Happy Myers Day!
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@lookwhatbeewrote
Happy Myers Day!
h e l l o o o o o o
I just appeared to say that I saw Halloween Kills and I very much appreciated it.
Remember back in 2019 when all we had to worry about were all the half-assed remakes of our favourite movies??????? Yeah, good times.
Is it so much to ask for a monster's lap to sit on?
Billy Lenz Misc. Headcanons
He always runs hot but at the first sign of a cold wind he’ll shudder dramatically and grumble to himself. He seems to be warmest at night in the spider’s nest of a den he’s created for himself in the attic. He sleeps on a pile of old moth-eaten coats, patchwork quilts that smell musty from years of storage, and knitted sweaters that have awaited repair for a decade or so. He tosses and turns, fussing and fretting in his sleep. His cheeks are flushed. He pulls at the neck of his sweater and dreams noisily.
Billy likes to watch different girls for different reasons. He likes the way they all look when they think no-one else is looking. Clare has a soft looseness to her willowy body even when she’s working on banal tasks around the house. Barb is tight in the way she moves, a bow pulled tight, aching for the release. Jess furrows her brow just so, always full of some serious feeling. Phyl fixes her glasses more often than she needs to, pushing them up at the bridge of her nose crinkling her face each time. Watching them makes him excited. He likes to imagine himself talking to each of them in turn, being there in those quiet moments of solitude with them. Just him and the girls. He yearns after their obliviousness and salivates from his hideaway. He steals these moments from them and hold them in his clammy fists. They’re all his now.
He hates the smell and the taste of cigarettes. He often hides Barb’s packs or, if he’s feeling like a nuisance, he will take the pack in the night and carefully rip each of the remaining cigarettes in half, tittering and gurgling as he places them back by her bed. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke reminds him of his grandmother. The old woman had a ring of smoke around her wiry grey hair all the time, her clawed, ruby-tipped hands clutching cigarettes until they burned all the way down and no sooner had they reached the spongy filter, the crone would light another. The scent of it on the girls’ clothes upsets him.
He often gets headaches from dehydration, lack of sleep and his own confusion. It makes him irritable, which worsens the headaches. Sometimes he sleeps for days to avoid facing the sharp throb behind his eyes.
Billy doesn’t have a particular favourite among the girls at 6 Belmont Street. He has obsessions, switching from one to the other to the next and onwards for no reason at all. Something about one might catch him off guard and intrigue him and he finds himself salivating above her every night, his previous fixation forgotten and left to sleep peacefully without the feeling of eyes watching her in the gloom.
I JUST THOUGHT OF THIS
the slashers with an s/o that walks in to them killing someone and saying “Aw rip” or “F in chat” before leaving
LMAOOOO omggg!! Love it haha
Brahms Heelshire
-Honestly, Brahms is going to be like ‘huh?’ and then shrug it off because he’s just happy you aren’t running away screaming and goes about continuing whatever he’s doing.
Stu Macher
-Stu is going to CACKLE like a hyena and say ‘good one babe!!’ and laughs about it literally all day until Billy gets really tired of it and tells him to shut the fuck up. It doesn’t hit him till late at night that you might have reacted totally differently and he’ll call you and be like ‘🥺 You still love me, right?’
Billy Loomis
-Billy is going to freeze, his knife still in the person’s chest, and then look at you like ‘wtf’. When you seem calm and leave, he’s just going to quickly kill the person and chase after you so he can gauge your reaction. For weeks later, he’ll chuckle to himself about how you just went ‘f in chat’ with a peace sign while he was killing someone.
“don’t worry, Naked Jason isn’t real”
Naked Jason:
me writing fics: I mean let’s be real jason’s zombie dick would probably fall off if you sucked him too hard, he has open wounds, his skin kinda rotten
this picture showing me exactly that: 😌
me:
also also
i’m already having ideas for more billy content so stay tuned huehuehuehue
also
i can’t believe 1200 of you guys still follow me after my looong ass break.............................. thank you ;;w;;
a bunch of miscellaneous michaels i did for warmup today! :) been thinking about rewatching some of the movies to refresh my perception of OG michael and try to get a more consistent grasp on the way that i portray him.
friday the 13th of december.. the holidays of 2 underrated sweater-wearing horror icons combined, wow!
any hcs for how the slashers jerk it/how often?
