Michael Myers x Black Reader - Mikey With a Reader Who Loves Taking Care of Their Hair (Headcanons)
Gender neutral black reader! This specific scenario is with RZ Mikey because he's my favorite <3 Also while writing this I imagined RZ Michael with cornrows and the visual is funny as HELL
Firstly, Michael doesn't know a lot about black hair in general. I don't think Haddonfield has a very large black population and he was incarcerated for half of his life anyways
That being said, he is absolutely fascinated by your hair. Whether you're wearing it natural, have it in locs, cornrows, box braids, weave, etc etc he just thinks it's cool as hell how much variety you have when it comes to styling. And uh... he's pretty handsy so he will try to touch it a lot, especially if you're wearing a style he's never seen before. He might tug at it too because he's a pretty rough person by nature, but he's not trying to hurt you, he's just curious. Still, you gotta tell him to cut it out lmfao his hands are probably FILTHY
He likes watching you taking care of your hair, even if he doesn't really see the point. This man is all but allergic to shampoo and he's too busy eating dogs (iykyk) and stalking people to worry about how his hair looks. That said, sometimes while you're doing your hair, he'll just pick up one of your products and stare at it (and probably smell it if it looks interesting enough) and you'll explain what it's for. His favorite scent is definitely coconut oil and he WILL sniff your hair
It'll take a lot of convincing for Michael to let you start tending to his hair as well. Just because he likes how coconut oil makes your hair smell doesn't mean he wants it in his. You'll have to bribe him (mainly with sweets and physical affection) and use minimal products. It's a long, slightly frustrating process because he's stubborn and his hair is... well... Nasty and Greasy As Hell. He loves the attention though.
We all had (or at least our moms/grandmas had) that one jar of Nature's Blessings hair grease (picture down below). You know the one. The jar that has a SMIDGE of product at the bottom, yet we manage to still use it for like a year before we have to get a new one. Yeah this fucking BAFFLES Michael. He doesn't understand how you make it last so long. It looks empty to him yet somehow you've been using it forever and he just doesn't understand (and tbh I don't either). It's witchcraft to him.
Michael will try to help you out in the form of fetching products for you once he's familiar enough with them. But for god's sake do NOT let this man help you braid. You learned your lesson when you made the mistake of asking him to assist you once. He pulls your hair way too tight, can't braid evenly, and will just have you looking a mess. He was trying his best but it was just a disaster and he didn't much enjoy it either so you silently agreed to never let it happen again. He loves watching you braid though and admires how concentrated and precise you are, even if it means you're not giving him a lot of attention
Overall: Michael loves you and your gorgeous hair no matter what style you have it in (and so do I <3)
Could you do an nsfw one-shot with Ghostface but specific Richie Kirsch? I’m in my Richie brain rot era lol
so sorry it's taken me this long to answer! 😭Adult content warning under the cut, also contains a mention of choking if you're sensitive to that!
Richie Kirsch (Ghostface) x Reader; Capitulation.
It was an average night, as it always is before something of great magnitude occurs.
Average for you, blissfully unaware, visiting a friend in hospital. It wasn't strictly necessary for you to stay the night there, they weren't badly injured, but they'd requested with those pleading eyes and you couldn't deny them.
It was far from average for the girl a couple doors down, who was in for multiple stab wounds and her friends were being hunted by a masked killer, who was most likely in that circle of friends.
Unbeknownst to both of you, the killer waited in the shadows of the half-derelict Ward C. Intending to finish Tara off. His plans would soon change; great events often hinge on tiny factors.
Such as the request of an injured friend.
"Please! No, look, I know I skipped dinner, but would you really want to eat hospital food? There's a couple of vending machines down the hall, I'll pay, get yourself something too! I'm an invalid! If there's any time you have to do nice things for me, it's now," they begged you. "Hey, I'll find some shitty horror flick to laugh over together and you get snacks for us, fair deal?"
That's how you found yourself wandering the halls faintly lit by flickering overhead lights, searching through the wards, until you came to what the shiny red lettering proudly proclaimed as "Ward C".
Mission success - the machines were straight in front of you. Bending to reach for the array of goodies that were dispensed, you were unaware of the presence behind you, until-
You were slammed against the machine hard enough to hurt, hard enough that you nearly released a whimper of pain, but all of a sudden there was a glinting hunting knife before your eyes and your throat closed up.
"Very good. Quiet, now," the killer spoke to you in a smooth voice. You'd seen the first Stab, just enough to know exactly who he was copycatting. You also knew the rules.
