didn’t give a shit about the business, or anyone else. You were upset about not knowing every little detail about him. You’re obsessed. Needy, he knows. Only the two of you mattered. The secret of your intimacy. The sneaking off, the inappropriate relationship. Now, that? That was bad for business.

“Hm?” He presses, condescendingly, brows raising more while waiting for an answer as he sits forward out of his slouch. His exposed forearms coming to lean against the table.

You’re quiet, already. Defeated.

He sucks on his teeth.

“That’s what I thought.”

He leans back into his chair with an exhale, shaking his head.

“I’ve done some things, y/n.” He confesses, “-bad things.”

You can only stare at him.

He pushes himself out of his chair, eyes remaining pinned to yours. You knew your boss wasn’t a good man, fuck, maybe that’s what drew you to him, but you hadn’t expected this.

“What things?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He cuts you off, stern. Stern enough that you know not to push it any more. You bite your tongue, suddenly feeling small by his towering height. William wasn’t a necessarily attractive man, or at least not for everyone. He was older than you. Much older. But clever, so very clever - and wise. Something about his stability, the way he carried himself. The reassurance he gave you and the praise. You could hardly resist him.

“Had to cover my tracks. Tie up loose ends, do you understand? That’s my business, it’s need to know and you don’t.” His voice, a nasal drawl as he slowly rounded the desk, the pads of his fingers drawing along the old wood as he reached you.

“And I certainly don’t need you,” he pauses, pressing his torso against your back. You can feel the heat of his breath on your neck, his scent, a mix of cheap cologne and tobacco.

“-running your sweet mouth and spilling my secrets.” He continues. You melt against him despite the firmness of his tone. You were a slave to your desires. Only he could make the meanest things sound so indulging.

You hum at the closeness. Trying to remain strong headed despite your vision clouding from the intensity of the lustful haze you had for this man. You weren’t weak, just devoted.

“Turn around, sweetheart.”

You do.

“Do you understand?”

You nod stubbornly. He tuts,

“Use your words, y/n.”

“I understand.”

He shoots you a unsatisfied look.

You sigh, “I understand, sir.”

He smiles then, cockily, knowing he had won this time. His eyes creasing beneath his glasses.

“That’s my girl.” He coos, a warm hand coming to cup your cheek. Your eyes close, savouring the action, leaning into his palm. He was always so busy, so intimacy came slim. A rarity. You learnt to enjoy the small gestures.

The warmth was gone the next second. Opening your eyes to find him returning to his seat. You whined softly, turning to him as he settled back in his chair - instantly going back to his paperwork.

“That’s it?” You plead.

His eyes shot up to you over his glasses. Almost surprised you were still there. He sighs through his nose.

“Tell you what,” he lifts his head to give you his full attention.

“You’ve got the rest of this week to prove you can keep your mouth shut. I wanna trust you, y/n. I can do that, can’t I?”

You nod, “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Mr Afto-“ You stop yourself, realising you’re using his real name, his secret name. He’s glaring.

“-Mr Raglan.” You correct yourself, smiling wearily.

“Much better. Keep that up, and I’ll make up for lost time. I’ll give you what you need.”

You sigh sweetly, nodding. The mere thought of that making your knees weak.

“I won’t let you down, I promise.”

You reassure, shooting him one last smile as you turn and leave.

The week can’t end soon enough.

#william afton #william afton x reader #fnaf #fnaf movie #matthew lillard #steve raglan #five nights at freddy's

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l0velylecter · 1 year

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helios — captain john price (nsfw)

— nsfw imagine / headcanons + captain john price pairing : jonathan price / f! reader fandom : call of duty modern warfare ii rating : e for explicit, minors don’t interact (mdni!), not safe for work (nsfw!) warnings : graphic descriptions of sex tags : drabble, not proofread, female parts, afab!reader, dom!price, he’s not afraid to be a little rough (and you like that), cigar cameo as always, handsome dilfs are really singlehandedly setting us 40 years back in terms of anti-smoking agendas ( if smoking bad, why does peepaw look hot doing it ? )

01 | Look at me. His voice was rich and low, coiling into you. You pried your eyes open to look at him through the gaps of your fingers. Dissatisfied with this, Price pinned your wrists above your head, forcing you to look — to watch as he slowly thrusts into you. Your legs spread, cunt aching. With each stretch, you clenched down on him. And whine after whine, and the tears continued to flow down your neck. The pain was fleeting, barely there. Quickly replaced by a growing heat: it rippled and stretched from your abdomen throughout your body. He was setting you on fire. 02 | Price is strategic. He knows how to push you to your limits, to edge and tease you until you're begging against the pillow for him to fill you up with his cock. You can feel him smiling; admiring how you willingly throw yourself into his mercy. Punishing you was fun, but he wanted to reward you: to praise you. Good girl. That's it. Hands, rough and steady, circling your clit as he pistons into you. Each movement felt like a command, an order, and who are you to deny him? 03| The air smells tropical and heavy with heat: even with the windows open, nights in the tropic were sweltering. Above the tangle of sheets, you hear him light a cigar, his hands absentmindedly stroking your nape — thumb curling almost possessively. He blows a cloud of smoke towards you, and while it pricks your eyes, it smells faintly like chocolate and wood spices. Price tells you in between kisses that broadleaf wrappers are naturally sweet. Just like you, eh? Your grin was replaced with a moan when he cupped your breast in one hand, leaning to whisper that he wasn't quite done with you yet.

a/n : another drabble because i’m still suffering from writer’s block and mental exhaustion from my workload, but since christmas holidays are right around the corner, I should get back to writing longer pieces & request soon ! for now i hope you enjoy this bit of papa smurf hehe <3 also helios is the titan god of the sun, usually described as powerful, fiery, bright, tireless : use that comparison with price as you will 👀

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d-a-r-l-i-i-n-g · 11 months

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˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰ 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚗 ꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄

Comfort/fluff

You were bored, after coming back from the purgatory hall, you were hanging out with Luke decorating cupcakes with him, scrolling through Devitube on your D.D.D, you came across these stunning paper flowers, it was a tutorial, so you tried it out taking out some old art supplies you didn't use anymore you got to work.

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Lucifer ࿐ྂ

He was in his office doing some work, he had a shitty day constant arguments with Satan and belphie more work from Diavolo, he felt as if his head was going to explode (poor peepaw), you, on the other hand, felt bad, Lucifer seemed extremely stressed, and yes even though it was normal and even though belphie and satan made you join the 'anti-lucifer club' you still couldn't help but feel bad, so you decided to give your flower to him, sadly you knew that it wouldn't take away the shit load of work, knocking a rhythm on the door, you heard a tired "Enter." behind the entrance, opening the door your hair falls in front of your complexion, peeking in you flash the black haired demon a nervous smile. "Ahh, Mc it's so good to see you, what brings you here?" smirking Lucifer leans back, his stray hairs going in all directions, you could tell he was tired just by seeing the bags under his crimson-red eyes, "Here sit." pointing to the chair in front of his desk he motions you to sit down. "Can I get you some tea?" looking up you shake your head "No, it's okay Luci, you sit down and relax, okay?" smiling you look down in your hands placing the paper flower on his desk, "Here, I made this for you." he lifted an eyebrow, taking the paper rose in his gloved hand, looking at the paper rose you made him, he smiled softly, it's a smile you don't get to see much only when you two are alone, or sometimes he is happy with his brothers. "thank you..mc, I'll cherish this, forever, come here." he motioned for you to sit on his lap, as you sat down he placed his arm around you, you leaned on his chest, the smell of pomegranate, and expensive wine clouding your mind, closing your eyes you two sat there, comforted by each others company.

↳˳;; ❝ Mammon ᵕ̈೫˚∗

"Stupid Levi calling me names." walking to his room with his hands in his pocket the white messy-haired demon quibbled to himself about the harsh treatment he got from his brother, upon entering his room, he sat down on his bed and scrolled through his D.D.D, his unhappy expression not leaving his face, after a while he heard a knock before an annoying sigh could leave his mouth he heard a sweet voice coming from the other side. "Mammon, it's me Mc." his eyes gleamed a bit, and he walked to his door to open it for you, he watched as you went into his room walking behind you, he leaned on the pool table, and your hands were behind your back hiding the yellow paper rose you had made for him. "alright..what are ya hidin' behind your back?" he tilted his head to the side looking at you with suspicion, you looked down on the floor, anxious to give him this paper rose, why are you nervous? You thought to yourself, I mean I've known him for quite a while I shouldn't be nervous I'm not always nervous in front of him- "Yo Human?." mammon snapped his fingers in front of you, seizing you out of your thoughts, "i-um I made you this rose." you let out, as you showed it to him, you could see his eyes had slowly widened, "I know it's not an expensive gift..but I know the others treat you like crap and today it's really gotten to your head, so I wanted to make this rose for you." you tried to explain, your heart felt like it had exploded honestly, mammon gaze was on yours, I don't think I've left mammon that speechless before..you thought, chuckling in confusion, he held the rose in his hand gently, "For me? Seriously?" he gaped at the paper rose in awe, it was enchanting it had such small details, to him this rose had more worth than any of the expensive items he had in his room, feeling a slight blush form on his cheeks, opening his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Mammon pulled you into a hug, your eyes were a little wide and cheeks a bit red but you leaned into his comforting hold.

.·:*¨༺Levi༻¨*:·.

