Hey guys! I’m back for another Blood Fest fic!!! I’m kind of shocked I’m even able to keep up but I’ve been getting some real good inspo off of these prompts, and of course thanks again @the-slasher-files for hosting this challenge <3 Hope you guys like this one, I got a little gory and tried to focus on descriptions more <3
The smell that hit your nostrils was downright revolting. The sight was simultaneously not as delightful either, and the fear mixed with nausea would have certainly caused you to lose your lunch had there been anything in your stomach to begin with. Instead, your eyes screwed shut, hand over your mouth as you struggled to swallow back your gag reflex. All you could do was inhale shakily as you tried your best to ignore the smell of rotting meat mixed with sharp copper.
Even though you had heard it what felt like hundreds of times before, the long drawn out sound of metal scraping metal made you jump. But you didn't open your eyes. Not yet. Shivering, you shook your head back and forth as you tried to ignore the icy terror that flooded your veins. You wanted to ignore the carnage for a little while longer before he forced you to see the truth.
Which didn't take long. A massive hand fisted your hair and caused you to yelp, your hands instinctively flying to the hand as your eyes flew open. Every time you saw him felt like the first time. Your breath caught in your throat and all thoughts ceased as you took in the behemoth before you. The others you had come across in this Hellish limbo had many names for him, all of them referencing the massive pyramid resting upon his shoulders instead of a head.
He didn't let up. Instead, his fingers wrapped around your hair, coiling like worms as he continued to lift you further. On tiptoes, you cried out as you tried your best to use his forearm for support, the solid muscle slick with black gore that made you want to retch anew. Ragged breathing echoed from behind the metal of his helmet, rusted from what you only imagined were the countless years he had spent in this cruel town subjected to whatever his punishment was supposed to be.
He didn't move you far. You had been cowering under a table in the abandoned club you had made your home in order to escape the horrors that wandered around when the sirens wailed out into the night. Nothing ever seemed to breach the sanctity of this spot, and tonight two of them just so happened to. With little care, he jerked his arm to the side and released you, sending you stumbling against the low stage nearby, knocking the wind out of you in the process.
As you winced and struggled to inhale, you realized that inches from your face was the source of the gore. You hadn't realized one of them could produce this much. In fact, you hadn't believed that many of the monsters in this town had proper organs. But this one had. It was the leg mannequin, the being that consisted of two sets of legs on the top and bottom of a torso, seemingly fused together in the middle. The top set of legs was splayed provocatively around the pole that had been erected in the middle of the stage, the metal rod between the thighs as they still seemed to twitch even after their "death." The bottom set of legs, however, was split apart from its sexless crotch by the gigantic butcher's blade that Pyramid Head dragged behind him everywhere he went. The blade had penetrated the wooden stage, the shadow looming over you in the dim lighting. Blackened guts were pooled where the creature lay pinned, none of which you could truly identify other than masses of flesh.
Your attention returned to Pyramid Head as his rough hands gripped your hips, yanking you towards him and scratching your back along the rotting floorboards. Panic rose in your stomach as you instinctively tried to fight him off. You knew you couldn't, but you knew you didn't want to. It excited the both of you too much. You didn't think about how he just ruined another pair of your pants as he tore them from your body. You stopped worrying about the blood caked on his palms. The only thing that caused your stomach to flutter in anxiety was that he wasn't taking you from behind, instead he was simply going to leave you on your back. You haven't faced him in the moment before. You weren't sure what he expected or wanted, but considering he made it a point to keep you around you hoped he was fine with whatever you were doing.
His heavy breathing turned into grunts as he yanked the apron away from his waist, his massive cock already at attention. Before you could even put up much of a fuss, he gripped behind your knees and pushed your legs against your chest in one swift movement. Your hands flew up to meet his, a move that was both a crave for intimacy and warning for him to remain gentle. He never did, and yet you continued the ritual anyways. At least this time you were properly aroused, his thick member shoving its way inside of you and stretching your walls to accommodate him.
The action itself left stars in your vision, eyes trained on the ceiling as they rolled back. Mouth hung open, not certain if a scream or a moan would release. But the animalistic grunts that filled the room were more than enough to make up for the fact you couldn't find your own voice. You were certain your hands were going to give out soon as you struggled to hold onto him. The floor rubbed uncomfortably against your back as he unceremoniously thrust into you so roughly you were certain the impact would have sent you further had he not been holding you back.
The sharp tip of his helmet bobbed dangerously above your collar, dancing along your neck with each thrust. And yet you bared your throat instinctively to him, your pleasure mounting steadily as he continued to fill you over and over. You had never been so close to him before, close enough to touch his helmet. It felt so uncharacteristically intimate for whatever relationship had developed between you two over the time you had been trapped in this Hell. But perhaps even in this Hell, there was room for moments of bliss to be shared.
You weren't certain how long it had been, but eventually his thrusts grew more erratic, his breathing heavy and panting. One of his hands shot up to your throat, pressing tightly as you trembled beneath his intense grip. You were certain this is how it would end. The beast's grip was brutal, and quickly your vision began to reduce to a pin prick. The lewd sounds of wet flesh slapping together mounted, sounding like it came from a tunnel.
Sudden release. Your chest heaved, fresh air filling your lungs like balloons as you couldn't help the sounds that you made. Whether they were screams or moans, you couldn't tell. Your limbs reacted on their own, twitching and trembling against your own will. Warmth spread throughout your body, the monster's seed spilling out around him as he emptied himself into you. His own body twitched in response, the veins in his arms seemingly pulsing harder as his muscles shifted beneath the skin. His fingers flexed, but loosened their hold on you, leaving blooming bruises along your hips and neck. You noticed the Adam's apple in his throat bob as he struggled to regain composure.
You had already begun to drift off as he finally slid free from you, the rest of his fluids leaking down your ass as he let your limbs drop back down to the stage. Whining pathetically, you couldn't manage more than a look through tired lids at him. Usually he left after he was finished, but he spent a moment looking over his work. It seemed that over time he began to appreciate the state he left you in. Almost like for the first time, he was admiring his work.
Finally, as sleep began to pull you down, the sound of metal filled your ears again, becoming more faint as your breath began to slow.
"oh come on, it will be fun! Kind of like that movie It,"
"You mean with that weird shapeshifting clown monster?"
"Haha, yes, the weird shapeshifting clown monster"
You held hands with your boyfriend, playfully shoving each other and the natural banter always seemed to flow with you two. You were both glad just to have the day off to spend together, although this wasn't his idea of a fun date but the rumours and stories drew you in, especially so close to Halloween. Traversing down the dried-out river bank and through the broken trees you finally came to what you had been looking for; The open sewers of Haddonfield.
"Oh my god, yes!" You excitedly exclaimed, turning on your phone flashlight, already stepping foot into the tunnel before you felt a tug on your arm.
"You cannot be serious" He looked at you with the same look a stern father might give you but that was simply ignored and you pulled him into the dark.
"Yes. I brought you all the way here to just look at the sewers and not go in," You sarcastically snarked back "Now let's go, I just want to see if the rumours were true"
Lighting up the dreary sewers the walls were concrete with cracked bricks, pipes dripped above you and cobwebs shimmered in the low light along with the small stream of water beneath your feet. Slowly it began to open up with a maze of tunnels, some blocked off with metal grates and others leading into an endless pit of darkness.
"Those stories you've been texting me about when I'm trying to be sleeping?" He teased, brushing his shoulder against yours and instinctively he pulled you a little closer as you two walked.
"You know that's always when my brain thinks about weird things," The corner of your lips twitched in a sassy smirk "But yes. Apparently, a bunch of satanic shit happens down here and rituals and I don't know some story about a girl being murdered but I honestly couldn't find much on that one" You rambled on a little, passing a tunnel that turned off to the right
"Wait, wait, wait. What?" Your boyfriend asked with a furrowed brow and he paused, jerking your hand a little so you would look at him. "Babe, yo-"
Suddenly he was cut off by the sound of wet squelching and his eyes went wide in terror and pain. His lips opened to say something but only a trickle of blood began to flow and he gurgled, sputtering words at you that sounded like jibberish as his eyes faded. Reaching out to you, his body jerked back and in one movement a blade came out of the shadows, slitting your boyfriends throat almost to the bones. White cartilage peaked from the strings of muscle that had been forced apart, his head hung back allowing a river of crimson so deep it looked black cascading down his body and meeting another wound; The initial wound where something had been plunged through his stomach and you screamed. An echoing barrage through the sewers made something stir in the shadows but all you were focused on was your boyfriend bleeding out in front of you.
