"Fuuuuuuuuccck" you scream loudly as Corey pummels his hard cock in your tight pussy. Your laying on your back while the crimson substance is dripping off his shirt painting you red. You were turned on. He must've just come back from a kill you thought as he continues to grunt going in and out "Baby you feel so good I missed you" he whispers with his sweat dripping on to your face. Almost unable to respond, pleasure hitting you on every stretch over your skin. You moan again, as you were about to gather your thoughts and respond he is suddenly ripped off of you. "Michael what are you doing" ?! You exclaimed watching Corey fly across the room. He turns back to look at you, you can't see his eyes only black depths in his mask but you do see his chest rising and falling heavily and rapidly "Michael" you state his name trying to reason with him why would he do that you thought? He continues to stare at you his fingers start to twitch. Oh you get it now ..He doesn't like when you and Corey partake in activities alone. You see he considers he's first to you and Corey was second. Only he got to fuck you alone other wise they fuck you together. And he wasn't having it. He turns back to Corey and picks him up by his neck and slams him against the wall. You jump out of bed quickly still naked. "Michael you're going to kill him, stop" you try to reason with him placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Corey is looking at you with pleading eyes about to pass out from lack of oxygen. "Michael I said that's enough" you say a little louder to grab his attention out of the black out rage he was having. He stopped squeezing his neck but not before slamming him back into the wall again creating a body style hole and throwing him out of the room slamming the door. You stand silently behind him and you can hear his breathing start to come to a consistent pace. He turns to face you. You knew you were in for it. With lightning speed he glides across the bedroom puts his hands around your neck and throws you on the bed. He takes off his mask and starts pulling his mechanic suit off never taking his eye off you and in that moment you knew you were about to be punished. Michael grabs you and slams his much bigger and thicker cock in and out of your pussy. Your screams were met with a maniac type of laughter illuminating from the other side of the door where Corey was thrown out of. Fuck this was Michaels punishment for the both of you. As Corey was going insane from hearing Michael fuck you knowing he will always come last.
The air in Haddonfield was thick with the scent of burning leaves and raw terror, a fitting mix for Halloween night, 2018. The mob wasn't a collection of costumed trick-or-treaters; it was a screaming, frenzied crowd, their faces twisted into masks of genuine hatred, chasing a living nightmare.
They cornered him near the old park gates—Michael Myers.
The reader, whose heart pounded against their ribs, shoved through the sea of people. "Stop it!" they yelled, their voice thin against the roar of the crowd. They planted themself between the enraged townsfolk and the silent, hulking shape of the killer. "He's not worth it! You're making yourselves just as bad!"
A woman's voice shrieked, "Get out of the way, you idiot! He has to die tonight!"
"This is wrong!" the reader insisted, throwing their arms out wide. "He's trapped. Just leave him! Let the police handle it. Don't become a lynch mob!"
For a dangerous second, the mob hesitated, their collective bloodlust momentarily broken by the reader's unexpected defense. That hesitation was the only chance Michael needed.
He moved, not toward the crowd, but toward the reader. The mask was expressionless, the eyes bottomless pits of shadow. The sheer size of him, the infamous knife gleaming softly in the moonlight, made the air cold.
Then, a heavy, unsettling weight settled on the reader's shoulder. Michael had stopped directly behind them. His head tilted slightly, his gaze fixed on the crowd over the reader's head, but that single, massive hand resting on their coat was an unnerving tether. The reader stood frozen, suddenly hyper-aware of the Boogeyman's presence, feeling inexplicably protected and utterly terrified all at once.
The brief spell of stillness shattered.
"You standin' up for him?!" a man roared, enraged that their quarry was being defended. He surged forward, ignoring Michael's silent warning. He bypassed the enormous figure, his target now the person who dared interrupt their hunt.
A rough, heavy object—a baseball bat or a thick branch—swung out in a vicious arc. It caught the reader hard across the side of the head. Pain exploded, a blinding, sickening flash, and they crumpled to the cold, damp asphalt, their cry swallowed by the night.
The hand left their shoulder.
The crowd took a collective, gasping step back as the immense, unstoppable rage of Michael Myers, no longer distracted, no longer simply trying to escape, was unleashed. The sight of the reader, the only person who had shown him anything other than fear and hatred, lying broken on the ground, seemed to flip a switch.
The silent man let out a deep, guttural sound—not a shout of rage, but a low, vibrating snarl of pure, killing instinct. The human beings around him ceased to be a town and became only obstacles to be destroyed.
The killing frenzy had begun.
Michael moved with a terrifying economy of motion. He didn't run; he simply closed the distance with a swift, powerful stride. The knife, which had been resting at his side, came up.
The man with the bat didn't even have time to scream. The blade slammed into his chest, not with a theatrical flourish, but with brutal, uncompromising force. He fell back instantly, the bat clattering uselessly on the pavement, his eyes wide and vacant before his body even settled.
This wasn't the slow, stalking terror of the hunt; this was an eruption.
The mob, realizing the gravity of their mistake in attacking his defender, broke apart. People shoved, tripped, and crawled over each other in a desperate scramble to escape the silent, relentless engine of destruction they had just activated.
A woman in a cheap witch costume tripped over the park fence's low stone wall. Before she could push herself up, Michael was there. The reader, still struggling to sit up, squeezed their eyes shut as the sickening, wet sounds of the attack reached them.
When they forced their eyes open again, Michael was moving past the wreckage, pursuing the fleeing figures. He was a force of nature—a storm that had finally broken the dam. He caught a screaming man by the collar of his jacket, lifting him with one hand before brutally slamming him head-first into a parked pickup truck. The man slumped, lifeless, against the shattered windshield.
The air was no longer thick with the scent of leaves, but with coppery blood and the metallic tang of fear. Every shadow seemed to move, every cry was quickly silenced. This was more than killing; it was a purification, a slaughter enacted by a being whose logic had been irrevocably violated.