Levi always felt insecure, but today he felt even worse, for some reason his mind just wanted to tournament him, it annoyed him he just wanted to play his games but he couldn't, everything was so difficult when his thoughts were loud, so there he was slumped on his chair, wearing his headset, his game console was in his hand, the blue light from his tank illuminated on his face that had a soft frown on it, hearing a knock, he fixed his posture, "Come in.." *he groaned a bit, you entered the room, you hand was behind your back, the pale demon flashed you a warm smile, feeling a bit better by your presence, you could tell by his face something was a bit off, "what's wrong?" you asked making your way to his bathtub and leaning on it, "Nothing, it's just one of those days you know, mind is all over the place." he replied leaning back on his chair, his eyes were now glued on the ceiling, "You know you can speak to me.." you said as you tilted your head to the side, he didn't say anything, feeling bad you took out the orange paper-rose, looking down on it, he shifted his gaze to the rose, blinking a couple of times, "Eh? What's that?" he got up looking at the paper rose, you smiled a bit, placing the flower on his desk, "I made it for you..." his eyes slowly widened, taking the rose in his hand, he looked at it, it was gorgeous, he could feel himself get emotional, a blush crept up on his complexion, his gaze flickerd to the rose and back to your kind ones, you chuckled softly, taking his other gaming console, "I heard a new game came out, do you wanna play it?" still in a little shock he places the rose on the desk taking his gaming controller and nodding his head, you two spent the entire night playing video games, and talking about each others problems, needless to say Levi feels better when he is around you.

umm ik that i only did the older brothers, im sorry if u wanted to see all of them, this idea is kinda sweet kinda boring? Idk, if someone likes this thats cool. Buy i like it :D

Update: I should've read through this cus there were a lot of spelling mistakes..the fact I use Grammarly too..well I've fixed them now-

#obey me x reader fluff #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me fluff #obey me lucifer x reader #obey me leviathan x reader #obey me mammon x reader

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ruumirmir · 1 year

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Reprise of a rolling mist

Part 1 Part 2 (soon)

☽◯☾ Summary - You, the revered God of Healing and Mist, one of the oldest friends of Zhongli, are not one to be easily taken down, but alas, in the Archon war of brutal massacres, you can’t escape death for long. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ☽◯☾ Characters - Zhongli, (minor) Cloud Retainer, (minor) Madame Ping ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ☽◯☾ Tags - Zhongli x Reader || Gender Neutral || Angst || Eventual happy ending || Description of blood, violence, and fatal injuries || Mention of death ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ☽◯☾ Word count - 1.2k ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ☽◯☾ Rumour◇ says - my first ever fanfic to be published on tumblr. In case you haven’t seen my previous post, please do! It has some context in it. I hope i did peepaw some justice,, as much as I love him, it was slightly hard to pin his personality down especially in this wild scenario. I’ll probably belt out the part 2 really soon cause I’m done with it, just gotta decorate the post lmao.

‎• ——————————————————————— The nearby corpse of a beast twitches once before falling still. The loud ringing in your head gets louder by the passing minute. Mouth set into a grimace, you roll onto your back and hack out a wet cough.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ It's hard to breathe with a gaping hole in your torso, still fresh and bloody. Your half-lidded eyes focus onto a speck of ash, floating up to melt into the night air. ‎ ‎

‎ ‎ ‎

The God of War doesn’t fear. No. He is the one who’s feared. And yet...

“No...”, Morax kneels there, watching his old friend, laid upon the charred grass.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

Your once lustrous hair, now melds into the soot-stained ground, tainted by blood and grime. Your breaths come shallow and short. For all the dust and debris left in the battle's wake, Mt. Tianheng had a pleasant breeze to offer.

His palm find its way to yours; cold to the touch. Fingers tighten around you, and the clarity slowly returns to your hazy eyes.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

The stench of burnt flesh permeates the air. His gaze lingers over the yawning cavity in your body; charred at the edges. From such a pair of gods, its not Morax who wields the power to heal and mend. It’s not you who possesses the energy to do so.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ And so. his hands tremble uselessly over your gut, or the lack thereof.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

His most trusted. His closest companion. His oldest friend... The one who shares countless memories with him. The one who had promised to do so for many more years to come.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

"M-morax," his name spoken like a sigh. The corners of his mouth twitch into a small smile. Your stomach flares in pain when you fight back a strangled whine. "I am... not your burden to bear amidst a battle."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

He sits by you, pained. “Hush... do not strain yourself by talking.” You lie before him, bleeding.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

“O great Rex Lapis, won't you be kind? Won't you be wise? Renounce your lands and people? Spare us all a calamity from befalling those subjects of yours? It’s the least of your payment... for eons of slaughter caused by your hands”

A great many creatures had cackled, with many more swarming in. The seething mass of... beastly wasps, misshapen and overgrown, were all too eager for a massacre. A hivemind; disgustingly coordinated in brains and brawn. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

By the first rumbling of his meteorite that bombed over Mt. Tianheng, a familiar billowing mist had rolled forward to assist. Whether in your solid body, or a lashing mist, it was hard to quell the pyro gnats. ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

The grass is stained red by now. He takes your hand and grips it tight, to his chest. You brush your fingers over his bruised knuckles.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ By the second rumbling of raining spears, Morax’s harsh orders had sent the adepti and yakshas scrambling towards the unprotected city of Liyue. . . . By the third rumbling of his shield molding around you... a flaming projectile had already shot clean through your torso.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

You need to fight to keep your eyes open. From a simple flesh wound... what a joke. Your not the admired deity of recovery, just in name, are you?

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Your fingers twitch, tightening around his robes. "Help me sit upright..."

His sharp exhale falls upon your brows, and with the utmost softest touch, You’re pulled up against his torso. Your head sags against his shoulder, where you can feel the thick pool of sorrow under his skin.

"Please... I do not want to cause you more hurt," The words fall hollow from his lips. He holds you up gently, and you can finally focus on his face. … where you’re met with a wet shine to his eyes.

"What... are you trying to do?" His mouth trembles downwards ever so slightly.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

But you... you break out in a rebellious smile, don’t you?

The pain is unbearable. And you laugh all the harder for it. Sweat beads your forehead, and your fingers dig into his arm when he presses into your stomach to slow the bleeding. You bite out a groan. It burns.

"Don't look at me like that Morax", you pant. "This... this is but child’s play for a healer of my caliber...."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

Yet, your life trickles out like the grains of sand in an hourglass, and your vision flickers.

He wipes the blood off your lip, clearly vexed, "You are still yourself, I see. Even as you lay here, near death, you are still joking."

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

"Just... won’t you humor me one last time?" You rasp out, feeling faint. All sensations except the gritting pain have left already. "Lend me some energy- so my body can return to what it once was..."

"Because... I, the Healer God of Mist, am alone the revered one... who holds mortality at my fingertips..." your voice breaks towards the end, but you still flash a smile of dogged arrogance, don’t you? (There is nothing but a theory borne from your feverish thoughts.)

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

He gazes at you; minutes away from the end. The god who holds no regrets, who has not one ounce of fear in their voice. (You have never been more terrified of death, for you only know how to run from it.) With a melancholy rustle of feathers, comes another soft voice, "Ever so conceited, until the very end...”, Cloud retainer murmurs into the night.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

His skin glows alight, veins illuminated on his chest and arms. His gnosis ignites for your fanatical whims. It always did. "How could I ever refuse you...?", his trembling voice, so quiet. You’re met with a familiar embrace.

‎ … ‎ ‎ ‎ “If mortals pray to gods in their time of need, who does a god pray to?”

Two drops fall to your neck, rolling away until they wet your clothes.

“No one.” His smile is soft, and voice raspy. “A god can only pray to himself... but, he may have hope in others.” ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

Your body slowly starts to dissipate into millions of droplets of condensation that scatter into the air, where the wind blows parts of you away, and away. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The soft tunes of a zither ring out into the air, permeating the atmosphere with a slow melody. An adeptus sits atop a nearby rock, her eyes downcast.

ah. ‘Ping's zither’, you sigh. ‘How kind of her.’

And he smiles through his tears.

Isn't it beautiful?

A great rolling mist dissolves into the air. With dust and ash in the air, it swirls and rises up and above. The wasted grassland is littered with thousands of droplets that shimmer like stars as the moonlight reflects off them. It is as beautiful. as it is empty.

On a night like this, Streetward rambler’s tune graces the wind, until her fingers bleed. Cloud Retainer sheds no tears, but know that she holds your memory well.

And you, Rex Lapis,

Morax,

you weep for me.

Taglist - @ainescribe || @theorchardcollective || @flos-historia || @nightrayseishina || @thesparklingwriter

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smolfog · 1 year

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Omg i ship sunset and peepacloud some much!

How did peepaclud react to sunset being preg tho?

He flooded the apartment they lived in. Then did the same thing when Sunset was preggers with the twins

#my ocs #my original characters #my original stuff #my art #digital doodles #my original character #size difference #peepaw cloud #shiloh #sunset #breezie #caramel #ask

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theology101 · 1 month

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LEAVE MY BABYGIRL ALONE

This man has been nothing but the best for his students, even if they didn’t always get it.

Let’s get something out of the gate - as a Stone Genasi and Oath of the Ancestors, if he was connected to any of the Giant Gods, it would probably be either the one tied to Fall or Spring (My money is on a Cloud Giant for spring and Stone Giant for Fall) and NOT the summer oriented Fire Giant God. It’d make more sense that his Oath of Ancestors means that he’s probably tied to the Stone over the Fire.

And this is all assuming that Porter worships a Giant God - the man isn’t even a giant. Lucy was a Genasi who followed a Giant God, that doesn’t nesacarily mean that Porter is also a Genasi following a Giant God. We don’t even know if he follows a God, it could easily just be an Elder Earth Elemental or like, Peepaw Cliffbreaker. Paladins have oaths, not gods - its just that oaths are sworn most often to Gods that they get it wrong

Anyways - Rage.

Do you think that Brennan Lee Mulligan thinks Rage is bad? Like, this id a narrative and it has a message - and that message probably is not going to end up being ‘Anger is bad.’ Because it ISNT.

Lydia has been in a rage for decades. Put that into perspective a DnD rage is meant to last Ten Rounds - 1 minute - with at most like, 4-5 uses a day. Lydia, for the safety of herself and the world, has been at it for over twenty years.

Adaine was so angry with her dad she killed him, and that moment was justified and cathartic! It was a hell yeah! And it was a moment of raw fucking rage.

“Do you have a warrant? Do you have a fucking warrant?” Gorgug my boy for the first time in your entire life you allowed yourself to get angry without self recrimination or doubt. And you know what Porter’s reaction to that was?

Pride. Absolute Pride.

“Rage is not a bad thing - Ayda… says you’re the greatest wizard of this age. And I feel LUCKY to have you in my class. You’re someone who can use that rage in a smart way but it’s not wrong to want… to fuck shit up sometimes!”

You want to know whats dangerous? What’s bad for you? Bottling up your emotions and never expressing them. Feeling terrible for what you’re feeling. Thinking your emotions are harmful intrinsically.

This is another Nightmare King circumstance. A God and their spouse were murdered, by Sol. People forget that a lot, Sol murdered Cassandra and now we learned it was a double homicide. Does this Summer God of Fire not deserve to feel angry? Is that not justified?

IT IS!

The Rat Grinders are the only followers of this Rage God. What they are is what the Rat Grinders want. As Above, so Below.

