Michael accidentally discovers his dick while he's trying to kill you, and then he comes back for more.
Or: you awaken something animalistic and sexual in Michael Myers, and he cannot resist you in any way. You just hope you survive it.
masterlist ❤️🖤 ao3
chapter tags: serial killer, death, violence, blood, gore, weapons, knife, non con, female reader, rutting, forced orgasms
You didn't even know why you were running, not really. You could hear the heavy thud of his booted footsteps echoing almost cruelly in your ear. It was a cosmic joke, that no matter how fast you scrambled, Michael would always catch you, leisurely following behind as if your blood on his knife was a certainty he was merely playing into.
Still you ran, into the pitch of night, darting between trees and praying to something that you didn't smack face first into one you couldn't see in the hellish gloom. You hear his breathing, amplified by the mask that hides his face from the world, as if it's ghosting over the flesh of your neck and leaving goosebumps there.
You wail, low and stupid, as fear carries you, your trainers crunching loudly on every twig and leaf on the floor as if screaming 'follow me! find me!' and he does.
Large thick fingers curl around the back of your neck like a solid brick and you squeak, terrified, as you're held immobile by Michael's gargantuan hand. Your fingers scrabble back, both of your hands barely able to close around his wrist, boiling hot and solid, as you try and tug him from you like you're batting uselessly at a statue.
"Please - Michael - please don't do this, you don't have to - I don't…"
You hear his breathing in your ear, the rubber of his mask against your cheek and you freeze, paralysed, as everything goes silent.
In a rush of air you're swooped forward, pushed, until your forehead is richoteing off of a tree directly in front of you. You wail low in your throat as pain spirals out onto your face and down your neck, blood dribbling down your nose and into your mouth. You have no time to do anything else as you're yanked back, your body bowed against his, you can feel every hard line of his hulking form through his boiler suit, the small of your back only connecting with his thighs and you scream - expecting to be thrust forward again into the tree, expecting this to be the blow that kills you. Everything goes quiet again. Eerily quiet.
Michael doesn't move you, his fingers still firm on the back of your neck, he keeps you tucked snug against him for minutes as if he was thinking.
You're too scared to think, until your brain onlines from the pain and fear and you try again to scrabble your nails across his wrist, to wriggle your small body free and break his hold. His free hand comes sharply down, resting heavy and dangerous on your hip, you freeze again. His message is clear. Stop struggling.
His fingers curl dangerously around your hip, pinning you immobile against him, and your heartbeat is erratic in your chest. Why is he taking his time with you? Why doesn't he just end this? What's he going to do? Choke you? Shatter your pelvis with the barest flex of his fingers?
Moments pass, his grip on your hip tightens and he pulls you back into him, you scream, short and shocked, as he - he wriggles you against him, pulls you in tight to his hot heat, his thighs framing yours, large and muscular and intimidating and - and - is this fucker hard?
Your breath comes out in a stuttered exhale as you feel the unmistakable drag of Michael Myers' erect cock over the small of your back, just above the cleft in your ass. He's utterly silent still, except for that breathing, that hasn't changed pitch or volume, but you can somehow tell he's thinking, calculating, only if in the slowness of his movements. His hands on you are not gentle, you can feel bruises blossoming beneath his fingertips, but you're not dead.
You'd never heard those kind of stories about Michael Myers before, as far as you knew he was pretty much sexless, either killing or comatose. You'd never heard even a single rumour that he got off on killing. It only served to increase your fear, making your death that much worse. He moved again, hips pistoning slowly until you feel his cock jam against the cleft of your ass and a sharp exhale leaves Michael's mask and he stills to a statue. Except his cock, his cock, twitches against your ass and you tremble violently. You're utterly defenceless and vulnerable, trapped in the arms of a brutal subhuman killing machine as he rubs his thick arousal against your defenceless, weak body.
Something dribbles traitorously in your underwear.
You feel it then, tears, hot and thick as the blood drying in rivulets down your face and you sob openly. You didn't want Michael Myers to fuck you, or kill you, so why were you clenching so hard? The white hot fear in you was making you crazy. The waiting, it was torture, you couldn't stand it - you were close to begging, but for what? For what?