Michael Myers
Michael doesn’t masturbate often. He’s too used to the claustrophobic cells of Smith’s Grove where there are always guards watching him through the hatch or orderlies poking and prodding at him. He suppresses his lust along with many other deep, primal urges though he does occasionally fall prey to his needs. When he finally gives in to the uncomfortable heat in his belly, he brings himself to orgasm with rigid precision. He works his length just enough to draw low grunts from his chest until he spills over his knuckles. It’s over in minutes and though he’s sated for the time being, the hunger lingers in his bones.
Jason Voorhees
Jason was raised to believe that self-pleasure was sinful. Shameful. He feels that shame each time he roughly palms the bulge in his jeans. Jason’s instincts go through peaks and troughs; over the decades he has felt himself aligning with his woodland home and he moves with its cycles. Unlike the handsome stags or the chirping birds in the branches above, Jason has no mate. Instead, he resorts to hiding away in the cool darkness of his cabin where he rocks into his own calloused and cold grip. The tightness in his chest is unbearable and yet he has learned to tease himself until his ribs shift with phantom breaths.
Bubba Sawyer
Bubba is fascinated by his own pleasure. When he feels the familiar, deliciously sweet longing grow, he sneaks away to somewhere private and comfortable and settles there. He feels beautiful when his meaty hands are tucked into the haphazardly unbuttoned slacks that he wears to accomplish his daily chores. Sometimes, when he is dressing for dinner, he will observe his appearance in a time-tinted mirror that he keeps on the wall in his bedroom. He runs his hands over his body, feeling each and every warm inch of it, and hums contentedly.
Bo Sinclair
Bo is an insatiable man in more ways than one. He craves another beer, another woman, another hit of whatever hedonistic pleasure is in his sights. Sometimes the pretty pneumatic blondes that he plucks from dive bars are not enough; once they are gone, he takes it upon himself to satisfy his own urges. Bo has pleasures himself in all ways. He has taken in slow and steady as well as hurried and breathlessly. Sometimes he lights a cigarette and carelessly taps away the ash while his other hand slickly works the throbbing, rosy tip of his cock until he spills hotly against his knuckles with a grunt. Once it’s over, he snatches up the sweating bottle of beer at his bedside and takes a long drink. He catches his breath in the hollow silence of his bedroom.
Vincent Sinclair
Vincent’s pleasure is like a rolling wave. It pulls back and away from him, leaving him dry and yearning before crashing back to him and overwhelming him in the pure, feral need to yield. In the infernal heat of his workshop, he rocks against his palm and slurs moans into the night. Kneeling upon a wax-stained chaiselongue, he torments himself slowly through the layers of fabric separating his strong, pale fingers from his straining cock. His back arches in the light of the fire, curving like the crescent moon hanging heavily in the indigo sky.
Brahms Heelshire
Brahms has a wild imagination. After years of solitude and separation from his peers, he has accumulated dozens of fantasies sprawling from the dead-eyed girls in the magazines that he has collected. He has fallen into a routine and chosen his favourite reveries that never fail to tip him into the heady throes of climax. He spits into his own palms and works his length until his toes curl and his head falls back.
Billy Lenz
Billy needs no excuses to masturbate. He is addicted to the pleasure of edging himself towards his climax. The sensation of being on the cusp of something wild and unstoppable drives him. He will never grow numb to the sensation of his own heat streaking across his knuckles and staining the sheets or the soft, satin bedclothes of the sweet girls that he watches. Once the haze of lust has dissipated, another hunger growls in him and its teeth are far less delicate.
Billy Lenz: SNucK MY JUciCY CoccNK biTCH HFFDFDASFDhkljslafDSFEWAIODSA
my dumb ass:
It’s me, Billy…
the fact that Billy and Brahms share one braincell reminds me of the pictures of those couples wearing the "i'm he's ->" "
he’m i’s
Billy “it’s free real estate” Lenz
[clean version]
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