#slasher x reading | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

deakyjoe · 6 months

Text

Every Breath You Take

Pairing: Michael Myers x Reader (afab but no pronouns used I don’t think)

Category: stalker romance (??), smut (!!)

Summary: It shouldn’t exhilarate you so much knowing a serial killer was stalking you. But you just can’t help yourself.

Warnings: 18+ only, smut, unprotected p in v sex (wrap it before you tap it), vaginal fingering, dry humping, biting, licking, creampie, overstimulation, motorboating, pain as pleasure, slight voyeurism/exhibitionism, choking, scent kink, multiple orgasms, nipple play, over the clothes handjob, under the clothes handjob, slight dubcon (only because Michael doesn’t talk but I tried to make it as clear as possible that they just want to fuck each other), stalking, mentions of injuries and blood, mentions of murder, breaking and entering, morally questionable reader, mask is on and off, lights stay off during sex, virgin Michael, a little dark I guess (??)

Word count: 6.4k

A/N: For those who love masked men (aka me). For those who want to fuck slashers (aka me). For those who love the quiet type (aka me). For those who love a tall man (aka me). For those who love a strong man (aka me). I wrote this for me basically. I don’t think there’s much of an audience for Michael Myers fics within my followers but hopefully it reaches the right side of Tumblr :)

Consider buying me a coffee :)

It was probably disgusting how much it excited you knowing he watched you every day.

He'd stand in your back yard each night, totally still, and just look through your windows for hours. And then, when he was satisfied you assumed, he'd leave. But he always came right back the next day at the same time.

When you'd first noticed him, you'd been terrified. Naturally. You knew exactly who he was, you watched the news and heard stories. And the white mask and blue coveralls were unmistakable. You'd seen him through your window and locked all of the doors immediately. Then you waited. Patiently.

You didn't know what you were waiting for. Him to kill you... or to defend yourself. Your chances of survival were slim, he was inhumanly strong from what you'd heard. But you clutched a knife in your hand nonetheless, mirroring him in a strange way, in case you did suddenly have to fight him off.

Luckily, it never came down to that dilemma as he left a couple of hours later without even a step closer to your back door. You blinked and he was gone.

He came back the next night and did the same thing. And then the next night. And the next. And the next. Until it became a ritual.

You went about your evening and he watched. You always wondered whether he watched you during the day as well but you'd never noticed him. You also wondered what it was about you that didn't make him murder you straight away.

You were older than his usual victims, sure. And he supposedly liked to commit most of his crimes whilst his victims were in the middle of sexual acts and you didn't tend to have many visitors over. But then what was making him fixate on you?

You just couldn't figure it out.

It got to a point where you were less scared of him and more intrigued. Having him stand and stare was getting boring, you wanted to know why. No. You craved knowing why. But you couldn't ask him. You'd heard he wasn't fond of talking.

So what were you supposed to do? Just let it carry on? That was your only choice.

But things changed one evening.

When he appeared something didn't seem quite right. For one, he was seven minutes later than usual. And his left shoulder slumped forward with all of his weight placed onto his right leg.

He was injured.

And you couldn't help but feel bad for him.

So, like an insane person, you unlocked your door and opened it for him.

As you stood in the doorway staring at him, you noticed him straighten up. As if he were surprised. But you knew the man didn't show emotions, much less any that would display him being caught off guard in any way. So you put it down as your imagination or a trick of the moonlight.

But you left your door open. An invitation. Like he needed one of those.

He didn't move so you left the doorway and went to retrieve your first aid kit from the cabinet above the sink. And by the time you'd found it and turned back around, Michael Myers was standing about a foot into your kitchen.

You stared at him for a second, unsure of the emotions turning in your stomach. "Close the door. It's cold outside."

You really didn't know if you could afford to be giving him orders but considering he hadn't murdered you in the months he'd been watching you, you thought that you were probably safe until you'd at least bandaged up whatever wounds hid beneath the blue jumpsuit.

Not sticking around to see if he did it, you walked to your lounge and put a lamp on. His footsteps were silent so you kept an eye on the archway where he'd emerge from the kitchen. Which he did a few seconds later.

"Sit on the couch."

Surprisingly, he did as he was told. But you thought you might be pushing your luck so you stopped telling him to do things.

As he sat down, not relaxed in the slightest with the best posture you'd ever seen, you realised that getting a wounded man to sit on your nice furniture was probably a bad idea. What if he got blood everywhere? Too late now. You weren't going to ask him to move.

You moved towards him slowly, trying not to spook him. He still had a knife clutched in his hand after all. It was bloodstained. You ignored it.

Michael watched you closely, his head didn't move but you could feel his gaze through the dark eyeholes of the mask. It didn't escape your notice that he was still extremely tall even when sat down.

"What's hurt?"

It was a stupid question, you could see where blood was seeping through his clothes and the slashes in the fabric was clear. But given your very recent history of poor choices, an obvious question seemed like the least of your worries.

He didn't respond anyway. No finger point, no head tilt, no shrug. Not a single inch of his body moved apart from his chest from his breathing. If you couldn't see his inhales and exhales then you'd think he was some sort of dummy or mannequin.

"Have you got a shirt on underneath the jumpsuit?"

Why were you still asking questions?

He still said nothing, which you expected, but he did raise a hand to pop the first couple buttons open to reveal a grey t-shirt under the blue coveralls.

You sighed and nodded. "Um, you're going to need to- to undo a few more buttons. So I can get to your shoulder."

The blood stain was getting bigger and staining his clothes a deep purple.

He tilted his head to the side at you, the most emotion he'd shown so far. But he did as he was told again and then pushed the suit down his arms so it lowered to his waist. You didn't fail to notice how the grey t-shirt clung to him nicely, maybe a size or two too small, and displayed every inch of rippling muscle that covered him. Explained his inhuman strength.

You took a few supplies from the kit and started cleaning up the injury on his shoulder, careful to avoid staring at how his sleeve stretched against his bicep.

When you noticed him staring at you from the corner of your eye, you cleared your throat and pulled away again to distract yourself with looking for other injuries. Which was a fine idea until you realised that blood was dripping from beneath the rubber that adorned his face.

You went to lift the edge of the mask, no intention of taking it off, but his large hands gripped your wrists before you even had the chance. The knife was suddenly forgotten on the cushion of the couch.

You gasped in pain, his hold was tight, but didn't pull away. Trying your hardest to meet his eyes as best you could, you attempted to explain. "I'm not going to take it off but I need to get to your neck. You're bleeding. Lift the mask to your chin and hold it there so I can clean your neck."

There were a few tense moments of heavy breathing from him before he let go and did as you said. He was too agreeable, very out of character from all of the stories you'd heard about him. Were people wrong? Or was he acting differently than usual? How were you supposed to know?

You shook the thoughts from your head and got on with cleaning him up. You couldn't find the source of the blood so assumed it must've been coming from higher up on his face. But you weren't going to ask him to lift the mask anymore. You were a risk taker, if the night was any indication of that, but you didn't have a death wish. Mostly.

"Done." You mumbled and stepped back a few paces, looking down to clean away all of your supplies.

By the time you looked up he was standing again fully clothed.

"You going to kill me now finally?" There was a hint of laughter in your voice. If he did you wouldn't blame him. You probably deserved it after inviting a serial killer into your home and treating him like his own personal nurse.

He didn't respond, just turned and left the room. And by the time you got to the kitchen to follow him out, he was gone and the back door was shut and locked like he'd never even been there.

"See you tomorrow night then." You grumbled to yourself, assuming he'd return as he usually did.

And he did.

Uninjured this time. To your relief and, honestly, slight disappointment. There was really something very wrong with you.

But the routine returned to normal. Michael Myers would appear in your back yard every night at the same time and watch you for hours with no sign of even attempting to enter your house to murder you. And he'd leave when he was done watching whatever he sought out from you.

The initial thrill you'd had knowing he liked watching you had disappeared quickly after you'd realised there was less danger than you'd expected. And the fact that you could get so much closer to him was more exciting than anything else.

The idea of him being inside your house again played on your mind constantly, rolling around in there as regularly as a forbidden fantasy. And maybe it was. But surely you weren't fantasising about Michael Myers... right?

Perhaps the memory of his muscles and his height, just his sheer size even, plagued your brain way more often than was considered normal. The thought that he could probably just snap you in two with his large hands and impossible strength if he chose to, how easy it would be for him to break in and end your life on his will. But he chose not to.

That set your nerves alight.

So you turned your nights into a staring contest.

He'd stand in your back yard and stare into your window. You'd stand in your kitchen and stare out of your window.

And you slowly got more daring. You began to retire to bed earlier, going upstairs to your bedroom and changing right in his direct view. It was one of the few times he moved, tilting his head up slightly to see you better through the mask.

You didn't give him a full show, knowing it probably wasn't what he wanted. He liked to kill "promiscuous" people after all. But it was enough to give him an idea, a way to tease him. It was entertaining for you at least, even if he wasn't bothered.

But then one night when you noticed that he was a few feet closer to your house, you realised it was probably working.

He was tempted.

Whether it was to kill you or to do something else, you weren't sure. But you were exhilarated either way.

When he returned obviously injured again a few nights later, you sighed to yourself in annoyance. Yes, you were excited he'd be in your house again. But out of need, not want. You still unlocked your door and left it open for him as you waited in the lounge nevertheless.

When he emerged from the dark archway between your kitchen and your lounge, you looked him up and down. His stance was better than last time but he was covered in more blood. You deduced that it probably wasn't his.

"Sit." You whispered hoarsely. "Please."

Like manners were going to affect whether he killed you or not.

It went pretty much the same as the time before, cleaning the blood from him as best you could and bandaging up what was easy to access. He didn't flinch or wince, not even at the stuff that made your toes curl just from touching.

It wasn't until you were just finishing off spreading some antibacterial lotion on a gash on his thigh that you noticed he was breathing heavier than usual. You looked up at him and frowned, confused. But when he gave you no indication as to why he was suddenly almost hyperventilating, you shrugged it off and reached for a band-aid. As you glanced towards the wound to get an idea of the size you'd need for it, you realised what was wrong.

"Oh."

He was hard.

"Oh."

The prominent bulge in his crotch wasn't shy in showing you that it was there. He was big, to say at the very least.

Your mouth opened and closed a couple of times before you settled on a reassurance. "It's okay. This happens. Especially when someone is touching you a lot."

You figured this was the most he'd been touched in over a decade.

"I'll just uh..." You stood up to step away from him but he launched his arm forward to grab you by the wrist, not letting you go any further.

"Michael..."

He answered you by tugging your body into his lap, legs straddling either side of his thighs. You made sure not to settle your weight onto him, very conscious of what that could lead to.

But he had other ideas.

He planted both of his large hands on either side of your waist and pushed you to sit fully against him. And there was a lot to sit against.

You bit your tongue to prevent any noise coming out. What now? What did he expect?

His breathing was shaky as he surveyed you through the small eyeholes of his mask, hands hovering over your sides for a second.

You couldn't deny that this position, this close proximity, was turning you on. Especially feeling how hard he was pushed up against you.

He seemed to decide what he wanted to do next as his fists gripped the fabric of your pyjama shirt, suddenly tearing it open so buttons flew everywhere and then ripping it off of you and tossing it to a darkened corner of the room. His hands didn't hesitate it exploring the new uncovered areas of skin, his rough callouses against your soft flesh. He was clearly enjoying this new adventure as he appeared to grow impossibly harder beneath you. Lots of him was impossible.

The clasp he had on your breasts was almost painful but your eyes rolled back in pleasure nevertheless. You liked that he was manhandling you, the strength you'd been fantasising about since day one finally being used on you.

His hands slid down your sides until they met your hips, fingers digging in and pulling them against his. A choked moan escaped your mouth drowning out the sound of his own grunt. When Michael decided that he seemed to like that, he did it again. Rougher this time. And quicker. Then he set a pace doing it over and over again. Your hands flew to his shoulders to give yourself something to hold onto, some grounding. Because this was more than you could handle.

How could something so simple feel so good?

The feeling of his coveralls rubbing against you through the thin material of your sleep shorts was heavenly. That, mixed with his hardness pushing against you in all the right place meant you were in pure ecstasy.

The uncontrollable noises leaving you would've been embarrassing if it weren't for the fact that this was the best you'd ever felt. And you hadn't even had sex. Yet.

Barely a sound left Michael, just the occasional short groan to go along with his heavy breathing.

You couldn't quite tell where he was looking until his head suddenly snapped down and his eyes clearly fixated on where your breasts were bouncing with the rapid movement of the two of you rocking against each other. A slightly louder noise left him then.

There was no rest for you, even if your legs did grow tired and you ran out of breath because he wouldn't let you stop moving. You knew you were probably creating a wet patch on his clothes and that would only grow bigger when he finally came. You were surprised he was lasting this long to be honest. For someone who had been locked up most of his life and hadn't had any sexual experience, he had some stamina in him. But maybe he wasn't a virgin. Was your assumption wrong?

You didn't get time to dwell on it as his arm suddenly locked around your waist and he stopped the two of you. Looking down at him, he was almost the perfect picture of composure. Just some heavy breathing indicated what the two of you had been up to. You couldn't imagine you looked quite as calm.

The arm around you stiffened as he titled the two of you to the side.

"What are you doi- woah." The room was plunged into darkness as he switched the lamp off and then pulled you tight against him again. "Why did you- oh."

Your unfinished question was answered with the sound of rubber hitting the floor penetrating your ears and the feeling of Michael's breath against your skin. You didn't get the chance to question him further as to why he did that as he immediately buried his face in the valley of your breasts and rocked your hips against his to get the friction going again, his free hand rubbing up and down your thigh as the two of you moved.

You bit your bottom lip, extremely happy that he hadn't decided to just stop and leave, that this was still going. The happiness only extended when he licked a drop of sweat off of your skin and you almost screamed. But you couldn't imagine if was the kind of screaming he was used to so you bit your tongue.

Trying to adjust to the sudden absence of light by blinking, but having little success, you looked down to where you imagined Michael's head would be. You saw nothing. Naturally, the only solution to that was to move your hands up his shoulders, up his neck and into his hair. As you curled your fingers into the locks, you were pleasantly surprised to find how soft it was.

You would've smiled or giggled to yourself if he hadn't chosen that exact moment to bite into your collarbone and thrust up underneath you. Your response of tugging on his hair seemed to go down well as he did it again.

"Fuck." You whined against the top of his head, eyes scrunching shut.

That caught Michael's attention, his head pulling back and his free hand abandoning your thigh to wrap around the front of your neck, squeezing slightly when situated there.

You knew what he was doing. Mixing what he usually found pleasurable with this new experience. You wondered whether it was getting him off even more. If the way he was practically throbbing beneath you was any indication, then yes.

This added element of danger sent a shiver down your spine and an intense pulse to your core, making you rock against him without any prompting from him at all. You could still breathe but you knew he could stop that at any second if he chose to.

A breathless moan rumbled from the back of your throat as he squeezed your neck tighter, the arm locked around your waist pushing you against him even harder.

You were so close. So, so close. You chased your high like it was running away from you, rubbing yourself against him as roughly as you could. But there was no need.

Because when Michael leaned forward again to lick a long strip up from your left breast to your neck and then bit you, hard, it was like you saw the pearly gates of heaven. Or the fiery descent to hell.