The hand on the back of your neck was gone, and your head snapped forward, tendons in your neck springing back to life painfully and you sucked in air through your scream-damaged throat. Then pain was shooting through your spine as something metal and sharp sliced down the skin of your back, nicking the tops of your trousers and the hands on you were gone completely as Michael seized the frayed edges of your slashed waistband, the muted rip of fabric being torn apart in his bare hands loud in the silent woods as he tore your jeans down to your thighs, leaving you exposed from the waist down in nothing but your panties.
"No, no, no, Michael, please don't do this, you don't have to do this - I'm begging you -"
He doesn't listen, maybe doesn't even hear you, as you hear the drag of teeth as he pulls his zip down and then there's nothing in the air but your twin breathing, Michael's measured and heavy, yours panicked and trembling.
The hot weight of his stiff cock presses between your thighs, slippery with blood that had been dribbling down from your ruined back, and a burst of breath comes from his nostrils like a wild bull as he bucks into you, fucking the slick coppery cleft of your thighs, his gargantuan hands coming to rest on your hips, pushing your legs together to give him something tight and motionless to fuck into.
You honestly don't know how to react, each one of his tight pistoning thrusts is hard enough to shake every bone in your body, and you can feel each ridge, each thick vein of what you can only imagine is an immense cock to match this immense man. You shake violently as he uses you, the sharp snap of his hips the only indication of what he's doing, his entire body is still, his breathing unaffected, the rubber of his mask brushing the back of your neck a constant reminder of how close he is to you, how fucked you were, figuratively and literally.
You don't have time to wonder why he's doing this, to humiliate you? To get off without having to fuck you? Because his thrusts speed up, the height difference between you enough that he's lifting you off your feet with every upward brutal shift of his hips, and enough that he's jamming his thick cockhead, weeping with precome and slathering you as thick as the blood between you, against your clit with each thrust.
The pleasure is sudden and all-consuming, the repeated rough treatment of your poor clit nothing you've ever experienced before, it's painful having your sensitive nub rubbed like this, merciless and uncaring, igniting waves of pleasure in you you didn't even know you could achieve. Your core feels violently hot, your thighs squeezing Michael's length of your own volition and he likes that, he must do, because he squeezes your thighs in response, whole body tensing, and it's the first time you've managed to communicate with the murderer in any way.
You realise, with dizzying, bone-shaking horrific delight that you're going to come, his cock is too hard and unyielding against your clit. Your knees lift all by themselves, your thighs tense and shake as your vision blacks and you all but collapse back against Michael's body as pleasure ignites every one of your nerve endings. He doesn't stop fucking you through it, stringing out your orgasm until you're a jolting, trembling, mewing mess, every muscle twitching as you soak his cock with more than just your blood. Your cheeks are scarlet, your body alive and thrumming with fear and pain and you think your orgasm has hurtled you off into another realm.
Your hands scrabble back to grab at him, seizing fistfuls of his boiler suit if only to anchor yourself as you babble.
"Michael, Michael, Michael -"
He stills completely, jammed right against your weeping cunt as you feel his cock pulsing, and suddenly your clothed and dripping seam is flooded with hot wet seed. He doesn't make a single sound, except for the flexing of his fingers on your bruised and wrecked thighs, he might as well be made of stone.
You're trembling, you can't do anything else, shrill little animal screams of pure emotion ripping themselves from your throat every now and again before he's stepping back, releasing you completely, and your ruined body hits the woodland floor like a ragdoll. You feel twigs snapping under you and you register somewhere in your brain that it probably hurts.
You roll onto your back, the biting sting of the cut and the devastation to your mottled and purple thighs, the size and shape of Michael's hands, making you twitch in pain but it's worth it to look up at him.
He's stood where he first caught you, huge and towering, the emotionless mask not even out of place on his face. The only indication of what just happened was the opened zip on his boiler suit and his cock, good fucking christ his cock, hanging heavy and hard and scarlet with blood and white with come, if it had been inside you it would have torn you apart, of that you're certain.