If Fig does as Porter told her to, she could restore this God just as Kristen did with Cassandra. If terror and confusion can turn into comfort in doubt, why can’t Unchecked Fury turn into justified expression of emotion?

#dimension 20 #fantasy high junior year #fantasy high #junior year spoilers #i love porter #porter the barbarian teacher #porter cliffbreaker #these kids need some healthy expression #Talk to Jawbone and he’s not going to twll you anger is the problem #jawbone will tell you that the problem is how you choose to use it and reflect the relationships of your life #If Rage was a problem then Gorgug is also a problem #thats some season 1 pre development shit #dim 20 #fantasy high junior year spoilers

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yeyinde · 2 years

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Hello :) English isn't my first language , so please correct me if anything is wrong . First of all you're writing is ABSOLUTELY AMAZING ! ! ! I don't know if you're taking requests but if you do can you please write an RZ|Michael Myers x shy reader , in which Michael comes home after a kill and finds his S/O showering and can it be smut ? But , if you don't take requests right know and you don't want to write about Michael , that's totally fine . Anyways , I hope you're having a wonderful day <3

ahhhhh, thank you so much!!!! 🖤🖤 i am absolutely taking requests, and i do write for Michael (i have been working on some peepaw Myers smut on the DL for a bit now, so my apologies if some of OG Myers mannerisms bleed in), but love all versions of MM, so thank you for giving me an excuse to flex my hand with some RZ Myers~

and sorry for the delay! i wanted to get reacquainted with RZ Myers so i spent some time watching the films again to get a better grasp on his movements, mannerisms, and the little idiosyncrasies i could spot!

i really hope you enjoy this! and - sorry, again: this kind of got away on me, and its maybe-sorta-kinda clocking in at 11K. oops. 🥹

⤷tw: gratuitous smut, fluff, mentions of gore and death, Michael being Michael, dom!Michael

You tell yourself you're not nervous, that there is nothing to be nervous about in this strange little microcosm you've fallen inside (snatched, dragged, locked in a gilded cage where you are tucked away from a world that might lash out and hurt).

No, nothing at all.

In this ethereal, otherworldly place inhabited only by two (and your cat - cats, really, because you love all of your strays equally) there is no set routine; therefore, there is nothing to be worried about since something like this could only be fretted over had you the luxury of normalcy. Of established rules. Regulation. Schedule.

It's silly to worry, then. Silly and stupid and pointless.

You're not nervous. You're not.

But the anxious knot that gnarls inside of your chest spools and thickens with each passing minute calls you a liar.

The clock in the corner ticks the time down like an augury, and your eyes bounce between it - this ugly grandfather clock with a pendulum that hangs too much like a noose for you to ever enjoy the sonorous lull - and the back door, as if in those scant microseconds, he would appear in the doorway, head hanging low to avoid clunking his forehead off the trim - because he's just so tall, just so massive -, and would just be standing there, watching you. Like he always does. Staring. Assessing.

For such an indomitable, unfathomable mountain of a man, he's surprisingly catlike.

A silent, stealthy jaguar hidden in plain sight.

(There is a predator in this picture!, your aunt shares on Facebook. Can you spot him?

You never do. You don't have an eye for locating hidden danger, and when you scroll down, spotting the cat lurking in the red circle, you realise you weren't even close.)

When you look at the back door once again, there is nothing crowding the archway. No one lingering near the basement stairs. The open hallway is empty save for your bins lined up in the small mudroom that connects to it by a set of three steps on the halfpace.

You know the layout of your house like the back of your hand, just like you know the places he likes to hide. To wait. The little enclaves barely conceal the sheer, absurd bulk of him, and they're all empty.

You hear nothing. Not the rattle of the lock. The creaking of the cellar stairs. Nor the unmistakable sound of his muffled breathing.

You're not worried. Saudade doesn't belong in your heavy chest.

Tick tick tick…

There is nothing to be worried about.

Tick tick tick…

Your gaze tears away from the door, the clock, when the familiar jingle of the local news station cuts through the tenebrous clouding your living room.

The man - clean, sharp, greying around his temples - jogs a stack of papers on the curved desk, his mouth set in a grim line.

It's been nearly a month since you've seen him last.

He comes and goes like the many strays you pluck from the alleys and take home, nursing them back to health, feeding them until they're plump and nourished, and then letting them wander back from wherever little corner they originated from, knowing that you'll see them again when the rats thin and the new litter is able enough to hunt on their own.

Scarcity is what brings your family together.

"...A series of murders are once again shaking up the county. No curfew is set as of late, but the police are urging the public not to wander at night alone, to stay in large groups, and to lock all windows and doors…"

Hunting in Haddonfield is scarce lately.

You taste copper on your tongue before your bottom lip starts smarting as your teeth break the flesh. Your tongue rolls out, smoothing over the irritated skin, and wiping away the droplets of blood that pool in the seam of your mouth. It's salty, astringent. The metallic tang makes your mind wander, drifting to him.

Like a magnet, your eyes are pulled back to the hallway.

The taste of blood reminds you of him. The thick, heady scent of rust seems to exude from every pore on his body. The burning miasma of decay. Death.

(Danger, something in the atavistic recesses of your mind spits. Danger and doom. Demise.)

"...Seven more bodies were found-," you blink, gaze focusing on the dim hallway that sits, stagnant, vacant, and turn your head back to the television. Faces flash on the screen behind his head. Their names sit in a little white rectangle below the last image of them alive, happy.

The one in the middle looks familiar. A familiar stranger.

It hits you when you spot the little mole on her chin.

The bubbly clerk at the mum'n'pop grocer on the outskirts of the city. She always pretends to ring up your tampons and pads, but each time you sit in your car and glance at the receipt, they're never there.

It's done with no words. She isn't seeking recognition, or plaudits.

The last time you saw her, she added a bag of chocolate clusters to your order, perching them on top of the box. You walked in looking like death and hunched over from the cramps that turned your face nearly ashen with pain that day. No words. No inclusion of nearly nine dollars and forty cents on your bill. She even grabbed the expensive brand - the one that uses all-natural ingredients.

She winked when you looked at her. A secretive little thing meant only for you.

And now -

You suck in a shuddering breath through clenched teeth. The temperature drops. Your teeth ache from the cold.

Sometimes you like to pretend that the world doesn't exist outside of the four walls that close in around you. That everything else is a bad dream, an illusion. It's just you on this lonely island on the outskirts of a town that bred the unequivocal evil that haunts the shadows and hunts down those misfortunate enough to stumble in its ravenous path.

Just you, him, and your cats.

And he, of course, is the shapeless chasm of evil skulking the town and butchering the lovely shopgirl who gives you free chocolate when you wander in like an omen of death.

It's not his fault.

The excuse is thin. Sorrow gnarls inside of your chest, edging into the anxious thrum that steady billows up, polluting you with that fretful, nauseating sense of worry.

You know you can't just mark down the residents that are off-limits. No such thing exists to him. The concept of unkillable is as confounding to him as this whole thing is to you.

But -

As much as you like her - liked - you've made your choice, haven't you? The sorrow is overwhelmed by the worry.

What if the police found him? What if someone hurt him? What if, what if, what if -

What if he never comes back?

This whole thing started on an ephemeral moment of happenstance. You wandered out into the alley right beside your house, pstpstpst'ing in the dark with an open bag of Temptations whilst you searched for that little stray who ran off with your socks - the cosy kind that keeps all your toes warm - when you stumbled into a wall. A warm one. Fever-hot. A hand lashed out of the caliginous recess, sealing around your arm before the gasp in your throat had a chance to pass your lips.

It felt like a vice.

The unrelenting coil of iron wrapped around your arms, squeezing the bone with such unfathomable force that your knees quaked from pain leaking into your forearm.

The bag dropped from your shaking hands, spilling shrimp and lobster flavoured cat treats all over the dank, grimy alley floor.

You couldn't see anything through the gloom or the sudden vertigo that ensnared you when you glanced up, trying to catch a glimpse of the mass of pure strength perched in front of you. Your head swam as the man's sheer length stretched on for aeons, never ending, roiling up nearly two metres tall.

Your knees buckled.

His hands gripping you was the only thing that kept you from collapsing into the murky puddle below.

Through the town, murmurs erupted about the Shape. His history leaks blood and misery - mayhem and calamity follow him wherever he wanders. He's an omen of death. Decay and pain, murder, is his auspice.

He's pure evil, the flashy doctor on the television set ground out, tone severe. His brows furrowed tightly together as everyone else around him hurtled blame and reason. He ignored them, his gaze unwavering as he stared into your very being through the monitor. Stay away from him. If you see him-, there was a hitch in his voice; and then, solemn. The silence of the newsroom was palpable: well, you'd be better off praying for a swift death.

And so, that's what you do.

"Please, please-," you don't pray to god. Gods. Your pleas are meant for him even though the black eyes that gleam in the low moonlight that hangs over you like a portant all tell you that it's futile. He doesn't listen to prayers. Your breathless orisons fall on deaf ears.

You think about your cats. The ones locked inside your house right now with no escape. Food will run low. Water. You don't have many friends that keep up with you often enough for them to notice your absence.

It's then, at that moment when his hands squeeze and your bones creak under the strain, that you wish you didn't prefer your own company over that of others. Cats. That if you weren't so docile and content to be alone, someone would notice the glaring lack of you, and rescue the poor strays you trapped inside your charnel.

"Please," you choke, eyes burning with tears that stream down your face in rivets. It's your last adjure, plea, to whatever humanity is left to rot inside of him. "P-please just open my door…? My cats are inside, and I-"

The clouds overhead split apart. The milky glow of the moon illuminates the dim alleyway, cutting through the tenebrous cloaking the being that grips you from the shadows.

The murky light makes the deep splashes on his chest look almost like ink.

You thought it was his head.

Oh, god. You'd been pleading with his chest this whole time.

You glance up, nervous, shaking, and are met with the waxen mask, creased with age and covered in grime. Blood, perhaps. The sight of him, the way the back of your head has to nearly rest on your spine to stare at his face, makes you shiver. Makes your hands tremble and your heart thunder inside of your chest.

It would be very logical for the blood in your veins to run cold.

But with the intense, piercing way he stares down at you, chin tipped toward his chest, it spumes molten, liquid heat that rushes through you with enough force that you feel a little dizzy with it.

Oh, no…

Oh -

He bends down, and the thick, metallic scent of blood overwhelms you. Dirt. Sweat. The miasma of rot makes your heart give a painful thud. Fear. Terror.