"OH MY GODDDDD!!" You wailed, dropping your phone into the growing puddle of blood and his body collapsed revealing the cold smile of the killer.
"Ssshhhh... You'll wake him" The man whispered and began to laugh quietly, stalking forward.
It was him. It was Corey Cunningham. You two had been talking for about a month now and things were only getting more and more heated between you two, especially recently at the Halloween party thrown by some friends. You stuck to your word however, you had a boyfriend and needed to end it with him first before jumping into something else, and that would be hard with his painted reputation. He was labeled as the boogeyman as the town needed someone to blame for everything that went wrong after the true boogeyman of Haddonfield had disappeared into a blood-drenched night. You never really believed the towns talk about him but the sight in front of you told the truth; Dark navy mechanics jumpsuit splattered in viscera, large butched knife in his right hand, curly waves hanging down on his bruised forehead and his eyes were black with a deep thrill.
Stepping back, your breath was heavy "C-Corey, Corey please. What the fuck are you doing?"
Your question only made him laugh louder, licking the corner of his lips where some blood drops landed "We can finally be together now. I promised you I would light that match for you... Watch the world burn," he paused, opening his arms in a way for trying to get you to see he was no threat as he stayed quiet until the word that followed was in a yell "REMEMBER?!"
It made you flinch, not just by the way his voice reverberated through the tunnels but there was something in him now like a poison, and you couldn't help but be drawn to it.
"Cor—" Unexpectedly your words had been cut short in your throat as something bigger, stronger and with a dark destructive energy hit your back when you were walking backwards.
"Don't be afraid," Corey whispered, coming face to face with you now he brushed some hairs out of your face with bloody fingers "Don't you feel this between us? Feel that we are the only ones for each other?"
His questions were in a desperate ask, searching your eyes for the need to have him. The look in his brown eyes made you sick but God, there was that sweetness like a soft puppy behind them and you leaned a little forward, his nose brushing against yours.
"...Give in"
Heavy breaths fell out of your open lips unsure of where this whole thing was going, not only were Corey's hands on you but now a set of larger hands were too. You didn't speak for no words could even come out. Lost in a haze and shock that held you frozen in place only feeling what the two men were doing; Groping, pulling, pushing adjusting their hips, sliding hands up and down your body like a new toy they got for Christmas. One was more gentle than the other and your eyes fluttered once the man behind you adjusted his leg to be between yours and you looked back seeing the burnt, chipped and greying mask. His eyes were black but burning into your skull like a predator reborn. Instantly the fear bubbled up inside you and your instincts kicked in, RUN. However, the shape behind you felt that instinct, sensed it and was one step ahead, roughly grabbing your throat in one hand and the other held your hip in place, even pulling you back further to be straight against him feeling all that you were doing to the beast.
Corey's cheek rubbed against yours softly, beginning to sweetly kiss along your hairline with a small chuckle, "Baby, I wouldn't do that... I promise he won't hurt you, especially when you're being such a good girl for us,"
That praise was honey coated but dripped in a lie, knowing he could never control the man behind you, "You're so fucking sexy like this,"
Slowly, Corey's warm and soft hands wet with blood slipped into your jeans. He was so gentle with you that it was almost disturbing against the roughness of Michael squeezing your throat and bruising your hip but you couldn't help yourself from rolling your hips back on the shape's leg.
"That's it, babygirl. That's it" Corey's fingers circled and rubbed softly your pussy "Aw, you're so wet already, huh? Aching for us? Being such a needy girl?"
Like those words were a cue, the hand that was on your hip disappeared and you heard the dragging of a metal zipper. What you were feeling came free, pressing along your back there was a small whimper in your throat signally Corey to unbutton your jeans and he tugged them down along with your soaked panties. Michael adjusted his legs, shifting your hips so his cock was rubbing your sex.
"Give in, pretty girl... Give in" Corey trailed kisses down your body before getting on his knees in front of you.
Brown eyes looked up at you, pulling your shirt up and licking small trails along your stomach whispering over and over "Give in"
Slowly you did just that, allowing your head to fall back and one of your hands drifted into Corey's curly locks as Michael shifted, pushing himself inside you. A choked gasp fell into a moan echoing through the hidden tunnels. He was so big, filling and stretching you like you had never experienced and mixing with Corey finally giving one lick made your legs weak.
"Ffffuck, you taste so good" He growled as Michael began to move faster, finding his own rhythm. "Such perfect little pussy getting stretched so good, huh?... Let me hear those moans, baby"
Sweet words met deep guttural groans behind you feeling your body get lost in the rapture, being served on a platter to two wolves that needed you in many different ways; One just for necessity and the other for deep need to have someone. An orchestra of moans, whimpers, growls, groans and praise could be heard through the night in blood and need. You were now in the monster's hell that was just lying beneath the ground.
You can't say it wasn't, in its own way, thoughtful.
Or: Michael brings you a gift
WARNINGS: mild gore, mild sexual themes, mild violence, Michael being Michael, gender neutral reader (but mild feminine adjacent language used extremely briefly), slight Dom!Michael
KEYWORDS: Wicked. Rain
NOTES: i left the version of Myers (OG, RZ, Peepaw) extremely vague so you can pick your own Michael poison.
this is also my first writing challenge. i hope you enjoy 🖤
He comes to you covered in blood that's rarely ever his own.
The veracity of that statement has become ingrained inside of you to where you have quickly learned to stop worrying, to stop fussing over him, whenever you round the corner, and catch sight of the man in your foyer drenched in ichor, and dripping gore on the carpet.
It's not quite a routine, but it's – something.
Not rare enough to be considered sporadic. Not frequent enough to be anything quotidian in your life. His visits linger somewhere in the unspoken fringes. A truism, yet hardly anything banal.
(A visit from the boogeyman could hardly ever be considered commonplace.)
While the biblical rain this weekend has washed most of the viscera away, he's still soaked in it, covering every inch except his latex mask. It's almost preternatural how it manages to stay free of blood, of carnage.
He shakes his head like a giant, wet dog, splattering pink droplets of diluted townsfolk over your living room. Your mouth knots when it lands on the new cream-coloured Sherpa throw you bought, but you have enough sense to say nothing about it.
It's not like he'll listen, anyway.
He has a remarkable ability to hear everything and yet absolutely nothing at the same time. Cherry-picking. You say, don't get blood on the linoleum, and he hears it as get blood all over the linoleum.
Or maybe he just purposefully ignores you, and does what he wants.
(That one is far more likely than the rest.)
You bite your tongue, saying nothing. He won't care, and it certainly won't stop him the next time he comes.
The pat-pat-pat of something hitting the floor draws your eye to his hands. His bloodied fist is clenched loosely by his side. The awkward, bulging shape of it makes you wonder if he hurt his palm.
"Are you–?"
His hand lifts, a meandering incline until it's pitched in front of you, unwavering. You gawk at the blood soaked knuckles in your face, uncomprehending, and then up to him. He gives nothing away. Bland impassivity colours the crescent outline of his eyes through the tenebrous holes of his mask. Blank. Unbothered.
"Michael, I don't know what you want."
His head tilts, chin dipping in a way that means you've displeased him. He's impatient now. Surely, his wordless, confusing actions are enough for you to interpret.
You huff, rolling your eyes back down to his outstretched hand. Something about his palm. He has something in it. He's trying to give you something –
Ah.
Oh.
You shiver. Michael doesn't often bring gifts with him. It's only ever happened once before. Something you try – very hard – to forget.
He lingered in the doorway one evening, watching you at your vanity. You didn't think he was paying much attention to you; before when Michael watched you, you just thought it was a scare tactic. That he wasn't observant.
A mindless killing machine.
How wrong you were.