You hazily register that you're going to die now, you've served your usefulness, Michael Myers' cooling come between your legs a testament to that. You know you should run, but your feel drugged somehow, fuck drunk, your brain supplies somewhat stupidly. How pathetic was that? How pathetic was it that arousal shot through you even now at the mere sight of this colossal beast standing in front of you?
He doesn't look at you as he zips himself back up again, not bothering to wipe his cock as he does. He might be looking at you, you'll never know. But those blank eyes seem to be staring ahead as he bends and retrieves his knife, crusted in your blood just like his cock was.
Lazily, your hands find purchase as you try and push yourself up, animal brain finally kicking in to tell you to move now, or you're going to die. A sharp incline of his head stills you, he's definitely looking at you now. His mask cocks, regarding you almost, and your heart stutters and stops.
It barely begins beating again as he turns his hulking form around and disappears off into the trees.
What, your brain tries, Where is he going?
There's nothing around you but trees, you hug the nearest one to you when you finally stand, seeing the outline of your own blood there in the dim moonlight.
That shakes something in you, and you remember the pain in your forehead, concussed probably right? That's why you'd acted like such a maniac. Your whole body ached with pain and shock.
to all the beautiful people messaging and commenting about virginal, she is not abandoned i promise, the ao3 curse has got me bad rn and life is crazy so I'm taking a writing break for a little bit 🙏
Michael had left you alive, and you couldn't begin to fathom why. You know all you can do is try and forget it and move on with your life.
Except...Michael has followed you home.
masterlist ❤️🖤 ao3
chapter tags: serial killer, murder, death, violence, blood, gore, weapons, knife, female reader, non con, stalking, hair pulling, forced orgasms
The police hadn’t caught him yet.
It had been almost a week since your encounter with Michael Myers in the woods on your way home from work, and he’d been on the run ever since. You hadn’t reported what had happened to the authorities, even if you’d been on the verge of it many times. You’d spent the whole week waking up in cold sweats with a gooey and shameful mess between your legs at the memory of Michael’s large hand on your neck, or the sense-memory of his cock pressed heavy and dangerous against your core. The way he’d used you, fucked you, like his own little plaything haunted you.
No one could know what he’d done to you, no one could know how you felt about it, even if the guilt gnawed at you. Maybe if you’d told someone, they might have caught him by now, and people might still be alive. But there was a part of you, a part of you you wished you didn’t have, that reminded you that if Michael wanted someone dead, then there was nothing any earthly power could do to keep that person alive. Michael left no survivors.
Except for you.
It had been on the news religiously all week; police were baffled by his location and utterly at a loss for his motivations and patterns. Michael, it seemed, cared not a bit to cover his tracks. He even seemed to decorate his murder scenes artistically, propping bodies up and, blurred though they were on the television, reminding you of a sick and gruesome game of action figures. They were Michael’s bodies, to do with as he pleased. Twelve people he’d killed since he found you. Twelve. That the authorities were aware of, anyway. The thought chilled you to the very core.
You’d learnt from the heavy reporting that Michael Myers had been being held at the Westbrook Sanitarium for the criminally insane, not four miles from where you worked, and he’d escaped that night he’d taken you - thrust against your weak body until he came on your cunt like a wild animal.
You were the first person he’d come across, apparently, and after years of solitude, Michael had some frustrations to take out on you. You knew well who he was, you recognised that mask and that boiler suit the second you’d seen it. You’d grown up with stories of the boogeyman who’d murdered his sister the same as everyone else, thrust into the spotlight when he’d escaped from Smith’s Grove Sanitarium a few years ago and murdered a bunch of teenagers on a spree. You’d seen the youtube video essays and buzzfeed articles on the stoic killing machine who’d baffled psychologists and doctors up and down the country, maybe even the world. You’d walked past books in shops written about this monster, his silence, his rage, his gore and death and damnation were a part of your culture. It made it easy to forget that Michael Myers was real, and not just some fictitious product of a sick mind. He became very real to you that night, your own personal boogeyman.