(And something else.)

His breath turns stertorous.

You brace yourself, tensing for the sudden paroxysm of a vicious attack, your mind flashing with all the things you did, didn't do, should have done, and will now never get the chance -

- He lurches, and then like a pendulum, swings back.

You're jerked forward when he falls into the trash behind him, clattering against the bins stacked up near the garbage shoot.

The silence that settles over you is smothering.

You expect him to get up, to finish what he tried to start, but he doesn't. He lays, motionless, in the gutter. His grip on your arms slackens, and they fall, limp, to his sides.

It's then that the damage to his torso reveals itself to you. The blood coating his body wasn't, entirely, foreign.

He's injured.

You hesitate.

You should leave him here to die. Call the police. Thank your sudden stroke of luck. Kiss the ground and look for some deity to worship for this salvation.

You should, but you don't.

(You've always had a soft spot for dirty strays.)

He comes and goes, now. Like the many cats you feed.

Wandering around before slowly ambling back to your house in search of more sustenance.

Somewhere in the muddled awakening, when he blinked his eyes open and found himself staring at the white popcorn ceiling in your living room, catching sight of you careful dabbing at the sweat drying on his brow after the rupture of a fever, you - and your house - become something victual for him.

It was tense, at first - and really, it still is - but in the interim of patching together the gory remnants of his abdomen and breaking down in the solitude of your bathroom, huddled in the basin as water rippled across your skin in a baptism of sin, you found purpose in the murkiness that enshrouded you.

The dubious morality nearly crippled you, leaving nothing but an empty husk of regret and terror as his skin knitted itself together, sealing over the wound that, had it been left in the trash, would have killed him. The infection, poisoned blood, animals - it would have all contributed to a corpse in the alley.

The stench would have drawn notice to his final resting place, and the reign of terror the chasm of evil, the Shape, brought to your town would finally be over.

And yet -

There was something itching in your pericardium that made leaving him alone feel tithe abysmal as the brief relief of letting him die.

This is your fault.

Your lip aches. Your tongue lolls over the broken skin, soothing the sting.

Whatever it was that made him decide not to kill you when he felt your hands on his forehead, when he saw you trembling in the corner, gasping for breath and praying for a swift end, is a mystery to you.

But maybe there is no logic. You feed the strays because you want to.

You buy the extra cat food, and litter, and spend your earned money to get them spayed and neutered and cared for, not because you have to, but because you just do.

And maybe it's the same for him.

You're somewhere in the middle of unkillable - for now - and nourishment.

Or you were.

Then something inside of him snapped, evolved.

You weren't here when he slipped inside of your home like he belonged, flinching at the state of him dripping gore in your mudroom, and then slowly, cautiously, skirting around him, fretting in the background.

You weren't there.

No -

You were at the vet.

When you returned, cat cradled under your arm and dozing off the effects of anaesthesia, you were met with an eerie silence, and bloodied footprints pacing across your floors.

You had just enough time to set the cat down on the landing when his hand lashed out through the aether once more, grabbing your delicate neck and slamming you against the wall so hard the photos you hung (all pictures bought from Ikea to make your mudroom a little less drab) clattered to the ground, cascading glass and broken wood over the messy floor.

His breath comes in great, heaving rasps; anger seeps into every crevasse as his eyes, feverish with bloodlust, bore down at you.

The apoplectic fury that roars through him is sudden, unexpected. He'd been so docile toward you thus far. Your defences lowered, almost, when weeks passed and he made no move to end your life.

He crept around your house like he belonged, watching you from the doorway of your bedroom as you slept. It was the most he'd done to shake your sense of comfort and privacy.

He never touched you, except that time in the alley and when he'd first woken up, both times grabbing you out of reflex rather than intent.

This -

This is purposeful.

The quick rise and fall of his chest makes your toes curl in confusion, fear.

Why now? Why he is -

He leans in, the wheezing breath sounding muffled and garish behind the latex, and then he -

Sniffs.

It's so unexpected, so jarring, that your head thumps against the wall when you flinch.

Why is he -

His hand reaches up, grasping at the wispy, tangled hair of his mask, and with a great tug, it's pulled from his head, and dropped - discarded - on the floor.

You've only seen him barefaced when you lugged him into the mudroom, and settled him on the carpet between your couch and coffee table. It wasn't his choice; you'd removed it in your search for additional injuries.

This, however, is all him - his choice, his decision.

And it baffles you.

You don't know why he took the mask off, why he's so angry - why he keeps coming back, why he stares at you so much, why he does what he does, why you -

You find out with the briefest flutter of his eyelids narrowing at you. His nostrils flare. And then he moves, plunging his head closer to you until your foreheads are pressed taut together, and suddenly - unexpectedly - his mouth is on yours.

He doesn't move. His lips are lax. It might not even be a kiss, you don't think, but then his head tilts, slanting his mouth over your own, and his lips part, only just, and it's then that you realise that he is kissing you.

Or in proxy of it, anyway.

He mimics the right movements, but there is no action beyond that. It's almost as if he doesn't know how people kiss, just that they do, and this is what it looks like when you stand off to the side and watch.

Movies. Real life. The images you've seen play in your head over and over again, lining up perfectly with the way his head moves, the way his body leans into you, bracketing you against the wall. His hand around your throat keeps your chin up, your head immobile, while he cocks his head to the side in a mockery of romance that's so utter endearing you nearly pass out from blood that rushes to your cheeks.

Oh, god.

Michael Myers is kissing you. He doesn't know how, but he's trying, and it's -

Oh, god. Oh -

It changes the chossy foundation established between you.

Michael stakes a claim on you, on your house, that is incomprehensible to you; this abstruse chasm in which you're precariously balanced on the precipice, gazing in at the inscrutable abyss that looks back at you, and kisses you, and pulls you close, and smothers you with the sheer absurdity of it all, is confounding. Beyond reason.

You haven't initiated any of it.

All the lines crossed between you were at his hands, his whim. When he strips you bare and looms over you like a starving breast, a ravenous god, you let him - willingly, eagerly - but you never breach those parameters on your own accord.

The abrupt physicality of your evolving - something - with Michael Myers wreaks havoc on your poor, straining heart. The embarrassment comes in a maelstrom. You skirt away from his grasping hands, gasping and flushing scarlet as the blazing heat of his body sears your skin.

It's too much sometimes.

To go from near death, to a ramshackle symbiosis of sorts - a ghastly, unspoken agreement in which you are not to be killed provided that you aid him when he comes skulking through the alley, and meandering about your haven like the very same alleycats you pluck from the barren streets -, to this, is, well, odd, to say the least.

Was it there the whole time for him? Did he look at you with his lidded gaze from the onset? Did that dark hunger spool inside of him from the beginning or were the embers flamed by something you did after?

Was it the empty house he wandered into that set him off?

(Does it really matter?)

"...If you see any suspicious figures, do not engage, and call local authorities right away-," click.

You toss the remote on the cushion beside you, leaning your head back on the rest, gazing listlessly at the ceiling. The swell of panic hasn't subsided, but it's all futile.

Michael has no collar. He comes and goes on his own, driven back to you by that strange unknowable thing that makes him desire you, that makes him tug you on his lap and paw at your body until you're quivering from his touch. When he finally sinks inside of you, all thought is dissolved into frayed synapses that spark, filled with nothing but pleasure. Logic, reason, questionable morality, the existential ennui that drapes over you like a stormcloud, only seeps into the tenebrous when he is around.

And he hasn't been around for nearly a month. So, it comes in vicious waves, now.

Maybe he found whatever he was searching for in your flesh, and didn't need it any longer. Maybe the tremble in your hands caused by his touch, the briefest brush of his skin nearly overwhelming you, and the etiolated countenance you carried when he loomed large and imposing, in your space, was disinteresting to him.

You've seen it before in the others, haven't you?

Hunger satiated. Thirst quenched. They wandered away from you, no longer needing the aliment you provided.

You should be thankful that his curiosity has been abated.

(But like most things you ought to be, you aren't.)

The only constant with Michael is a trail of bodies and the habitual sense of fear and unease as he lurks in the crevasses of Haddonfield, waiting to happen upon his next victim.

He leaves you in a state of pell-mell and uproots your bucolic existence with his confounding presence, and the strange way he fits you inside of his world.

Your thoughts are plagued by uncertainties that make your stomach churn with knots; a festering mass of unease and anxiety.

You need a distraction.

Your eyes glance furtively toward the hallway - barren as it has been for the last month - before the little sigh of dejection passes through your lips.

It's silly to worry.

With one last hopeful glance at the still empty hallway, you rise from the couch, and drift toward the washroom adjacent to your bedroom. You'll scour the nerves off under the scalding nozzle, and then watch something cheesy and stupid - a mindless movie you turn your thoughts off before falling asleep.

Peanut Purrter and Jelly swarm you when you stand, mewling for the food they already ate, and you bend down, scratching behind their soft ears. Out of all of the cats, these two are the most affectionate. They never leave your side, either. You picked them up out of a bin, took them home, and they quickly decided that the outdoor life was just not for them.

It happens sometimes.

All their wants are fulfilled in the sanctity of your four walls, and they seem content to live out the rest of their days wandering through the halls, and watching the birds from out the window, or the fish in your tank.

Jelly pushes his soft, orange head into your palm, eyes slipping shut as his loud purrs fill the hallway, and you can't stop the little thought that slips out of the recess where notions of grandeur and impossibilities are let to rot, wondering if one day, Michael will find that, too.

(And then, embarrassedly, selfishly, you wonder if it would be with you.)

You bury your flaming cheeks into Peanut's lush fur, and use her as a shield to hide the silly little thoughts that roll inside of your head late at night. She's happy to go along for the ride, content to paw at your hair and flick her tail over your arms.

"How stupid," you murmur into her fur, the flush spreading like a fever.

She bleats in response.

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The shower eases the tension that builds, settling the cortisol that pools inside of you.

Thoughts of Michael slip down the drain, but only just. He lingers in the periphery - has since you first found him in the gutter and dragged him inside - like an inescapable shadow. Your hands scrub over your face in a futile attempt to wash the blush off your cheeks.

It's easy to push the idealistic musings into the chasm that chews them up and spits out realism.

It's the worry of the unknown that refuses to relent.

Is he hurt? Did he get caught? Why hasn't he come home -

Home.