The last thing the reader heard before their senses mercifully gave way was the distant, muffled wail of a police siren, far too late to stop the Haddonfield Halloween massacre they had unintentionally triggered. They slumped back onto the cold ground, the sound of the frenzy a terrible, fading roar in their ears.
The return to consciousness was a slow, agonizing climb through layers of pain. The first thing the reader registered was a relentless, throbbing ache behind their eyes—a metronome of agony echoing the spot where the bat had connected. The second was the smell: not blood, but sterile air, antiseptic, and plastic.
They blinked, fighting the heavy lids. Fluorescent lights, buzzing softly overhead, cast a weak, washed-out glow on a ceiling tile pattern. A hospital.
A low, consistent beeping sound tracked the rhythm of their own tired heart. They tried to move, but a dull, protesting stiffness seized their neck and shoulder. A thick, white bandage was taped over their temple, and the rest of their body felt heavy, tethered beneath a thin white sheet.
"Don't try to move too fast," a gentle voice cautioned.
The reader turned their head just enough to see a nurse sitting beside the bed, checking a chart.
"What... what happened?" the reader mumbled, their throat dry and scratchy.
The nurse, a middle-aged woman with kind, tired eyes, gave a small, weary sigh. "You were found near the old park gates. You have a severe concussion, among other things. You’ve been in and out of it for about twelve hours now."
Twelve hours. The reader’s mind scrambled to piece together the last moments: the mob, the argument, the cold weight of Michael's hand, the explosive flash of pain, and then the terrifying, guttural roar as the killer launched his attack.
"The others," the reader whispered, the word sticking in their throat. "The people... the town."
The nurse avoided their gaze, focusing instead on adjusting the IV drip. "It was bad," she said simply, her voice tight. "The worst Haddonfield has ever seen. The police are calling it a... a riot gone wrong. A massacre." She paused, then looked at the reader with professional intensity. "They need to take your statement when you’re stronger. They want to know everything you saw."
The reader closed their eyes, a shiver running through them despite the warmth of the blankets. They hadn't seen the worst of the carnage, but they had caused it. They had defended the monster, and the mob’s retaliation had been the final spark that turned Michael Myers into an unstoppable engine of pure annihilation.
They opened their eyes again, the memory of that enormous hand on their shoulder, strangely protective, terrifyingly real.
"Did they... did they catch him?" they asked.
The nurse shook her head slowly. "Michael Myers is gone."
The chaos of Halloween night, 2018, had been a visceral shock, a thunderous noise that ended in a blinding silence. One moment, the reader was standing between an enraged Haddonfield mob and the hulking figure of Michael Myers, the cold weight of his hand resting on their shoulder in a strange, primal moment of connection. The next, a vicious crack and an explosion of pain sent them tumbling to the cold asphalt.
They woke hours later to the sterile hum of a hospital.
A detective named Dayzore, her face etched with exhaustion and the town’s communal horror, sat beside the bed. She wore the look of someone who had seen too much blood and heard too many screams.
"You're lucky," Dayzore said, her voice gravelly. "A lot of people weren't." She opened her notebook. "We need to know what you saw right before... the shift. Did Michael threaten you? Did you see who struck you?"
The reader, whose memory was horribly clear, looked at Dayzore and gave a performance of genuine confusion. "I wish I could tell you," they whispered, their voice raspy. "I pushed through the crowd and shouted for them to stop. Then, before I even knew what was happening, someone hit me from the side."
They kept their eyes steady, refusing to betray the truth. "I was knocked out immediately."
"So you saw none of the massacre?" Dayzore pressed.
"Nothing," the reader affirmed. "One second I was on my feet, the next I woke up here. I saw no one, including Michael, after the moment I was struck."
Dayzore studied the reader’s bandaged head, then their sincere, tired eyes. The town was looking for a narrative—a clear line from victim to killer—but the reader offered only a clean blank slate. Satisfied, or perhaps just exhausted, the detective closed her notebook.
Discharged a few days later, the reader returned to a world muted by trauma. The stench of fear still clung to Haddonfield, but for the reader, that fear had been replaced by something else: a deep, profound calm.
They navigated the broken town, passing police tape and news crews, their mind centered on the memory of Michael’s touch—not a threat, but a boundary. Don't hurt this one.
The calm wasn't irrational; it was rooted in the knowledge that they were now marked.
It started with small things. A figure at the edge of the woods while they waited for the bus. A dark shape standing perfectly still on a distant porch roof as they walked home from the grocery store.
Michael Myers was gone according to the police. But the reader knew better.
He was there. Always. He watched them everyday.
They would be sorting mail in their kitchen, look up through the window to the vacant lot across the street, and there he would be. The Shape, silent and huge, the white mask an unnerving beacon in the twilight.
There was no stalking, no creeping closer. He never approached their home, never made a move to scare them. He simply observed. He was a perpetual, unmoving landmark in their daily life.
And it brought the reader peace.
Where the rest of Haddonfield recoiled in terror at the whisper of his name, the reader felt an anchor drop. His presence was a promise: he had spared them once; he was protecting them now. That vast, bottomless evil, the legendary Boogeyman, was their silent, perpetual guardian, and that truth was more comforting than any lock on a door.
The terror of the town was the knowledge that Michael Myers was out there. The reader's serenity was the knowledge that he was watching them specifically.
The constant surveillance had been unsettling at first, but after weeks of seeing the massive, masked figure in the distance—always watchful, never threatening—the reader had grown strangely accustomed to their silent guardian. The tension in Haddonfield was a palpable shroud, but in the reader's home, there was only a forced, fragile peace.
That peace shattered late one rainy Tuesday night.
A loud, desperate thud hit the back door. The reader froze, their heart hammering against their ribs. This was different; this wasn't the distant, silent watch. Slowly, they approached the door, gripping a heavy flashlight.