You’d learnt that Michael Myers was no man, he was an evil spirit, a hell-sent silent demon, a ghost - one that was haunting you.
You turned the television off and went into the bathroom, shucking your clothes into a messy pile by the bath as you stepped under the cool spray of the shower.
It was a warm day, your skin over-hot, and you welcomed the clammy dribbles down your back. You washed quickly, fingers pressing too familiar over the lips of your pussy, you expected them still to be swollen, puffy from use where Michael had rutted his scorching and elephantine cock against you like a beast in heat, but it wasn’t. It was like it hadn’t happened. Except it had, of course, because you still wore him on your skin. His fingertips were in every bruise, his grip was the ache in your bones with every groan of your sore body. It was like he’d marked you, made your tiny body a part of his eclipsing form.
You shook your head frustratedly to yourself in the bathroom mirror before flicking the lightswitch off and making your way to your bedroom. You couldn’t think of him every moment for the rest of your life, you couldn’t live in fear of the boogeyman. He had left you alive, and you had to live with that. Michael was gone, and you’d never see him again.
You pulled a short nightdress on, the flimsy material to combat the hot and sticky night you anticipated, and you made your way to the kitchen to fill up your water bottle to take to bed.
The outside light was on.
It wasn’t yours, but your neighbours. It was motion-sensored, you knew that because it blinded you every time you stumbled back from a night shift.
You frowned before crossing to the door, to close the blinds over the glass so no one would be able to see into your home in the middle of the night. Your hand tangled in the string before it froze, along with the rest of your body. Like your blood had frozen to ice inside you and made you a dead weight to the floor.
Michael was standing under the light, 50 yards away from your door. He was staring sightlessly at you through the empty eyes of his mask, utterly emotionless. His hands rested unclenched by his sides, his back razor-straight as always. He was just watching. His form gave no indication of how long he’d been there. Maybe hours.
Fear shot through you and the string began to shake violently in your grip as you stared at him. He’d come to finish what he’d started, you realised in horror, he’d noticed his mistake in leaving you alive. Was it so you couldn’t tell the police? Was it just that you needed to die, he’d had you in his grasp and that was that, a rageful itch under his skin that wouldn’t be quenched until your blood was soaking his hands?
It didn’t make sense. He was stood in the street, bathed in your neighbours motion light like a bloody homing beacon. Surely they’d seen him. Surely someone had seen him and called the police? Why weren’t there any sirens? It was deathly quiet. Just you, him and the wind. Maybe it was a fever dream, a sleep paralysis nightmare and your demon had returned to you.
He began walking leisurely towards the door, his pace bone-tinglingly unhurried as ever, before he stopped at the glass and peered down at you. You shrank, paralysed with fear. You’d somehow forgotten just how big he was. He might have been two foot taller than you, and just as broad, taking up the whole of the door so he blacked out any light behind him. That was as good a metaphor as any to describe Michael. The darkness followed him.
You didn’t know why you weren’t moving, dazzled, you supposed somewhere in the back of your mind. A monster brought to life, in front of you, enough to convince yourself that you were dreaming.
His fist shattered through the glass, shards of glittering ice hitting the kitchen floor as his hand curled down to find the handle. You screamed, backing off so violently your back hit the fridge and tears wept down your cheeks until they were quite literally soaking the front of your nightie. This was no dream. It was a nightmare incarnate.
Even his violent outburst seemed calm somehow, shattering your backdoor into shards of glass like it was nothing. His large hand found the door handle and began to rattle it, and the noise caused your brain to snap back to where it needed to be.
You forced your eyes from him, pushed yourself away from the fridge and scurried into the living room. The front door was in your sights. You didn’t know precisely what you planned to do with yourself when you got outside, your brain hadn’t made it that far yet. All you knew was that you needed to survive, and you had no chance of that locked in the same cage as this rabid animal.