His eyes tracked the way you picked up the delicate opal earrings you'd gotten from your parents that year, sliding off the brass back with care before dropping it on a cloth to keep it from running off. His gaze never waved when you tilted your chin, fingers tugging on your lobe to line the post up with the hole. Slipping it in with a small wince when it caught on your tender skin. Reaching for the back to keep it in place.
He watched as you marvelled at the pretty gem in your ear before doing the same to the other one.
It was easy to mistakenly believe he was just there, looming as always. Or maybe it reminded him of something his mum used to do. Whatever it was that ensnared his attention, it didn't matter much to you.
You forgot all about it until he came back with his first gift. A pair of earrings.
(With the ears still attached.)
You shudder. "Oh… um…"
How do you refuse the gift of a serial killer without becoming his next victim?
You don't. You can't.
Swallowing thickly, you try to peer into the eyeholes that fix themselves to your face, catching every glimmer, every expression, that passes. The abstruse abyss reveals nothing. Impatience radiates off of him. If presence alone was a physical thing, Michael Myers' might just suffocate you.
It's a struggle to hide your grimace, the horror at what you might uncover, but it's all for nought. He catches it, anyway. His chin tilts again, lowering so that he can see into your eyes.
You're not an expert at reading his body language, but you managed to pick up on a few of his idiosyncratic behaviours with each visit from the boogeyman. He's curious. You might even go so far as to proclaim him amused. Luridly so.
Each shiver, tremble, wince, and shudder you give is observed with this slight decline of his chin. You can't even begin to understand how he ticks – Michael Myers is an enigma to you – but you know he enjoys your fear. He likes catching you unawares, likes it when you jump at his sudden appearance.
It's a truism, now.
One that often ends with you underneath him, bracketed by his thick, firm biceps, hands perched as close to your temples as possible. Sometimes, if you've greatly entertained him, he'll wrap his hand around your throat, almost purring as he stares down at you, watching your soundless gasp, the way you claw, futility, at his wrist. He likes when you struggle. Likes when you give him the opportunity to chase you. To hunt you down.
It's effortless for him to haul you back where he wants you, slamming the end of the blade into the end table, right where you can see it. Always within your periphery. And then he takes you. Bites your neck, and collarbone. The inside of your wrist. Thighs. All marked with the impression of his teeth, stained in a ring of black, and leaking blood onto the sheets. He'll press your raw thighs to his hips, holding them there so you can feel him grazing the irritated flesh with each controlled, brutal thrust into your body. It makes you yowl, an amalgamation of pain and pleasure wracking through you with such visceral intensity that you often sob into his shoulder, clutching his wrist in a desperate attempt to get some respite. Some reprieve.
It never comes. You're his conquest—a prize for him to take, to claim.
He likes your pain too much to stop. Enjoys the bloodied mess he makes of you. Likes, even more, when he pries your aching thighs apart, head cocking to the side as he watches his release seep out of you, joining the blood that soaks the sheets below.
Michael takes. And takes.
It's very rare that he ever gives.
Another shudder rolls through you, eyes fluttering at the memory of his last gift, and how he sought gratitude from your body after.
(There's a hole in the drywall from where he slammed you, a touch too hard, into the wall with the brutal way he pounded you, bloodied earrings dangling from your ears.)
Michael huffs. The noise is amplified by the mask's acoustics, a ragged exhale. He's waited long enough, it tells you.
You can't stall any longer.
You don't bother trying to hide your grimace when you slide the cup of your palms under his fist, feeling the steady beats of the blood dripping onto your skin. Another steady huff. Amusement. He relishes your disgust.
His gaze never strays from you when his fist unfurls, fingers splaying wide. He watches, dark eyes boring into your own as you feel the first clump of whatever he's given you fall into your palm.
You hold his eyes for a moment longer, unwilling to look down and see what small objects he's brought you. It's better to look into this cerulean abyss, into the gaping maw of a monster, than it is to see what awaits below.
But Michael tires of your avoidance. He's eager for you to see.
It's only when his head leans forward, lids lowering only slightly, do you break the intense stare.
You can't quite make sense of the little clumps in your palm, or the ones that slowly loosen from the congealed blood on his hand, falling into yours. They're small, white.
Pomegranate seeds. He's giving you fruit.
Oh.
You begin to smile, wondering when he had the time to flesh the fruit, and why he kept it clenched in his hand for so long, but it fades quickly when the last one falls from his palm.
The blood has mostly dried, and the object sitting on the top of the pyramid has little covering it. There is no mistaking what his gift is.
Michael lowers his hand, letting it fall to his side. He doesn't clench his fists, he keeps them half furled. Relaxed.
But the look in his eye belies the bland nonchalance of his countenance.
His gaze is unyielding, rapacious. Hungry.
In your palm sits teeth.
Human teeth. Some of them are still attached to the roots, and from the indents on his first knuckles and fingertips, you can easily surmise that he wrenched them out of the jaw with that very hand. You swallow hard, bile rising up your oesophagus. Guilt, terror – both spume in your chest, a dizzying, almost noxious compound that nearly smothers you with its unparalleled rue.
But why? Why teeth?
It clicks, then, when the lightning outside the rain drenched window catches on the flash of gold on one of the incisors.
Michael sees everything. Notices more than you might expect.
He is always watching you. Always. He's there, lurking, hiding in the shadows. At first, you thought he was just terrible at stalking. You could see him, you knew he was there.
It was only when he disappeared from your periphery that you realised all those times when you saw him across the street, standing half hidden behind the door frame, garish mask catching in the black of your television as he lurked behind you, it was intentional. Michael wanted you to see him. To know he was there.
You relaxed when he was gone, thinking he must have gotten bored and wandered off. The tension in your posture dissipated. You greeted the locals, the guilt of having him waiting for you at home was gone. It was easier to breathe without his presence suffocating you.
One man, in particular, approached you after your shift finished. You smiled at him. He grinned back, gold tooth gleaming in the ochre sunset.
It started innocuously. An older man stopping you to speak wasn't uncommon. It was nothing that hadn't happened before. You listened, a brush impatient, as he introduced himself, and asked if you wanted to get a drink.
You're cute, he grinned again, leaning against the door of your car. I wanna get to know you.
You didn't think when you responded. It was all routine. A polite, impassive smile, slightly strained around the edges, eyes demuring to show your feigned contrition. Sorry, I have a boyfriend.
Sometimes it works. They raise their hands, a little disappointed, and nod in understanding, respectful of your choices, and comprehending of your unavailability.
Sometimes, however, it doesn't.
He doesn't need to know. A wink. A cloy smile. I don't see him anywhere around here, anyway.
You lost count of all the ways you said no without actually saying the word, too afraid of causing a scene, or of being noticed. You didn't want that kind of attention when your house was a steady crime scene, and a myth lurked in your foyer, eating all your cereal.
Your smile waned. Please, I'm not interested.
You get it now.
He scared you. With the wolfish grin, the firm hand he kept on your car door, the way he invaded your space, intentionally bringing himself closer and closer to you until your bodies were a scant hair away. It forced you from the handle. You kept taking a step back, away from the safety of your car. The gleam in his eye was wicked; his intentions vile, disgusting.
His hand closed around your jaw, squeezing until your mouth opened. When the flash of your teeth was revealed, he smirked. There ya go, smile more for me, hon. His thumb brushed across your bottom lip, making you tremble.
You only escaped when the security guard wandered around the corner, giving you a chance to flee.
Michael is infinitely complex and entirely inscrutable. You can't really understand him, or how he ticks, but you grew accustomed to his peculiarities – and his sense of humour.
He's giving you the man's teeth – the same ones he used to smile at you, to scare you. Something that only Michael is allowed to do.
(You're sure, then, that somewhere in your house you'll find the man's hands. The same ones he used to touch you.)
His chin dips again when you smile, taking in the wobbly edge to it, the tension in your shoulders. Your voice catches in your throat, tremulous, drenched in the coalescence of your fear, your uncertainty, and your gratitude.
However wicked the boogeyman might be, however vile and evil, you can't ignore the thrum in your chest when he's near. You, paradoxically, feel safer under his gaze. Under him.
He holds his palm out to you again, waiting.
When he'd given you the earrings, you'd been shaken. Terrified. Unsure what to do, you kissed his hand.