They looked through the peephole. Instead of the usual empty darkness, the enormous white mask of Michael Myers filled the glass, dripping wet. He wasn't aggressive, just utterly still, looking directly into the lens. The reader noticed something else: a long, ragged tear in his coveralls and a darkening stain blooming across his shoulder. He was injured.
A sudden, fierce surge of instinct—the same instinct that had made them step in front of the mob—took over.
The reader unlatched the deadbolt, pulled the door open, and stepped back without a word.
Michael Myers moved with a practiced, heavy stride, dripping rainwater and blood onto the small area rug. He closed the door behind him without looking, sealing out the wet night and the terrified town. He stood there, silent, his breathing deep and raspy behind the mask. He was massive, dangerous, and now, he was entirely within the reader's sanctuary.
The reader did not call the police. They did not scream. They simply looked at the stained coveralls and the wound. They brought him a clean towel and a chair, pointing to the laundry room. Michael silently followed the direction.
They spent the night in an unsettling domestic truce. The reader provided basic first aid for his shoulder—he remained utterly passive, the huge, gloved hand lying still even when the antiseptic stung. They realized that beneath the mask, he seemed to acknowledge the truce. His silence, previously terrifying, now felt like a guarantee.
By morning, the tension had eased into a bizarre routine. Michael retreated to the unused, dark basement during the day, emerging only after sunset. He was a perfect, silent tenant. He never touched the reader’s belongings, never made noise, and never ventured past the living room.
The house became an island of calm in the panicked sea of Haddonfield. The reader would read a book on the couch while the Boogeyman sat in a worn armchair across the room, watching the wall. The fear of being murdered by him had vanished completely; the only fear left was of someone discovering him.
Months passed. The town slowly began to believe Michael Myers had simply moved on, or perhaps died somewhere out of sight. The police hunt wound down.
The reader’s life became quiet, mundane, and safe. When a stranger knocked on the door, Michael's presence in the house was an absolute shield. The town feared him; the reader merely lived with him.
The good ending wasn't a world without the monster; it was a world where the monster, having found a single, unexpected point of defense and kindness, chose to spare the one who defended them.
One warm spring evening, the reader sat on the porch, a blanket draped over their legs, watching the stars. They heard the soft, heavy tread of Michael coming up the stairs. He stopped near the door, his shadow stretching across the lawn.
The reader turned, looking at the expressionless mask. They smiled gently. It wasn't a fearful smile, but a genuine, peaceful one.
"Good night," they said, their voice low, acknowledging his presence for the first time in weeks.
Michael Myers did not move. He did not speak. But as the reader turned back to the stars, the heavy presence of the man—the killer, the guardian, the silent shadow—remained fixed behind them, a promise of permanent, unbreakable safety. Haddonfield would never be free of its Boogeyman, but one resident, the one who dared to show him mercy, was finally free of fear.
Does anybody even get on here anymore ? I want to write, but I feel like nobody would read them. Of course, I've got to write some of my slasher fics. Mainly michael myers and the original scream ( Billy loomis Stu macher). Also I have different ideas for COD, with the reader being a part of Task 141. I've been on Soap Gaz Ghost and Price fics for the last month.
TJ MIKELOGAN's HALLOWEEN HORROR 2025 EVENT
day three ↬ horror franchises
"I always knew he'd come back. In this town, Michael Myers is a myth. He's the Boogeyman. A ghost story to scare kids. But this Boogeyman is real. An evil like his never stops, it just grows older. Darker. More determined." — Halloween (2018)
being black in any art community is such a strange feeling cause you’ll see just blatant racism being expressed in others art and you have to just casually ignore it, for your sake if anything, colorism being something that’s just fundamentally there in every artist and you deal with it cause it’s not worth it in the end to even think of it too hard let alone even mentioning it, it’s definitely something
Hello nonblack reader of this post, I think you ought to share this one so that you and your peers can actively remind yourselves 1) of how your Black peers feel when you tolerate antiblack racism in your art spaces for entertainment and 2) that we notice it, but don't believe it is secure around enough of you to bring it up 🙏🏾
୨९▪︎2.5k+ words, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), mentions of murder, blood and grim, missionary->doggy, no condom(wrap the willy), creampie, kissing, he's non-verbal, dirty talk, choking, pain/pleasure mix, size kink, you don’t finish(don’t kill me),etc▪︎୨९
💌Thank you to that one anon who provided me with character dynamics for horror erotica. I love you so much.
▪︎18+ 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻𝓼 𝓓𝓸 𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝓘𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽 ▪︎
The house is too still. Quiet in the way that feels wrong, like the silence after a scream.
Outside, it’s raining. Not loud—just that soft, needling drizzle that seeps into your bones. The windows are fogged. The streetlamp outside flickers, casting slow-moving shadows across the walls.
Your bedroom is dim. One bedside lamp glows low, casting everything in honey-colored light. Music playing low. You'd lit a candle earlier—amber and sweet. It still burns, barely, the scent thick and heady in the room like perfume and rot.
The sheets are slightly rumpled from where you’d been reading before your shower. The book’s still open on the nightstand, spine broken. There’s a half-empty glass of wine beside it, crimson and still.
And him?
He’s a wrongness in the space.
The knife gleamed when he walked in. The door was never kicked in. He picked the lock. Quietly. Like he's done so many times before.
The creak of the floorboard is a kindness—he wanted you to hear him.
A hulking shape in the doorway, soaking wet, mud and blood clinging to him like a second skin.
But the moment he saw you?
He stopped.
Like maybe he wasn’t here to kill you anymore. Like maybe something about you—your calm, your stillness—called to something inside him. You're both in the bedroom now.
You don’t startle. You don’t scream. You just finish tying the silk sash around your robe, slow and deliberate, like you were expecting him.