Your orgasm crashed over you in hot waves as you collapsed against him, forcing his body to hit the back of the couch as your forehead met his and you gasped into his mouth, lips almost grazing but not quite meeting. Your grasp on his hair was tight, tugging on the roots like they were your lifeline. Your naked chest pressed against his clothed one, and that combined with the slight pain of the hair pulling was enough for Michael to come underneath you.

You could feel him twitching against you, only making you shudder against him more, as the wet patch on his jumpsuit grew as you predicted. The quietest extended groan left his mouth as he tensed beneath you, arms locking around you. His hips bucked up against yours a few times weakly before he grew limp.

You rested for a moment, trying to gain some strength back in your shaking legs, before you pushed off of him and stood up. Feeling around in the air for the lamp, you covered your eyes before switching it back on.

"Find your mask and put it back on." You instructed, waiting a moment for him to do so.

He didn't make any noise as he moved, as usual, and the only indication you had that he was done was the looming feeling of his presence in front of you and the sound of his exhales rattling the rubber that adorned him.

You uncovered your eyes and squinted against the sudden light, looking up to find Michael almost chest to chest with you. Well, head to chest. He was very tall after all.

Your gaze flickered down to his left hand which was slightly extended towards you. He was holding your pyjama shirt. The one he'd ruined by ripping all of the buttons off.

"Oh, thanks." You took it from him and put it back on, holding it together at the front by crossing your arms against your chest.

Probably a bad idea considering this position made the top gape open and your breasts push together to create an exaggerated cleavage. Michael didn't seem to mind as he lifted his right hand and traced a finger across the swell of your breasts for a moment before dropping his arm back to his side again.

You dropped your eyes away in embarrassment, and slight arousal, and noticed the mess the two of you had made on his blue jumpsuit.

"You're gonna want to wash that." You said, meekly gesturing towards it. You couldn't deny that seeing the stains that you'd made together was making your skin feel hot again.

He didn't even look to see what you were talking about, just continued to stare at you through his mask.

You tried to come up with something to say but nothing sprung to mind. What were you supposed to say to a serial killer that you'd just dry humped and orgasmed on top of?

It seemed like you didn't need to come up with a one-sided conversation starter though as he suddenly turned on his heel and left the room. You hesitated before following him. Stupid really since you couldn't even keep up with him at the best of times, especially not now on weak legs.

And, as usual, by the time you'd reached the kitchen he was gone and the door was locked.

He continued to return every night as normal but didn't enter your house again. No injuries seemed to be inflicted upon him for a while. You were beginning to get bored. Sighing every time he left with no hint of coming inside again.

Which is why a few days later you were very shocked by his out of character behaviour.

You woke up cold, your blankets stripped from your bed and the feeling of someone watching you sinking a chilling freeze into your bones. It was soon clear why you felt that way.

His silhouette was partially outlined by the moonlight coming through your bedroom window as he stood over you.

You shot up in bed, giving yourself a head rush. "Michael, what the fu-" You were cut off as he grasped the hand that was reaching for your bedside lamp. "No light? Why?"

He answered your question by pressing something rubber into your palm. His mask.

"Oh. Okay..." You frowned to yourself as you dropped the mask on your nightstand. What was he expecting you to do if he was injured but you couldn't see him? "I can't clean your wounds if it's dark."

It was too dark to see his face but the natural light from outside was enough to see him shake his head no. He wasn't injured. What did he need then?

"Then what? Why are you here? At this time?" You were still slightly dazed from just waking up, trying to shake some coherent thought into your head. What was the time? He'd already been and gone earlier that evening. How had he gotten in? You were sure you'd locked the door? Maybe that made no difference?

His breathing was heavy, shoulders moving up and down with his laboured inhales and exhales.

His grip on your wrist hadn't loosened as he pulled your hand towards him, resting it on his abdomen and then slowly dragging down and down and-

"Oh."

He was hard.

Very hard.

"You want me to-"

You'd guessed by this point that he probably hated hearing you talk as he was always cutting you off. This time by pushing on your shoulders so you fell flat on your back and bounced on the mattress. And then he was on top of you in mere fractions of a second.

He was smothering.

His mere presence was enough to stop your breath in your throat and having him be this close, having all of his weight pressed against you this way, practically stole the oxygen from your bloodstream.

His breath was hot on your face, his nose barely grazing against yours before he moved to trace it along your hairline and then down your neck where he inhaled deeply, groaning lowly at your scent.

You reached up to touch him but he was too fast, clasping both of your wrists in one hand and pinning them above your head.

"This doesn't work if I can't touch you." You mumbled frustratedly, more to yourself than to him.

It wasn't strictly true but what did he know? Last time he hadn't used any real technique, just done whatever felt best for him which luckily also felt good for you. He'd used the mere skill brought to him by innate exploration. Maybe this time he'd be more purposeful with you.

Unlikely.

The statement you'd made seemed to have some sort of influence on him though as he slowly let go of your wrists and let you dig one into his hair, where you gently pulled on it, and let the other drift to undo the top buttons of his coveralls. You popped them open cautiously, one by one, until your nails stroked the material of his grey undershirt. You assumed it was grey as usual.

Your fingers wandered to the neckline where you swooped the index to get a feel of his skin. He froze above you but didn't stop you.

"I'm going to undo more. Just stop me if you want. But gently." You clarified, not wanting bruised wrists in the morning which was guaranteed if he grabbed them with his vice-like grip again.

Each button fell open easily, like they were dying to be free from their clasps, and Michael didn't stop you once. And when the last one was undone, he leant back slightly on his knees to let you push the jumpsuit down so it bunched around his waist just like the first time he'd been in your house.

You took the opportunity to let your hands roam the muscles you'd been admiring since the first time you'd seen him up close. They were solid. He was solid.

He crowded over you again, breathing getting more rapid the more you touched him. He let out a soft sound when your hands reached his crotch, palming him over his clothes.

"Take them off and I can touch you more." You offered, attempting to sound sultry but sure you just sounded desperate instead.

He hesitated but did as you said, standing up to push the jumpsuit further down his legs but still not taking it off completely. Then he was on top of you again, pushing your hand against him before you even had the chance to realise he was so close again. You squeezed him through his underwear and he bucked his hips against your palm.

You did that for a while, moving your hand up and down the outline of him through the material and ignoring the ache between your own legs. Getting him riled up was a lot of fun, especially when he let noises slip every now and again. You just wished you could see the reactions on his face. Did he bite his lip? Did he screw his eyes shut? Was his jaw dropped open? You guessed you'd never know.

While those thoughts plagued your mind, it seemed Michael had changed his. And what was happening wasn't good enough for him anymore. So he slapped your hand away suddenly. Before you could even begin to utter a sentence, he ripped your pyjama shirt open.

Great, another one ruined.

His hands shot to your chest, away from where they'd been resting either side of your head previously, and he started to knead the flesh. Your back arched, pushing your chest closer to his and making your nipples rub against the fabric of his t-shirt. Michael must've figured out that the stimulation was good based on the gasp you let out as he moved his attention to your nipples, flicking and tweaking them with his fingers.

He didn't seem hesitant at all in what he was doing but it was also clear he wasn't experienced either. There was no rhythm to his touches, he just did whatever felt right. And that worked for you.

You grew extremely wet when he started grinding himself against your core from instinct alone. You wanted more, craved more, needed more.

Your hands flew to the waistband of his underwear, tugging them down a few inches to pull him free. You knew he was big but having the real thing in your hand, no clothing barriers at all, was a whole other story.

You could hear his teeth clicking shut when you started to stroke him, skin on skin, spreading his pre-cum up and down his length.

"Fuck, Michael. Jesus." You garbled, head wild with lust and nothing else. "Need you inside me."

He stopped moving at that, hands falling away from your chest and hips no longer bucking to pump himself into your palm.

Maybe he really was clueless.

"You know? Inside me?" You reached around to find one of his hands, pushing it down the waistband of your sleep shorts until his fingers met your wetness.

He wasn't even doing anything but the sensation alone of him touching you made you shiver. That was until he seemed to understand what he was feeling. His head tilted to the side, just about visible in the moonlight, as he let his fingers explore. As he grazed your clit, you squeaked quietly. He seemed to like that so he did it a couple more times, just to illicit a reaction out of you. But he got bored quickly and kept on feeling.

When he reached the source of the wetness, he pushed a finger in. You moaned. Loudly. He liked that a lot more, so pulled out the finger and reinserted with a second one joining in. Your eyes rolled back at this. And the sounds you made reached a new decibel. Michael did the same thing again and again, pumping his fingers just to feel you clench around him.

When he eventually pulled his fingers free, you whined in protest before the sounds of him sucking the taste of you off of his skin hit you. And you decided that maybe the loss of contact was okay if that's what he was going to do instead.

When he was satisfied with that, Michael tore your shorts off of you completely and tossed them over his shoulder somewhere. Then his underwear was pushed further down and he was spreading your legs apart, as far as they would go.

Your heart rate picked up further than it was already running, probably entering dangerous territory. But you didn't care. It was finally about to happen.

Michael crawled over you, shadowed face hanging above yours. You just nodded at him, wondering whether he was able to see you do it. Either way, he seemed to get the message that you really really wanted to do this. So, with a hand on one of your thighs to hold you in place, and the other on his cock to guide him, he pushed into you.

At that moment you decided that you were definitely seeing the devil in the afterlife.

But it was worth it for this.

He stretched you open perfectly, gliding in with ease considering how wet you already were. But that was nothing in comparison to how you felt hearing him letting out what could only be described as a mixture between a whimper and a pleasured groan against your ear.

If never hearing him talk meant that the noises he let out during sex made you tingle, then you'd take his silence any day.

The hand on your thigh moved to curl your leg around his waist, changing the angle so he moved into you deeper. And the other rested against your head to keep him propped up. Yours scraped down his back in ecstasy, probably leaving nail marks along the plains of his skin. You were sure he wouldn't mind, he'd had worse injuries.

He stayed still once he'd entered you, stiff but breathing heavily.

"Move, Michael." You whispered. "Please move."

And when he pulled out and slammed back in again, you were positive you could see the grim reaper knocking at your door ready to whisk you away to the tortuous pits of hell.

All you knew is that you certainly weren't seeing heaven after this.

Michael grunted, head hanging so his soft hair tickled against your skin. But he seemed to get the idea as he pumped in and out of you at a ruthless pace. Skin slapped together, your chests rubbing against one another as you bounced up and down the surface of the bed, which shuffled along the floor with every thrust.

You'd never known sex to be so loud. Maybe you'd just never had sex as good as this. Because the roaring of blood in your ears definitely wasn't helping.

You couldn't help the sounds that were escaping your parted lips, thankful that your neighbours' houses weren't close enough to hear you. Your other leg moved to wrap around Michael's waist, tugging him closer to you and locking him in place. You need him to be as close as possible, to be as deep inside you as possible.

The hand on your thigh dug in deep, certainly leaving bruises, before trailing up the length of your body and wrapping around the front of your neck. He pushed down this time, squeezing slightly to cut off your airway just a little. It excited you more than anything and made you clench around him.

That seemed unexpected to Michael as he faltered slightly before pounding into you harder than before, having absolutely no mercy on your body. You only clenched harder.

His pattern began to fumble, thrusts become more forceful but less regular. He was getting close. And you weren't far off either. You let one of your hands fall from his back and placed it between the two of you, starting to rub your clit. He took notice of this and pushed your hand away to replace it with his own, letting oxygen rush back into your lungs again.

The head rush combined with the pressure on your clit tipped you over the edge into oblivion. You choked out a muffled scream as your orgasm ripped through your body, tears falling from the corners of your eyes.

But Michael didn't let up for a second. This just seemed to give him a new wave of energy as his pace picked up rubbing tight circles on your clit and slamming into you with no forgiveness.

You approached the edge rapidly again, the raw feeling over overstimulation pushing you closer and closer. His sweat dripped onto you, creating a sheen that let your bodies slide against each other in erotic heat. You could feel every inch of him either against you or inside of you. And that thought made you come again. This time the scream was less muffled.

The feeling of you clenching around him again like a vice had Michael finally hitting his peak too, his face buried into the crook of your neck as he pumped you full of his cum. If you weren't so spent already, that would've made for three orgasms.

He bit down on the skin of your shoulder to prevent any noises coming out too loud, but he couldn't mask all of them. He twitched inside of you as he gave a few last lazy bucks of his hips before he pulled out completely, standing up and looking down at you.

You really wondered how good his vision must be in this light for him to be able to see you. Or maybe he couldn't. Maybe he was faking it.

Either way you didn't care, too exhausted suddenly to really think about it. You began to drift to sleep, desperately trying to keep your eyes open to see what he'd do next. You vaguely remembered seeing him get dressed again. But you don't remember him leaving. Or moving you to rest your head back on your pillow. Or him pulling your blankets over you again.

Maybe he didn't do any of that. Maybe you did in your sleepy state.

It didn't matter. He was still gone before you even had the chance to register what happened.

But you were pleased when the next night, you glanced out of your kitchen window and found him stood there as usual, watching you. From now on, you were just going to leave your door unlocked to make it easier for him.

A/N: To celebrate my Halloween, I watched Halloween (1978) home alone whilst my housemates all went to a party. It inspired me to write this.

#michael myers #michael myers x reader #michael myers x you #halloween #halloween 1978 #slashers #slasher #michael myers fic #michael myers fanfiction #michael myers smut #slasher fic #slasher x reading #slasher x you #ej’s fics #ej’s writing #deakyjoe’s fics #deakyjoe’s writing

952 notes · View notes

jurassicass · 1 year

Text

Biblically accurate Amanda Young

4K notes · View notes

bebx · 8 months

Text

the one thing smut fics and horror movies have in common is that they both become literal comedy the second you begin consuming them with your friends

889 notes · View notes

semiweirdshipper · 1 year

Text

Killers' with a reader during bath time. Non-binary reader.

Warnings: Nudity. Non-sexual romance. Implied kissing and touching.

...

Jason

Most of the time Jason hates baths or anything to do with water. But if you're in it with him? Then he can compromise.

He always sits up straight and still in the warm tub, his mask off and body bare before you, completely vulnerable. He doesn't like to move because the water scares him, so he settles for watching you as you go about creating bubbles and adding scented oils to the tub. It's pleasant and he enjoys it.

Jason likes to touch you for reassurance that you won't let him drown. A hand on your shoulder, knee, arm or waist; he just likes knowing that you're there for him. Some times he might even pull you into his lap and just hold you for a while, bask in your safe and loving presence.

He loves it when you wash him. During bath time, Jason gives you all the wheels while he sits back and watches. When you use the soft, suddy loofah to scrub his body, it's utter bliss and makes him feel good. Your praise is an added bonus too, making him gladly submit his body in any way you wanted.

He gets transfixed on your bath products. Is that a glitter bath bomb? Whoa. Colored bath beads? Can you use purple? He loves purple. Seeing the water turn purple and glittery will have his adorable eyes going wide in awe. Just look at the water, (y/n), it's magical. You're amazing.

He's a good boy and he'll want to return the favor by washing you. His big hands will scrub every inch of you, making sure that you're nice and clean. Seeing your blissed out expression when he scrubs your back and head makes him happy. He's glad you're enjoying yourself.