It's become a thing, an expectation. Whenever he does something for you, he expects a kiss on his palm.
But –
It's covered in blood. Saliva. Gore.
You reach out, fingers curling over the thickness of his wrist – so much larger than your own – and pull his hand close to you. He watches, bland, expectant. His eyes – vacant, stormy – narrow when instead of pressing your lips to his flesh, you pull his hand up to your neck, setting his heartline flush against your thundering pulse.
It's a break in what has, unfortunately, become the norm, but his hand is slimy on your neck, reeking already of rot. You won't put your mouth there, where you can feel the pocks in his flesh from the teeth he ripped out with his bare hand on your skin. You'll show him your appreciation in another way.
(Hopefully, this one doesn't end with another hole in the wall.)
Michael considers this, his head angling to the side as he takes in the contrast of his bloodied hand and your smooth, clean neck. He tips it the other way. A new angle. A new thought.
A huff, then. He finds what he's looking for.
His fingers stretch out, thumb pressing into your jugular as the others curl around the nape of your neck, index finger settling behind your ear. His hand is massive. His grip is tight. Choking. You gasp weakly when the tip of his thumb digs into the small knob on your throat. Phosphenes spume across your vision.
Your hand barely fits around his wrist when you grab his flesh. You'll never get him to stop – you're not strong enough to ever dislodge him from your body; his grip is ironclad. Your bones are fragile in his hold. Holding him like this is to ground yourself. To find a strange, almost anomalous comfort in the steady thud of his heart beating against his pulse point. Touching him like this reminds you Michael is human, despite how much you believe otherwise. Flesh, bone. You find kinship in the warmth of his skin.
"Michael," you croak, head spooling with the thick gossamer of hypoxia. Tears flood your eyes at the pressure, the lack of air. "Thank you."
Your head hits the wall when he shoves you back, the bulk of his body nearly suffocating as he looms over you. His flesh is burning, his hand nearly searing the skin of your thigh when he grabs it, fingers digging into the plush give of your body. His grasp is harsh enough to bruise the bone. Your leg aches already. Throat throbbing from the force of his hold.
You're sure, then, that you won't be able to walk tomorrow much less swallow.
Michael is often mistaken as cold. Indifferent. Despite his vacant gaze, you can feel the heaviness of his desire curling over you; a thick haze of palpable hunger that leaks out of the bruising press of his body flushed against yours.
His other hand falls, fingers curling over your thigh. He lets you breathe for a moment, let's the anticipation simmer in your hazy stare until he's had his fill of it. Then, he squeezes. His fingers burrow into your skin, rupturing the capillaries under blood blooms under your flesh in the perfect replica of his handprint.
Michael hikes your thigh up, locking it around his hip, and drives into you with enough force to rattle the wall, shaking the pictures loose. They fall to the ground, shattering into pieces. The sound is dulled under the harsh, angry pants aerated from the holes of his mask; the cacophony of his want, his wild, untameable desire.
He towers over you. His wide chest expands with each deep, ragged inhale, filling your vision until nothing remains but Michael, and his unfettered hunger.
Desire and anger are one in the same with Michael. His fury reeks of his impatience to be inside of you; his need to cudgel into your body with thrusts that are too similar to the way he hunts, maims, to ever be a mere coincidence. He takes his aggression out in the softness of your flesh, leaving behind the brand of his claim. His ownership.
You'll never escape him. Never run from him.
His want for you is apoplectic. Your fate was sealed the moment you caught the boogeyman's interest.
(they told you, didn't they? don't let the boogeyman see you.)
His thumb moves from your jugular, huffing when you gasp for air, eyes nearly rolling into the back of your head as oxygen fills your lungs in a deluge. He's not gentle when he slides it across your skin, nail catching on the curve of your jaw, but it's as soft as he'll allow, as he's capable of.
Rotting blood is smeared across your skin. His eyes trace the trail, narrowing when the tip of his thumb hits the slope of your pouting lip.
You know what he wants. What he always wants.
And you can never deny him. You should have known better from the start.
Your jaw drops, lips parting for him.
All you get in response is another deep inhale. A bland acknowledgement. But the fever in his gaze nearly consumes you in its fire.
He wanted a kiss. Wanted to see your lips stained red with the fruits of his effort. You didn't allow him that.
So, he takes.
His thumb slips over the bump of your lip, resting the first knuckle on the fleshy bed, and he waits. He knows, now, that you will obey.
Your mouth closes without preamble, puckering around the tip of his thumb, catching the crimson congealing on his flesh where it sits like a macabre lipgloss on your skin.
You can feel his excitement as it bludgeons into your core, jerking at the gentle kiss. The hard thickness of him makes you whimper in response, lashes fluttering shut as a molten want gnaws inside of you.
He tastes of iron when your tongue laps over his flesh, and you find you quite like the taste.
His gifts might be macabre remnants of his unhinged carnage, leftovers from his icy warpath, his insatiable need to tear into flesh until the stench of death permeates in the miasma around him. You might be dragged along to the pits of hell for letting this untameable quietus into your home, your bed, your body, your heart, but when he ruts into you like he's starved for the feel of your flesh, you can't help but to take an ungodly amount of pleasure from the horrible things he gives you.
He takes. And takes. And when he gives –
He makes sure to let the world know it was him, and him alone, who gave it to you.
It's awful. Horrible, even. Vile. Any number of debauched things. But despite the morality of letting a murderer fuck you senseless into a blood soaked mattress until you're screaming hymns in his name, you're already looking forward to the next gift he brings for you.
(You just wish he would give you something that wasn't still attached to a person.)
–its my personal headcanon that Michael Myers absolutely gets off on terrifying people, but no one more so than whoever catches his attention. Mikey likes you? you better prepare yourself because this man is going to psychologically torture you as a form of foreplay and/or courtship. but ONLY Mikey is allowed to scare you. that horror movie you watched that made you jump? you find it destroyed in your living room. better not go to a haunted house or you'll have a massacre on your hands.
–he also gives terrible gifts. tell him you like someone's shirt, well. he gives you the shirt. cute. but it comes with their torso. coo at some birds? you find bloodied feathers all over your porch. he's a menace. and make no mistake – he knows this absolutely terrifies you. he likes that.
YOU slept better than you ever had with Thomas Hewitt next to you. Your sweet Tommy. You would always curl up to him, like he was just a big teddy bear, ignoring the sweat and grime and blood that would cling to his skin. Summer was over, but no one had told the oppressive Texas heat, although Luda May insisted it would get cooler soon.
Tommy wrapped his arms around you, holding you to his chest. You lnew he was always careful with you, careful not to crush you, careful not to graze the scar on your back, careful not to scare you. Careful to lock the basement door when he left. Careful to chain you to the bed when he was working. It should have made you sick when he caressed you with fingers practically dripping with someone else’s gore but instead you welcomed it. It meant Tommy had someone else strung up on those chains, and it meant that he was choosing you. Each and every time, he was choosing you. Again and again, over and over.
Your sweet Tommy.
You’d gotten good at reading his expression under his mask. The slight changes in those deep brown eyes. He didn’t speak, they were all you had to go by but you felt you understood him. Since being in the Hewitt house, your world had become very small, the only danger had also become your salvation. You used to feel powerless, like Tommy saw you as a pet. Entertaining for the time being but hardly a permanent fixture in his life until one night when you were deep in dreams, Tommy woke you up.
You were moaning before you were even aware of what was happening, all you had was the feelings of being stretched as Thomas slowly entered you. Before your eyes had even fluttered open, you cooed; “Tommy,” He stopped moving when you met his gaze.
When you saw his face.
Neither of you moved, Tommy’s shaft halfway in and already, his size made you nervous and a shudder whipped down your spine. His hands were on either side of your hips, holding his above you and his mask was on the end table.
Those sweet cow’s eyes were in a face unlike any that you’d ever seen but any fear you felt was replaced by excitement as you, barely awaked, begged for more; “Tommy, please.”
Tommy pushed even further into you and you arched your back, crying out only for Tommy to shove two fingers into your open mouth to silence you. You had been dead asleep, it was the middle of the night and this far out in the country, the night didn’t make much noise. Still, you wound your tongue around his digits and tasted yourself on them. He had tried to prepare you for him while you were still asleep. You sucked on his fingers, your eyes holding his and Tommy grunted.