He tilts his head in the doorway. A tall shadow. A mask where a face should be. No skin. No name. Just breath and the glint of a knife.
He doesn't speak. Just watches.
You lift your eyes, lazy, dull, and unafraid, like you’re not standing alone in a bedroom that smells of vanilla and blood, in a house that shouldn’t be breached. Your bare legs shine in the lamp light. Your skin glows—a shade so rich it almost seems to drink in the shadows.
You don’t ask who he is. You already know that. You remember the news, the blood, the carving of limbs.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you murmur.
His fingers tighten around the hilt of the blade. You see it—just a flicker of confusion. Surprise. Maybe even curiosity.
You move to the bed, barefoot, silent. The air hums as you pass through it, charged like a storm about to crack open. He watches the sway of your hips. Watches you sit on the edge of the bed like this is some slow-date ritual instead of a horror movie third act.
You part your knees slightly. Robe still tied. Still waiting.
“I locked the front door,” you say, voice even, deliberate. “You already knew that, though. Didn’t you?”
He steps forward.
Heavy boots. Blood-speckled pants. Broad shoulders cloaked in something dark and wet. He doesn’t hide his intent. Doesn’t need to.
He’s already in.
The mask is blank. No expression. No mercy. Just those eyes behind the holes—black, hollow things with no light inside. You wonder if he’s ever seen someone like you before.
Not a scream queen. Not a runner.
You’re still.
He raises the knife just slightly. Enough to make it clear. He wants something. Maybe everything. Maybe just the fear.
But you don’t give it.
“Been watching me?” you ask. You tip your head, loose coils falling to one shoulder, exposing your throat. “You’re not the first.”
His chest moves—sharp and sudden. That breath, that rasp behind the plastic of his mask, fogging the inside.
“You want me to beg?” Your voice drops, honey-thick. “Cry? Oh, no, Please don't kill me! I-I have a family and I—” you cut yourself off, laughter breaking through.
He watches you for a beat.
Then he moves.
He’s fast. Hand snapping out like a snake, gloved fingers wrapping around your throat, thumb pressing beneath your jaw. Not hard. Not yet. Just a warning.
You meet his stare dead-on. Let your lips part around the pressure. Let him feel your pulse, steady and bold beneath his grip.
His body crowds yours. The blade rises, rests at the dip of your collarbone. You don’t flinch. Don’t even blink. He presses the flat of it to your skin and slowly drags it down. Not hard. Not deep. Just enough to sting.
You hiss. Shiver.
A red line appears. Beads up. Trails down to your belly.
You look up at him, breathless, high on it.
“Do it.”
His breath hitches. His hand trembles. He could. He could split you open right now and you’d let him.
His head cocks again. That mask. That terrible, unreadable thing. You wonder if he’s smiling behind it. Wonder if he’s pissed off that you’re not crying, not begging. That your thighs are slowly pressing together under the robe, heat building where there should be terror.
“You gonna kill me?” you whisper.
The blade drags lower. The silk parts at the pressure. Not skin—just fabric, sliced like a gift being unwrapped.
“I’d let you,” you say. “If you did it right.”
His breath catches. Quick. Sharp. He’s close now. Close enough that you can smell him—metal and sweat and earth. Like he dug himself up to find you.
“You like hurting people.” You smile, soft and mean. “Bet you get hard for it.”
His grip tightens.
But so does yours—your hand shoots up, grabs his wrist, thumb brushing along the inside of his glove, like you’re learning the shape of him. Like you want to memorize it.
He shudders. Just once. Like you touched something he wasn’t ready to admit he had.
“You picked the wrong house,” you whisper. “I'm not scared of a man hiding behind a mask.”
That did it.
He yanks you up by the throat—lets you dangle just an inch off the bed. You laugh, breathless.
You don’t look like a victim. You look like a dare.
He throws you onto the mattress.
Your robe slips, loosens. Legs bare. Breast spilling free. You stretch back on your elbows, looking up at him like you’re bored with foreplay.
“Come on, then,” you breathe. “Show me what you do.”
The knife lands beside you, point down in the mattress. Not forgotten—just set aside.
His hands drop to his belt.
༊*·˚
His belt drops to the floor with a metallic clink.
You watch the whole time—eyes heavy-lidded, mouth parted. There’s nothing bashful about you. You stretch out across the bed like a gift you wrapped yourself, the silk robe barely clinging to your arms now. One thigh hooked lazily over the edge of the mattress. The other curled in, inviting. Displaying.
He doesn't speak.
Just stares.
And starts unzipping his pants. Slow. Controlled. Not fumbling, not rushed—like he's done this before. Like he wants you to see him do it.
You let your eyes drop, and when you see it—how thick he is, hard and leaking already, flushed dark at the tip—your breath catches. But not from fear.
Your lips curl. “You’re really gonna fuck me raw?” Your voice is a little hoarse now, threaded with something breathy and reckless. “Not even gonna pretend to be civilized?”
No answer. Just the low rasp of his breathing through the mask.
Then he moves.
Grabs your hips. Drags you down the bed like you're nothing—like you're already his. His grip is bruising, possessive, and you gasp when your back hits the edge of the mattress. Your robe slips off your shoulders completely, leaving you bare, glowing under the amber lamplight.
He spreads your legs wide, his hands forcing them open, your knees bent and trembling as you feel the heat of him between your thighs.
You’re wet. Stupid-wet. It’s not even funny.
He presses the thick head of his cock against your entrance—and you freeze. Just for a second.
You weren’t expecting him to feel that big.
He pushes in. No warning. No easing in. Just pressure. Stretch. Burn.
Your back arches, a cry tearing from your throat as your walls try to resist the size of him. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. His hands hold your hips in place like iron, pinning you down as he sinks in deeper, deeper—until your body gives up the fight and takes him.
It hurts, sure.
But it feels good. He feels good.