The best way to end is by holding you close for a while, feeling your body pressed against his as he held you in his arms. With you around, Jason loved the water.

Wesker

Wesker's preference when it comes to baths is strictly to lay back, submerge himself into the hot water and relax. After a long day at work, relaxing is all he wants to do.

Most of the time Wesker lays back and watches you in your place between his legs as you pour in muscle relaxing Epsom salt and night-time bubble bath. So considerate. You were always thinking about his well-being, and he loved it.

He enjoys listening to you as you blab about your day- shows you had watched, things you had cleaned, ideas you had hatched, ect... Your innocence is a refreshment to him and it makes him feel a type of happiness that his job just can't mimic.

When it comes to you washing your own body, Wesker absolutely loved to watch. Seeing your wet body move around as you covered it with glistening suds was beyond enamoring to him. Some times he would even ask you to stand up and wash yourself, give him the full view so that he could admire every inch of you.

He's not really one to care for childish bath products but he does get a kick out of how much you enjoy them. Seeing you get excited over a new box of assorted bath bombs- which he totally didn't order for you by the way!- he just adores how excited you get. And that same excitement transfers to the bath whenever you happily go to try out your new water toys.

Bath massages. Oh, there's nothing better. Feeling your wet hands press against his tense, sore muscles was utter ecstacy. Expect lots of groans because he was a very knotted up man, and he tends to make loud noises when you work out those knots with your expert, caring hands. God, you had no idea how much he loved you.

To settle the end, Wesker likes to pull your body on top of his and have you lay against him for a while. Submerged wet cuddles? Yes please.

Frank

Oh God... Frank is an absolute child when it comes to the bathtub. Because he was deprived of such innocent luxuries throughout his childhood years, he can't help but to enjoy the opportunity to have fun in the bathtub with you.

Expect everything that was Satan's equivalent of a bathroom mess nightmare pack. Bath bombs, water guns, water crayons, colored bath beads, bubble bath. Everything! He had it all- it's actually kind of cute going to the store with him because he always wanted to check out the bath stuff. Don't tease him though or he'll get frumpy.

Frank loves playing games, so get out those fucking water crayons, baby. If you weren't ever scared of him before, then you should be now, because you are his human canvas. Come on, scoot closer, he wants to draw a heart on your cheek- news flash! It's actually a miniature penis. Let's not forget a colored beard to match!

You can't escape him.

Ever heard of bathtub roulette? Of course you have. It's where you fill the gun with soapy water, play a game of tic-tac-toe, and whoever loses gets a shot of soapy water in the face. Ouch if your eyes get hit.

Despite his childishness, Frank does love relaxing and holding you close. Your legs intertwined as he held your face and kissed your lips? Oh, he could do it for hours, even after the water was freezing cold. You're his gorgeous, beloved angel, and he was never letting you go.

Ending a bath with Frank is less romantic than you probably want to believe because there's a lot of cleaning up to do. And yes, he is childish enough to run away naked so that he doesn't have to take responsibility. Lucky you.

Michael

Talk about a statue. During bath time, this man is a brick wall. Like always, he sits at his end of the tub with that very neutral, monotonous look on his face.

Michael isn't against baths. Not at all. In fact he finds them very interesting and fun- except for that time he accidentally ate a "bath treat". Yeah, he knew it was a miniature bar of soap, but why in the hell was it shaped exactly like a gummy bear!?

He finds himself fixated on whatever you're doing. Michael and you have a deep understanding of each other, and he appreciates how you show and explain to him what all kinds of new products you had bought. A double loofah with a rainbow handle? Cute. Colored foam soap? Expect a beard.

Michael loves, loves, loves his rubber ducky collection. Every time he takes a bath with you, he carefully sets each of his duckies in the water one at a time. He may not show it, but every time you gifted him a new rubber ducky, he mentally flies over the roof.

And he feels the same kind of excitement with surprise bath bombs that have little toys hidden inside. Those were his favorite. So far he had some sharks, some dinosaurs, a pearl ring, and a bunny. It was just so fun watching the bath bombs dissolve and reveal an adorable item from all the magical colors within.

He gets frumpy when you try to wash yourself. Michael is very protective and caring of you and he likes to take care of you himself, and that means scrubbing and washing your body. You can't deny... It feels really, really nice.

Seeing your relaxed, sleepy face is the perfect end to a perfect bath for him.

Jeffrey

Lazy. Completely and utterly lazy. Depending on the day, baths with Jeffrey could either be very lively or very boring.

Prepare to find yourself squished between his legs at the front of the tub by the faucet, because Jeffrey practically prides himself in taking up most of the space. He chuckles a lot, teasing you and squeezing you between his legs, tickling you with his toes. He loves it when you get all frustrated and defensive, and yet you're still helplessly squished/trapped.

He thinks it's cute when you get on your knees and lean against his belly, your faces closer together so that you can talk, hold hands and caress each other's faces. Your so damn adorable, he could just eat you up.

One of his favorite things, though, is when you slather yourself up with oil. Oh yes. There's nothing Jeffrey loves more than seeing your gorgeous body glistening smooth and slippery. He enjoyed sitting back, licking his lips while watching you languidly touch yourself. It drove him mad.

After enjoying the show you put on, Jeffrey would sit up and touch you himself, squeezing and rubbing different parts of your body for as long as he pleased. Remember, he's obsessed with soft things, and when your body is oiled up it becomes prominent that he worshipped you for hours.

Some times Jeffrey's insecurities got to him, however, and he would refuse taking a bath with you. It took lots of lovin, gentle coaxing and praise, but you always won him over with your caring words and amazing acceptance. How could he ever ask for anyone better?

Ending a bath with Jeffrey usually involved lots of loving touches and cuddles, for you are his and he is yours.

Herman

The ultimate God of baths? Look no further than Herman Carter.

This man is unbelievably romantic and will have you wait in your bedroom until he has the perfect set-up created. Like a king/queen walking the red carpet, you would be presented with everything abundantly cheesy and romantic.

Dim lights, scented candles, freakin rose petals- all of it you would follow until you arrived at the bathroom where Herman lay beautifully naked and submerged in the bubbly tub, waiting for you.

Herman smiles at you and beckons you closer, enjoying the sight of you getting undressed right before his eyes. You're clumsiness while getting into the tub with him amuses him and fills him with fondness and joy. He loves spoiling you like this.

During bath time, Herman loves pulling you close and cradling you against him, his lips kissing whatever happened to be in reach- your lips, your face, the back of your neck, or your shoulders. He loved worshipping your body for every second that it was touching him.

Lots and lots of touching. Herman treats your body like it's made out of gold. Constantly he touches you, fondles you and massages you. Praise drips from his lips as he pulls you back against him and rubs his big, calloused hands up and down your chest. You're so beautiful, (y/n), and you're his.

Herman loves taking baths with you because it gives him the opportunity to be intimate under a new light. He got to spoil you, wash you, worship your body and make you feel good. Your happiness was all he needed to make himself happy.

Even though he doesn't want the bath to end, when it does, Herman rinses you off, helps you out and dries you off. Oh, don't think that just because the bath is over he still doesn't have a lot left to give.

#dead by daylight fanfiction #slashers #reader insert #killers x reader #frank morrison x reader #jason voorhees x reader #albert wesker x reader #jeffrey hawk x reader #herman carter x reader #michael myers x reader #bath time #can be read as platonic or romantic #slasher fanfiction

579 notes · View notes

slashingdisneypasta · 5 months

Text

Incorrect Quote

*After a kiss between Y/N and a (male) Slasher in the Horror House*

Y/N: He- he just like- grabbed me?

Jennifer, trying to gage whether she should be buying knives or not: Uhuh...

Y/N: And he- he took me-

Tiffany, eyes closed imagining it (Already knows Y/N's into it): Mhm, yeah..

Y/N: And he was there- and I was there-

Jennifer: Yes?...

Y/N: It was firm?? B-But tender??

Tiffany: Oh! So, it was good, huh?~

Y/N, frazzled: No! I mean- well, I saw through space and time for a minute there but THATS NOT THE POINT, I SHOULDNT HAVE DONE IT!-

#inspired by those two freddy fics i did- this would be if y/n had gone straight to jennifer and tiffany as soon as he had kissed her first #BUT you're welcome to read it with any slasher in mind XD #including chucky. chiffany could be in an open relationship #Slashers x Reader #Tiffany Valentine x Reader #Jennifer Check x Reader #Tiffany Valentine #Jennifer Check #Incorrect Quote #Incorrect Quotes #IQs #source: New Girl #Horror House! AU #Horror House!AU

228 notes · View notes

zombiekillerbiceps · 1 year

Text

Closing In

Leon follows reader home...

Note: thank you to anon for suggesting this premise, ohhhh I did not realize how much I would like writing this - and thank you everyone for your patience!

Content: 3.9 k words, 18+, cnc with enthusiastic consent, stalking roleplay, slasher roleplay, home invasion roleplay, denial, rough sex, taunting, humiliation, crying, overstim, sadism/masochism, Slasher!Leon, obsessed Leon, LeonxReader, fem reader, no y/n.

"I dunno, I just think it's kind of romantic," you say. Your hands fiddle nervously with the tassels on your throw pillow.

"He was a stalker, babe." Leon's voice hides just a hint of amusement. "He cut women up."

"Okay, but besides that-"

"Besides the... The serial killing."

"Yes! Besides the serial killing."

Leon stared at you, an eyebrow arched in judgement. You tried to stay straight faced - by God, you tried - but he had a way of half-smirking his way past your mask with his annoying, pretty face.

"Look, I'm just saying," you roll your eyes, not even sure why you keep talking, "something about... Obsessing over someone like that is kiiind of romantic. What's the point of love if it doesn't make you a little crazy? Y'know? Anne Rice would agree with me."

"Anne Rice was horny for a Confederate twink," he points out.

You gawk for a moment. But like, he's kind of right. So instead of saying anything clever, you throw the pillow at him. He deflects it with his forearm, but that gives you the opening to jump on him. You're wrestling in no time, breathless and sweaty and... Moving against each other...

You're out for lunch with your friend, Jessie, at some too-fancy Parisian style café. You sip a caramel iced latte and share a plate of rose coloured macarons. She complains about her studies, you complain about work, and you both come to the resounding agreement that deadlines suck. She complains about her last date, some butch that was more well-read than her that accidentally made her feel stupid. You don't have the heart to tell her that they sounded cool as hell. You tip-toe around telling her about Leon. It's not that you weren't proud of him, it was just... With the nature of his job, what were you going to say? Yeah, I'm seeing this guy who has a gun case built into the dresser and is super paranoid about people visiting his place and won't tell me what he does but he's like, totally a sweet guy and not some psycho? Yeah. Okay.

You stretch, appreciating the summer sun on your limbs and the peaceful breeze around your skirt. Your phone rings. Jessie snatches it up before you have a chance to, and then gives you the most scandalous, shit-eating grin you've ever seen.

"No. Don't you dare-!"

"Hiiiii lover boy," she coos over the phone.

Oh fuck, kill me.

"Jessie, give me the phone!" You reach across the table, the ceramic plate between you clattering loudly against the glass table. You freeze, feeling eyes on you. Jessie opens her mouth in mock embarrassment.

"So you're the secret boyfriend that my best friend keeps hiding from me?"

"Jessie, come on."

She listens for a moment, then laughs. You get up from your chair and walk over to her while she tries to twist away from your grasp.

"mhm, mhm - oh, sorry, I think someone wants to talk to y-"

You finally snatch it from her grasp. You give her a stare with the intensity of someone who can kill by staring. You try to keep your voice as flat as possible.

"Hey, sorry about that. What's up?"

"Is that Jessie?" He asks. He's got that... Quirk in his voice. The one that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You can feel Jessie watching you and try to keep it cool.

"Yeah, sorry, she's like, literally five years old sometimes."

"She seems fun."

"Babe, I'm kinda busy, did you have a reason for-"

"That's a pretty dress you're wearing."

You freeze halfway to sitting back down in your chair. Jessie tilts her head, giving you that concerned-puppy-dog face she did when she knew something was up.

You clear your throat and find it suddenly dry. You sit back down but you're a little clumsy, your skirt getting caught on the arm rests. You snatch it back, and then trying to regain your cool, you take a sip from your iced latte. You hear him chuckle on the other end. Did it get cold all of a sudden?

"What, uh, what do you mean by that?"

You can practically hear him grin into the receiver.

"I mean," he says, drawing out every syllable. "I can see you. And you look pretty today. That skirt will roll up pretty easy-"

You hang up on him. Mostly in panic. There was no way you were going to do that in public! Your eyes scan the area around you. Pretty cafe patio, pretty park across the street, some people going about their daily business. You can't see him anywhere. He must be fucking with you. He must have known you were going to wear a dress, it's so hot out, and where would he even be hiding?

A cold hand touches yours and you almost jump out of your skin. Jessie's taking your hand in hers, and when you meet her gaze, she looks like she's about to cry.

"I'm so sorry if I caused any issues between you, I totally shouldn't have answered it. I didn't think he'd like, get angry with you," she starts to wetly babble, swaying between guilty and protective. You love her very much, but you don't know what to say.

Oh, it's just this weird sex game we play, I promise this brooding dude who you've never met and only spoken to once is definitely a good guy and not like emotionally abusive.

"Hey, hey, Jessie. Don't worry about it. It wasn't about that he's got this... Thing. Unrelated. But uh, look, I have to go."

She frowns, almost curving her pink lip-glossed mouth into a pout.

"If he so much as leaves a scratch on you, I will kill him."

Your thoughts flit to the bite marks and bruises that are just covered by your dress. If only she knew.

You kiss her cheek, snatch up one final macaron, and take your leave. You try to control your pace, look cool, act natural. Your eyes scan the buildings and alleyways around you. You seriously can't find him.

Your phone rings.

You stare at it for a moment. Your hands are shaking a little when you answer it.

"It's sweet how much she cares about you," he says. An idea dawns on you. You nod and give an mhm sound, listening around you for anything noticeable. A church bell rings just ahead of you and you hear it echo over the phone.

"You're close," you say. You try to sound threatening. He just laughs at you.

"Obviously. How else would I know you're wearing that citrus perfume I love?"

"I wear that everyday." Your voice shakes as you speak, and you can't help but whip your head around. You half expect to see him there, but it's just some guy who gives you a dirty look.

"No, you don't. You only wear it when you're going to see friends. You usually wear the vanilla one. You like that it's so subtle."

You're a little impressed he noticed that. It was kind of sweet, really, if he wasn't totally freaking you out. How did he possibly get close enough to smell your perfume without you noticing? You start walking again. You want to catch the train home. Maybe you can trap him there.

You use the shop windows as you pass to get a better look, pretending to window shop.

"Do you think I'd look good in that," you ask, with no idea what you're referring to. You're looking past whatever is behind the glass to observe the reflection. A spot of blonde hair, maybe... He got a totally different hair cut? No. Not him.

"Using the reflection. Clever."

He hangs up.

You spin around again, desperately searching the crowd. He was a beefy guy and he moved like a panther, there's no way he was just casually blending in. But, you can't find him.

You wrap your arms around your core. Knowing you're being watched makes you want to shrink into yourself. Yet you can't ignore the excitement you feel. It was kind of romantic, really. Kind of dangerous.