No. This isn't his home. His home is a dilapidated house in the suburbs of Haddonfield.

Your little bucolic abode on the fringes of the wilderness is not home to him: it's a refuge. A place to get his needs met and lay low.

A means to an end.

The thoughts gnarl inside of you, festering under the weight of uncertainty.

You wish you could ask him, but even if he was here, you know you wouldn't. The words sat on your lips so many times before only to be swallowed down quickly by the fear of rejection, of pushing him into a corner.

You reach for the soap and wonder where this is heading. Maybe he wouldn't return. Maybe he didn't need you anymore.

Maybe -

There is a rustle. A looming shape just outside of the blue cover. And then your curtain is wrenched back.

The startled scream is smothered in your oesophagus at the sight of him, brooding, massive. He takes up all space in your small washroom - so tall that he has to duck his head down to look at you lest his view is hindered by the curtain rod.

(Can you spot the danger? You didn't even know it was there-)

He appears almost as quickly as he disappears. His eyes never waver as he watches you huddled under the scalding spray of the shower head, hands curled between your breasts as you lather a bar of soap in your hands.

(Sea salt and eucalyptus. The loam scent reminds you of him.)

You flush, hunching further as his usually impassive stare hardens, brimming with an intensity that is only matched when he's angry or victorious after a kill.

Michael peels back the shower curtain, exposing more of your nude, wet flesh to his burning gaze.

"M-Michael-," you start, stuttering over his name, but the rest turns into a breathless huff of surprise when he pulls off his mask, and ducks under the rod keeping the curtain in place, clambering into the shower behind you.

As soon as the water hits the leg of his jumpsuit, grime and dirt bleed off of him in rivets, turning the pooling liquid black. The brackish water sloshes as he steps in beside you, looming over you.

The shower seems comically small in comparison to the length and width of him. His shoulders hunch, head dropping to avoid hitting the waterproof ceiling. You shuffle back, numb with surprise at his unexpected appearance, and with the way he moves - agile and graceful, despite his size.

He fills the space, pushing you back to the opposite wall with the nozzle directly over your head. It reaches to his sternum, the weeping spray drenching his jumpsuit until it's nearly black from the water and the dried blood that runs down the length of his torso.

It must be uncomfortable, you think, but he makes no move to undress, and seems completely unbothered by the oddity of the situation.

It's been a month. Not much has changed. He is still the same strange - deadly, dangerous - man he'd always been. Always is.

Your smile is a touch wobbly, filled with nerves of a new kind; the same anxious thrum wells inside of you at the sight of him. Your mind oscillates between terror, fear, and that primal pool of self-preservation that quickly rips through you, and bellows to stay still, to hide so that the hulking predator can't see you, can't devour you; and the unmistakable sense of relief at the sight of him standing so close to you.

He's here, your mind chants like a broken record, tone shifting like a swinging pendulum between nervousness, fear and happiness, solace.

Michael has a tendency to wring out every iota of intensity in each emotion you feel. There is no slight, no halves - it's whole. All. You're never slightly happy to see him. You're exuberant. You're never a little scared of him. You're terrified.

You've never felt this way about anyone else before. The visceral emotions he makes you feel leave your mind spiralling on a downward descent off the edge of a steep precipice.

And even now, with him towering over you like an inescapable wall of pure strength, you're wracked with tremors from the force of the relief, the conflict of fight or flight, and the undulating sense of contentment at having him so close to you.

"Michael…" you murmur again, caught between terror and need.

The slightest narrowing of his eyes is all he gives you in response. His chin dips down, meaningful, purposeful, and you know, you know, what he wants. What he came for.

Covered in blood that doesn't belong to him, fresh from the abattoir he makes of your town, you can't help the thrum of want, need, happiness that spumes inside of your chest, consuming the worry, the fear, in one quick bite.

It's gone, dissolved by hydrochloric acid and the unrelenting urge to close the chasm between you and the bulk of his body where you stand, barely brushing past the last rib of his torso. Michael knows. Of course he does.

You were naïve in the beginning when you assumed him to just be a mindless killer; that the eyes that gazed at you were vacant and unseeing.

Michael Myers is more observant than you could have ever fathomed.

Nothing escapes him.

Not the tremble in your lip, the spasms of your shaking fingers, the glistening water that runs down your flesh, already prickling with goosebumps despite the steaming heat of the shower.

He can see the need, the want, brimming up in your eyes as you gaze at him fleetingly, unable to match his stare, and overcome with that burning tang of embarrassment, shyness, that overwhelms you when he stands too close.

He can see the war in your mind:

Yearning for proximity until all you can feel is his heavy flesh on yours, merging together into a muddled mess of euphoric pleasure.

And;

The hesitation to get too close. The nervous thudding of your heart when he moves, like a scared little animal of prey stumbling upon a resting predator. Unsure what to do. How to approach. And if you even can.

It becomes too much. Your eyes drop - submissive, docile - to the white panelled floor below, watching the blood run over your feet, staining the mat pink with the gory residuum of seven - known - victims. It makes you recoil slightly, toes curling in the river of ichor.

Michael’s head tilts. Another display of impatience.

Right. Your teeth sink into the soft bed of flesh. Nerves turning to ash.

Your hands shake when you reach up, knuckles brushing over the metal chain of his zipper as your trembling fingers grasp the pull. Michael keeps his intense, heavy gaze on you as your fingers spasm, too nervous to take the lead and undress him.

Like a skittish little mouse under the paw of a cat, you tremble. Paralysed. But not with fear - with nerves.

It's been a month, you want to say. You're not prepared. You're not -

It's a lie, though. You laid in bed for the last four weeks with your hand under the covers, and his name on your lips like gospel.

If anything, you're over-prepared. All too eager to feel him. To let the boogeyman take you.

The thoughts running through you make you shiver. In your musings, Michael's head tilts.

The amplitude of his patience is deep, but not endless.

His hand reaches up, closing in your own. His palm swallows your hands with an effortless ease that makes your knees quake.

The implication in his action is clear: hurry up.

You nod, mostly to yourself and you scrounge together the nerve that is quickly being eroded by the cascading water pouring over you. The grind of the metal teeth peeling back on the zipper, the rush of the water, and Michael's deep, even breaths are the only noise that fills the small - too small - shower. The muted cacophony echoes against the ceramic walls, reverberating through you.

The zipper snags on the grove, and can go no further. You swallow thickly, eyes darting up to catch a glimpse of his expression covered under the damp, tangled curtain of his long brown hair. An inky abyss stares back at you. Under the impassivity of his expression, the vat of unfathomable black churns and froths with intense, burning fervour.

He shrugs his shoulders, and the jumpsuit slips down from the weight of the water, pooling at his ankles.

You flinch when his cock springs up, freed from the loose confinement of his overalls, and you think you catch a glimpse of his canines when he spots the bloom of blood spuming under your cheeks.

You peek up at him, stomach knotting with a flutter of nerves that batter relentlessly at your soft lining, anxious to escape the prison it's kept in. His teeth are hidden by the even seam of his lips, expression veiled with a thick veneer of that same implacable nothingness that's reflected on the latex laying dormant, forgotten, on the carpet.

When you finally meet his gaze, Michael's eyes flutter. And then he drops.

Michael sits in one swift movement, dropping down to the shower bench behind him. His knees jut forward on the seat that's far too tiny for someone so big.

Without him looming over you, you feel like you can breathe again. Quick breaths are eagerly stolen into your starved lungs. His proximity alone makes you sweat, makes you feel like you're being smothered. Hypoxia sets in until you're dizzy with it.

His hand reaches out, wrapping around your arm in that same too-tight, too firm grasp he always uses.

It would be a lie to say he doesn't know his own strength by now. Michael Myers is very aware. Very attuned to himself in a way that you don't think any other person could ever manage to be. There is no unknown with him, no indecision. No unease. When he does something, it's always with purpose.

So, when he takes hold of you like this, a shade away from burgeoning pain, you know that this, too, is done with meaning. And when your gaze drops to the floor, unable to meet the burning smoulder that stares at you, expectant, waiting, you see the purpose very clearly.

He's hard.

The moment your gaze brushes across the pearlescent precum pooling on his flushed, engorged head, his cock twitches, jerking against his broad, firm stomach.

The hot water is limitless with your tank. It'll never run out so long as the electric light keeps it burning. But the spray that grazes your skin feels icy compared to the heat thrumming in your veins. You feel hot. Feverish.

Panting into the steamy, oxygen-starved basin, you hastily snap your eyes shut, squeezing them tight to stem the sudden torrent of want that rages inside of you at the sight of him - knees spread in the perfect picture of languour, one hand on you, an effortless shackle keeping you from escaping, and the other limp by his side, knuckles brushing against the ceramic shower seat.

He's probably tilting his head in that way he's wont to do - a little dip of his chin that conveys and implacable: well? and you can almost hear the accompanying, what are you waiting for? echoing in the stifling chamber.

Your face is on fire. The embers flicker and drop sparks across your chest, spitting at the tips of your ears.

You can't -

Well. You simply can't.

But Michael doesn't understand the concept of no, of wait, of this is too much and it's been so long and he's too -

Overwhelming.

Everything is: his presence, the way his intensity feels like physical weight bearing down on you, his absurd size, his indomitable prowess and strength that sometimes makes your knees buckle and your limbs slacken in fear, his insatiable appetite -

He's hungry. Your teeth chatter from the shiver that rockets down your spine.

There is no preparation for when his hands seal around your waist, unamused by the embarrassment that overtakes you. It happens too fast for you to keep up. His muscle coil, tightening, and then you're being heaved up into the air, suspended over his lap by nothing but his brute strength.

Michael moves you around like you're a life-sized doll, filled with nothing but spooled polyester cotton. And to him, maybe you are. You're a malleable thing that flushes blood red in his presence, the hue never failing to catch his rapt attention immediately, and pique that little part of his brain that wants more. Little nips decorate your chin, neck, collarbones, chest - all a buccaneer smear of blossoming brands in the shape of his teeth; his insatiable lust for that particular cardinal shade manifesting on your flesh.

He stares at them after. Eyes fixed on the burst capillaries that pool blood just under your skin. His breath is always a little quicker when he sees them the next morning, a little raspy, ragged.

(He'll push you, then, against the wall and take you there, eyes never straying from the soot-coloured stains smearing flaxen and violet.)