You grabbed for the front door handle with a hiss of accomplishment, throwing your gaze back over your shoulder to ascertain how much time you had. No time. Michael was already in the living room, walking towards you like he had all the time in the world. You shrieked in pure terror at his towering form as you flung the door wide open, the concrete of your front step was cool on your barefoot but the sensation barely lasted a second as fingers tangled roughly in your hair and yanked you roughly until you fell onto the carpet. The open-palm of Michael’s free hand slammed the front door shut, cutting off your exit, and the oak creaked under the force of it, the foundations of the house damn-near shaking.
You scrambled onto your knees, screeching, crying, grasping at his hand in your hair, wincing when every flex of his fingers yanked at your scalp, tearing individual hairs out by the roots. He had to bend his back to hold you to the floor, his emotionless mask looking down on you. His breathing was barely audible over your devastated screams. You couldn’t move.
“Please, please, please, Michael, please don’t kill me. I didn’t tell anyone, I swear! I won’t! I don’t want to die, please let me go, please, please-”
You could barely beg, your throat hoarse, your words sobs. He didn’t respond except to drag you into the middle of the room by your hair, kicking the coffee table aside to make room for you both in the middle of the floor. One of the wooden legs of your poor table snapped under his boot before he tossed you down like a ragdoll. Your back hit the carpeted floor and it shook your whole frame. You instinctively planted your palms on the floor behind yourself, to crawl back, to spring up, you didn’t know.
Michael’s boot came to rest on your bare thigh, his weight utterly solid and you wailed as he pinned you to the floor. Your nightie had ridden up, not to the point of indecency, but enough that his boot kissed your flesh. You froze as fresh tears streamed down your face, remembering exactly what he’d done the last time he’d had you like this, as if just realising how acutely vulnerable you were in this position. Were you even wearing underwear? You didn’t think so. His boot was mere inches away from your exposed cunt, all he’d have to do was push your dress up and he’d see everything. See how fucking wet you were. You hated yourself.
“Please,” you tried again, voice barely a whisper as you looked up at him. Submissive, you realised, prey before a predator, begging for its life. “What do you want?”
He didn’t move, you could barely tell if he was breathing, just staring down at you as everything else in the world fell away. His hands were still loose by his sides, no knife, you noted, but a grim red-hued dirt on the rough palms of his hands you could identify without too much guesswork. Your stomach rolled.
His hand raised and you jolted, expecting pain, to be struck, stripped, killed.
How long had he been searching for you? Maybe he’d never left, maybe he’d been one step behind you all week, watching you sleep, watching you shower - were those twelve people dead because they lived close to you? Did you kill them?
His large hand came to rest over the front of his crotch and your mouth fell open. Not again. Why me? You were already shaking your head, breathy hitching sobs racking through you.
“No, Michael, please -”
He toed your thigh with the steel-gap of his boot, shoving it to the side, affectively opening your legs and you wanted to close your eyes, the feeling of vulnerability and shame as he spread your legs for him hurt something deep inside of you, you felt dirty and shameful in every one of your nerves. Your slick was soaking the back of your nightie and probably your carpet too. What the fuck was wrong with you?
He fell to his knees in front of you, in a way that could only have hurt, but he didn’t make a sound as his large, gore-stained hands gripped your bare thighs and tugged until you were lying in front of him. You squeaked, your legs not quite touching his, more left hanging in the air as he scraped his calloused hands down your thighs in a way that definitely didn’t make your heart speed up, no more than it was already hammering, before his palms were flat on your inner thighs, pressing them apart and into the floor. You tried immediately and desperately to close them and his grip on you tightened to the point of extreme pain, your femurs tremoring dangerously like they might snap if you moved even an inch.
You stilled completely, you couldn’t tell where he was looking, but it seemed to be right at you, that emotionless masked expression, or lack of, giving you nothing, but you could feel the rage and the dangerous power wafting off of him, you could feel the coiled strength in his fingers, the strain of his bicep muscles in his boiler suit as he held you immobile and you swallowed, shivering in fear and pitiful acceptance as you stopped struggling. If you had any hope of getting out of this alive, and as uninjured as possible, you had to stop fighting.
His pathetic, mewling hole, your brain supplied almost bitterly.