You liked Leon best when he was dangerous.

You set off again, somehow walking a knife's edge between nervous and confident. Both prey and prize. You keep looking over your shoulder as you pass into the crowded underground of the subway station. It's right around rush hour and it's so packed you can hardly move. Other people are breathing your oxygen and you're just recycling theirs. It's tight, and hot, and moving at the exact speed that makes you feel like no one is really getting anywhere. You pull your purse tight to your body and try to shove past people, only to be confronted with more people.

Your phone rings. You hang up. And then, in a stroke of brilliance, you call back.

His ringtone echoes out in the tiled halls. You try desperately to find it, but it only rings out twice, then it's lost in the sea of people.

"Clever," his voice is deep on the other end. "I'm almost impressed."

"Yeah. Why don't you stop hiding?"

"Oh, I know you're eager, but I didn't think you'd want me to cut you up in this crowd."

He's impatient. You can tell by the sharpness of his voice that he's more frustrated than he admits. The threat sends a shiver down your spine, and you can’t help but picture yourself bent over on the filthy tile floor, knife to your throat, fucked within an inch of your life as people step past. The ebb and flow of the crowd pushes you towards the oncoming subway.

"What exactly is your plan?" He asks. You can hear the screeching brakes over the phone. "I know you take the 76 Southbound until Queen Street. I know you get off and walk two blocks to George Street. I know you live in a turn of the century brownstone with a heritage plaque and bathroom sink that takes forever to drain."

You step onto the 76 Southbound near the front. You press your back to the wall and watch as people get on.

"Yeah, well," you say victoriously, "I know you have to go the same way."

And then you see him. He walks directly into your trap, and realizes it too late. His blue eyes widen in realization. The door slams shut behind him.

You hang up.

Some people pile up in front of you, giving you cover from him. You watch him from behind shoulders and under arms. Open, navy bomber jacket and a grey t-shirt with black jeans doesn't exactly scream slasher killer. But, something about how casual he looks keeps your attention. He blends in, he's unsuspecting. And, to your surprise, he's grinning like a fox.

He's broad, and when he moves through the crowd, people make room for him. He scans every seat and every face with purpose. Inching his way towards the back. You realize you have nowhere to go. You start to panic. Maybe you get off a stop early? And then what, he beats you to your house and waits for you?

No, you have to get home before he does. Lock the doors before he can get in. You push closer to the door so you can be the first one off. You turn to track his progress and directly meet his gaze.

Fuck.

His expression drops, his eyes glaring at you from under his brow. You're almost hypnotized by them, frozen in place while he cuts through the crowd.

You're pinned down with nowhere to go. But, surely, nothing will happen in public, right?

He pushes past a few more people and then he's on you. He towers above you, his broad shoulders cutting out other's view of you. You notice how his t-shirt clings to his body. How well fitting his jeans are. You also notice the angry squint in his eyes from under his brow.

"Did you really think you could hide from me?" He brings a hand down to touch your hip, holding it in his grasp. You quiver against him as he leans down, close enough to whisper in your ear. "Don't you know I’ll always find you?"

You turn your head away from him defiantly. Your eyes scan the train, but passengers nearby don't seem to notice. They all have that vacant long-day- commute stare.

"No one's going to help you, sweetheart." He closes in, one arm rests on the wall beside you, his body angled to ensure prying eyes can't see. His free hand slides up your body. It caresses the curves of your hips, the softness of your tummy, the round of your breast.

You flush. Your hands come up to his chest as if that will stop him from pawing at your tits.

"Leon, seriously? Here?" You whisper it, completely embarrassed.

"I can take you whenever I want." He uses that commanding voice you've only heard a handful of times before. "You're mine."

To prove his point, his hand dips between your thighs, and he presses his fingers against your pussy over the fabric of your skirt. It's so sudden and strong, your hand goes to his wrist on instinct. He doesn't stop, rubbing hard enough to make your legs shake.

"Could probably take you right here," he mutters, his breath hot on your ear. You feel yourself get wet at the thought.

"Queen Street." The robotic, automated subway voice chimes out from overhead.

The door opens. You lose your balance, but manage to recover quickly. You move fast, hoping to put as much distance between yourself and Leon as you can. You take the stairs two at a time until you breach the surface, taking in the fresh air like it would save you. But the summer heat brokers no peace, and you know Leon isn't far behind.

You don't look behind you for fear of slowing down. You take one block normally, then decide to cut through an alley way to save time. Every minute was another he could be gaining on you.

As you take a few paces into the alley, your hair starts to stand on end. It's somehow darker here, the smell of mildew and gasoline making your stomach turn. Your cell phone rings. You answer.

"Stop calling!" You snap, betraying more fear than you mean to.

"An alleyway? You're smarter than this." Leon is unphased by your outburst.

You give in, turning your head to look behind you. He stands at the other end, the sun behind him obscuring his features.

Then he moves. With long, easy strides, he makes ground quickly. His hands are stuffed in his pockets and he whistles a slow, off-beat tune.

You turn and run. Your hand meets the corner at the end of the alley and you use it to redirect your momentum. Full tilt sprinting in a sundress down a public street in the middle of the day probably makes you look crazy. Leon made you look crazy.

You get to your brownstone on George Street. You take the few steps up to the front door. You throw your phone in your purse as you frantically rip through it for your keys.

Fuck, come on, where are they? Lipstick, tampon, water bottle, wallet FUCK! There. You snatch them up like they'll save your life. Your hands shake as you put them in the lock. It turns, and you take one last look to see Leon - oh shit!

He's at the base of the stairs! He takes them by two. You manage to get the door open wide enough to barely squeeze through. His hand slaps against the door but you throw your full weight against it. It slams in his face. He turns the knob. You struggle to hold it against him as you turn the dead bolt. Then the chain. He slams a fist against the door and you slowly back away from it.

A chilling thought dawns on you.

Back door.

You run to the other side of the house, tripping over shoes and a discarded purse as you do, cursing as they steal precious seconds from you. You turn the corner and run directly into the door. Your body stings from the impact. You shakily turn the lock.

Silence. For a few, long minutes, there's just silence. You wonder, disappointed, if he gave up, but take the time to catch your breath.

Your cell phone rings. Sweat rolls down your back as you answer it.

"I got you, motherfucker."

"Did you?" He asks. His voice is cool. Calm. "How confident are you that you got to the back door before I did?"

"I would have heard you come in." You aren't so sure.

"Would you?"

Your apartment is small. You approach the bedroom, then quickly snap the door open. It lies still. Empty.

"You don't scare me," you lie.

"I really almost had you there, didn't I?" He's calling your bluff as you move into the kitchen, "What do you think I would have done if I'd caught up to you?"

The kitchen is still and quiet too. You don't have an answer for him, anxiety knotting in your stomach. You take the turn into the living room.

His arms wraps around your waist with enough strength to lift you off the ground. You scream. You kick at him, but he doesn't budge, dragging you into the living room.

You see a window open.

"Did you climb the fucking trellis?" You ask, shocked and amused at the sight. He tries not to laugh.

"Yeah."

"What are you, Romeo?"

"You said you wanted romance," and then, his voice drops again to that cold, serious tone that makes you feel like prey, "isn't this what you wanted?"

He lets you go and you take the opportunity to run. But his hand is entangled in your hair, the sharp pain making you cry out. Tears gather in your eyes and you whimper. You grab his forearm and try to pull away, but the self-inflicted pain makes you freeze. He rolls his eyes.

"You're just so fucking predictable."

He drags you across the living room floor. It hurts, bare knees roughly hitting the hard wood floor. He lifts you up with an arm around your stomach. Then, he's bending you over the couch.

You try to push back against it. You struggle against him. He pulls your head back by the hair and you nearly sob.

"Please, don't," you whimper. He rolls his eyes at you.

"Not our safe word, sweetheart."

His words make you feel so beautifully helpless. The tears finally fall down your cheeks and, at the same time, you become aware of how soaked your cotton underwear is. His hand comes up and slaps you sharply. You whimper. He does it again, this time harder. The stinging in the side of your face is enough to make your pussy clench around nothing.

He pins you to the side of the couch his hands on your hips. He rolls your skirt up, and makes a choked sound at the sight of you. He tears your underwear down harshly.

"Please, don't," he mocks with a harsh slap on your ass. "Try and tell me you don't want this."

A finger slides along your slick, from hole to clit. He presses his finger against it just slightly but it's enough to make your hips buck. He gently rolls a finger around your clit a few times, already building that high in the pit of your stomach. He barely fucking touched you and you're already desperate to cum, breath ragged, legs shaking. Leon pulls away. You whimper in disappointment. Then his hand comes down hard against your ass cheek. Then again. Then again. Then again.

The pain is overwhelming. But god, you don't want him to stop. You want hand-shaped bruises on your ass, you want to remember this every time you sit down for the next week.

"You look so pretty for me when you cry" His hand still wet from your cunt comes up and rubs your tears away, leaving an obscene mix of your tears and your desperation for him on your cheeks. The tears keep falling anyways. Then, softly, "you do remember our safe word, right?"

You nod, but you don't say it. You want to go further. You want him to hurt you more.

“Hey, answer me when I’m fucking talking to you,” he grabs you roughly by the jaw, wrenching your face to look at him.

“Yes,” you nod, desperately. “I remember.”

“Wasn’t so fucking hard,” he says. He slaps you again, hard enough to stun you into a stupid, teary-eyed grin.

You hear his pants unbutton, then unzip, then fall to the ground, but you're so overwhelmed you can't move. His hand still in your hair, still tugging enough to remind you of your place beneath him, he lines his hips up with yours.

Then he's pushing into you. One, smooth motion is all it takes, your cunt greedily pulling him in. A high pitched moan escapes his throat, followed by a groaned "so fucking wet."

He fucks you deep and slow. Torturously slow, enjoying every minute of pleasure that he gets. The head of his cock presses against your g-spot, building the high like one boils water. Slowly. Your abdomen pressed against the couch makes it easier for him. The hour of teasing and adrenaline and painful foreplay has you overstimulated. But it’s really the slow, deep fucking that drives electricity through your body. Push and pull, ebb and flow, your face and ass stinging as he works. You’re already bordering on the edge, but his pace doesn’t allow you to go over. You just hover there. And hover there. And hover there. For what feels like hours you’re kept right on the edge without ever going over, building the tension inside you until it fucking hurts, and then you’re crying again. You want him to slam his hips into you, to fuck you into the couch, to do something to make you cum, but he doesn’t.

“Leon, it hurts,” you whine.

“It’s supposed to.”

“Please,” you beg, desperation making your voice hoarse. “Please just make me cum, please.”

“Relax.”

“Leon-”

“I said relax. Or I’ll stop right now. Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you shake your head, hair falling into your face.

He takes his time to smooth it back, looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the world. He wipes more tears from your cheeks. When he speaks, though, his voice is so hard and cold.

“Greedy little whore.”

With no warning, he’s fucking into you harder. Faster. It only takes a few thrusts before you’re cumming on his cock. Your body tenses so hard your muscles scream, shaking and moaning and gasping for air. Your cunt tightens so hard you hear Leon breathe a fuck, baby. It feels like it lasts forever, and when you finally come down, you’re entirely dazed.

You’re... vaguely aware of his cum dripping out of you, hot and sticky. But for the most part you just feel like you’re floating. Leon slowly lowers you to the floor, grabbing a throw pillow and tucking it under your head. You close your eyes.

You wake again when the room is an orange glow, a blanket thrown over you for comfort. Leon is lounging on the couch reading a book, and when you stir, you immediately have his attention.

“Hey,” you mumble sleepily.

“Hey. Thought I’d let you sleep, you looked like you needed it. Why don’t I run us a shower?”

“Yeah,” you smile softly, dreamy fuzziness still clinging to you. “I’d like that.”

#leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #resident evil fanfic #resident evil smut #Slasher!Leon #yes he doesn't actually use a knife but it's the energy. you know it is.#anyways it's finally here thank you for the kind messages #requested #<- forgot to tag lol #Aaaaas always! Reblogs help me find more readers and comments are really encouraging! I read every single comment and tag :)

549 notes · View notes

calmcoldevening · 1 year

Text

Slashers x crying reader

Well, i think you can read it if you have bad episode or smth like that, honey)) Just know that they love you!

Tw: gender neutral reader, crying

Bubba Sawyer

♡ Honey, what's wrong? Has someone offended you? Nabbins? Drayton? One of the victims?

♡ Seeing your tears, Bubba will be beside himself with worry. A man will immediately rush to you, wrapping his sweaty palms around your cheeks with excitement. Jerky sounds will come out of his mouth, more like meowing or babbling of a child, but you clearly see fear in this.

♡ Without waiting for your clear explanation, Bubba will pick you up in his arms and take you to the kitchen, seating you on the table. With shaking hands, he will fill a glass with water and carry it to you in the hope that this will help you connect a couple of words.

♡ Sawyer Jr. will circle around you and try in every way to calm you down. Just tell me who offended you, and he will kill that person!

♡ Just look at those copper eyes sparkling with tears, he's like a scared puppy worried about his beloved mistress!

♡ When you calm down, you will go for a walk together or, if the weather is bad, which is unlikely, you will stay at home and lie on the bed in an embrace.

♡ During Drayton's next trip to the city, Bubba will certainly ask his brother to buy you ice cream or some small sweets, marmalade, for example. After all, the Sawyer brothers like you (after all, you're their youngest's favorite, which means you're a family member), so most likely one ice cream won't hit Sawyer Senior's pocket much.

♡ Bubba is a very vulnerable boy who worries about literally everything in this world, and first of all about you and your brothers. So please don't get too upset about the little things. The boy is very sensitive and literally copies your emotions, albeit unconsciously. Cheerful you are — cheerful Bubba, which means he has more strength to produce meat for the family.

Michael Myers

♡ When he sees you crying, he'll just stand up and stand rooted to the spot. The lifeless black eyes of his snow-white mask will look at you for a long time, studying your emotions.

♡ Michael has never understood either his emotions or the emotions of others, so don't expect some kind of violent reaction and quick consolation from him.

♡ He will find you on the bed in your own bedroom. You were sitting with your arms wrapped around your knees and your face buried in them, sobbing softly. At first, a man wouldn't understand why you're whining and shaking a little.

♡ You will not raise your head at him, trying to calm the hysteria as quickly as possible, knowing how Michael does not like extraneous noise. But after a couple of minutes, the mattress next to you will slip, and a strong heavy hand will appear on your shoulder. Michael, without waiting for your response, will turn you around and hold you to his chest.

♡ He doesn't understand your emotions, your cheekbones and tears, but he sees that you feel bad. Michael remembers that when he's not in the mood, you always read a book, put your head on your lap and slowly comb his hair until the headache subsides, or just somehow calm down and take care. Next to you, the voices in his head are unusually silent. You make his life easier, give him shelter, food and attention, so now he wants to do the same.

♡ Burrowing into his clothed shoulder, you will burst into tears even more, soaking his jumpsuit with tears. Michael will continue to patiently pat you on the back, waiting for you to feel better. He'll just be with you.

♡ After what happened, it's better not to mention Michael's tenderness. He's not used to taking care of you the same way you take care of him, it's new to him, and it's scary. Otherwise, he will leave the house for a couple of days to vent his anger.