This wasn't what was supposed to happen, because the killer's withdrawing his knife from your throat and tilting his head and now he looks at you, and even with the mask you know the expression.
Curiosity.
"Well now," the voice came again - different this time. Whatever voice modulator the killer had been using was switched off. You found you liked this one better; a playful, mocking lilt that made you think this killer was fairly young, and male, and his words still struck fear through your heart.
What's he looking at? What's he interested in? And then it clicked. The t-shirt. The one day you'd chosen to wear the Stab t-shirt, god, you just threw it on and you weren't even thinking, is he going to kill you for this, you didn't even get the chance to put up a fight, this isn't fair.
The mask comes off in a flash of white, but you don't get a proper look because you're being guided to an unoccupied hospital room and you can hear the rapid beat of your heart, and the fear makes it flutter so fast like a hummingbird's wings, and he's still behind you when the knife comes back up to your throat and he whispers in your ear.
You're shuddering, the ghostly almost-touch of his lips on your cheek, waiting for the final words, waiting for a deadly question. There's something hypnotic about him, something that feels so right about this moment, and you're almost calm now.
"Feel like making a movie, gorgeous? This one'll be a scream."
You recognise the voice. It's just hit you. You saw him, you heard him as he passed you, you smiled because he was undoubtedly handsome and he radiated friendliness. A serious-looking girl walked by a minute later to get him, in a far less happy mood, but for a moment you'd held eye contact and he smiled back.
It was only the smile of two strangers, waiting in the middle of a bustling hive of doctors and patients, and yet it had lingered in your mind. You'd caught his name before he left, shouted by the girl you assumed was his girlfriend.
He took a step backwards, and the knife comes with him, leaving a stinging but superficial cut, and in your mind's eye you picture that handsome face distorting with apprehension, until he recognises you too.
You feel his smile against your neck.
"Oh, it's you, from earlier, and you're even prettier with a little blood," Richie grins. "How about that movie, huh? You know I can't let you go; you know my name, you've seen my face. You're a risk. But I could keep you, if you like," he strokes down your cheek, and you don't flinch. You know it's the better option.
"It's that or I kill you here. I wouldn't like to do that. Messy. I like your spirit. Also, it helps that you're awfully easy on the eyes."
You nod into his hand, conveying that you accept. You surrender.
"Say it, and give in. We'll make the movie of a lifetime, hmm?"
"Keep me," you breathe. "Please keep me, just don't kill me, Richie."
You seal the deal with a kiss, and then he's using strength you didn't expect, the strength of a killer, to pin you down to the bed and then follow after you.
"My girlfriend's sleeping in the room a couple doors up," he's murmuring as he sheds his Ghostface robes and the shirt beneath. "My killing partner stabbed her fucking sister, and Sam thinks I'm watching over that bitch. I bet that's doing something to you, yeah, baby? You like the idea of fucking a killer?"
You're lost in sensation, you barely process anything outside of Richie's hands on your now bare skin, and his harsh kisses down your neck and even lower, you can only answer with an agreeable whine.
The combination of his harsh hushed words and the sweet, hypnotising syrup of his voice are undoing you, as with his touch: he's asking you for permission to go further, you realise.
You're nodding and gasping and the answer is a yes, but he persists until he gets a verbal confirmation. Then his hand is on your throat, you're a mess beneath him, and he's being almost gentle about how he destroys you.
The hands of a killer, turned red by streaks of your blood, are in all the right places, and when you reach what Richie jokes in a strangled moan is "Act 3, the big finish", you lose the ability to think. Your ears ring and you possibly say his name, but you can't even hear yourself, it's all so much, it's the most beautiful sensation you've had in your life.
He's panting beside you, tilting your head up to capture your lips in a kiss that's sickeningly sweet as you remember the deal you've made, remember that the hand that cups your face is stained with blood.
It's even more sickening when you realise you don't care. Richie smirks, those playful eyes locking onto yours, capturing them just as he'd captured you a number of times before; the vending machine, the hospital bed, and that shared moment in the waiting room, and he knows he's got you. Richie had a part of you before you made that deal, and he has all of you now.
"Like the movie, baby? You sure seemed to enjoy the climax."
Could you do an nsfw one-shot with Ghostface but specific Richie Kirsch? I’m in my Richie brain rot era lol
so sorry it's taken me this long to answer! 😭Adult content warning under the cut, also contains a mention of choking if you're sensitive to that!
Richie Kirsch (Ghostface) x Reader; Capitulation.
It was an average night, as it always is before something of great magnitude occurs.