Once apparently satisfied you’d stopped struggling, MIchael’s grip on your thighs lessened somewhat, leaving deep red bruises regardless, and he shifted forwards on his knees, taking up more space between your legs, as he rucked your nightie up to your belly, sitting back a little just to stare at your pussy, exposed and dripping and vulnerable, as if getting a good look at the wet little hole that had made him come so hard the last time.
Your cheeks burned boiling hot as he looked at you, your thighs twitching conspirately to close but you forced yourself to try and calm, utterly impossible, you trembled like a newborn foal.
He dipped his head between your legs and your back arched, startled, wondering what he possibly meant to do, particularly, your horrible brain chipped in, with a mask over his face. You could hear nothing but that breathing, before it was sucked in, the nose of his mask just nudging your folds and making you jolt.
Was he - was he smelling you?
He made no noise, his body shifted an inch. What was he doing? It was like he was searching for something. He kept his nose buried against your soaping heat for a few more moments before he apparently found it. Then he was sitting back up again. Your knees were nearly knocking together in terror when his hands, fuck, how were they so big? framed your cunt, pulling at the flesh of the tops of your thighs, spreading your folds, revealing the vulnerable pink flesh of your seam, your clit.
Oh fuck.
He prodded you with a long finger a few times, painful sharp jabs until he caught the rim of your opening and sunk in to the knuckle. It burned, it burned so hot, you clenched painfully around his finger. Fuck, it felt like the size of a cock all on its own. But the finger was withdrawn as quickly as it had breached you, like a fucking dip test, but no less rough on the way out and you grimaced. You had a pretty good idea about what was to follow, and the anticipation of the pain alone was enough to make you cry again.
“You don’t have to do this,” you tried again pathetically, wondering somewhere in your mind why you were trying to distract him from fucking you, when the alternative was his heavy hands shattering your collarbone until your heart was pierced by your own brittle dagger. Survival, you kept saying to yourself, one day you might believe it, you were trying to live. Nothing else. Nothing else.
He’d already unzipped his boiler suit, you could just glimpse a sliver of pale flesh beneath but he undressed himself no further, reaching down into his trousers and pulling his cock free.
Fucking hell.
It was a goddamn fucking monster. It sat snug in Michael’s large hand, long and thick, crown red with blood and dribbling precome, it curved up slightly, in a way that was designed to attack that spot inside of you, and when he dropped it, it dipped, bobbing against his boiler suit, so heavy under its own weight it could barely hold itself up, but it did, his cock stood proud and to attention, ready for action, as he shifted down a little, hands once more finding your thighs and hauling you practically into his lap. He threw your legs over his broad hips, stretching your thigh muscles, as his cock rested hot and heavy on your pelvic bone, like a leaden weight on you. Oh fuck, you were so fucked. It was near enough the size of your thigh, and you knew it was going to wreck you.
You jerked your hips uselessly, trying in vain to put some distance between you and Michael’s thick cock, you’d never had a partner that size before, you’d never even had a toy that size. It wasn’t going to fit, it was as simple as that. Except he didn’t care.
He pressed his hips up, taking you with him, lifting your back clean off of the floor so your spine was arched uncomfortably. He paid you no mind as he gripped the base of his erection and slipped himself down through your folds.
He was silent, calm and ferocious as he pressed forward against you with so much pressure that it hurt. You could feel his heaviness hard against your pelvic bone and you trembled in fearful anticipation of what was about to happen.
Finally, Michael found what he was looking for and his thick cockhead breached your hole barely a centimetre but still you gasped, already undone by being so violently penetrated by not even a goddamn inch of that fat unforgiving head.
Michael surged forward, in triumph perhaps, or just in a hurry to get his cock stuffed deep into you as quickly as possible, but your traitorous cunt was wet enough that he slipped straight back out again, whole cock fucking upwards and jamming through your folds, gliding gloriously against your clit. You let out a loud moan and he stilled entirely except for the throb of his cock against you. You clapped your hands to your mouth and forced your eyes to the ceiling. You hadn’t meant to do that. You didn’t want to give him the sick satisfaction. It was the last thing you could keep for yourself.