♡ If you also want to somehow show your feelings and thank Michael — arrange a movie night, having previously bought various sweets for Myers. He will definitely like the horror movie and candy. And after that, Michael will feel a little more confident and relaxed next to you.

♡ Over time, Michael will be able to understand you better and will really be able to help with the next attack. You won't know about it, but whenever he sees couples with similar situations, he will slightly delay their hour of death to see how best to behave next to you at this moment. You'll see, this boy learns very quickly.

Bo Sinclair

♡ If Bo sees you crying, he'll probably think it's a joke. A man can make a couple of jokes about you on this score. It is his style to apply even where it is completely inappropriate (he translates most of his problems into a joke). But when he does not see your reaction, that is, the expected laughter or the same poisonous remark, he will be wary.

♡ Your body is still shaking from crying, and the room is filled with long sobs. What kind of freak did this to you?

♡ Bo will come to you and sit next to you. A man will wrap his hands around your cheeks, wiping the tracks of tears from under your eyes with his thumbs. He will smile bitterly and put his forehead to yours, rubbing it lightly. The man will let out a light sigh, but it will calm you down. He will lightly kiss you on the lips, then on the nose, cheeks, until you burst into a relieved laugh.

♡ When you can breathe evenly, occasionally sobbing, Bo will put you on his lap and start talking about everything that comes into his head, just to distract you from sad thoughts.

♡ A few days or even weeks will pass after the incident, but Bo will still treat you with reverence and monitor you and your mood in every possible way.

♡ From time to time, Bo will leave you gifts or some nice little things to cheer you up. Just don't be surprised if it's the thing of one of Ambrose's recent victims. They don't need these items anymore, but they will make you smile.

♡ When you're sad, Bo even tries to be less of a bastard than usual. If he still feels your depression, a man can offer a relaxing massage that can bring you to your senses.

♡ But after a while everything will return to normal, and instead of a moderately caring guy, your eccentric asshole lover will return.

#slashers x reader #fanfic #michael myers x reader #michael myers #michael myers rz #bubba sawyer #bubba sawyer x reader #leatherface x reader #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair #you can read it if you feel bad #you're the best #they love you

634 notes · View notes

jokeringcutio · 1 year

Text

Otis B. Driftwood X F. Reader - Migraine (Explicit 18+ ficlet)

Fandom: House of 1000 Corpses, Pairing: Otis B. Driftwood x Reader Warnings: Period/Blood, Menstruation Kink, Migraine!Reader, Headache!Reader. Dub-con situation, Dom/Sub tones, Explicit Smut, 18+ material, Dark Romance stuff. One-shot/Ficlet/Drabble written on a whim for my dear @myers-meadow 💜Hopefully this will elevate some of your pain.

Otis B Driftwood x Reader -> Headache.

The ache was incredibly bad today. The blinding light was too bright for your eyes, the sounds the other family members made were too loud for your ears, and the smell of the decaying bodies was too putrid for your sensitive nose.

You rolled over in the bed, curtains drawn so you basked in a peaceful silent darkness. A breath of relief escaped your lips. Your arm was drawn over your head, elevating some of the pain you felt like a band around your forehead, pushing against your temples, stabbing into your skull on occasion.

All you wished for was a little peace and quiet. A wish that was denied when Otis came barging in under loud noises. The soles of his boots creaked, his clothes rustled, the gun in his hands clicked and he was cursing. None of it quiet.

He was followed by Baby who wasn’t nearly as loud, but neither was she quiet. She chuckled as she came to stand in the doorway and observed you. “Bloody dark,” you heard Otis say, then flinched when he switched the light on. You drew your arm even tighter over your face, covering your eyes which you squeezed shut tight.

“I need some goddamn release, babe,” you heard him say. Then felt how his hands were upon your thighs, prying them apart until he pushed himself roughly in between them. “Open up those pretty eyes, sweet cheeks.”

When you refused, you felt his grip falter. “Open up, sweetpie,” he tried again, his voice growing darker. Like a warning.

You heard a huff, then felt his grip on you tighten.

Behind Otis, you heard Baby push herself away from the doorpost. “She ain’t into it, Otis,” she said. You heard her footsteps and the sound of her voice coming nearer to you.

“What’s wrong?” Otis asked, but it was met with silence. “Is she broken or something?” Must be to Baby. “Are you broken?” Otis asked gruffly, this time obviously to you. You felt a slap against your inner thigh, then felt how he moved out from between your legs with a growl.

“Let me guess,” Baby said, her sweet voice near your ear. She must be leaning forward to you, you guessed, for you felt her hot breath roll against your ear. “You’re having a headache,” here she hesitated to give you a once-over, then licked her lips. “And you’re on your period.”

You grunted, and Baby straightened again with a smile. “See!” she said, sounding way too happy. “I am a real people person!” Yeah, when those people are toys you can play with or dead, you thought grumpily.

But the fact was, you were suffering from a really nasty migraine attack. It had crawled upon you all too slowly, and yet you hadn’t noticed it had until it was there. Your head hurt, it throbbed and was pierced all at once. Your tummy hurt, your abdomen squeezing painfully while the first of your monthly blood was violently brought forth. Really nothing was pleasant about this situation. You felt tired, angry, sick. Moody to a point you didn’t even want to meet yourself at this stage. Could they not fuck off and leave you here to die?

Well, not really die, but… You felt horrible, and not at all in the mood for anything. You just wanted to lie there until the pain inside your head faded and the ache in your belly subsided.

“Then we can fuck in the dark,” Otis said, the words instantly followed by the clicking of the light switch. Darkness surrounded you once more. You heard Baby click her tongue, probably shaking her head.

“Yeah, you do whatever,” you heard her say. “I’m off to my own room. Come join me if you want some daylight fun.” Then she was gone.

The bed dipped again as Otis came to sit over you, a knee pressed at either side. He dipped his head forth. Warm hands grabbed your wrists, pulling them away from your face until your arms were trapped above your head. You felt how his long hair tickled your skin before his warm lips were placed over yours, capturing them in a kiss.

So he was truly doing this? You gasped once the kiss broke and opened your eyes to stare up at him in the darkness the room provided. The vague outline of his shape was visible, like an angry grey silhouette that moved in the dark. Only, his shape was filled with colorful blocks, little colored lights that your head filled in despite the darkness. A method of torture, you were sure. A reason you hated to have headaches like these. Even with the lights out, your eyes still managed to hurt, and in effect, so did your head.

“You’d better not be fucking with me,” the angry growl came from above you, where Otis sat up to take off his top. You could hear him unzip his pants before his hands sought yours to unzip them as well. He started to tug them down your hips. “If this headache stuff is just bullshit,” he warned you.

“It’s real,” you croaked, then flinched as you tried to look at him. “I wouldn’t fake-“ you flinched again, then tried to wiggle when you noticed he was trying to take your underpants down. The attempt was miserable. Your hips hardly moved. Your head spun too wildly to coordinate your body.

Then you felt how his hand came to rest between your thighs, pushing them apart. A slap of his palm against your bare cunt alerted you that he had succeeded in taking your pants off. A growl escaped your lips as you arched your back again. A finger slid roughly into your slit, pressing deep until you felt his knuckle. His nail scraped past your sensitive walls that instantly fluttered around the digit, earning you a rough laugh. “Not want this, eh?” you heard Otis say. “Liar.”

You gasped again, arching your back. A wet squelch was heard when he retracted his finger till only the tip was inside, then he pushed in again.

“I said no,” you gasped, breathlessly. “I’m not feeling well. I’m bleeding.”

“So?”

That caught you speechless. Because indeed. So? So what? Why wasn’t he bothered by it?

And then you reminded yourself who you were dealing with here. If anyone wouldn’t be repulsed by blood, it would be this artistic murderer. While you were still in a daze, he kneeled between your legs. A sinful sound came from your cunt when his lips engulfed your sensitive bud. You felt his lips upon you, joining his finger while he pumped, eagerly suckling your clit and licking your cunt. as if he were hungry for your blood. You gasped, this time in pleasure, then you moved your arms down until your hands came to rest on the top of his head. Your fingers curled in the strands there before tightening and pulling him closer, effectively forcing him to slobber and suck and nip at your aching cunt until you had your fill.

He lapped at you eagerly, desperate for the nectar that spilled from your core. Slick mingled with blood. Your womb clamped painfully inside of you, but the pleasure was making the sensation more and more bearable until you’d forgotten your period pain completely.

You were moaning, guiding Otis up and down and closer. His nose against your pussy lips while his tongue dove in deep. His finger was joined by another. The two thick digits curled and twisted inside of you. And then, when he considered you ready enough for him, he jerked from your grip and sat up between you.

He propped your legs up and over his shoulders and nearly folded you in half as he bent over you. The tip of his hard cock, throbbing and dripping pre-cum, pressed against your opening, then slid in without little resistance. Both of you cried out in tandem while you felt him bottom out. A growl escaped Otis, and you saw the white glint of his gritted teeth in the dark.

Otis’s hands were upon your arms, gripping you while he set a steady pace. Slick sounds filled the room while you shortly worried about staining the bed. A stupid notion, you thought. The bed had been stained by the blood of so many others before you.

Otis was a murderer after all. An Artist. A lover of gore.

No wonder he took you with such fervor while your blood spread across his shaft. Your pussy was sensitive, more than you remembered it to have ever been before. It pulsed around his shaft, milking him, begging for each and everything he could give.

You heard how it affected him. How his low grunts and husky curses became more passionate and more desperate with each thrust and with each pull of your cunt. All too soon, he had you arching your back in pleasure while an orgasm washed over you. Your nipples peeked against your shirt, your cunt clenched down tight. And still he kept thrusting.

“Fuck,” he groaned. It took him more effort to enter you when you clamped down on him like a vice. He had to forcibly pull back his cock and slam it in again, time after time, until the head of his cock hit a pleasurable spot deep inside and your walls started to flutter again.

Your toes curled with delight. He fucked you through your first orgasm, and onto the next. You bit your lip to keep from crying out, but he was thrusting mercilessly, pounding you deep and hard, battering that sweet spot deep inside of your cunt until you saw stars again. This time not from the migraine. These were the stars of horny pleasure. Stars of eroticism. Of sheer luck.

Of him giving you his essence.

Because you felt it. Felt how his hips stuttered and how his warm cum shot deep inside. You heard his hoarse yell, the obscenities he uttered while his hands sought your face and cupped your cheeks.

Then you felt how his lips captured yours in a kiss. His hips pressed tight against yours, his softening cockhead nudging your cervix with the last spasms of his orgasm. Then he slid out.

“Fuck, I think I’ve found a new favorite pastime,” Otis said while he sat up and ran a hand through his hair. You squinted your eyes when he clicked on the bedside lamp, and quickly hid your face behind your arms again. Okay, so the migraine hadn’t gone away. But the pain in your lower region had been replaced by the soft tingling of your afterglow. That was an improvement.

You watched through half-lidded eyes how Otis smirked down at you. He was still undressed, pants tucked to his ankles while yours were discarded halfway across the room. Then he bent over and dipped a finger into a pool of juices that stained the sheets. You watched, mesmerized, as he lifted his finger. He held it in front of his eyes to study it. The bright red blood glinted in the light of the lamp.

Then his eyes turned to you, a similar glint within them, while a smile spread on his lips. “Oh, we’re definitely gonna do this again, pumpkin.” You parted your lips to protest, but he saw the attempt and quickly interfered. “Na-ah,” he tusked you patronizingly so. “Need I remind you? You’re mine.”

And then he was upon you again. His lips ravishing yours in a fiery kiss. Besotted with twisted love and hungry for more of your blood.

He was inside of you before you could protest. And you knew, your life would never be the same again.

#Otis Driftwood x Reader #Otis driftwood x you #Otis B driftwood #Otis Driftwood #house of a 1000 corpses #the devil's rejects #rob zombie #I wanna star in your next movie but you'll never read that tag and I don't mind #Otis B. Driftwood x Reader #Otis B Driftwood x Reader #Otis x you #Otis x Reader #Reader insert #Slasher x Reader #Reader x Villain #Reader x Otis B Driftwood

382 notes · View notes

rustycopper4use · 3 months

Text

The Intern!

He looks very polite.

also side note, everyone is like intern definitely dated Stacy, which I love HOWEVER here me out what if they dated Stacy’s mom. (Ehh get it, like the song-)

#lgbtq #gay #x listener #escaped audios #new jersey rats #the new orleans rats #new jersey rats intern #I think it would be funny if slasher and intern were related #Interns like “yeah no the only family that still talks to me can’t even come to my graduation hes off in a horror rom com with a dead man #Jean is just 🧍 he’s what #Anyways it just a fun headcannon #but hey thats just a theory #a asmr theory!#thanks for reading #Also he found my art again-#I don’t know what to do

67 notes · View notes

heartfullofleeches · 1 year

Text

Oh to be a recently widowed individual accused of murdering their beloved and on the day of their sentencing their cell is found empty as they are freed by the help of a white rabbit which leads further their descent into madness as they follow the rabbit and end up in a world of fantasy where they get into silly antics such as having the rabbit confess his undying loyalty to their cause, nearly beheading a cat who shares the same devotion and has several more lives they can waste, and being on trial for another fucking murder- They also have a knife for some reason and are paranoid enough to live by the moto of stabbing first, questions later. Not the best thing for their case

#I've never read the books and I'm trying to so I can do my best -#Yandere wonderland #yandere #yandere x you #yandere x reader #Slasher reader

266 notes · View notes

welcometowhore-rrorville · 11 months

Text

𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒩𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉

Featuring: Michael Myers

Word Count: 5.6k

Warnings: canon-typical violence, thriller and violent themes throughout, nsfw near the end, smut, everyone is 18+, attempted murder, the usual slasher stuff, questionable consent (both parties into it but also you probably shouldn’t be getting it on with a killer), swearing, probably ooc but I tried, proof-read and edited but I make mistakes so lmk

You hated to be out by yourself this late at night, but you supposed it wasn’t all bad. Despite the chill in the air, the weather was nice, and the stars against the black sky illuminated your view as your shoes clicked on the sidewalk. You promised your friend Laurie you’d swing by during her babysitting tonight to keep her company, and so that’s where you headed.

You glanced down at your outfit, pulling on the black dress to cover more of your thighs, black tights doing next to doing to keep out the wind. You weren’t cold as much as you felt exposed, and you wished you’d been smart enough to stop by your house after the Halloween party to change. It was too late for that now, you thought, scratching behind your ear where the cat ear headband dug into your head.

You grabbed your satchel which hung at your side, strap thrown around your shoulder. It held nothing more than a few snacks and your favorite board game, but you figured it would be enough to entertain the two of you until the child’s parents got back home.

Despite being older than her—about to graduate in the spring, you two grew up together, and you weren’t about to leave your friend to suffer through a boring babysitting job alone. Sure, one of Laurie’s friend’s was a few houses down, but you doubted she would be coming over when she had other plans that night.

You rolled your eyes thinking about it, and scoffed. She was a pretty shitty babysitter, in all honesty, but you supposed it wasn’t your kids.

You continued down the darkened path forward, occasionally stopping in the glow of a streetlight. Being Halloween, you expected the odd-ball teenager running around to get a kick out of scaring people, and so kept a close watch on your surroundings. You didn’t want to deal with anything tonight except maybe losing at checkers, but that was far better than getting spooked by some freak.