There is no illusion of control with Michael. No sense of shared power or leeway. The ebb and flow begins and ends with him - his whims, his wants. You're merely adrift in the current, clinging to driftwood as his currents drag you along.

It's here, perched on top of him, in a position where - had it been anyone else, you might have considered yourself in control, where the truth of that really stands apparent.

Your knees aren't even touching the bench. They're folded up, caps pressed into the seam of the wall and Michael's hips, legs folded under your thighs, and toes dangling off the edge of his bent knees.

He holds you tight, refusing to let you go, and pulls you taut to his chest until you can go no further.

Even with you perched atop him, he has to angle his chin down to meet your gaze. Big. Towering. Mountainous. His arms flex, muscles coiling under the tawny flesh that barely contains it, and it's the jut of his veins that makes you gasp, eyes lidding as desire spools inside of you.

Sometimes you like to imagine what he would be like had he chosen a different path in life, one void of bloodshed and terror. A model, you think, delirious with the hard press of his body against yours - so fragile and delicate by comparison. He'd be lusted after by an endless stream of people desperate, like you, for just a graze.

It feels a little taboo to touch him, but you're imbued with the visceral sense of cacoethes.

Unable to stem the itch in your palms, you press them against his chest, feeling the hard plains of his body under your fingertips. His skin is warm. Chest dusted with a flaxen smattering of ulotrichous hair. It prickles against your skin when you rub your hands across his broad torso, tentatively running them up toward his collarbones.

It had taken quite a substantial amount of courage - of the liquid kind, no less - to touch him of your own accord. He seemed rather pleased when you did, when your hand reached out and felt the bulk of his forearms, so wide that there was still a finger-width of flesh poking out around your thumb and pinky. His muscles tensed under your curious prods. The first tightening of his corded arm seemed largely out of the unwonted brush of your skin on the outside of his usual demanding design. Then he relaxed. His muscles flexed, as if to show you a proper demonstration of his indelible strength.

His skin rippled. Veins bulged, pressing taut to his flesh.

The sight of it made your mouth water.

Still does, you think, eyes greedily taking in every inch of his exposed skin, the expansive flesh offered to you is irresistible. Your hands roam, free and unhindered by the usual hesitation that encapsulates you. It's the distance. The time apart has chiselled open a rapacious hunger inside of you.

Michael watches as you paw at him desperately, eyes widening, breath stuttering when his chest expands under your hands. Your palm passes over his heart, and the steady thud is almost jarring. It knocks through the haze of want that overtook you, and you find yourself almost surprised, like always, when Michael's humanity is confirmed.

He's not a husk driven by basic needs. Evil.

He has a heart - one that beats just like yours.

You pull back, your palm lifting off of his chest until just the very tops of your fingers remain on his skin.

Sometimes you convince yourself that he's a spectre. Ichor and evil are confined in the pulpy sinew of a human. A matryoshka of sorts where the exterior seems largely normal - or as normal as someone as massive as he is could ever seem - but the inside is filled with empty layers all stacked together.

Murder. Bloodlust. Mayhem.

Carnage. Death. Decay.

It muddles together in your mind and makes you think of him as a quietus. A being that does not belong in this realm where ghosts and demons and ghouls are relegated to the altar where they are condemned by a vicar. Cast out of the established spectrum in the material world that closes in on you like a noose.

The dense, solid flesh under your hands confirms corporeal nature, but everything else about him mystifies you.

A little part of you wonders if he really is a quietus prowling around in this moral plane; an escapee from the pits of hell left to wreak havoc on the world of the living to satiate that lust for calamity that brims inside of his slate-coloured gaze; the same hue as death, decay.

The same eyes that ensnare you - captivate you - rendering you mute, silent, in the echoing cacophony of the dead that bellow at you, their blood running down your drain, congealing on your toes.

(You wonder, then, what it says about you that you're willingly perched on the lap of Stygian ilk like a poised queen on a throne of skulls.

Right where you belong.)

You meet that smouldering gaze.

He's surprisingly accommodating today, you note, glancing at him through the wet veil that hides his expression from you. Your fingers twitch on his chest. You're overcome with another inadvisable whim - the urge to sink your hands into his hair and scrub the dirt away from his ashen locks is hard to ignore, but that might be pushing the limits of what he allows too far.

You dig your nails into the flaxen hair on his chest instead, grounding yourself against the silly notions brimming up inside of you.

It's in those musings over your unexpected caprice that Michael's patience wears.

His jagged nails bite into the flesh on your hips, the stinging prickle of a furze meant only as a warning. He wants something. You're taking too long. He's getting impatient.

But the thing is: you don't know what it is he wants.

Your lower lip juts out, and you sink your teeth into the plush skin. It would be easier if he spoke, telling you what it is you're doing wrong, or if he showed you what it was he wanted. But it's futile.

He does neither. Michael gave you a warning, and now he waits.

The nervous gnashing in your chest grows under the intensity of his stare. His eyes narrow just a touch, fixed on the pink slip of your appendage poking out. He's so focused on it, that you feel like you can breathe a little better without the weight of his gaze penetrating into your being. Eye contact with Michael Myers fills you with the maddening urge to roll over and show your soft belly, to bare your vulnerable neck in submission.

Your tongue flicks up, swiping across your upper lip. His eyes follow it.

You do it again. Again -

Just as you're beginning to catch on to what he wants, he tires of the little game you're (unintentionally) playing.

To him, you're toying with him. Holding up a piece of meat and dangling it in front of his maw.

You flush, stuttering out a simpering apology, but Michael cares very little for the placating words you attempt to persuade him with. The burn of his unyielding grip burrows into you again, and it's the only warning he gives before he wrenches you forward, pulling you until your breasts are flush with his chest.

He devours the broken gasp of his name that stumbles from your lips, feasting on you like a starving beast.

Michael is a quick learner. Almost as soon as you opened your mouth, moulding your lips against his, he picked up the finesse behind the action, and consumed you. He doesn't let you take control of the kiss - once he learnt the little things that make you pant into his mouth, moan brokenly against his tongue, his hunger grew. His kisses leave you breathless in a way no one else has ever managed.

Like most things in your life before Michael, kissing was always just okay. A prelude. A chore.

And now you whine against his lips as his tongue lashes out, filling your mouth in search of more of your taste.

It's good, now. Great. Amazing. An explosive sensation of searing heat, and kiss bruised lips. You pull away, gasping for air, and feel the sting on your mouth from the force of his ardour.

Lidded, hazy with want, you pull yourself closer to him, whimpering when his cock presses into your navel, smearing precum across your wet skin.

It's been a month. A month of nothing. The scent of him left your pillows weeks ago, and your imagination was barely enough to quell the rapacious ache inside of you that longed for the firm, unyielding press of his body over yours.

And now, he's here. He's yours for the taking.

Your fingers itch again - the urge to touch is strong. Consuming.

But you don't. You flush a deep maroon, tipping your chin away from his gaze, and rock against his lap, seeking a quiet, unnoticeable pleasure.

He's too much.

You can't ever bring yourself to give into the greediness inside of you, and instead take what little you can get away with. The idea of just -

Taking feels a little too sacrilegious. A little too bold. It's not in your nature to do so, and the idea of testing those implicit boundaries with Michael is a little too daunting.

So, you cant your hips against him, squirming in his lap to abate the ache growing inside of you with what little motions he'll allow as Michael nips down the column of your throat. His mouth on his skin, teeth burrowed into your pulse point, the thick length of him so close to where you want him, need him, is too much.

He catches the bloom of red under your skin when you blush, feels the stutter of your breath as it crawls up your throat. The want in your voice, the need, is palpable when you choke out his name. A soft, meek little thing: the coo of prey, begging so prettily for reprieve.

Michael buries his chin into the curve of your neck, forcing your head back. His hands slide, bracing over the delicate vertebrates of your spine. They're almost fluid in his hand. The bones in your body are as easy as papier-mâché for him to snap. To break. He could ruin you. Sink his canines into your jugular and tear out your flesh, letting you bleed to death in his lap. He could keep the sensual arch of your back going, pushing and pushing until he snapped you in half. You're so -

Fragile.

His cock twitches against you, spitting prespend over your belly. His cock burns hotter than a brand, molten against your skin.

Michael's arms tighten around you, fingers digging into the knobs of your spine. Panic wells inside of you. He's going to do it - snap you in two -

-and Michael -

-picks you up effortlessly once again, and holds you over his aching cock.

There is no foreplay tonight. He won't slide his hand between your soft thighs to feel how wet you are for him, fingers toying with your slickness until you moan out his name in that particular cadence he likes best. He won't drag them up, making you see them glistening with your desire. Forcing you to acknowledge your want for him, to see it glimmering on his hand. Evidentiary proof that your body yearns for him. That you belong to him.

He won't because he's impatient, now. Your wiggling, the little gasps of his name, the way you cling to him and fit in his lap, have all worn his patience down to nothing.

(To Michael, he's had nearly a month of edging, foreplay, with each of his kills that left him half-hard and aching, and on the verge of wandering back to your familiar abode to satiate the burn in his loins.)

He'll take you like this.

And maybe later, when he wakes in the middle of the night with you slumbering peacefully beside him, in the spot you belong, he'll slip under the covers and spread your aching thighs apart, rousing you to the sensation of his mouth devouring you, tongue greedily lapping at your centre until you're a quivering mess, begging him for respite that'll never come. Not when he hasn't had you in nearly a month.

This is only an appetiser.

You know this by the darkening glaze in his eyes as he pulls you close, grasping you tight, until the flushed head of his cock slips between your thighs. Shuddering from the way the blunt tip presses against you, you scramble to find purchase as he steadily lowers you down. His cock slips inside, stretching you wide to make room for the rest of him.

Michael doesn't do things in halves.

There is the slightest hitch to his breath once the first inch passes, bringing tears to your eyes at the burning stretch of him filling you. Once he's found his mark, he leans his head down, nuzzling into your neck.

You know what's coming. You know -

But there is no time to prepare yourself for the suddenness of being split apart while his teeth sink into the soft flesh of your neck.

A shrill cry is ripped from your throat when he bludgeons into you, the head of his cock battering into your cervix in a way that has you seeing phosphenes with your eyes wide open. Your toes curl, fingers dig into the flesh of his broad shoulders, body spasming with the sudden paroxysm of him being seated so deep within you.

His jaw is vice on your neck, and for a moment you fear that he's going to pull away with a chunk of your flesh, but it's gone when his teeth go slack, and his tongue runs out with rapacious greed to lick up the fresh blood that spills down your chest in pink rivets.