Being heard was clearly a concern because Tommy didn’t fuck you. Instead, he held onto the headboard above you and peered down into your face as he rocked his hips, slow and shallow thrusts that had you squirming to meet him and trying to whine around his fingers.
His face hovered inches above you, in all its grotesque glory. Tommy watched closely, your every reaction as he snapped your hips to meet yours, fully sheathed inside you. A cry escaped you and his pushed his fingers further down. You understood his discretion, you two weren’t alone in the house and he wanted to spare the both of you the embarrassment if Hoyt were to hear. But now was not the time for logic. You felt good, you wanted him to know he was making you feel good. Drool wet your lips, his hand and the pillow beneath you, Thomas started to thrust --always so careful-- before he took his hand out of your mouth to hold your hips down with both hands, his grip spanned across your stomach, his strength could be devastating if he wanted it to be and the idea thrilled you.
The bed was creaking and Thomas’ brow furrowed, slowing his pace even further. “No,” Your voice had a breathy and desperate tone. “Please don’t stop. Tommy please.” He stared down at you, his large eyes searching for an explanation. You took your hand off the bed, it was your turn to be careful, and cupped his scarred cheek. Tommy flinched but he didn’t pull away; “Don’t stop. Please make me feel good Tommy.” He melted into your hand and jutted into you, suddenly full of feverous fire, driving him.
You took your hand away and in a second, Tommy’s hand was on your wrist, pulling your hand back to cheek. “Oh, my beautiful Tommy,” You cooed as he rocked into you. You couldn’t hold back your gasps when hit that spot within you and kept at it.
Your praise, your gasps and sighs, the fact that you couldn’t keep quiet; it all spurred Tommy on as your sounds mixed with Tommy’s own moans. As you got close to your release you couldn’t hold back. “Yes Tommy, yes!” Until he covered your mouth again just as you came, clenching down on him and bringing his own release, his shaft still deep inside of you.
The man’s laughter peals through the air, the noise long and fractured like the spidering of a busted windshield. It’s reminiscent of the clap of thunder against the onslaught of rain that assaults the dust encrusted glass pane. And the way Billy’s yellowed teeth catch in a gleam against the flickering flame of melting pillar candles reminds you of the strike of lightning. He moves in close, settling kneeled between your thighs with his face hovering mere inches from yours as shadows dance over the slopes of his face. For a brief moment, time slows around you, and the daft barbarity that usually ravages the deep pools of brown is replaced with something almost soft, unlike the expected jagged edges of madness.
When your hands wind through the tangled brown mane, it’s gone in a blink. Billy laughs again, a sharp puff of sputtered air exhaled against your chapped lips. He looks at you like he wants to say something, mouth even parting slightly, but it dies on his tongue with a whine when you press your lips to his. While the initial contact is chaste, it hardly remains so. Instead, it quickly morphs into something ravenous as crooked teeth catch against your lower lip in a sharp nip that wretches a startled sough from deep within you. Your grip on his hair tightens in retaliation, but it only makes his hips lurch, and a thunderous moan roll through his body as the swell of his cock makes indirect contact with your groin.
“More.” You murmur, revelling in the way Billy’s body twists against the sting of his scalp and how he still whines and groans despite the ache. He kisses you again, teeth knocking against yours and drool smearing against the curve of your lower lip. You loosen your grip on his hair, letting your hand cradle the back of his skull for a moment before sliding down till fingers clung to the scratchy fibres of his green turtleneck.
You can taste the wicked intentions on his tongue, and fear licks at your insides in anticipation, but you’re helpless to stop it. Instead, you are entranced by the subtle hint of butterscotch candies on his breath and the bewitching enthusiasm emanating off him like a live wire. Teeth sink in, rending your lip’s delicate skin and making warmth spill, and a coppery taste perfuse. It happens so fast that it takes a moment for the affliction to reach your nerves and be processed. A mixture of spit and blood dribbles from your lip, a sharp thrumming of searing pain radiating from the wound as Billy, with surprising heed, draws back and stares down at you with wide eyes drowning in reverence.
“Preetty, so, fuck, fuck! So pretty for Billy,” The words tumble from his lips in a hasty trill, like they’re viscous, making each syllable catch on the curve of his tongue in a slow slide. He leans back on the balls of his heels, dirty fingers grasping your jean-clad thighs and forcing them further apart while simultaneously keeping you pinned in place. He stares down at you with heavy lidded eyes, mouth twisted into an unnerving grin as he lets out a shrill little laugh as he rolls his hips forward against you. He lets out a little sigh of contentment at the friction, doing it again like a mindless hound in rut. “Oh, they want it bad. Need it bad.” Warmth blooms within you like magma, setting your body and nerves aflame as you begin to roll your hips to meet his, tempting the molten liquid to crack past the surface and burn you alive. It makes Billy stutter and snarl, his lip drawing back and revealing blood stained teeth, and you only return it, lips stretching into a painful, bloody smile that mirrors his own.
"We Match!" The Ghost/"Mitch." X FEM! AFAB! Reader.
Ay yo week three of the fantastic @the-slasher-files Bloodfest! I hope you alllll enjoy this one! This is the first thing I have written for The Ghost or “Mitch” from The Haunt (2019) a movie I watched a few days ago! I ended up loving it and this guy sooo much and the inspo hit so here we are! I dunno if I will write him again but we will see, for now, enjoy this new piece!
—
Rating. Explicit. Length. 2K. The Ghost/ "Mitch" X FEM! AFAB! Reader. No Pronouns Specified. Warnings: Blood. Gore. Fear. Cutting. Banter. Teasing. Vaginal Sex. Spanking. Talk Of Death And Murder. Unprotected Sex. Dirty Talk. Mask Kink. Glove Kink.
—
You always loved Halloween, always dressed up and always, always, always went out and did something. This year was no different, you went out with friends, some drinks, some dancing and partying, consuming candy and general reverie but it wasn’t enough. When you all departed from the club there was excited talk of not wanting the night to end just yet, wanting to finish strong and on a high note. Many things were thrown back and forth until the idea of a haunted house was brought up and that was what was enthusiastically decided on.
It was pretty fucking cheesey honestly, total cornball. To start at least. Somewhere along the way it got really real and very intense. One your friends getting separated and apparently murdered before your eyes, another one getting seriously injured, the group splitting up further still, it had you scared and majorly on edge, until you came across another scare actor. He was dressed in a mask, bone white and black and some yellow, long off white, bordering on almost grey and dirty looking robes, clearly the costume he was going for was a ghost and it was pretty good. You could see some chains wrapped around it to really elevate it to sell the vibe. It fit the theme, everyone else you had seen went for more vintage style costume choices and masks.
You and your friends were freaked the fuck out but this guy, “Mitch” as he told you, reassured you, said he’d help get you out and that the murder you witnessed was an act that they did, that your friend was outside and most likely wondering where you all were.
It was a relief.
You all just got too caught up in the moment, it was late and you got swept into the situation and the spirit of the season, Halloween is all about getting scared and you fell victim to that, who could blame you? Eventually, your friends went a different route in search of the first aid kit Mitch directed them to and by doing that left you alone with him.
There was a section you had passed through earlier, the back of one of the scare exhibits you had all participated in. It was a medical-like room with x rays on the wall and holes that encouraged you to reach through, the one you had reached into had a tray filled with peeled grapes to mimic eyeballs. What your friend experienced however was not so innocent and she ended up getting stuck shoulder deep in hers and cut with razor blades. One the back side of it there was the table with the trays, you were currently leaning against it, waiting on your friends and just killing some time with Mitch.
“So you been doing this for long?” You asked, glancing over at him and he let out a hum, a tilt of his head, “A few years now. Going on three years doing this.”
“With the same group?” You inquired and he gave a nod, “Yeah they are a good group, we click really well. Part of why this-” He said with a wide gesture of his robe to the still bloody razor blades scattered upon the table top, a mere foot of space away from where you leaned, “-is so jarring to me. I have no idea who could have done this.”