At that thought, you rummaged around in your bag, opening it just enough to peer at the small switchblade nestled in the inside pocket. It wasn’t much, but you didn’t expect to use it in the first place.

You laughed at your own paranoia, instead picking up your pace. You could see your destination, and it didn’t take long before you lingered outside the door.

You glanced behind you, spotting the house Annie was supposed to be babysitting in. You didn’t see any lights on, which you thought was odd, but figured she might’ve turned in for the night. You also took note of the van parked in the front. You vaguely recognized it, but you didn’t dwell on it, instead turning to where Laurie now stood, door open as she welcomed you inside.

“Happy Halloween,” you half-joked, pulling her into a half hug as you stepped inside. You spotted two kids sitting on the couch just inside the living room, a movie lighting up their faces as they watched. “I thought there was only one?”

“There was,” Laurie replied, shutting the door behind the two of you. “Then Annie happened.”

You scoffed, unsurprised.

Walking into the living room, you waved at the two children, grabbing a bag of chocolate from your bag before tossing it to the pair. The boy caught it excitedly. “Happy Halloween, kiddos.”

“They’ve already had too much popcorn,” Laurie commented, but you shrugged.

“Never such a thing as too many treats this time of year. Here—” you threw her favorite candy at her before setting your bag down on the coffee table. “Don’t think I forgot about you.”

Laurie smiled softly. You knew she’d been spooked all day today, which is part of the reason you forced yourself to come over despite your aching feet. Speaking of which, you slipped out of your heels, setting them back in the entry-way before following Laurie to the kitchen. “Don’t steal my stash while I’m gone, ya?” you said, gesturing to the bag as you left. The kids looked at each other before looking at your satchel. You had a feeling it would be empty come time to leave. Still, you didn’t care too much, watching as Laurie stopped at the kitchen island.

She set her bag of candy on the counter, next to which sat a half-carved pumpkin.

“They abandon you?” you questioned, poking your finger through the jack-o-lantern’s singular eye hole. “Or were you going for something abstract?”

“We’ve been trying to carve it off-and-on all night,” she replied, picking up the knife which resided half-way inside the pumpkin and giving the orange squash another stab. “But the kids keep getting spooked.”

“Seems like that’s contagious,” you said, popping open the fridge to grab a soda. “Ever get over your boogie-man scare from earlier?”

“I really did see someone,” she replied, gesturing at you with the knife before making the final cut on the second eye. “It was creepy. He wore a white mask and a jumpsuit and just. . . stared at me.”

“It’s Halloween, Laurie.” you ruffled her hair gently. “Know how many people that fit that description I’ve seen today? Too many to count. I’m not saying you didn’t see someone, but it was probably some dick trying to get a scare. And it looks like it worked.”

She sighed, fixing her hair with one hand as she set the knife down on the counter with the other. “I know. I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”

You pulled her into another side hug, giving her newly fixed hair another pat. You knew she got annoyed whenever you acted like a big sister, but couldn’t hold back a snort as she shot you a half-hearted glare. You leaned against the doorway, sipping on your soda. “You know I’ll be here if something does happen. I packed a switchblade and everything.”

“You’re a life-saver,” Laurie mused, laughing. “If they need to open a tin can we’ll be all set.”

“Whatever, just go sit down and take a break. I’ll finish carving this thing for you.” You set the soda on the counter, replacing it with the knife as you sliced through the pumpkin. Laurie looked too tired to argue, grabbing her candy and heading back into the living room.

“Don’t do anything scary, okay? It may be Halloween but it’s for the kids.”

You waved her comment off, already jabbing back and forth, trying to shape a pair of fangs and a large open mouth.

That’s how the house stayed for the next few minutes, you in the kitchen getting pumpkin guts and juice on your dress as they continued watching t.v. It wasn’t until one of the kids spoke up that you paused your actions, raising a brow at his comment.

“Laurie, I saw someone outside.”

You still held the knife, letting it hang in your hand as you ventured into the living space. “Was it this boogie-man you all keep talking about?”

The boy nodded.

You let out a sigh. “Alright. That’s it. You all stay here. I’ll go check it out.”

“What? Alone?” Laurie asked, standing from the couch. You slid your shoes on, knife now clutched solidly in your hand as you headed to the door.

“I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl. Besides, you have to baby-sit. I’ll just go yell at whoever douche is doing this and get this whole thing done-and-over-with.”

Laurie sighed but knew better to argue, instead following you to the door as you stepped outside. “I’ll lock it behind you. Be safe, okay?”

You smirked, rolling your eyes. With that, you stepped off the porch, eyes adjusting to the dark neighborhood. You didn’t immediately see anyone, and so continued walking, heading into the street, nimble on your feet—well, as nimble as you could be in your kitten heels. It might’ve been better to go out bare-foot, but it was too late now.

You scanned the darkness, examining every hedge and tree in an attempt to spot someone behind it. You had no luck, and so decided to cross the street completely, now closing in on Annie’s location.

You thought about knocking to see if anyone was still up, but decided against it. You didn’t want to know what they were doing if they were still up, and especially didn’t want to interrupt it.

The barely audible crunch of a leaf brought your attention to your right, and you stared intently at a particularly large tree looming in a nearby yard. Already sick of whoever this was, you called out to them.

“Hey. I know you’re there. Can you just—leave me and my friend alone, hmm? I get it’s Halloween and all, but it’s too late for tricks.”

There was no response, nor any movement.

You pursed your lips. “Okay, then,” you mused, heels crunching on the grass as you headed to the tree. “I’ll come get you myself.”

As you walked closer, you still spotted nobody. You gripped the knife, making sure it was poised and ready in your hand. You had no intention of stabbing anyone tonight, but a little scare should give them the picture to leave.

You finally stopped arms-length away from the massive oak. You gave a knock on the thick trunk. No reaction.

You clenched your jaw, knees bent as you prepared to race around to catch the stranger by surprise. Just before you moved, however, footsteps sounded behind you, and you whirled around and jumped back just in time to avoid a knife to the back.

Your eyes widened. It was just as Laurie described, a tall man, definitely built enough to do some damage, wearing a stained black jumpsuit. A white mask covered his face, revealing nothing but eye holes. You stared at the molded rubber costume, peering into the two black voids, the kitchen knife squeezed so tight in your hand your knuckles hurt. You saw no reflection of eyes, nor skin, just darkness.

Strangely, he made no move to strike again, just staring, well, you assumed he was staring, directly at you. His stance was eerily calm and collected for someone who just tried to kill you. It was like he was waiting for you to make the first move.

Your heart hammered in your chest, and three decisions flashed in your mind. Fight. Flight. Freeze. You were already frozen, but so was he. Flight? You had no idea how fast he could run, or where you would go. You weren’t about to lead a mad-man back to Laurie and the kids. That left only one option.

You weren’t the most athletic, nor the fastest, but left with no option, you made your decision.

Taking in one last breath, you darted to the side, using the tree trunk for cover and narrowly avoiding another attempted stabbing.

You raced around the tree, popping out where the man once stood with your knife above you, elbow bent and prepared to lunge.

He had vanished from his spot, and you quickly darted away from the tree entirely, wanting to have a clear view of all of your surroundings. The closest cover he could’ve taken was inside the house Annie resided in, and judging by the now-open door, you were correct in your guess.

You grit your teeth. Now was your chance to flee and get help, but you had a sinking feeling the police wouldn’t get here in time to be of any real help.

Suddenly spurred forward by your own urge to confront the man trying to kill you, you walked towards the open door.

Your knife never left your vision, and you held it just far enough away to deal a strike without having it ripped from your grasp.

The door swayed gently in the breeze, knocking against the doorway. You stepped inside quickly, shutting the door behind you.

The inside was dark, as you gathered from looking at the outside of the house, and you struggled to maintain your senses. Still, you knew idling for too long meant death, and so crept forward as quietly as possible despite your unreasonable shoes.

The house was quiet enough to tell you one thing—either Annie and her friends were all fast asleep, or. . .

You took extra caution coming to a doorway, and decided to swing first and ask questions later, but your knife hit nothing, and so you stepped forward. There was nothing but an empty kitchen.

You found the same for the entire downstairs, and so decided there was only one other option.

You made your way to the staircase, gripping the railing. Slowly, you stepped upwards one stair at a time. This house was a stranger’s, and you had no idea what the lay out was. Still, you knew one thing. Your boogie-man was upstairs, and you were going to confront him there.

You took a deep breath, steadying your shaking body once you made it just below the second floor landing.

You quieted yourself, trying desperately to listen for some sort of clue to unravel his location. You heard nothing, and figured he’d hidden away in some corner just waiting for you to come out.

Having no choice, you stepped upwards, swiveling to take in your surroundings. You started with the door closest to you, and used the tip of the knife to slowly push it open. You spotted nothing, but the room was dark. There was no way to tell if he was inside without going in.

You glanced back down the stairs. Should you retreat? It wasn’t too late to scramble out the door and scream for help. You clenched your fists.

A feeling deep inside your stomach wouldn’t let you, and so you pushed into the room. You squinted your eyes. It was a bathroom by the looks of it, and the only light was coming from the window clear across the hallway.

Stepping a foot into the small room, you swiveled your head around, making sure there was nowhere to hide.

Everything was clear, save for the shower. The curtain was pulled fully closed. You grit your teeth so hard your temples burned. Your feet slid cautiously, and the tip of your knife blade tapped the edge of the curtain. With a harsh push, you slammed the curtain open.

Nobody.

You let out a sigh.

You swiveled back on your heels, only to let out a breathless gasp. He had you cornered, tall frame blocking your only way out of the bathroom. You had to think fast, and so did the only thing that came to mind.

You lunged to the side, grabbing a towel hanging on a hook before tossing it towards him. Not wasting a second, you charged forward, knife cradled against your chest to prevent stabbing yourself. Your body collided harshly with his, and you heard the clatter of metal on tile as you both fell to the ground, towel lodged between your bodies.

You landed on top, but before you had the chance to raise your knife, the towel was thrust back in your face, and you stumbled to the side, leaving him to get the upper hand.

Your body was pressed harshly into the floor, and the knife you had was ripped out of your grasp and thrown, landing with a thump a few feet away.

You breathed heavily, the weight of him straddling your hips taking the breath out of you. His hands wasted no time wrapping around your neck, cutting off your airway.

You wheezed and gasped, bucking around and clawing at the large hands which choked you, but you knew he had you beat. There was no use trying to wrangle his hands away, so you needed a different plan, and fast.

You looked anxiously around, eyes flittering around the darkened hallway. Both knives were too far away to reach, and you had nothing else to defend yourself with. You tried to maneuver out from under him, but he had his full weight atop you, staring at you from behind his white mask.

Your lungs were burning, and you were running out of energy to struggle. Your gaze met his, and the window behind you let in just enough light to highlight the eyes behind the lifeless facade. You stared, hands still clawing at his own, becoming more and more panicked as black spots clouded your vision.

Desperately, you moved from grabbing your neck to his, and slid your fingers underneath the mask, ripping it upwards and off.

Seemingly panicked, he released his grip, reaching hurriedly to return his mask back on his head, though you had already thrown it to the side, leaving it in a heap a few steps down the staircase.

You couldn’t find the energy to move, and so only stared, taking in his face as he stood from your wheezing body. With a speed you hadn’t seen him move with, he crouched over and grabbed his mask, fitting it back onto his head before turning around.

You had only seen his face for a second, but what you saw surprised you. It was a man—a young one at that, with sharp features and curly brown hair that fell over his forehead slightly. You expected the face of a seasoned killer, not someone who could’ve been in college.

Still, you had no time to dwell, as he was already stepping back towards your fallen body. Taking in a deep breath as air once again filled your lungs, you scrambled to your hands and knees, racing forward to grab the blade which glistened under the moonlight. You gripped it firmly, and rolled onto your back just as he struck with his own weapon picked up from the bathroom floor.

It dug into the floor just beside you, and you hurled yourself up and onto your feet, scrambling back down the stairs before he could strike again.

Half-running-half-falling, you made it down the stairs, rushing to head into the kitchen. You breathed heavily, your whole body aching as you leaned against the kitchen counter. You saw a door leading to the back, and began slowly moving towards it, all the while keeping your eyes glued to the entrance. He would come, and when he did. . .

You had no idea. You had no clue what you would do once you ran out the door. You didn’t know what you could do or how it would end. Something in you shattered at that. Why were you fighting something so hard when you knew there was only one fate in store for you this evening?

You released the death-grip on the kitchen blade, letting it fall onto the counter. With a sigh, you bent over, taking your shoes off as you relished in the feeling of your heels flat on the floor. You reached up, finally taking off your headband, and placed that beside the discarded weapon.

You then walked over to the fridge, popping it open to see just what you were looking for—your favorite soda.

You popped it open, taking a long sip as the carbonated liquid cooled your dry and hoarse throat.

Deciding that you couldn’t bear to stand any longer, you popped onto the counter, legs dangling as you sat against the upper cabinets.

You continued sipping on your drink, eyes on the entryway. It felt like hours before you finally saw him appear, knife in hand as he stared from in the doorway. You gave a sarcastic smile, waving. You held out your arm. “Care for a drink before you kill me?”

He did nothing. You weren’t surprised. “Not a talker, huh?” You shrugged. “Guess it doesn’t really matter.” You finished off your drink, setting it on the counter with a clank. “Too late to call it a draw?”

Still no response.

You frowned, crossing your legs. “Well, I suppose you should get this whole thing over with. That’s what you want right, to kill me? Well, do it already. Unless you want to wait for me to finish another soda.”

At your words, he stepped forwards, but still not close enough to reach you. He seemed. . . confused at your sudden personality shift. You were confused too, but you supposed shock did crazy things to people. Your heart still beat wildly, and your hands shook, but there was an acceptance that buried itself in you that you couldn’t get rid of. You were going to die, you decided, and that’s just how it had to be.

You let out a sigh, hopping off the counter daintily. Your bare feet hit the floor, and in a few steps you stood directly in front of him. You looked at the knife in his hand, still hanging at his side, before staring at him. “I didn’t think I’d go out this way,” you confessed. “It’s a shame, really. Though I guess it’s not so bad. . . at least you’re handsome. Takes a whole new meaning to to-die-for, huh?”

The slightest tilt of his head betrayed his emotion. He didn’t. . . understand you. One minute you were just like all the others, but now?

He raised the knife slowly, so slowly that you could stare at your own reflection in it, watching yourself blink as sweat dripped down your face. You thought about closing your eyes, but decided against it.

You watched as the blade tip tapped just barely against your sternum, dragging down almost teasingly. Still, you made no move to run. No move to scream or rip his mask off again. You just. . . stared.

The blade pressed harder against your skin, and you winced when it finally broke the skin, but not anywhere near enough to kill you—hell, not enough to even hurt you. The blood dropped slowly down from your upper chest, rivulets of the dark substance nestling between your breasts, just below your dress’s neckline. The knife began to move once more, lifting up from your skin only to nestle just below your chin, pressing against your neck.

You made no move to stop him, still looking into his own black gaze. Again, he pressed his blade in, but only enough to tilt your head up, leaving you to stare at the ceiling. Did he. . . not like you looking at him? Was he, your killer, seriously uncomfortable with you looking at him as he killed you?