Average for you, blissfully unaware, visiting a friend in hospital. It wasn't strictly necessary for you to stay the night there, they weren't badly injured, but they'd requested with those pleading eyes and you couldn't deny them.
It was far from average for the girl a couple doors down, who was in for multiple stab wounds and her friends were being hunted by a masked killer, who was most likely in that circle of friends.
Unbeknownst to both of you, the killer waited in the shadows of the half-derelict Ward C. Intending to finish Tara off. His plans would soon change; great events often hinge on tiny factors.
Such as the request of an injured friend.
"Please! No, look, I know I skipped dinner, but would you really want to eat hospital food? There's a couple of vending machines down the hall, I'll pay, get yourself something too! I'm an invalid! If there's any time you have to do nice things for me, it's now," they begged you. "Hey, I'll find some shitty horror flick to laugh over together and you get snacks for us, fair deal?"
That's how you found yourself wandering the halls faintly lit by flickering overhead lights, searching through the wards, until you came to what the shiny red lettering proudly proclaimed as "Ward C".
Mission success - the machines were straight in front of you. Bending to reach for the array of goodies that were dispensed, you were unaware of the presence behind you, until-
You were slammed against the machine hard enough to hurt, hard enough that you nearly released a whimper of pain, but all of a sudden there was a glinting hunting knife before your eyes and your throat closed up.
"Very good. Quiet, now," the killer spoke to you in a smooth voice. You'd seen the first Stab, just enough to know exactly who he was copycatting. You also knew the rules.
This wasn't what was supposed to happen, because the killer's withdrawing his knife from your throat and tilting his head and now he looks at you, and even with the mask you know the expression.
Curiosity.
"Well now," the voice came again - different this time. Whatever voice modulator the killer had been using was switched off. You found you liked this one better; a playful, mocking lilt that made you think this killer was fairly young, and male, and his words still struck fear through your heart.
What's he looking at? What's he interested in? And then it clicked. The t-shirt. The one day you'd chosen to wear the Stab t-shirt, god, you just threw it on and you weren't even thinking, is he going to kill you for this, you didn't even get the chance to put up a fight, this isn't fair.
The mask comes off in a flash of white, but you don't get a proper look because you're being guided to an unoccupied hospital room and you can hear the rapid beat of your heart, and the fear makes it flutter so fast like a hummingbird's wings, and he's still behind you when the knife comes back up to your throat and he whispers in your ear.
You're shuddering, the ghostly almost-touch of his lips on your cheek, waiting for the final words, waiting for a deadly question. There's something hypnotic about him, something that feels so right about this moment, and you're almost calm now.
"Feel like making a movie, gorgeous? This one'll be a scream."
You recognise the voice. It's just hit you. You saw him, you heard him as he passed you, you smiled because he was undoubtedly handsome and he radiated friendliness. A serious-looking girl walked by a minute later to get him, in a far less happy mood, but for a moment you'd held eye contact and he smiled back.
It was only the smile of two strangers, waiting in the middle of a bustling hive of doctors and patients, and yet it had lingered in your mind. You'd caught his name before he left, shouted by the girl you assumed was his girlfriend.
He took a step backwards, and the knife comes with him, leaving a stinging but superficial cut, and in your mind's eye you picture that handsome face distorting with apprehension, until he recognises you too.
You feel his smile against your neck.
"Oh, it's you, from earlier, and you're even prettier with a little blood," Richie grins. "How about that movie, huh? You know I can't let you go; you know my name, you've seen my face. You're a risk. But I could keep you, if you like," he strokes down your cheek, and you don't flinch. You know it's the better option.
"It's that or I kill you here. I wouldn't like to do that. Messy. I like your spirit. Also, it helps that you're awfully easy on the eyes."
You nod into his hand, conveying that you accept. You surrender.
"Say it, and give in. We'll make the movie of a lifetime, hmm?"
"Keep me," you breathe. "Please keep me, just don't kill me, Richie."
You seal the deal with a kiss, and then he's using strength you didn't expect, the strength of a killer, to pin you down to the bed and then follow after you.
"My girlfriend's sleeping in the room a couple doors up," he's murmuring as he sheds his Ghostface robes and the shirt beneath. "My killing partner stabbed her fucking sister, and Sam thinks I'm watching over that bitch. I bet that's doing something to you, yeah, baby? You like the idea of fucking a killer?"
You're lost in sensation, you barely process anything outside of Richie's hands on your now bare skin, and his harsh kisses down your neck and even lower, you can only answer with an agreeable whine.