You sob, quaking from the suddenness of it all, and try to abate the hypoxia from inking out your vision. The abruptness, the pain of the bite, the burn of the stretch, all knocked the air from your lungs, and you struggle to come to yourself through the overwhelming sensations he ripped through you.

It's a mercy that he stays still, letting you adjust to his girth as he laps at the blood he spilt, nipping at your broken flesh. Michael is big. You barely had time to marvel at the size of him before his urgency to fill you became too much, but you feel it now with incredible clarity.

It pushes to the very edge of your mettle, teasing the resiliency of your body until you feel like you're on the verge of splitting apart. Broken, irreparably, by the thickness seated to the deepest depths inside of you. You shift, wincing at the way his cock moves when you do, the base of him stretching you in a way that has you heaving brokenly into his chest.

It aches. He feels endless. You pry your fingers from his shoulders, only slightly remorseful at the sight of four indents cutting through his flesh, and drop your hand down to your stomach. More than a little delirious on that white-hot pain, you almost think you can feel his cock through the layers of tissue, pressing against the skin of your abdomen.

"Michael-," you sob, head spooling with the thick haze of pleasure-pain that ricochets down your spine.

He knows what you want. What you need. He always does, and while he might be a right bastard when it comes to giving it to you when you want it, he never leaves you dissatisfied. But this - the watery stream of blood leaking over your collarbones, dripping down your breasts, is what he cares for most, and so -

You'll wait.

You pant. Squirming on the throne of his lap in a desperate attempt to find that spot inside of you that makes you see an array of refulgent nebulae behind your eyelids.

Your walls tremble, body shaking, but slowly, slowly, the ache inside begins to spool, coiling into something different. Numbed pleasure seeps out of the place he's nudged, seated so firmly against, and begins to leak into your bloodstream.

The first, quiet gasp that's ripped from your chest verges on absolute bliss. It's a call. A beacon.

And Michael answers.

Michael plants his feet firmly on the floor, and you feel the flex, the coil, of his strong hamstrings pull taut. Too busy admiring the strength in his body, you fail to recognise the signs. His hips jerk suddenly, pushing upward with enough force to jostle you. You gasp, slipping on his hard, wet skin, and slamming into his chest. Your hands reach up, holding onto his shoulders as Michael begins to move under you - the prowess of a tiger, a caiman, pure muscle barely contained by the prison of its flesh.

He doesn't wait for you.

All you can do is cling to him desperately, eagerly seeking purchase from the deep, demanding thrusts he batters into your body from below.

His mouth is on yours again, swallowing the hiccuping moans you make, the keens, as he pistons into you. The pace he sets is rough, a touch brutal: he forces himself in as deep as he can go, pauses there just to let you feel it, and then pulls out until only the tip of his cock remains, and he waits again. It's a brief second, but they come so sporadically that you can't work out a pattern, not when the firm press of his cock inside of you knocks all logic out of your head.

Synapses overheat with each delicious drag of his cock against your gummy walls until they misfire, filling with a slurry of oxytocin and dopamine, rendering you stupid, dizzy, and drunk on the thickness of him, the way he fills you, and slams into the places inside that make your nucleus accumbens coruscate like a supernova.

His hands clench around your hips, lifting you up off of his aching, hard cock, and forcing you to meet him in the middle of his next thrust. It rattles through your core until your voice is hoarse from the cries he rips out of you. It borders on the blissful equinox of being too much, too painful, and too good, too euphoric.

All you can do is cling to him. Let him move you around how he pleases.

His breath quickens in tandem with your mewling sobs, head nuzzling into your chest when he lifts you up, and he pants into your wet flesh, head cushioned by pillowing softness of your breasts.

The flesh is much too unblemished for his liking.

His teeth sink into the soft underside of your breast, leaving behind a ring in the shape of his teeth that has your walls fluttering around him, squeezing him tight as the sudden burst of pain is perfectly complemented by the brutal pleasure he forces into you, head battering harshly into the gummy walls that have you singing his name in adulations.

The sweet sounds you make spurn him on. The brands he decorates on your flesh split and bleeds as he trails his mouth through the valley of your breasts.

His molten mouth seals over your aching, hard nipple, and pleasure whites out that place inside your head that worries. Your hand snaps up, burrowing in the messy tangle of his locks, pushing his mouth firmly into your chest, unwilling to let the way his tongue feels rolling over your buds go. He's sadistic, you think, fringing on utter delirium. He'll let go. You know he will.

His body rumbles with a growl when you tug on his hair, forcing his mouth to stay latched onto you. It vibrates over your sensitive flesh and makes you paw at his chest when the pleasure liquifies, roaring through your core until you can taste the cosmos on your tongue.

It's not a warning. You know this because his mouth turns harsh, ravenous. He brutally fucks into you, pulling your body down to meet him with each thrust until you're howling his name so loud that you're sure the police department can hear your echoing cries rattling through the city.

Your body dissolves in his hold, limbs turning phospholipid. The only thing keeping you together is his burning hands on your flesh as he moulds you in the ways he wants, bouncing you on his lap as molten pleasure courses through you.

The coil tightens. Michael pulls away from your nipple, pushing his head between the valley of them, and pants into your sternum. The deep, haggard breaths he takes has you shuddering over him, so close now that you can feel it spreading liquid bliss through your body, pooling in the pit of your belly.

Pleasure congeals in your marrow, and all at once you're on that precipice, careening over as you cum on his cock, sweet hymns falling from your lips as Michael's cock bludgeons deep inside of you.

His hips shift, canting into you in a thrust that feels distinctly weakened, lax, compared to the others, and it's then that you hear it. A little grumble in the pit of his chest. He batters inside of you in quick succession, hands gripping you tight enough that you wonder, vaguely, drunk on the feel of his cock spearing into you, if he'll break your ribs before he finishes.

In the muted slurry of your mind, you have the wherewithal only to glance up at him through your wet lashes when another rumble reverberates through your being.

And really -

It's enough to send you careening over that precipice once more.

His eyes flutter, full lashes dusting over his ruddy, wet cheeks. His chin tips back, jaw clenching to bite back the groan you feel ripple through his chest. You stare, mesmerised as his Adam's apple bobs. His fingers squeeze you tight, pushing your hips down on his lap as he struggles to fill you with every last millimetre of himself.

Michael holds you steady, powerful thighs flexing under you, and then he lifts his hips, bludgeoning into you with enough force that you cry out his name, eyes widening at the deep pleasure, the burn of the stretch, the too-full feeling of him forcing his cock as deep as it will go. He jerks once, twice, and it knocks the air from your heaving lungs. Liquid heat fills you as he spills himself inside of you, and you mewl at the feeling of being too full. It's too much. Your eyes roll back as he grinds his cock inside of you, chasing the frayed ends of that intoxicating cudgel of pleasure that ripples through the two of you.

Your spine is liquified. Body dissolves with the spray of the shower that patters across your back.

You slump in his grasp, falling against his heaving chest.

It's too humid. Too hot inside the shower, but your legs are mush, bones brittle and charred from the surge of electrifying pleasure that lacerates through your being. You can't move. Won't. You gasp wetly into his chest as the deluge of bliss spools inside of your veins.

You blink, then, dazed.

When Michael fucks you, it always ends up feeling like a battle. Like you rolled out of the combat zone, battered and bruised, aching in ways that sex shouldn't make you feel.

But it's good. So good.

He's ruined you. Now, forever. You don't think you can live without the feelings he wrings from your being - the white-hot pleasure that rockets down your spine until you're screaming hymns in his name.

It's the sensation of a freefall of a vertiginous precipice, and the unrelenting waves of panic that envelops you as you spiral downward toward an unseen end. What lay at the bottom is hidden by the murky abyss that spools inside of your mind whenever he's close, chasing out all logic and thought, all reason, until you're putty in his hands.

You slump in his lap, sucking in desperate gasps of balmy air as your body reassembles; atoms fusing, molecules merging until you're flesh and bone once more.

You can't speak. Your throat aches, ripped raw with the force of your cries, but you whimper out just to confirm that you are, in fact, alive; that his intensity, the brutal way he fucked you, didn't send you into the heavens. It's a coo drenched in repose. A satiated sound. Lax and languid.

Sagging into his chest, your limbs melt. Bones turning once more into putty. Reassumebed just to dissolve in his hold once again as the electrifying aftershocks of the post-orgasmic haze thicken in the spiralling slurry of your mind.

Your head nuzzles into his chest. Another sigh passes your stinging lips, ghosting over the thick expanse of his chest.

You could sleep like this.

Tired eyes smeared with the residuum of many sleepless nights blink, wet, sticky lashes fluttering over his skin. It's a struggle to stay within the confines of reality. Your mind slips, easing into that metaphysical place where nothing except these four walls and the solid bracket of his body exist. The world fades into the aether. Forgotten. Discarded. Nothing matters but you and Michael.

Under your temple, his chest rumbles with another sound that makes you keen in response. The modern synapses have faded into ashes, leaving nothing behind but pure primalism.

And when your predator calls for you, you answer.

It's the only affirmation he needs. His arms close around you, locking behind the soft curve of your ass. The movement makes you purr into his chest. The coarse dusting of hair tickles your nose.

You're slipping, slipping -

And then Michael stands. Abrupt. Purposeful.

You squeak at the sudden movement, eyes snapping open, and dizzy vertigo overtakes you as your weight drops into the solid plinth of his arms.

Michael's breath ghosts across the shell of your ear in something that might be almost mirthful, humourous, had you not known him.

A burning flush singes the apples of your cheeks and the skin of your chest when he moves, and the motion jostles him - his cock still deep inside you.

"M-Michael-," your whimper ends in a gasp as his spent cock twitches inside of you at the sweet way you mewl his name. "You-"

He ignores you, stepping out of the shower without even bothering to turn it off.

He makes no move to grab at the fluffy towels you keep in the closet by the sink, nor does he seem bothered by the puddle of water each footstep leaves behind. You shiver when the cool air grazes across your wet skin, burrowing your head deeper into his neck, greedily seeking the warmth that seems neverending with him.

In half the steps it usually takes you, he arrives at your bedroom, slipping inside with ease that warms your chest. You know he isn't the type to dawdle or worry about preamble, but the familiarity and comfort in which he moves inside your space, your home, fill you with the threads of contentment, happiness. You hide your blossoming grin, this silly little thing that tugs at the corners of your lips, into his flesh, and breathe in the loam scent that still clings to him. The heady musk of ozone and humus that is so uniquely Michael it makes your heart flutter.