“Yeah, must be pretty scary thinking you know someone only for them to pull a stunt like this.” You admitted and he took a step closer, speaking in a more hushed tone, as if worried someone would overhear while you were clearly alone.
“There is this new guy who joined up this year, I’d hate to think it but maybe…”
You shuddered at the thought, “Ugh, I hope not!”
“Me too.” He sighed and you knew this must be hard for him. You felt bad and you wanted a way to maybe lighten the mood, break the tension, so you said. “I love your costume by the way.”
He seemed a bit taken aback by that, but it worked and changed the subject as he looked down, holding his arms out but the mask was looking back up at you, “Thanks! I’ve always been a fan of the classics.”
“Yeah, same here, but you know, a modern twist.” You gestured down to your own costume. You too went as a ghost. But one where the material was long enough on the sides to cover your arms with some extra past that but the rest of the hemline was cut criminally short to show off the thigh high fishnets and garter belt you wore along with the tall black heeled boots as accompaniment.
“I dunno about modern, doing a sexy version of a staple is a classic in itself I’d say.” He asserted and you had to agree. “You make a fine point there Mitch.”
“Thank you.” He said easily and you continued, “And points for calling it sexy and not slutty. Cuz it totally is but still smart move.”
“Oh you flatter me far too much.” He laughed and you liked the sound. “I think you are far too trusting too.”
“And why do you think that?” You asked and he took another step closer, “I mean when you lay it out, you, stuck in a haunted house, separated from your friends, and alone with a total stranger who’s face you’ve never even seen? Could spell trouble.”
“Well one. You haven’t seen my face either.” You said with a point before saying next, “And two, are you inferring that you’re planning on killing me?”
“I think I’m more implying it and I’m not. I’m simply making an observation.” He said with a shrug and you got an idea.
One of the things about Halloween that you have loved to indulge in since becoming of age and really partying is? Hooking up with a stranger and this holiday so far, you have not crossed that off your list and you weren’t the type to break your streak on such a long standing and fun tradition on your favourite night of the year. There was something about this guy, a quality that you just liked. You felt you clicked with him, he was funny, plus the idea of fucking this guy when you have never seen his face and never will? Leaving afterwards hopefully satisfied and unsteady on your heels with some fun new memories and a good story? A truly perfect capper to this night before getting back together with your friends and toddling back home to collapse into your bed to sleep.
Time was of the essence though. You didn’t need this to be long, you needed it to be dirty and quick, so you had to gauge his reaction.
“Awe damn shame.” You pouted, not like he could see your face but you hoped it came across in your tone. “Enlighten me?”
He prompted and you filled in the blank, “If you were planning on killing me then maybe I could sweet talk you into giving me a last request.”
“Intriguing. Perhaps if you share that last request I might just indulge you, even without the killing.”
“What a gentleman.” You praised before standing upright and turning, you bent at the middle, laying your stomach on the solid wood table and in the process that super short hemline rose up and showed off the spectacular view of your ass. The underwear you chose was lacy and cute and now totally on display, the thin straps of the garterbelt helping to really sell it and frame your assets. “Too bad I’m not looking for a gentleman.”
“No, what you are looking for is quite obvious.” You hear him come up behind you, feel his hand on your ass, the smooth gloves? Very nice, loved that you couldn’t even feel the most basic part of him, you liked the extra layer of separation.
“So are you gonna indulge me?” You asked with a look over your shoulder and in response you received a spank with a good amount of force behind it, a short moan spilled out, surprised by the initiative he took along with the small jolt of pain accompanying it. There was a firm squeeze, enjoying the feeling of you in his grip as he said, “I mean you are about to die. It would be cruel to deny you this small kindness.”
You bit back a laugh, of course a dude who is years deep into being a scare actor would get into the roleplay you laid out.
So when your frankly skimpy underwear is ripped midway down your thighs and you feel him press against your already slowly leaking hole you welcome him along with the slight burn of the stretch of him slipping inside with a low groan, “Yesssss-”
You didn’t need much warm up at all, within two minutes any of the mild ache subsided, replaced with low simmering and steadily building pleasure. Your nails are digging into the wood of the table, moving back as much as you could to meet him in the middle as he drove forward, his hands on your hips as he fucked into you. When pain gave way to pleasure and you weren’t wincing, instead moaning, not super loud, still mindful that you might get caught, he took that as the cue to slam his hips harder into yours.
During that you noticed, through the haze, a different sort of feeling, something unusual and when you questioned it, he paused his pace. Hips flush against your ass, a hard grind, hands gripping tighter he said, “I might have something extra-” And he pulled out, slowly, much slower and you feel it, the rim of your hole catching on what had to be some pretty impressive piercings.
You tried to place what you think it could have been but he picked up his pace, another spank, much harder as he quickened his thrusts and all thoughts left your head in short order.
It felt fucking great, you were panting, pleasure slowly building, moaning out, “Oh fuck-Goddd! Mitch don’t stop-”
He let out a breathy laugh, falling forward, you could feel his chest to your back, his mask next to your ear, harder thrusts as he said, “You know Mitch isn’t-”
You cut him off, rushing out with a half-laugh-half-moan yourself, “I fucking know your fucking name isn’t Mitch and I doooon’t carrrrre.”
The hardest hit of the night, landing on the same spot, a choked moan as you clenched around him, walls of your slick cunt hugging his shaft tightly. He groaned, head tipping forward, “Fuck. You know, you’re right.”
You let out a small questioning hum, much more concerned with your building climax than what he was saying and he responded, a hand coming around and gripping your throat through the thin sheet of your costume. “I shoulda called you slutty from the start.”
Yeah he should have.
This was so hot, you felt so powerless to him, all alone, his body covering yours, he was so much stronger and you were so vulnerable. A man who you didn’t know, whose face you haven’t seen and never will, a guy who’s name you didn’t know who was currently balls deep, raw, in your clenching and slick hole, how much dirtier could you get?
This guy hasn’t seen your face either, doesn’t know your name, he hadn’t even kissed you before he stuck himself inside of you and you got off much, much too hard at the very idea, let alone the fact you were actually doing this.
As you started to get close, lost to sensation and the fervour of your illicit hookup you could only muster one thought and that thought? God you loved Halloween.
Warnings: Blood, heavy gore, descriptions of violence, manipulation
This is a long one, folks. Get a snack and settle in.
~~
$3.78
The little black numbers on your phone screen could be innocuous enough. It’s a simple amount, small, maybe the price of a basic coffee or a quick snack at the gas station. It would be harmless, if it wasn’t the balance of your checking account.
With a noisy clatter, you toss your phone carelessly onto the counter, your head falling to your hands. At your feet, a quiet mewl.
Despondently, you look down at your cat, Sweet Pea. The cone around her neck, shaved hair and stitches on her front leg are the source of your current monetary dilemma. Somehow, she’d managed to slice herself open on an errant piece of balcony railing.
“Idiot,” you murmur, crouching low to give her a scratch. She purrs, oblivious to your name-calling. As your fingers glide through her soft, warm fur, the question festering in the back of your mind drifts to the forefront of your thoughts.
How are you going to make rent? It’s due today and you don’t get paid for another two weeks. You’ve never been late on a payment before. Maybe…. Maybe if you ask your landlord for an extension he’ll take pity on you?
You swallow the lump in your throat. Just the idea of speaking with him makes your palms sweaty. That innate fear, the knowledge that you’re not at the top of the food chain always pricks at the back of your neck in his presence. You try to avoid him at all costs.
You wonder if his other tenants feel the same.
With a deep sigh, you push to your feet and cross the room to retrieve your keys. First you must work. You definitely can’t miss a shift now.
Exiting your apartment, your keys rattle in the lock. After the click, you turn on your heel and crash straight into a solid chest.
“Oops!” a quiet voice exclaims, long fingers gripping your shoulders to keep you from tumbling backwards.
“Oh christ, I’m so sorry—
Your words catch in your throat when your gaze lands on the face of Mr. Talo, your landlord. The fight to keep your expression passive ends in defeat as all the blood drains from your face.