You gasp, legs shaking, nails digging into the sheets. You clench around him on reflex, and he groans—a deep, broken sound muffled behind the mask, almost animal.
You grab his wrist and pull his hand up to your throat.
“Do it,” you rasp. “Choke me.”
He obeys without a word.
His hand wraps around your neck, squeezing until the edges of your vision haze and your pussy clenches even tighter around him. The pressure has your mouth falling open—no sound now, just the slick slap of his hips against yours, and the way your breath stutters in your chest.
He starts to move.
Hard. Relentless.
Each thrust punches into you, deep and brutal. He’s fucking you like you owe him something. Like your body’s just a hole to empty himself into. But your face—your face says something else.
You’re loving it.
Eyes half-lidded. Mouth slack. You look like you're floating in it—pain and pleasure tangled into one long, throbbing pulse that builds with every cruel stroke of his dick.
“Mghn—You're so deep,” you manage to choke out, voice broken and blissed. “Been dreaming about a man like you splitting me open.”
He moans. Literally moans. The sound vibrates in your throat where his hand is still crushing down.
He shifts your legs higher, hooks them over his forearms, folding you nearly in half. His dick slams deeper now—right against your spot—and you scream. A raw, real sound that cracks the air.
Tears bead at the corners of your eyes, sliding down your cheeks.
Your hands scrabble up his arms, nails digging through his soaked shirt as you moan, "Fuck, ahhmn—"
He doesn’t stop.
He fucks you through it.
Grunts low. Ruts into you like an animal. Each stroke deepens the ache, makes you tremble, pushes you closer to something that feels less like an orgasm and more like destruction.
You claw at his mask. It doesn’t budge. You can’t see his face, can’t read anything—but his body says enough.
He’s obsessed.
You’re taking him too well.
You shouldn’t be able to.
His pace falters, stutters, then picks back up rougher—mean. Like he wants to see if you’ll break.
And still—you just look at him.
Tears streaming. Lashes clumped. Lips swollen. Choking on moans and your own spit and maybe a little laughter, too.
Because he thought this would be easy.
He thought you were prey.
But now you’re clenching around him, dragging him deeper, sucking him in like your pussy was made to devour monsters.
Your mouth is dry, but your body’s wet, soaked with need and stretched raw around him. Your cunt keeps fluttering—tight, greedy, trembling with every brutal thrust. Your thighs are shaking now. Eyes glassy. Skin glazed with sweat and tears.
He grabs your wrists. Pins them above your head, hard. His grip cuts into your skin.
He pulls out and rubs his dick against your sticky, swollen folds. He parts them and slides up and down, nudging against your swollen clit and probing at your entrance, eyes fixed on where you two were just connecting.
Then he shoves into you again—full weight, full force—no prep, no hesitation.
Just power.
You scream. A raw, desperate noise that shatters into a gasp as your back arches off the bed. Your pussy stretches painfully around him, no time to adjust, your body trying and failing to keep up.
You take it. All of him.
He thrusts again. Then again. Each time like a goddamn punishment. The mattress rocks beneath you, the bed frame knocks against the wall. It’s filthy. Loud. Unhinged.
And you just smile.
“You like that?” you choke out, voice wrecked, tears streaking down your cheeks. “Hurting me?”
A groan spills out of him—guttural and low. Muffled by the mask. Like it was dragged out of his chest. One hand still crushing your wrists into the sheets. The other grabs under your thigh and lifts, forcing you open wider, deeper, angling until he hits a spot that makes your whole body seize.
You moan so loud it sounds like crying.
He’s relentless. Possessed. Every thrust is a vow to ruin you, and you take each one like you asked for it. Like you earned it.
You laugh—wet and cracked. “Bet I feel better than your usual.”
He chuckles, deep and pleased. Then grabs your face, thick fingers squeezing your cheeks, forcing your lips into a pout. The mask is suddenly right there, inches from your mouth, fogged up with breath, plastic cold where it brushes your skin.
You meet it.
Unflinching. Challenging.
“Take it off,” you whisper.
He stills above you.
You buck your hips up into him, forcing him deeper. You swear you feel his dick twitch inside you, thick and hot and aching for release.
“Scared I’ll like what’s underneath?”
He breathes like a beast. Then—finally—he lets go of your wrists.
Your arms drop down, limp from strain. You lift trembling fingers to the mask. Slowly. Testing him. He doesn’t stop you.
You peel it off.
And when you look at his face… you don’t scream.
You don’t even blink.
You kiss him.
Hard. Wet. Tongue first.
His lips are plush, warm, stubbled, and surprised. He groans into your mouth like you hurt him. Like the kiss stole something.
And when he kisses you back—it’s not soft. It’s feral.
He devours you.
Teeth clash. Tongues tangle. Spit drips from your mouth to your chin. His body slams into yours like it’s the only language he knows now.
He grabs your tits—perfect, soft, glistening from sweat. Squeezes them roughly, mouth never leaving yours. His fingers find the nipples and pull. Not gently. You whine into his mouth.
He moans. Like the sound feeds him.
Then he does it again. Harder. Twisting until you’re writhing, cunt clenching wildly around him.
Your head falls back. He buries his face between your breasts—biting, sucking, making those wet, greedy noises like he could eat you alive and still be starving.
You’re shaking now. Gone.
He pulls out—just a few inches—then slams back in, deeper than before. Your whole body jerks. It’s too much. Too hard. Too good.
You gasp, “You gonna cum in me?”
He grunts. His hands dig into your hips, bruising flesh. His cock swells, jerks inside you. His thrusts get sloppy, frantic. No rhythm. No control.
Just raw need.
You wrap your legs around him—trap him there. “Do it. Fill me up. Don’t you dare pull out.”
A noise breaks from him. Something between a growl and a sob.
He pistons into you, brutal and wild, every muscle tight. Then he freezes—hips flush to yours, cock pulsing deep inside your cunt.