Michael was a fast learner, it seemed, because this time he inched a little more slowly inside you until a good inch of solid cock was spearing you open. You thought you might die, knees knocking against his hips helplessly as he forcibly stretched you obscenely around him. You will take me, I will make it fit.
Only when he was firm in you, and you were surely going to pass out from pressure alone, did he plunge his hips forward, his whole cock sinking to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
The pain, fuck the pain was indescribable, burning, aching, stuffed full, stuffed beyond full - he didn’t care - he didn’t care that he’d probably just ripped you in half, stretched you so full you were more cock than you were yourself anymore. He didn’t care you were crying, shivering, he cared that you were an open, wet heat to warm his cock in.
Those blood-stained, murderous hands gripped your hips and an ache blossomed in your bones, your skin beneath his skin turned white to red to near-black with bloodied pressure-bruises as he gripped you hard enough you fully believed he intended to shatter bone. He could, you knew he could. It was enough to lose yourself to, you were going to pass out, you were going to die from the stress and agony forced upon your weak and small body. This was how he was going to kill you.
He moved, shifted his heavy length inside you, nudging spots of your flesh where a cock was not meant to be. He pulled out incrementally, shoved back in and oh - oh .
Your thighs shook again, trembled, as spiralling pleasure mixed with pain and your pussy clenched around his cock, contracting around it as he thrust in again, as if traitorously and deliriously pulling him in to you, to where that thick and hot pressure felt the best. He thrust in again, harder than before, faster than before, immediately picking up an athletic, robotic pace as if he were half-way through a marathon fuck, thrumming with energy. You had no time to adjust, no time to build-up - you were there immediately, clenching uncontrollably on Michael Myer’s mercilessly hard cock, your cunt fluttering and clenching on every brutal, animalistic intrusion, until you couldn’t take it anymore. There was no edge, there was just falling.
You yelped, back arching up even more than it already was, legs squeezing the small of Michael’s back as your poor cunt spasmed, coming hot and hard until you felt your own slick dribbling down the backs of your thighs. Michael didn’t stop for a second, he didn’t even slow, you nearly choked on your own spit.
He was utterly devoid of anything, breathing heavy and focused, no movement except the piston of his hips as he fucked you deep and unforgiving until you were sure his thick crown was kissing at your cervix.
Your head was hazy, eyes unfocused, you had absolutely no control over your overworked cunt anymore, whining pitifully as you came around him again, lathering his cock in your traitorous spend, praying every time that he’d slow, but he didn’t, and you felt that molten lava in your core building again until you were covered in a sheen of your own sweat, spent, exhausted. He didn’t care. He wasn’t done yet, he wanted more. He took it.
He angled his hips up, chasing a sensation, you weren’t prepared for it. He hammered into you until his hip bones were slamming against your inner thighs with enough force to shake your entire body. His cock against your sweet spot was like a punch to the gut and you screamed. Pain, pleasure, you didn’t know anymore as your hips convulsed and jerked, clamping down on him hard enough that if he were a normal man, he wouldn’t have been able to move.
But Michael was no normal man.
He held your hips down, taking your clenching orgasm for himself as he slammed into you. Being fucked into your leg-shaking release was like being volted off of this ethereal plane and into another, your eyes whitened, your brain slowed to juddering holt as dizzying, mind-numbing ohmyfuckinggodthisfeelssogood short-circuited your entire being.
Michael slammed into you one final time, unable to withstand the vice-like grip of your velvet walls any longer before he was stilling completely, his cock an erupting volcano inside of you that spurted hot white heat against your walls, filling you utterly.
Your mouth opened in shock, or exhaustion, as your whole body trembled, jerking uncontrollably in the aftershocks.
He didn’t linger. His hands left your hips first, the bruises behind ached immediately, black and devastating to your skin where even taking a breath in bothered them. Then he snapped his hips back, swollen cock slipping free of your drenched heat, sopping with white. He let it hang there, between his legs, a stark contrast against his boiler suit, and you trembled with undignified arousal. Your cunt felt wrecked, stretched wide, forced open to accommodate him, and yet your body still somehow ached for more. No, you were terrified, fighting for your life, this wasn’t real. None of it was.