Too quickly to be nonchalant, you step away from him, back colliding with your locked front door. No escape—
“Everything alright?” Mr. Talo asks in his soft, lilting voice, his slight accent catching at the ends of his words. You meet his eyes, iris bright blue and whites bloodshot—a sign of a well-fed vampire.
You allow yourself to relax minutely before responding, “Y-Yeah, I’m really sorry Mr. Talo—
“Oh no, no, please call me Sami. ‘Mr. Talo’ sounds like I’m much too old or something.” The corners of his lips twitch up in a gentle smile. You can tell he’s trying to keep his teeth hidden, but you can still see the very tips of white fangs poking out from under his top lip.
You force a breathy chuckle, gaze dropping to your shoes, then back up in time to watch his spidery fingers ruffle the white-blonde hair atop his head. The fluorescents above catch the stray strands, his pale locks nearly glowing under the light.
“Right, you must be off to work? I’ll leave you to it.” Sami turns to leave, then pauses to add, “Rent due today, I’m sure you’re aware.” Your heart stutters in your chest. You’d wanted more time to prepare your sob story….
“Uh, Mr—I mean, Sami. About rent….” The vampire turns to face you fully, eyebrows raised curiously. You swallow, throat suddenly dry. You continue, “I’m—my cat h-had an accident, I mean, she got hurt. I had to, you know, take her to the vet—stitches, she needed them, which…which you know, costs…costs money and—
“You can’t make rent this month.” he finishes for you. Your mouth opens, closes, opens again. He doesn’t sound upset. In fact, there’s a glint of something in his gaze, beyond the bloody sclera; something eager.
“Y-Yes. I’m sorry, is there…?” You trail off, forgetting what you wanted to ask. Sami is turned completely toward you now, attention fully focused on you, your face, your shoulders, your neck…. His hands, once resting in his pockets, now hang at his sides, long fingers twitching randomly.
“S-Sami?” you breathe, jaw clenching. Your own fingers jump, ready to reach for your keys, but then Sami blinks, shoulders relaxing, hands quickly returning to pockets like he hadn’t even moved at all.
“There are payment plans. I’d be willing to extend that courtesy to you as you’ve never been late before.” He speaks casually, like everything that just transpired was completely normal. You have no choice but to follow along, the heavy feeling in your chest lifting slightly when you comprehend what he’s saying.
Sami pauses, lightly scrapes his fangs across his bottom lip—your hand involuntarily clenches on your keys—before he speaks again, softer than before, “Or…there is one more option. An alternative form of payment—no, not that,” he adds with an awkward chuckle when your eyes bug out of your head. “Though some would consider it equally as—erm—unwholesome.”
“W-What do you mean?” Your voice breaks a little with your question and you wonder how much more your poor nerves can handle. Sami takes a half step closer, hands leaving his pockets, fingers entwining.
“Blood,” he states simply. You stare. His expression doesn’t change. You blink several times in quick succession when you realize he’s serious. Sami nods, “For one month, I will forgive rent in exchange for one, uh…feeding.”
Words elude you. He’s serious! Has he done this before with other tenants? He must have, with how boldly he speaks. Is this legal? It can’t be, can it?
You realize you’ve said nothing for too long a stretch. Sami waits expectantly. Again, you must swallow before you speak.
“Um. Uh…can I think about it?” His eyes crinkle at the corners, more of those wicked fangs revealed with his grin.
“Certainly. I’ll touch base tomorrow?” You can only nod weakly in response. “Great! Talk soon.”
And with that, he strides away down the hall before disappearing into the stairwell. The loud bang of the heavy door shocks you out of your stunned silence and you spin around, hurrying in the opposite direction.
~~
Payment plan. You’re going to do the payment plan. That’s the least insane option.
But one month no rent…. That could be huge for you, especially with these vet bills you still have to pay.
No, absolutely not. It’s madness to even consider it! What if he gets carried away, or whatever? Rent isn’t worth your life.
But…the burden and stress this could relieve…. It’s just one time. He’s obviously done this before. He must know what he’s doing.
No, no, no. This is ridiculous. What is the matter with you?
You retrieve your phone, ready to text Mr. Talo—Sami—your answer. You hesitate, fingers hovering over your phone screen.
You’ve lost your god damn mind.
~~
Nervously, you check the clock on the stove. Almost 7PM. Soon.
Wringing your hands, you look over the assigned “to-do” list, mentally checking off completed tasks.
It’s Friday. You have the weekend off to…recover, as instructed. You’d eaten iron-rich foods all week, drank the requisite amount of water, taken all the B vitamins. You’d meal prepped for the weekend, ensuring all your meals are low effort and ready to eat.
Chewing on your lip, you frown, considering. Maybe you should—
A quiet knock at your door makes you jolt, your pen tumbling to the ground with a clatter. Heart hammering, you cross the room, smoothing your shirt and straightening the rug. Oh god, you’ve lost it, this is crazy, but it’s too late to back out….
The lock clicks and the door swings open with a little squeak. There stands Sami, wearing khakis, a pale blue button up that matches his eyes, and a kind smile. In his hand is a small, black satchel.
“Uh, hi. Hi, um, come in,” you stammer, scooting out of the way as Sami steps into your apartment. He gives your space a quick once over before turning to you.
“You completed the list I gave you?” You nod, glancing down at your feet, then back up. He smiles wider in approval and your gaze is drawn to white points. Christ, they’re huge….
“Excellent. Shall we get started? I won’t take up much more of your evening.” You tense, giving him one more stiff half nod.
Sami motions to the sofa before setting the little bag on your counter. The slide of its zipper fills the awkward silence—you should have put on music—and he rustles around inside. In a neat row, he positions gauze, a bottle of sterile water, medical tape, and a blue surgical rag. Your heart rate increases with each item he produces until it pounds furiously against your ribs.
Satisfied with the arrangement, Sami moves to sit next to you on the sofa. That same, understanding half smile decorates his wan features. Hands like ice find your face, cradling it, and you flinch at the chill. He gazes into your wide, panicked eyes, making sure you’re looking at him before speaking.
The whites of his eyes are almost completely visible, barely any red. He’s hungry—
“It is imperative you don’t struggle. Do you understand?” You blink and swallow hard, your throat like fucking sandpaper. “Repeat back what I said.”
“I-I shouldn’t s-struggle,” you whisper.
“You mustn’t.”
“I won’t.”
“Good. Now breathe. Big, deep breaths.” You do as he says, your body working on autopilot as your mind whirs with terror. “Just like that. You’re doing well! Your heart rate is slowing.”
You falter at that, “W-What? How…?”
Sami taps his ear with a slender finger, “I can hear it.” You can’t stop the flush from heating your cheeks. He knows you’ve been distressed this entire time. Embarrassing.
That eager glint returns to his eyes. With a light chuckle, Sami moves one of his hands to your shoulder, gripping just tight enough to hold you in place. Cool fingers grasp your jaw, tilting your head to the side and back, exposing your neck. He scoots closer, invading your space, pulling you close, intimately close.
You choke on a breath, then suck in air quickly, willing your tense body to relax. Don’t struggle, don’t struggle—
Sami inhales slowly, deeply, and your cheeks burn when you realize he’s smelling you. A quiet squeak leaves your mouth when his lips ghost across your throat. In your lap, your sweaty hands curl into fists.
The fingers on your jaw move to the back of your neck just as you feel the sharp points of his fangs setting themselves against your flesh. That prickling sensation returns, stomach lurching, body urging you to flee, fucking run idiot, but you reign in your panic, a mantra of ‘Don’t struggle, don’t struggle,’ playing on repeat in your brain.
Piercing, twin stings make you gasp, your hands flying up to grip the front of his shirt Warmth trickles down your throat—summer rain on your skin—before soaking into the neckline of your top. Sami quickly seals his lips around your leaking wounds.
You feel gentle suction—he’s drinking—and you can’t help the tiny whimper that escapes you when he groans, his chest vibrating against your palms with the sound. The hand on your shoulder squeezes hard, just shy of being painful. You focus on your labored breathing and force yourself to still, to be quiet.
Sami emits a muffled, gurgly moan and pulls you flush against him, wrapping an arm around your body. Your toes curl in your socks. At the same time, you notice your grip on his clothing growing slack. Your fingers are weakening, your head fuzzy, little spots forming in your vision, your breath coming in ragged pants….