You feel it. Hot. Endless. Thick spurts coating your insides.
You moan, low and dangerous. “That’s it. Give it to me.”
He groans again, deeper. Doesn’t move. His whole body trembling.
You reach up and cradle his face—gentle, almost mocking. “Didn’t think it'd go like this, huh?”
He shakes. Not from fear. From you.
And then he collapses on top of you—face buried in your neck, breath harsh, cock still twitching inside.
"Fuuuuuuuuccck" you scream loudly as Corey pummels his hard cock in your tight pussy. Your laying on your back while the crimson substance is dripping off his shirt painting you red. You were turned on. He must've just come back from a kill you thought as he continues to grunt going in and out "Baby you feel so good I missed you" he whispers with his sweat dripping on to your face. Almost unable to respond, pleasure hitting you on every stretch over your skin. You moan again, as you were about to gather your thoughts and respond he is suddenly ripped off of you. "Michael what are you doing" ?! You exclaimed watching Corey fly across the room. He turns back to look at you, you can't see his eyes only black depths in his mask but you do see his chest rising and falling heavily and rapidly "Michael" you state his name trying to reason with him why would he do that you thought? He continues to stare at you his fingers start to twitch. Oh you get it now ..He doesn't like when you and Corey partake in activities alone. You see he considers he's first to you and Corey was second. Only he got to fuck you alone other wise they fuck you together. And he wasn't having it. He turns back to Corey and picks him up by his neck and slams him against the wall. You jump out of bed quickly still naked. "Michael you're going to kill him, stop" you try to reason with him placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Corey is looking at you with pleading eyes about to pass out from lack of oxygen. "Michael I said that's enough" you say a little louder to grab his attention out of the black out rage he was having. He stopped squeezing his neck but not before slamming him back into the wall again creating a body style hole and throwing him out of the room slamming the door. You stand silently behind him and you can hear his breathing start to come to a consistent pace. He turns to face you. You knew you were in for it. With lightning speed he glides across the bedroom puts his hands around your neck and throws you on the bed. He takes off his mask and starts pulling his mechanic suit off never taking his eye off you and in that moment you knew you were about to be punished. Michael grabs you and slams his much bigger and thicker cock in and out of your pussy. Your screams were met with a maniac type of laughter illuminating from the other side of the door where Corey was thrown out of. Fuck this was Michaels punishment for the both of you. As Corey was going insane from hearing Michael fuck you knowing he will always come last.
It was Halloween Night in Haddonfield, you are occupying the couch of your lovely home which just so happens to be the house of the shape of haddonfield the one he grew up and killed his family in. Of course it was refurbished and you really didn't mind the horror stories that came along with it. The whole town tried to scare you off when you moved into it telling you stories of the "Boogeyman". You sigh sitting on your couch running to the door noticing the trick or treaters, but you realized they walked right past your house. Halloween was your favorite holiday and your house was the most decorated on the block, but no kid will dare go up to the house where they think the Boogeyman resides.
"Well I might as well just eat this candy myself" You say stepping out onto the porch. As you get outside you look around "Uhhhh" you mumbled looking confused. You could have sworn trick or treaters passed your house not even 10 seconds ago and now you see no costume in sight. As a matter of fact all house lights that were on was now currently off and your house is the only house that illuminated the street. You look to your left and see a woman coming out from the side of your house running. "What the fuck are you doing" ? You say thinking she was someone messing around your house. She continues to run only sparing you a glance. You scoff stepping down off your porch. "Hey lady"!! you yell at her retreating figure going down the street. Watching her go "people in this town I swear" you turn around and suddenly bump into a tall chest. You look up and immediately lose air flow. You realize this person has their hand wrapped around your neck. Looking at the preparator and clawing at the hand around your neck you see a man with half of his face burned looking at you with one eye. 'Holy shit' you scream in your head 'What the fuck is going on I'm about to die' !! Struggling to breathe he throws you on the ground. Gasping for breathe you look up to him. "What the fuck" you can barely sputter. 'Are you fucking kidding me who does this guy think he is'. You think and stand up quickly and beat on his chest. "Hey you fucking asshole you think this is some silly game, you think your Halloween pranks are fucking funny" !! "You could have killed me" !! You yelled pushing him. Your chest heaving up and down looking at him. Wow he was kinda.. sexy .. now that you're getting a good look at him 'Okay (y/n) stop your a mess' you inwardly groan. Obviously you didn't realize but he heard you when you moaned.. it was out loud. He tilts his head at you. "Michael" !!! You look behind you and see the blonde lady from before. She holds up a mask. "Holy shit" you say as you look back at the man. Now realizing who was in front of you. "You want your mask, come get it" she yells. You look back at the man who takes one last glance at you as he starts walking towards the woman who now takes off in a run ( if you could really call it that ) .