You grit your teeth, and despite the pain, brought your chin down again to watch him. You heard a low exhale behind the mask.

The blade slid from your neck, trailing along your collar-bone before it hit the spaghetti strap of your dress and bra. You felt a pull as the blade slipped beneath the strips of fabric, pulling them upwards until they sliced apart. Your shoulder was left bare, and soon the same could be said for your other one.

You didn’t speak—couldn’t speak. Any words lodged themselves in your throat, unable to come out. You felt choked again, but this time by your own will.

Your hands begane to fiddle with the bottom of your dress, picking it up and down as you messed with the fabric. He took note of this action, knife trailing back over your sternum before slowly, agonizingly slowly, tracing down your middle. The blade tip was cool against your flushed skin, sliding between the curves of your breasts and right over your navel. It stopped just below your dress line.

You continued your eye contact with the man, though it was a struggle as the blade began to cut through the thin fabric of your tights. You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling as the sharp edge crept further upwards, slicing the black mesh as it did so. As he cut, the blunt top edge of the knife raised your dress, and he didn’t cease until it was up to your hip and your underwear, only now half covered by tights, was on display.

Your mind was racing—was this all part of his m.o.? Teasing before murder? No. He had just tried to kill you multiple times brutally and quickly, so what was this? It must’ve been unplanned. New. Just as foreign to him as it was to you. You weren’t sure if being a guinea pig to his fantasies was better or worse than choking to death. You supposed you were going to find out.

The blade skirted across your hips, leaving a stinging sensation as it went. He continued until reaching your other side, then you noticed his other hand begin to move. A large hand rested on your hip, slowly trailing upwards, past your heaving chest, until it stopped at your bare shoulder. Gripping it tightly, he turned you to face away from him, and at last you broke eye contact.

You held your breath as all touch on your body was lost, and you remained stiff and quiet, tattered clothes revealing the goosebumps lining your skin. Was this it? Was it time?

From your peripheral you saw a hand come into view, knife shining in his grip. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood when the tip came to rest just above your navel, pushing in harder and harder until you were forced to stumble backwards.

Your back hit his chest, and you didn’t have time to regain your balance before his other hand wrapped around your throat. His muffled breath was at your ear, and you could spot his mask just barely in your view, hovering above your shoulder.

HIs fingers began to squeeze, but not hard enough to kill, only enough to have you wheezing and gasping for a full breath. You had no choice but to writhe against his solid frame, the knife in front of you still taunting you.

Tears pricked at your eyes, upping your panic. Your hands finally unfroze, leaving you to reach up and try to pry his fingers from your throat. At your action, the knife in front of you pressed against your stomach harshly, and you let out a weak moan as your skin sliced open. Blood stained your dress, quickly seeping below the fabric to drip down your exposed pelvis.

Sensing his anger at your attempt to free yourself, your hands dropped back down, balling into fists.

The grip loosened slightly, and though still confining, you were able to take a solid breath, letting the air fill your lungs as your chest rose and fell.

You were stuck, pinned against him as a knife toyed with your stomach and hands clenched and unclenched against your aching neck.

“Please. . .” you whimpered, exhausted. You didn’t care what he did, as long as he got it over with.

Your body slumped against his, head resting against his upper chest. His hand still around your throat prevented you from leaning fully, but your form was like a rag doll in his grasp.

“Do whatever you want. . .” you continued, trailing off. Your hands moved to your stomach, clutching your wound. You noticed the knife had retreated back behind you. Did this mean he had his fun? It was done? Hardly.

You heard the clatter of the blade on the nearby countertop as he pushed you roughly forwards, not stopping until you were pinned against the countertop, your wound pressed deeply against the sharp edge. You whimpered at the feeling, hands coming out on either side of you to press yourself backwards, but he had already taken his place directly behind you, locking you in place.

You could only listen, heavy breathing coming from behind you as his body pressed against yours.

In any other situation, the feeling of a solid chest pressing into your back paired with hands now curiously trailing over your body would have you begging for more, but in this situation. . . ? You weren’t sure. . .

Was he trying to get at something? Get at you? Get with you?

Your stomach clenched.

Despite everything he’d done to you, your mind wandered back to his face behind the mask, his stature, his strong build and large hands. . .

No. No. No. No. No.

You resisted the urge to shake your head.

You might’ve had an odd taste in men, but this? THIS?

Still, you pressed your thighs tightly against each other, knees suddenly weak. Blood loss. It must’ve been blood loss that had your mind acting like this. There was no other explanation for the warmth pooling in your abdomen.

You weren’t getting hot and bothered by the man that had just tried to kill you. . . it wasn’t like his hands, both of which were now wedging themselves under your dress, were impacting you at all. . . right?

You let out a hiss of surprise when a knee shoved your legs apart, the solid mass preventing your bashfulness. Your breath hitched as he brought his leg upwards, leaving you to struggle on your toe tips to prevent the rough cloth from brushing against your sex.

Seemingly noticing your sudden change of breathing, he moved a hand to your navel, sliding his long digits downwards until he found the band of your tights and underwear.

Your eyes widened when he continued downwards, wiggling underneath your bottoms to ghost against your pubic bone.

It was obvious this whole experience was exciting him, judging by his heavy breathing and the newfound object poking against your backside.

Still, you couldn’t talk, being that your panties were considerably wetter than they were a few minutes ago. It was laughable—what kind of enemies-to-lovers story was this? But, you supposed you enjoyed this more than the other option. A lot more, you corrected yourself as a finger brushed against your clit.

You let out a breath. You didn’t have to say anything. It was obvious he’d found something you enjoyed.

A rough pad swirled against your sensitive clit, the sensation choking a near silent moan from your lips. You couldn’t believe yourself, repulsed at what you found yourself doing, and yet had no intention of doing anything besides leaning further into his touch.

Your hands rested firmly against the countertops now, abdomen bent forward—leaving you to stare at your distorted reflection on the surface of an abandoned tea kettle. Your face was covered in tears, sweat, and stains of blood splattered your body. Your eyes moved from staring at yourself to the masked killer behind you. He was bent over you, still trailing up and down your folds and rubbing your clit with large yet nimble fingers. His other hand was now on your chest, diving beneath your falling neckline to grope your breasts—still stained with your blood.

You shivered when the touch of his mask hit the side of your neck. It was like he wanted to kiss you, mark you, something, but the rubber prevented it.

Still, the point was made, and you tilted your neck to the side, allowing greater access.

His fingers toying with your cunt built a knot in your stomach, and you knew you were close, panting as that familiar sensation filled you. Like you were on the precipice of a cliff, you waited with baited breath, your hips grinding as best as you could to finally push you over.

A digit found your entrance, and pushed in harshly, quick enough to jerk you upwards. A surprised cry left your lips, only to be cut off as your breath hitched. Vigorously, rhythmically, like a machine, his finger pumped in and out of you, quickly being joined by another.

You clenched your mouth shut, knowing the lewd noises you would make otherwise. Seemingly taking note of how quiet you’d gotten, he gripped your breast tightly, nails digging into your skin. Giving up on your short vow of silence, you let another groan leave you, your hands reaching behind your head to push his neck further against your skin. You wanted more. You needed more. You were so close. . . so fucking close. . .

All movement was ceased. A figure stood in the doorway of the kitchen. You didn’t recognize the man, at least from what you could see in your tea kettle mirror, but you noted the way the killer turned to stare at the older man.

“Michael,” the intruder gasped, clutching a small handgun. “Let the woman go.”

The two stared at each other, and you could feel the tension pulsing from underneath the slasher’s jumpsuit. Obviously, they knew each other, and obviously, your late night lover had a bone to pick with him.

His fingers were still inside you, the other hand clawed around your breast. You let out a whimper, your hands wrapping around your exposed midsection.

“Myers,” the stranger spoke again. “Leave this place. You’ve done enough for tonight.”

Slowly, painfully slowly, his touch receded from your skin. Michael, you learned your culprit’s name was, returned to his full height, turning to face the older man menacingly. With agitated steps, he walked forwards, grabbing the abandoned knife off the counter. The man stepped back a few paces, placing his gun back in his jacket pocket before quickly rushing to your side as soon as Michael was far enough away.

You blocked out the man’s words of reassurance, only staring at the pale masked man, his own eyes staring back for just a moment, before he turned and walked back into the darkened house. You heard the opening of a door, and just like that, he was gone.

“Michael Myers let you live,” whispered the man. He stood, staring at the empty doorway. “I fear for what his plans with you are, dear.”

You swallowed harshly. Whatever they were, you were sure you’d be seeing him again soon. You had a feeling he was far from done with you. Your stomach clenched, and you gently pulled your dress back down to your thighs. A part of you couldn’t wait until that day came.

188 notes · View notes

jurassicass · 2 years

Photo

A self indulgent Lady Dimitrescu x Dahlia...

#I just know they would do the craziest nastiest things to each other #this was prompted because I was reading lady d x reader smut fanfics LOL #my art #wlw art #lady dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu x reader #alcina dimitrescu #slasher oc #horror oc #dahlia #resident evil village #re8 #re8 village #lady dimitrescu fanart #resident evil fanart

1K notes · View notes

kakashiislut · 5 months

Text

Who is it?~ GhostFace

Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3, Pt 4, Pt 5, Pt 6, Pt 7

@simp4myself

Warnings: kissing, cheating, mentions of hands on body.

———————————————————

You find yourself just staring. Staring in shock. It was….it was them. You knew it, you fucking knew it! Those looks they always share, the way they always have a sadistic look in their eyes, the way Stu was always making up for silence by being loud, the way Billy stared.

Stu…Stu was that ghost. Ghost Face? The one that killed Casey and Steven, the one who called syd, the one who attacked syd? But Billy seemed guilty too.

But how did Billy get in trouble for something Stu did?…wait. WAIT.

You placed your hands on top of your head, shutting your eyes and trying to stop the wave of emotions flowing. Stu and Billy?…sharing a costume…killing people?

That itchy feeling bloomed in your stomach again.

Hearing a bang you slammed your head towards the door.

“Alcohol…ya alcohol…” you mumbled, shutting the closet where Stu…no ghost face stored all his stuff. You ran to lay on the floor and shove your arm under stus bed.

“HEY! What’s taking you so long?” Stu busted open the door quickly.

“Oh- I’m sorry…I guess my arm isn’t long enough to reach and I didn’t wanna move your bed- and I also didn’t wanna bother you or anyone else, so I thought if I just-“

“Relax!!! I got it!” His face seemed so joyful, was it all true?…

You moved a bit and watched as he laid his slender body on the floor and reached his hand under his fairly clean bed.

His hand brushed yours just a bit, yet it didn’t stop him from making a snarky comment.

“Oo you must like me…” he giggled.

“I do…” you teased, biting your lip hilariously.

“…well I mean…Tate and everyone are downstairs…”

He retracted his arm from under the bed, holding a slightly dusty bottle of wine. Apparently he’s had it since he was 12.

“What do you mean” you both sat on your knees staring at eachother.

“I mean…we can like…” Stu suddenly leaned in.

When his lips touched yours, you just let him. You let him softly kiss you, almost like he wasn’t sure if you’d flip out.

“Hey..wait…” you pulled away a bit and his lips hovered yours.

“Y-ya?..”

“Can I put my hand up your shirt?..”

“HO HO HO! Hell ya!” You were quick to put your hand over his mouth.

“Okay…”

“Okay..”

70 notes · View notes

raccoonspooky · 1 year

Text

Do you think bo sinclair's slutty little waist and his mommy issues have any correlation to each other?? Does he store his trauma in the cheekage of his ass and thats why hes caked up?? Anyways surprise new fanfic.

#nhjneafklnskhfndsj i'll make a nicer post when i have braincells #its mommy issues to the maximum capacity #everything is wrong with him and thats so hot #I found this mostly completed WIP and then re-read it and promptly lost my shit #bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #house of wax #x reader #slasher fandom #UNFORTUNATELY! this is 2 chapters and only one is like ready for human eyes so you'll get all the pain first and then nEXT you'll get smut

291 notes · View notes

cornerstoreclown · 1 year

Text

Unlikely Guardian

Summary: This is a short one-shot (4114 words approx.) where the reader (Gender Neutral) is being followed on their way home by someone other than their familiar companion, Art. It doesn’t end well for the people who tried to harm the Reader. Where is the safest place to be from danger, than in the arms of danger itself?

Warnings: Sexual harassment (Catcalling w/ gender neutral terms), attempted murder, gun violence, murder, stalking, depictions of violence, blood.

Author’s notes: I don’t really have much to add here, other than that thanks for the support from the community so far! You all have been very kind.

------------------------------------------------------

“Fuck, it’s cold.” You mumble to no one but, well, yourself.

You should have brought gloves when you walked around the city today. The air is cold, dry, and bitter and nipping at your exposed fingers. It wasn’t that bad on your way to the local pharmacy when the sun was still up, but over the course of time it took for you to get there, wait in a long ass line, pay for your medicine and finally leave, it’s gotten worse. Then, to top it off, you were hungry after that trek and walked an additional distance to get something to eat, because in no way you felt like cooking tonight. Now you were carrying not only your medicine, but leftovers to take home. At least the food smells good from the plastic bag you’re carrying it in. Your medicine is tucked in your backpack you have over your shoulders.

This was the sucky part about November—the clocks jumped back an hour last week, and now it’s dark before it’s even five pm. Halloween came to an end not too long ago and some people still have yet to take down their creepy decorations, you notice as you walk down various streets on your way back. You didn’t mind it, though. Halloween was one of your favorite holidays, and the macabre never bothered you. It was an escape and maybe a coping mechanism for the terror that was actual reality, or maybe you just really liked this type of stuff.

It’s dark out, the sun has long since set hours ago. The sounds of leaves crunching under your feet as the wind blows them in your path accompanies you amid the peaceful quiet of this often empty part of the city. Walking alone at night was often considered something dangerous for many, yourself included, but you needed your medicine, and you really didn’t want to be without it. It was easier to walk around during the month of October at night, and it was perhaps the only time you actually took your time when coming home from any late night escapade. The reasons for your late returns home varied, whether it be because you went out to eat by yourself, went to the movies, or just a general night time walk around to appreciate the spooky decorations.

Those leisurely carefree strolls were all because you had Death’s eyes on you at all times.

Art.

Art was your friend you made a few years back during one Halloween, who, after countless encounters and even a sleepover —if you could call it that—he had at your place last fall, eventually came to be… A sort of unofficial partner, you suppose, because you’re not really sure what you two are. He had a tendency to emerge during the tail end of September and lingered all throughout October before going rampant on the 31st like he was ticking on some sort of internal clock. Maybe he’s an evil Halloween spirit. Or a demon. Devil? You don’t really know. Point being, you had your own attack dog, or attack clown, in this case, who clearly harbored some sort of care for you, though to what extent you still don’t know. You try not to think too hard every time November comes around, lest you start to feel lonely again and let the pangs of yearning for his company become so strong that you’ll feel sick.

He killed people. You knew that. But he was nice to you… even though sometimes you did question if one day he’d turn on you and you’d end up on the back of a milk carton. Sometimes being around him felt like being around a wild animal, because he was about as unpredictable as one. You supposed you could sympathize with people whose life work was taking care of exotic dangerous animals—it was the creatures' beauty and the appreciation for what those predators were that kept those people around. In your own way, you could say you thought the same about The Miles County Clown.