With a strained growl, Sami rips his teeth out of you. His lips are millimeters from yours, so close you can feel hot, metallic breath washing over your face. Icy hands caress your face, stroke your neck, dip down to your collarbone, he’s so close, what is he—
Hastily, you are slammed back into the arm of the couch. Sami stands so quickly you don’t see him move. Dazed, you watch him stagger and clutch his head, bowed shoulders rising and falling rapidly with his gasping breaths.
You don’t have to strength to move much, nor even the wit to speak, so you just stare at his back. The rapid heaving of his shoulders gradually slows as he stands upright. His mouth he wipes on his shirtsleeve, brilliant scarlet staining the pale fabric.
Seeming to come back to himself, he retrieves the items he’d placed on the counter. Finally, he turns to face you, revealing the startling visage of a freshly fed vampire. You’d react if you weren’t so dazed, thoughts spinning with your vision.
The whites of his eyes are completely red, not a dot of ivory to be seen. His pupils are blown so wide you can’t make out any blue. Crimson stains his teeth, a paint brush smear across his cheek where he’d wiped it away.
Sami clears his throat and kneels on the sofa between your trembling knees. One hand returns to the back of your neck as the other presses gauze to your wounds. 
“You alright?” he asks, his usually soft voice now quite husky. You blink to right the world and nod once again. Fatigue pulls at your consciousness, tries to force your eyelids shut. “These will heal,” he continues, pushing against your bite marks for emphasis, “By tomorrow, most likely. Make sure you have several glasses of water. Tonight, before you sleep, I mean. Continue the vitamins.”
Dumbly, you gaze up at him. He doesn’t meet your stare, instead rips pieces of tape to secure the gauze to your skin. Next, he cleans away the remainder of your spilled blood with the surgical rag and sterile water.
Unceremoniously, he stands, retrieves a glass of water from your kitchen, sets it on your coffee table. “Get some rest,” he commands, leaving through your front door without a backward glance.
The lock clicking shut seems to trigger something within you and you slump, rolling onto your side. It’s over. You’re okay.
Well, okay enough. Maybe.
You don’t have the sense to ponder the strange details of what had just occurred. It only takes seconds for unconsciousness to claim you.
~~
The weekend passes in a blur of dizziness and fatigue. You hardly leave your bed. When Monday rolls around, you’re still so worn out you must phone in sick to work.
Sami checked on you the following day with a simple text: ‘How are you feeling?’ Other than that, you haven’t seen hide or hair of him all week. Probably for the best, you decide. Only awkwardness could occur after spending such an odd evening together.
Friday evening again, and rain pummels the windows, wind gusts rattling the balcony railing. You relax in bed, zoning in and out, not even really watching what plays on television, instead focused on the light and shadows thrown across your body from the changing images. Absently, your fingers scratch between Sweet Pea’s smooth ears…. Soft and warm….
Drip. Drip. Drip, drip, drip.
Your heavy eyes crack open. Darkness in your apartment. The television is off. When had you fallen asleep?
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The rain has stopped. Outside, the air is calm. In your sleepy state, you finally register the dripping. Oh no, a leak?
You push up onto your elbow. Sweet Pea is gone, off to perform her nightly rounds, no doubt.
You roll onto your other side and lay eyes on the horrific figure looming at your bedside.
A soaked, torn shirt reveals the mangled flesh underneath; gaping abdominal gash, bubbly fat, shredded muscle, and oozing guts all visible and leaking onto your floor. The dripping. Not a leak after all.
Higher up is a gaunt face, white blonde hair wet from the recent storm. It is a face you recognize.
Mr. Talo—Sami.
A rain-dampened hand slaps over your mouth to silence your blood-curdling shriek. Another gathers up your wrists, pinning them to the bed. Knees plant themselves on either side of your hips, body weight on your legs stopping your thrashing before it’s even begun.
He stares wildly down at you—how is moving—as warm blood spills from evisceration, soaking your clothes, your sheets. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, gentle voice strained and quivering.
You can do nothing against his strength. You can’t twist, can’t buck, can’t thrash, can’t call for help—helpless, you’re utterly helpless.
More gore pours out of him when he leans down, wet squelching accompanying the movement. Again, he murmurs, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” before lips find your neck.
A soft kiss is pressed to your skin—another apology—before wicked fangs sink into flesh. The force of your muffled scream burns your throat, but the palm suffocating you keeps it from carrying far. You recognize the sucking pressure, the noisy groan, the dizzying loss of blood coming much faster this time.
Your teeth dig into his palm, copper spilling into your own mouth, but Sami isn’t fazed, doesn’t let up. Distantly, you remember what he’d said about struggle, but the terror surging through you keeps any rational thought from sticking
Now you’re just an animal, prey squirming in the grip of a predator, desperate to save your own life. Above you, Sami growls as you writhe. It’s a feral sound resonating from deep within his chest that sends your heart into a frenzy.
There’s a crunch, more pressure in your neck, then a sick tearing sound near your ear. With a final, wet snap, Sami sits upright, flesh dangling from his terrible teeth.
You stare, shocked. You can’t believe what you’re seeing. Your fingers scurry up to your neck, recoiling when you feel the wet mess that was once your throat—the throat now clutched in Sami’s jaws.
A cough bubbles out of your mouth, blood splattering across your face, little rain drops, pitter-patter. More wets your hair, joins the puddle forming on your mattress.
Sami watches blankly, observes you drowning in your bed without so much as a twitch of his features. His eyes are crimson once more, his chest heaving. Lower, the torn shirt reveals smooth, unmarred skin, his flesh healed by your life essence.
Your bloodied hands fall away from your spurting neck, landing useless on soaked sheets. The room is darker now, growing darker still. That’s right, the television had been turned off. Good, you don’t want to waste electricity….
Have you ever been so tired?
Sami lifts his hand. He frowns at the teeth marks in his palm. Unhealed?
The last expression you see cross his face is one of terrified comprehension, the last thing you hear a breathless, “Oh no….”
Week 3 of Blood fest here! I present to you a nice little sappy drabble of the reader and Vincent being cute, sorry not sorry!
prompts Mask. Chains. Bone. Sleep
keywords: Powerless. Fervor
Sometimes the sweet moments, you shared with Vincent made you forget he and his brothers murdered people and turned them into wax figures to give the fake allusion to life in this ghost town. Even with the mask he used to cover his defects, all you could see was your love and devotion for the man who had given you a chance when no one else would. Also, both of you had a morbid sense of what art was and could be, so you had no problem accepting his wax figures hid the dark secret of a human body beneath, learning this drew you to him in the first place. You found yourself lost in Ambrose, attempting to leave your life behind, and somehow by sheer luck, not running into Lester or Bo allowed you to explore the wax museum and run into Vincent for the first time; the rest was history.
Now you called the boys' family and Ambrose home and you got to curl up next to a man who had the ability to make anyone feel powerless and break a grown man's bones when it was necessary, but with you, he was only rough when you asked for it and even then he was gentle. Getting to coax him to lay down with you and away from his chained-up newest piece of art became a nightly chore within itself but it was one you gladly did with enthusiasm. Sure you could lull yourself to sleep just by watching Vincent sculpt the wax carefully onto an unfortunate tourist with his usual fervor and the warm atmosphere and ambiance of the various machines at work made it easy to just drift off.
So what a nice feeling it was laying there half asleep all cozied up in Vincent’s sweater that all but engulfed your body in his comforting scent, through half-lidded eyes you focused on the dim glow of the nearby candles Vincent was so fond of using. With each drip of the wax falling from the candles your eyes grew heavier until you felt the dip of the mattress. Giving out a sleepy groan you started to move before Vincent’s bare lips are brushing against the side of your head in a ghost of a kiss and made a noise that you assume is meant to shush you. Letting yourself relax again you let Vincent move you so you’re laying against his chest and those large arms have wrapped you into a bear hug. If you weren’t on your way to dreamland you would have given him some sleepy kisses too, but you can save them for the morning. For now, you can enjoy being in Vincent’s embrace as his heartbeat and breathing slow down and he kisses the crown of your head one more time before you both fall asleep.