When the squall of that mushy affection recedes and your face isn't making the most outrageously gooey expression, you pull back, glancing up at him.

You'll dry off, dress, and slip beneath the sheets with him beside you, finally getting the rest that evaded you for nearly a month. You wriggle in his grasp, straightening yourself for when your feet meet the ground.

But it doesn't happen.

Soaking wet, he stands at the end of your bed, and then turns on his heel, dropping down with you still perched in his lap. You gasp, jerking upright, but he doesn't let you go.

In a fluid motion that leaves you reeling at the absurd agility of a man so damn big, he tightens his arms around you and shuffles on the bed until his head is under the pillow. He sinks into the mattress, unbothered by the way the bedding sticks to your skin, and the growing wetness under his back.

The deep heave of his chest as he exhales in something that can only be utter contentment quickly dissolves the protest that pools on your tongue. They stick to the roof of your mouth before being swallowed down when his arms wind around you, closing out the modicum of distance that separates you as two beings. He tucks you under his chin, securing you to his body.

You barely surpass sixty percent of his overall body weight, and the fact quells the little fear inside of you, the one digs in deep and says, oh no, you're going to crush him. Michael seems more than content to use you as a weighted blanket, his body lying supine on the bed that feels much cosier with him in it.

Weeks of fretting over his safety are dulled under the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and the feverish heat of him that seeps into your marrow, making you repose in the unintentional succour his arms bring you when they wind around your back, locking you against his chest.

There is no escape from the prison of his arms.

This gilded cage sometimes feels too overwhelming, too stifling, too much, but he wasn't the one who locked you inside. You shut the doors of your accord and handed him the key - free to come and go as you tended to your plumage and your strays.

All thoughts and fears are adrift in the somnolent haze that fills the anxious flurry of your mind. Who cares about the linen? About morality and the consequences of lying with a devil. Does any of it matter when his arms around you feel like home.

You nuzzle your cheek into the coarse hair on his chest, pressing your ear against the steady beat of his heart. Your pericardium pickles. Ataraxia floods your being.

"Welcome home," you murmur.

And under you, Michael sighs.

#Michael Myers #RZ Myers #Rob Zombie Michael Myers #slashers #smut #requests #michael myers x reader #michael myers x you #rz halloween #rz michael myers #rz michael myers x reader #rz Michael Myers x you #slasher x you #slasher fic

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phoenix-is-the-hottest-thing · 1 year

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I hope expys go better this time since its between Honkai titles (and ye i know they're connected thru peepaw but it still kind of feels like a mistake to make it a Honkai title, but that's besides the point), but considering we got drama day one with Bronya and Seele I don't have high hopes and kinda dont want em. But.

If we ever get a Hua expy. I think itd be funny if she got to murder Yanqing's parents again. As a treat.

I don't really understand what you mean by drama day one ?-? HSR BronSeele was a really strong storyline to me, they nailed the enemies to lovers speedrun considering that you have to play the third wheel for most of it. It was very sweet and it makes me super happy for them to find each other in every universe. Go lesbians go

Personally I treat these "expies" the same way I'd treat Bronie or Kasumi, they're basically bubble universe alts. It's pretty different from Genshin's expies honestly? They feel much truer to the spirit of the original storylines they're from— Bronya Rand's character is very different but her growing up this way when raised in a strict environment by Cocolia is believable, plus she still has some of the same values (protecting her family and friends). She also obviously dodged the massive trauma Bronya Zaychik goes through so it makes sense for her to have developed differently.

Regarding Seele, it might seem strange for such a soft-spoken character to be Like That, but if you look at the Firemoth DLC of ggz (Hi3 isn't the first Honkai series game remember?) she did the exact same thing, putting up a strong front due to desperate conditions— HSR Seele is most likely an homage to this version of her, down to the designs being very similar.

AS FOR HUA...

Hua is the Marshal of Xianzhou's Cloud Knights, so we're definitely meeting her eventually. When? No clue. But eventually. Totally doable that she murdered Yanqing's parents again hahaha.

Sushang and her mother Suyi are also in the game (the former is playable, the latter is mentioned in Sushang's stories) so I expect we'll see all seven disciples. Plus Luocha is the Seven Swords version of Otto, obviously, so it'd make sense for the whole cast to show up. Wonder if they'd also bring in more minor characters like Eagle though. Or Ma Feima's horse, Erebus... x)

#asks #hsr #hi3 #honkai impact #honkai star rail

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mushangaa · 6 months

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Hanging Tree

2023/11 (full view)

"Are you, are you comin' to the tree? Where they strung up a man, they say, who murdered three Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be If we met at midnight in the hanging tree" F!Leo and his horse Comet.

Just... I listened to the song from Hunger Games and got hit in the face with this image so I drew this almost in one go in one day expect for some details and colour corrections today. Peepaw is not well before he goes into the past TM. Comet tries her best. Comet is a Percheron bc I figured a tall Leo needs a strong big horse. Next to the youngsters and their horses both are huge.

I tried some different approaches with the colouring and which media to use first because I used inks, copics and watercolour pencils in this one and there have been some mishaps because I keep forgetting how much the coloured pencils seal off the paper if used first so those are definitely going to be the last step of any process if used. (comet has actually some blue shading via coloured pencils but the scanner ate those lol) But all in all I got out what I saw in my mind so I am very pleased. I could've worked some more details into the hazy background, make the clouds more apparent but the vagueness actually works well for the image as it is more a symbolic thing.

On that note, while the image is meant more symbolic for the struggles and grief Leo is going through if there are any concerns on trigger warnings I should put in the tags for this one please let me know because idk if it is warranted because of the noose around Leos neck? But yah, let me be clear, this is more about grief than anything.

#havethetouchart #artists of tumblr #the unicorn paradox #traditional art #inks #copic markers #watercolour pencils #rottmnt AU #tmnt iteration #teenage mutant ninja turtles #cowboy F!leo #rottmnt Leonardo #art #havethetouch #the flower comet is holding is hyacinth just fyi it is hard to tell i know #the unicorn paradox illustrations

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onedaughterofman · 1 year

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Writing Sessions #9 (Papa Primo x g/n reader)

Summary: Soft morning sex with Peepaw. If Im not wrong @justagenderfluidstuff had asked for some soft peepaw.

Warnings/tags: +18, adult content. Soft sex, oral sex, handjobs, cum eating (maybe idk). Old peepaw.

A/N: I wrote this on the train. People around me. My poker face didn't fail. Pic is from Pinterest.

The soft morning sun sweeps in through the thick curtains. It's early, probably way too early to be doing something like this, but you don't necessarily care. Your eyes scan around the room, from the beautiful pieces of art on the shelves to the old wallpaper, passing by the various plants that hang from the roof and overflow their pots.

Up and down, your wrist lazily moves. You work on him slowly, barely any strength behind your muscles. Laying in bed, comfortable next to his legs, you observe the way Primo's stomach rises and falls with every breath, as he gradually comes out of his sleep.

When he finally does, his mismatched eyes fall on you, gaze still clouded with peaceful bliss.

"Tesoro," he calls and his voice is a deep rumble. "What are you doing?"

"Surprising you,"you mumble back, cheek resting on his thigh. "Do you like it?"

"Si, I do. Very much."

Pleased, you snuggle harder onto him, wrist picking up the rhythm. The smile on your face only grows bigger when his hand comes to rest over your head, a tender gesture that still makes you tremble inside. To have a man like him, someome so powerful and even cruel surrendered at your palm it's exciting, delightful.

You know Primo, his status in the Ministry, his reputation. He's made Siblings and Ghouls fall to their knees with a flick of his wrist and a stare from his eyes but, Hell, Primo says he's tender when he wants to be and he wants to be tender with you.

"If we are going to do this, let me just..."

"It's already on the bedside table," you hurry to reply. "I prepared it for you."

The taste of herbs is bitter on his tongue when he leans in to kiss you on your open mouth. You recognize the medicine and aphrodisiac, already yearning for it to make full effect.

When Primo lays down on the pillows, you go back to lazily work on him, eyes nothing but two dark pools of lust and desire. His mismatched gaze is like yours, white eye casting a faint glow on the gloomy room.

As the minutes pass, your mouth replaces the hand, pressing kisses and small licks on him. You hear Primo grunt, before his palm falls on your head, softly guiding you down to take him.

You do. This is for him, after all. All for him.

"Tesoro," he whispers, when your nose presses on his skin, swallowing him whole. "I want you to ride me."

Inch by inch, you let go. There's spit on your chin and he wips it with his thumb. "Are you sure?"

"Only a fool wouldn't want that."

Climbing on his lap is a second nature already, just like slowly lowering your hips to meet his. Primo lets out a low moan, fingers curling on your waist. "Slow," he doesn't say, but you already know it.

Your hips begin to roll, in a soft pace. Riding him, you can perfectly see the blissful expression on his face, the cloudy gaze and the heaving chest. Primo's hair falls on the pillows, a mix of silver and gold glistening under the morning sunlight. He may not be as young as he used to be, but by the power of Satan or sheer will alone he knows just what buttons to touch, what places to hit to make you see stars.

And so, you ride him and he allows you to mark the rhythm, to do as you please. He grunts and pants, moaning out compliments and sweet talking you.

When his orgasm grows closer, his fingers move between your legs to help you reach yours too. Even if you want his pleasure to come first, he won't let it happen. He won't be satisfied until you are a trembling mess, uncontrollably clenching around his cock.

As always, you come for him and he comes for you, holding your body closer. You carefully fall next to him, snuggling to his side as he catches his breath. His warm cum drips down your thighs, before his fingers collect it and push it back inside.

Drunk on love and high on sex, you lick them clean. The salty aftertaste of it coats your tongue, and you make a show out of it, moaning around his fingers. There's pure adoration on Primo's gaze.

"Are you up for another?" You ask, face hiding on his neck.

"In a few minutes," he replies, voice full of air. "This was a good surprise."

"Im glad you liked it," you add, content. "Happy birthday, my Papa."

Ps: I had to research Viagra at 8 am for this.

#papa emeritus i #papa emeritus x reader #papa primo #papa emeritus i x reader #the band ghost #ghost band fanfic #Idk #My writing #My fics #writing sessions

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