The combination of his harsh hushed words and the sweet, hypnotising syrup of his voice are undoing you, as with his touch: he's asking you for permission to go further, you realise.
You're nodding and gasping and the answer is a yes, but he persists until he gets a verbal confirmation. Then his hand is on your throat, you're a mess beneath him, and he's being almost gentle about how he destroys you.
The hands of a killer, turned red by streaks of your blood, are in all the right places, and when you reach what Richie jokes in a strangled moan is "Act 3, the big finish", you lose the ability to think. Your ears ring and you possibly say his name, but you can't even hear yourself, it's all so much, it's the most beautiful sensation you've had in your life.
He's panting beside you, tilting your head up to capture your lips in a kiss that's sickeningly sweet as you remember the deal you've made, remember that the hand that cups your face is stained with blood.
It's even more sickening when you realise you don't care. Richie smirks, those playful eyes locking onto yours, capturing them just as he'd captured you a number of times before; the vending machine, the hospital bed, and that shared moment in the waiting room, and he knows he's got you. Richie had a part of you before you made that deal, and he has all of you now.
"Like the movie, baby? You sure seemed to enjoy the climax."
Something bigger than Stab 3; something more impactful, and he has you in mind as the star.
Playing with Sidney was interesting, but it was only revenge and revenge didn't give him the thrill that you did. You should've been the one to get Sidney’s fame, he thinks - you helped defeat Billy and Stu, you were the one to figure out it was Mickey, and you're getting closer and closer to exposing Roman himself, and he’s had to take drastic measures.
“Sidney?” you call out, taking cautious steps around Roman’s safehouse. You’d received a cryptic phone call from ‘Sidney’ half an hour ago giving you an address and telling you to meet her there as soon as you could. Roman fought back a laugh at how well the voice modulator had worked, replicating Sidney’s voice perfectly - enough to fool you, her best friend. He's practically trembling in anticipation as you proceed further into his clutches.
Frowning slightly, you double-check the address you’d hastily written down, and your head quickly jerks up at the sound of footsteps.
“Sidney! What's going on, is this about the killer or-”
Your eyes widen as you realise the person standing before you is not Sidney, and that you now know who the killer is; Roman Bridger smiles as he wields a bloody knife, and you scream louder than you ever have in your entire life.
“Nobody can hear you,” he shushes you, calmly stalking towards you as your screams die down into sobs. “But that's alright, because you don't need them. Don't you want to be the star of my show?”
Your confusion is evident in big blinking eyes looking up at him, tears like crystals to decorate your sadness, and god, he can’t stop thinking about how it makes you look even more beautiful.
“What do...what do you mean? What are you talking about? You're not going to kill me?”
Roman doesn't hide his laugh this time, but feels a twinge of pity looking into your scared doe eyes, and seeks to calm you down.
"I'm a director, love. I direct. I'm not going to kill my star, am I? No, I just needed to get you here, because my star is so clever, and nearly discovered me. I couldn't let the curtain fall before my grand finale,” he smiles consolingly.
In his rambling he’d been distracted, and failed to notice your shaking hands reaching towards his knife. Roman notices now, and tuts, shaking his head condescendingly, faux-disappointment written over his face.
But he's misread the situation. Your hands reach past the knife and into the soft fabric of his Ghostface robes, and you cry into his chest. All the stress, the death, the betrayals have pushed you past your breaking point and you're seeking comfort wherever you can find it.
His hand on your back steadies you, as you break your heart and spill everything you've wanted to say, as you tell him that you've had a crush on him for months, and you didn't want him to be the killer but you don't want him to leave you even more, and he kisses away your tears when you promise to stay with him, when you choose him over the rest of your friends, over Sidney! For the first time in his life, someone picked him over her.
Roman smiles. He takes your hand, kissing it with a reverence you've never seen before, and leads you onto a new path. He has been meaning to direct that romantic horror movie.
“That why you answered my call, huh? Oh, I see, you like fucking killers, don't you? You like the danger? Tell me you like it - no, tell me you love that, now,” a deep voice purred from on top of you.
You knew it was a risky move, answering your phone late at night while there was a killer on the loose, one who notoriously made phone calls to their victims.
But you couldn't resist. You couldn't ignore the call, even while you trembled in what was either fear or anticipation, even when the questions the killer asked you got more intimate.
The final question was a chance to redeem yourself. The masked killer wanted to know if you had any last words, any dying message to send to a lover, even a last request.
You’d requested that your death be up-close and personal.