'I JUST WAS ALMOST KILLED BY MICHAEL MYERS AND I THOUGHT HE WAS SEXY'. You think "What in the actual fuck is going on" you yell out loud still not really processing the shape of haddonfield is in fact here in real life. Not a story. Real fucking life. Suddenly you hear a mob like noise down the street. Down the same way where the woman and shape both took off in. "okay am I dumb or am I stupid" you say thinking about walking in the same direction. "Oh I shouldn't do this he almost just killed me" .. but then again he didn't . You were having an internal battle once again. It always seems like you have those. Suddenly you find your self getting closer to the screams . As you were having your 'internal battle' you didn't catch yourself walking following the sounds the entire time and now suddenly you were with a mob who was surrounding THE Micheal Myers. "You know Micheal , every one is entitled to one good scare" you look over and hear the sheriff say. You looked around panicked and noticed the mob had all sorts of weapons. "Hey"!! You yelled looking around frantic" . "You can't do this" ? .."you can't just stand here and take turns murdering somebody" !! You exclaim looking around ridiculously not really knowing what you were saying yourself. "Shut up bitch" you hear somebody in the crowd say. "No fuck you you asshole" you yell back. You never have been the one with patience. As you spoke the sheriff interrupted and said "Hey get out of here or you're gonna get in a lot of trouble we'll just have to do you too" !! He yelled looking at you crazy. You looked towards Micheal whose eye was in fact already on you. "I'm sorry" ? You say in a confused tone backing away. He bends down and grabs his mask. And that's the last thing you saw before taking on in a full fledged sprint towards the direction of your house. As you round the corner to your house you quickly run up the steps. Hurrying inside you slam the door and lock it falling to your knees. "Fuck" you breathe out "this town is fucking crazy what is wrong with people". Knowing Micheal was about to be killed you sobbed out loud hiccuping. "These people are fucking ruthless" . You know Micheal killed hundreds of people, but he in fact was a crazed serial killer with mental issues of sorts. These people killing him are just straight up my neighbors...And obviously they don't care who they hurt, they only care about getting to him . Running up the stairs you jump into your bed fully put the covers over your head and cry yourself to sleep.
Stirring in your sleep you feel a hot breath of your face. Opening your eyes you see a white mask staring down at you. You are completely silent and still. "Mich- you start to say but suddenly a hand is placed over your mouth. Looking into his eye and realizing he's breathing heavily into the mask. You think you know now.. what he wants. No, what he needs after all the killing he just done.
18 + only read on
Slowly sitting up he takes his hand off of your mouth. And you grab him by his mechanic suit in both hands staring at him. Him staring at you and both of you breathing heaving getting hot. You slowly take your hands and start to unzip his mechanic suit. He's looking at you but you can't really tell how he's feeling because of his mask but you continue anyways. "oh fuck" you shakily whisper barley able to contain your shaking hands from the heat you was feeling in between your legs. You look at Micheal still staring at you with his hands twitching now gripping your thigh. You look at him. "Stand up" you whisper. And he does as he's told. As you take down the rest of his mechanic exposing his black shirt and boxers underneath. You see his clearly hard dick trying to escape free out of his boxers and you let it. Admiring his girth and length. You take him in your mouth not being able to contain yourself any longer. "Mmmmmm" you hear a grunt. You smile inwardly. Bobbing your head back and forth as he's standing in front of you and you're sitting on the bed. You take your hands on his dick and start massaging it while you are sucking it getting even more (wetter/ harder) as you're doing it. He grips the top of your head and makes you get on the bed and rips all your clothes off. He positions you how he wants you and you're now laying upside down on the bed with your head hanging off. He slams his big dick in your mouth and starts fucking your face. He then opens your legs takes off his mask and takes ( your wet pussy/ hard cock) in his mouth and starts licking and sucking all over. You moan and groan as he fucks your face feeling an intense amount of pleasure coming from the shape of haddonfield.
Your ( pussy is dripping in cum/ your dick is twitching and your balls are so tight). He takes his dick out of your mouth and gets up and throws you into a doggy position. He then smacks your ass hard leaving a bruise later definitely. Bending his face down he then licks your (pussy/asshole) one last time and slams his dick inside it. Pumping in and out so fast and hard you thought he was going to break you. He picks up his knife that you realize is laying on your bed in front of you. 'fuck he is gonna kill me after all' you think. And suddenly his cock vanishes from your (pussy/asshole) and is replaced with a foreign object. It was the handle of the knife. Your moans are so loud you can't even contain it at this point they practically were screams. And he was pumping like he's done this before you thought 'how can he be so experienced' 'why does a knife in my (pussy/asshole) actually feel this good' you wanna say but just think it. Your (pussy is so tender it hurts knowing your about to squirt/ asshole is gaping open and your dick twitching so hard your about to cum) suddenly taking the knife out of you, replacing it with his dick and with one final pump you (squirt/shoot) cum everywhere while feeling his warm seed being piled into you. You fall on the bed onto the bed and you both look at each other, the room filled with ecstasy. He grabs his masks and pulls his mechanic suit up never taking his eyes off you. He picks his knife back up that's dripping with your (pussy/ass) juices and licks it. He then slips on his mask and walks out the bedroom door. You lay there staring up at the ceiling. This is not the last time you'll see the boogyman. Unknowing to you but knowing to him, he's now claimed you, and you were going to fulfill all his sexual desires.
can u do a dom x fem!reader and basically shes an interviewer at wwe and dating dom and decided to try the pheromone perfume thing on him and it drives him wild and then smut 🤭
Perfume is Powerful
I'm clawing at the walls writing this.... and were pretending baby boy is in his Champion era.
You and Dominik have been dating for close to a year but no one knows. There have been rumors, but of course, there was no concrete evidence, you guys were careful. You hate to be a woman who is displeased by her boyfriend... the sex is great every time without fail. But part of you longs for something more feverish, quick, risky. Anytime yall fuck it's passionate and in bed, you want that movie type of sex. The kind that makes you throw your head back and have your mouth muffled by his big hands while he plows into you. Truly when Dominik steps into work he is instantly into character, but regardless his character is still in love with you....
You are dressed up in a business casual type outfit, a skirt that was a bit shorter than normal, that the cameras couldn't see. But your shirt was skimpy, covered by a coat that would conceal you during the interview. What brought the whole thing was the new perfume you bought, all the reviews say it makes their boyfriends go crazy, so you had to try it out. You roll the perfume onto the sides of your neck, your wrists, and just a bit on the insides of your thighs...just in case.
Dominik has yet to come to the interview but all the cameras were set up when it goes live. Dominik couldn't be around you before the interview otherwise his character wouldn't be as pronounced, and it would be too obvious. He walks in with that usual swagger his face etched with a frown, that mean look always gave you goosebumps in the best way. You couldn't help but smile and Dominik was holding back, his lip just barely quirked up at the sight of you before he suppressed it. The directors told you both it was time. You and Dominik stood nearly shoulder to shoulder facing the camera. "3...2...1...were live!" the director yelled.