You even remember one night last October you were walking home in the dark, and he had been stalking you up until the moment you left your apartment, waiting for the moment to effectively scare the shit out of you, hammer out and positioned to show he was ready to attack. He was fully successful in that mission, and initially it made you angry as he stood there pointing and laughing after your soul just felt like it left your body. You remember calling him an absolute asshole and playfully giving him a light shove to his shoulder while he was still in hysterics at having made you jump and yelp. You didn’t laugh, but you did smile at him. You told him next time you’ll have to jumpscare him and threaten him with a hammer. The expression he gave you was a surprised face that melted into a mischievous smile which told you that he, for sure, would like to see you try. Challenge accepted.

You smile a little to yourself as you reminisce on the good times you had with him while walking, but your attention flickers when you hear the sound of what you thought was something like a glass breaking behind you.

You stop in your tracks, turning your head, smile disappearing, eyes scanning the surroundings trying to find the source of the noise. All you see is a bunch of brick buildings, but no sign of anyone. You did see a rat run across the street from the sidewalk that you’re on, though. You feel yourself deflate a bit and relax, watching the critter until it is no longer visible. At that, you turn on your heel and continue walking.

“Hey, hot stuff!”

Someone was calling out. You didn’t think much of it, or, you chose not to think much of it. You heard it loud and clear off in the distance behind you. They must not be talking to you, no one really talks to you. You keep your stride.

“Where ya goin’?!”

You grip your plastic bag full of food tighter by the handles, a little more speed to your walk.

“I said HEY! HOT STUFF! WHERE YA GOIN’?”

The voice is somewhat deep, and that’s already a bit of a reason for your blood to be pumping quicker. You feel ice run through your veins as you start to have a run to your walk, and then a full blown sprint. You just wanted to be left alone, and you were too anxious to look back over your shoulder for fear of what you might see. Just a few more blocks and you’d be fine! You’d be able to get to your building, run up the stairs to your floor, lock the door, and hopefully, that would be that! You’d keep your phone close at hand if you needed to call anyone! You’d never travel down these streets again, maybe not until next October, you tell yourself! It’s fine, you try to lie to yourself, it’s fine it’s fine it’s fine it’s fine it’s fine—

“Fine, have it your way, then!”

Words haven’t ever struck fear into your heart in such a way as they have now. It prompts you to look over your shoulder to finally see a man, rather nondescript and unremarkable. Clearly by his body language and the way that he’s slowly walking towards you versus running, something is terribly off. Where did he even COME from?!

“Why in such a hurry, sexy?”

You skid to an immediate halt as a new voice comes not from behind you, but in front of you. You look ahead to the source of the sound, seeing out from the alleyway in front of you, two more men step forward, cutting you off from going any further. Fear has a tight grip on you, and you’re briefly paralyzed. With a delayed start, you reach for your phone in your pocket too little too late, your fingers frantically trying to dial 9-1-1, but you’re cut off just at the second you’re about to press the phone symbol as one of the men before you snatches it.

“You don’t need this.” The one who seized your phone says, smirking at you before he throws your phone on the ground and smashes it beneath his foot with one, two, three very hard stomps. You’re mortified and horrified, taking a few steps back as your flight response kicks in, self preservation urging for you to run. You go to run back the way you came, but immediately bump into the first man you saw that was calling out to you. He’s taller than the other two behind you, and he’s walking forward, forcing you to back up until you’re almost caged in by all three of them. There’s still some space left, but not nearly enough to try and get out without bumping into them.

“H-Hey,” You hold your hands up by your sides as a gesture of your submission. “Listen, I-I don’t have much, but if it’s money you want, I can give you money.”

You really didn’t have a whole lot of cash on you. You were barely hanging on until your next paycheck. All you got to your name right now is maybe thirty-seven dollars? It’s not a lot, but it was something.

“I give you money, and you let me go, and I don’t tell anyone about any of this, okay?”

The two men behind you chuckle, as does the one in front of you. It only fills you with dread, and the seconds that pass feel like agonizing hours. You’re living out literally every second of your life right now, and you hate it.

“Tell?” The laugh of the man before you continues, his backup chorus over your shoulder following along with him. He’s brandishing a switchblade now, holding it to your face, and you try to lean away only for the men behind you hold you in place by your shoulders. You shut your eyes tight and wince.

“You’ll be lucky if you’ll be even able to talk again once I carve up that face of—”

You hear a sickly wet thunk! in front of you.

“What the—?” One of the men behind you says.

“Oh, fuck.” The other one behind you says, and you feel both of the men’s grasp on your shoulders vanish.

“IT’S HIM! IT’S REALLY HIM! HE DOES EXIST! RUN!”

Your eyes open at that, seeing that both men took off in two different directions. You felt one run in the direction where you came from, and one run where you were initially going before you were stopped. When you look in front of you, you see the first man who was the start of all your problems, frozen in place with pure shock, eyes wide and jaw slack. You notice he’s falling forward, and with adrenaline rushing through you, you yelp and dodge him as he falls face first onto the ground just at your feet.

There’s an ax in his back.

You look up quickly at that, shock and surprise leaving you bewildered as you recognize your savior standing before you, donning the familiar black and white.

Art?! October was over--Why was he still here? Did he come back?

That bliss is short-lived when you see he’s holding a gun pointed in your direction, until you realize it’s not at you, but over your shoulder. Art’s expression is stone cold. There’s no smile. Whenever Art wasn’t smiling, you knew that it was bad news for whoever was on the receiving end. Fortunately, it appears as if you're not on that end.

You quickly move out of the way, looking off to where he’s aiming. One of the men who ran the direction you were headed to go home hasn’t gotten very far, and you’re bracing yourself for the loud noise, covering your ears with your hands.

The blast from the gun is loud, and you still flinch when he fires it. You didn’t get to see the exact moment because of that, but you see blood spurting from the back of the fleeing man's skull seconds before he crumples dead to the ground. Art was great with his aim when he really put focus into it. You glance back at the clown, seeing him slowly lower the gun down to his side, staring off straight ahead at the limp body with no emotion.

“Art!” You exclaim, dropping your plastic bag and running right for him. Contrary to how that might be wise or sensible considering he was holding a gun and is an unpredictable murderer, it was an absolute relief to see him. He catches your intentions immediately and opens his arms slightly for you to bring it in. He's not smiling but you catch a glimpse of his teeth as they were often exposed, grinning or not. Your arms wrap around him tightly, and he’s able to effectively stand his ground without the weight of your form making him stumble back. He’s as sturdy as a pillar, and you feel his arms around you. His gun points downward at the ground from behind you. Your backpack is largely in the way, but his free hand rubs at the back of your neck in an oddly reassuring way that tickles you. You’re jittery, and you sway a bit in his arms as you both stand there in silence for those few seconds. You finally nuzzle yourself against his chest, and inhale.

Your nose wrinkles, and you pull back just enough to look up at him while still holding on. Is that sulfur you’re smelling?

“Ugh. Art, you smell terrible. Where have you been? Did you just come out of a volcano?”

He looks upwards at nothing in particular, purposefully looking rather thoughtful to indicate that he was thinking. He squints after a few seconds, then is reanimated again, giving a gentle sway of his head, followed by a shrug of his shoulders. He’s essentially telling you, ‘yeah, something like that’. You’re not going to ask about it further. The smell is god awful, but at least he’s here. You’re willing to put up with it.

“Well… Thanks for saving me. I missed you.” You tell him, but he’s not responding to your words. Instead, he’s looking at you and inspecting you, turning your head this way and that. Normally the man was all smiles and grins, but when he was angry, he was angry. He’d flip back soon, he always did.

“I’m fine, I–”

Art interrupts you with a finger in your face, telling you to stop for a second as he licks his thumb and proceeds to wipe your cheek, rather aggressively to the point where it feels like he’s trying to actually move the skin off your face. You must have gotten something on you somehow, but you don’t know when. Maybe there was some food on your face from earlier. He’s looking comedically focused.

“Yes, thank you,” You tell him.

Once he sees that you’re okay and your cheek is now clean, he gives you a gentle pat on the side of your face. You watch him through tired eyes.

“I‘m really glad to see you.”

He looks flattered, putting his hand to his chest as if to give a coy ‘me?’ gesture, brows raised and teeth showing in a smile, and you purse your lips, then show a smile of your own, giving a nod. You’re willing to forgo the fact that he smells like he literally just came from the pits of a fiery hell, and lean against him for another short while for comfort. And he lets you.

As you both stood there in the stillness of the night, it didn’t take long for it to be interrupted by the sounds of groaning beneath you. Both you and Art look down, and see the man who had the ax sticking out of his back rouse, glancing up at the both of you. You stare down at the man as the stranger’s eyes meet yours, meanwhile Art only looks down at him in mild disgust, brows furrowed, lips pulled back and teeth showing, holding a silent snarl.

“You mean to tell me…” He says, a resigned and weak laugh coming from his lips. You’re almost getting the vibe that he knows that he’s not getting out of this alive, compared to the other two that took the flight response. “That you two fucking freaks are together?”

The Miles County Clown’s reputation has only been growing over the years, much to Art’s delight. There were very few who didn’t know about him. He had a reputation to maintain, after all. So well known, yet damn near impossible to catch. He was a blight, sent from whatever depths he came from to torture mankind.

Makes you wonder what that said about you, given that he’s tolerated you and hasn’t murdered you yet.

“I should have guessed. You look like you came from the fucking circus. Your wannabe poser buddy over there can’t even kill people right like the real Miles County Clown.”

The audacity that this man and his two friends had to try and harm you, and then for him act like you’re the problem and insult your physical appearance on top of it. Now that the shock has had time to settle in and your emotions have rearranged themselves proper, you feel anger. Rage. A fury beyond what words could ever hope to paint. Your veins feel like they’re on fire, blood boiling hot. You let go of Art, who is watching you with fascination and delight as you make your way over to the stranger with clenched fists. Art’s smile is wide, and he looks about as devilish as ever.

You are experiencing righteous fury.

“You don’t get to say that to me when you’re on your deathbed, and my friend here is very much the real thing.” You tell him coldly, kneeling down to his level. You press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, assessing the man. The ax in his back was pretty deep, no doubt paralyzing him from damage to the spinal cord. Art made it a point to immobilize him so he couldn’t harm you further, you realize. “I think he was just saving you for later.” You look over your shoulder at your clown companion, who has his head held high, teeth still bared, but a sense of … joy? In how you’re standing up for yourself, and him.

“I want him quiet,” You tell Art. “Permanently.”

The man’s expression falters. You stand back up, and Art has his gun held out for you to take. He points towards the familiar black trash bag a few feet away from where you both are.

“You want me to pick the weapon?” He gives you the most enthusiastic nod, silently cackling as he does so, gently giving you a push in the proper direction. You go willingly, peeking over your shoulder to see Art kicking this man in the gut a few times. The man is wailing with each hit.

The man who got shot in the back of the head had it easy.

Making your way over to the bag, you open it up, seeing an arrangement of items. Plenty of tiny handheld improvised weapons that you’ve seen him show you before. Nails, a hammer, some standard tools that you’d find in a doctors office and others that belonged more in a construction site. After maybe half a minute of careful inspection, it’s the boxcutter knife that catches your eye.

Examining Art's gun, you carefully put the safety on and unload the magazine, place it in the bag, then finally toss the gun inside next. Once you have that settled, you reach for your torture accessory of choice.

With weapon in hand you walk back over to Art, who was still rather ardently tormenting this man, giving the most gleefully silent laughter you’ve seen from him in a while. You clear your throat and he takes a second to stop what he’s doing, hand extended out for whatever weapon you’ve decided to give him. He’s still looking down at the wheezing assailant-turned-victim, but turns his head when you place the box cutter knife into his open palm. Your fingertips brush against his during the exchange, and your eyes meet his.

Whatever you’re feeling, it’s a lot like a high.

“Will you come visit me tonight?” You ask him, a hopeful look in your eyes. He gives a lopsided smile and a shrug. There’s a glint in his eye, and you understand that he’s not done. There’s still the one who got away.

“Well, I have leftovers if you drop by. It’s ramen, but I think you’d like it. It’s wiggly like worms.” Your lips turn upwards into a fond smile. The man had the oddest affinity for insects and other invertebrates. He’s eaten a few before, too. You were trying to have him try other things than people and sweets, but you weren’t going to knock him too hard for eating invertebrates. It was protein. A win is a win.

He looks as if he’s about to react to your kind offer, but the sound of the man beneath his feet groaning disrupts your conversation. Art punishes him with another swift kick, this time in his chest. The ax has been removed and tossed to the side, presumably done when you had your back turned. You suspect Art removed it to expose the wound wider and possibly to dig further into with his bare hands or that box cutter knife. However, all of that is speculation based on what you know in regards to how he murders people. You can only guess.

“Please! Have mercy! I-I-I was just kidding earlier!” The assailant cries out. Art is gleefully showing the blade to him, fervently nodding his head, as if to say that ‘yes, this blade is going to be going in you, multiple times!’. The man’s pleas mean nothing to Art. This man is a pathetic waste of flesh, muscle, and bone, and Art knows he’s going to delight in cutting him open like a package and slicing through the skin like it’s box tape.

You swallow and look over at Art, then the pleading man. Before Art gets too into carving this man up into a masterpiece, you put your hand gently on his shoulder as he’s leaning down, preparing to cut him. The clown’s arm is raised, but he keeps it there when he feels your touch, and he turns his head to you.

“I’m heading home,” You tell him. “Stay safe, please.” You reach for your broken phone nearby, knowing you’ll have to replace it later. You’ll be more upset about your phone once all of what’s happened tonight has time to process.

He gives you a thumbs up with his other hand and then gives a friendly goodbye wave, and you return it, before turning your back to him. You refuse to look, because hearing the sounds of flesh being sliced repeatedly and the blood curdling screams is enough for you. You grab your plastic bag full of leftovers, and begin walking away.

It was only a matter of time that you’d start to hear police sirens, and you don’t want to be there for when that will happen. If someone hadn’t already called the cops, you’re sure they would eventually. The cries for help are loud, but the gunshot was louder.

You start to run, taking off as fast as you can for home until your lungs burn and you’re wheezing. You make it home safe and sound, and for a second you debate on locking the door, wondering if you should leave it unlocked for Art. Deciding to be safe and not to press your luck, you do lock it. If Art really wanted in, he’d find a way in your apartment. You never did get to ask him if he was always around all times of the year, or if this was just a one time thing and he sensed you were in trouble. You place your food on the counter, and prepare yourself for a long shower with full intentions of afterwards turning on the news, maybe to see the fate of not only the two men who bothered you, but the third one who got away.

And maybe, you tell yourself, just maybe when you get out of the bathroom you’d find a clown sitting on your couch in front of the television, stained in blood and gore with a trash bag by his side, sloppily eating leftover noodles.

#art the clown x you #art the clown x reader #art the clown #terrifier #coulrophilia #slasher x you #slasher x reader #minors DNI #long post #wrote most of this to Glow by Mr. Kitty... thank u Mr. Kitty #I've done read this over like 20 times and sat on my phone painstakingly proofreading it so if there's any errors--#then fuck me i guess #canon x reader

660 notes · View notes