You smile directly at the camera to start your introduction, "I'm joined by NXT champion Dominik Mysterio, who got a front row seat to his opponents match for tonight, that his father set up. How are you feeling going in?", you turn to ask him and immediately you are struck. Dominik looks bent out of shape all of the sudden, his jaw is tight as if it was wired shut and his fist is clenched to his side. He shakes his head and coughs trying to play it off, "Well, my back hurts from carrying this company on my back for past almost two years now. I already beat Dragon Lee twice with my dad in his corner". Dominik speaks to the camera but its clear to you that his mind is elsewhere, his hand is twitching at its side now...towards you.
You smile at his cocky response moving on to one more question with your own twist, "Standing here with Mr. 'Dirty' Dominik Mysterio has been a great pleasure, we have one more question for you.".
Dominik swallows and you noticed he has started to sweat, pulling at his shirt to get some air. "Yea".
Your directors nodded at you, they knew of this news, but Dominik is just now finding out on live television. "What is your advice for a new wrestler such as myself?", the roars of the crowd were booming loud enough for the cameras to pick up on. Dominik's eyes went comedically wide and he nearly dropped his belt right off his shoulder. He breathes shallowly, he gathers his bearing just enough to say, "You don't need any advice". This means Dominik had complete confidence in your abilities. You turn your attention back to the camera and you smile. The crew instantly packed up their things and rushed out of the room in a matter of 30 seconds, on their way to other segments.
The door clicks shut and you hear Dominik's belt smack on the ground. He unbuckles his belt, ripping it off of his body and he rushes towards you. His large hands grasp and squeeze your waist, his nose nustling into your neck, and then you hear a loud muffled moan. His mouth is open sucking on your neck while he takes deep breaths, inhaling the natural smell the perfume brought out. Your fingers run through his hair, and you giggle at his reaction, "You okay baby?".
Dominik thrusts your body against him, with no space left for yourself. "You smell good", he says in an uncharacteristic deep voice, your eyes light up. You kiss his cheek, "Don't I always?".
"This is different, mierda mami. You're driving me crazy", in a second you feel his teeth scrape across your collar bone. His hands work at the buttons of your skirt pulling it down till it falls to the floor. He tosses his shirt of quickly and sinks to his knees to connect his lips to the soft of your legs. You spread your legs just enough for Dominik to get between them and the moment he does the groans at the same smell, his hand falling from your leg to his cock. He lays his forehead on one of your legs and his eyes are squeezed shut, you rub his head trying to see what's going on. "Dominik? What's wrong?", your voice is overflowing with concern, you didn't think he'd react this strongly. "I think I'm gonna cum", he sputters out, his fingers leaving red marks on your thighs. You can't control the gasp that flies out of your mouth, you knew that was going to be burned into your mind for a year... maybe two.
You sink to your knees in front of him, your hands cradling his face now... not that it helped considering you put it on your wrists as well. "Do you need a minute?", you ask so sweetly. He answers with a deep inhale, nearly tilting his head back at the pleasure you bring to him just by your natural pheromones. God the way he was acting you didn't need any prep, he could slide right in. "I need it now hermosa, tell me you can take it, tell me mami", he looks up at you with wide, glossy, dilated eyes that take your breath away. "I can take it", you whisper to him trying to diffuse some of the tension he is feeling.
His face splits into a major grin and he pushes your thighs apart so he can get in between them. In that moment he gets close to you, only to push you back by the chest, a hand behind your head when it hits the floor. You lay on your back, your feet flat on the floor and your legs spread. Dominik pulled off your coat but simply unbuckled your bra from under the shirt, tossing it off to the side. His patience was wearing thin, he pulled your shirt just above your boobs and his hands instantly go to touch them. His mouth follows and the closer he gets to the smell of you he can feel himself lose control over again. Another groan of pleasure and a bit of pain from denial brings him back to his twitching cock. "I can't be easy, I have to fuck you-tell me-", you sit up on your elbows for just a moment to look at him. "Fuck me", you say with absolute certainty.
He follows your instruction, pulling out his cock quickly and pushing into you with one fluid motion, the girth stretching you in the most pleasurable way. Your mouth falls open with a moan/whimper. "I know mami, it's going to feel so good in just a second", he says like a promise, though he was feeling as if he was going to cum on the spot. You tug at his hair, your wrist right by his face, the smell driving him to a frenzy, he thrusts into you at a relentless pace. The sounds of his hips smacking against your ass was loud enough to echo, your moans come out loud and high-pitched... too loud. Dominik think the sounds from your mouth are the hottest thing he's ever heard but you both cant risk getting caught. His hand clasps over your mouth, his hair dangling in front of him, his hips working rhythmically, his body looking like a Greek god. He slows down and goes deep inside of you, groaning as you moan, "I'll give you some advice if you want to walk- don't wear this shit. My cock was hard the moment I got close to you", he rasped into your ear.
The sensation felt so good, his deep thrusts hitting the spot inside of you that only he could reach. Every roll and rock of his hips made your walls clench around him and you felt it coming before you even realized it. Your head just barely tilted back and your back arched, Dominik knew what was coming just by that. He pressed you back down harshly, pressing down on your stomach just to the point you could feel that pressure. "Cum. You know you go first", he grits out feeling himself getting close too. As you cum your pussy convulsed around Dominik's cock and the pleasure was astronomical for him. The wet slick and almost painful tightness brought him over the edge moments after you. He cums with a groan, his face falling into the side of your neck.
He inhales and pulls back with a groan, his face made as he glares at you. "You still smell so fucking good. I just came mami-", now he sounds like he's whining at the effect you have on him.