He stood, using core strength alone, leaving your legs to fall heavily to the floor. They ached where the muscles had been stretched, kicking the pain in your back and your hips into eleventh gear. You’d been twisted like a pretzel for too long. You frowned. How long had he been fucking you? It felt like no time at all, it felt like days.
You pulled your nightie down as far as it would go, scrambling your legs together despite the way they twinged. You could feel him squelching between your thighs and your untouched clit twinged pitifully.
When you gathered the courage to look up at him, you saw that he’d tucked himself away and zipped himself back up. He stood tall and menacing over you, gargantuan in your living room, his head near-touching the ceiling. He was peering down at you, that devoid mask giving nothing. The utter silence was as terrifying and deafening as any death cry.
He cocked his head ever so slightly and you winced, fight or flight response, before he was turning on his heel and heading back to the kitchen.
Terror rocked through you, vomit-inducing, head-spinning terror, and you were on your feet in a heartbeat. Your mauled insides and your ruined hips complained at you but you ignored it. They would mean nothing if you were dead. Which you were about to be. He was going for a knife, surely he was. He -
The creak of the kitchen door caught you by surprise, but it took a few long minutes for your heart to stop thudding loud enough for you to realise that he wasn’t coming back in. After a few breaths, your curiosity got the better of you and you crept into the kitchen. The back door was shut, except for the hole gaped in the glass by his fist, of course, and the kitchen was empty.
You were careful with your bare feet to avoid the shards of glass on the floor, not that it would make massive amounts of difference to your ruined body, before you shakily peered through what remained of your door.
The motion detector light was on, the street was empty.
Confusion and shame rocked through you with enough force to make you tumble and you had to grip the countertop to keep yourself upright.
How on earth were you still alive? For a second time? What did the most infamous serial killer in the country get from keeping you alive?
A hot, wet hole to come in.
You could feel the ache between your legs like Michael was still there, it was a glorious, horrible burn, trembling pleasure, irrefutable depravity - the best fuck of your life.
What did that make you?
Everything was eerily quiet. Your water bottle still sat on the side. If it weren’t for the broken door and the shards of glass, it would be easy to imagine that Michael hadn't been there at all.
Except for the warm come dribbling down your thighs where he’d marked his territory inside you. You swallowed. Whether you were his next victim or his fucktoy - you couldn’t escape that you were his. And you knew, even now, with terrifying certainty, that Michael Myers was not going to let you go.
You're given a rare day off from work to recover from your wounds, both physical and emotional, trying to process what the hell was happening to you and what your life had become.
You were Michael's play thing now, and it wouldn't be long before the shape came looking for more fun.
masterlist ❤️🖤 ao3
chapter tags: serial killer, murder, death, violence, blood, gore, weapons, knife, female reader, non con, stalking, forced orgasms, choking, squirting
Three days this time.
Three, for crying out loud, wasn’t Michael meant to be a patient man?
You woke late on the third day. It was a rare Saturday where you weren’t working, all to yourself, you already had messages from your friends asking if you wanted to go out that night, and a few messages from a dating site you’d absentmindedly joined a while ago. You pointedly ignored those. Infact, you left your whole phone on the bedside table as you went into the bathroom after you woke up. It was nearly midday by then, and you'd rewarded yourself with a lie in. Those were few and far between anyway, but then you were generally exhausted these days.
You rolled your eyes, you had no idea why.
You stripped out of your nightclothes and left them in a messy pile on the floor by the bath, no matter how many words you’d had with yourself to leave them in the laundry hamper you’d bought for exactly this reason. You turned the shower on and waited a few minutes for the temperature to even out, and you were just about to step under the running spray when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the slowly steaming bathroom mirror.
Your legs were a mottled mess of aggressive bruises. You’d thought that black and blue was a phrase that people threw around but now you knew that it was irrevocably true. Your body was a canvas of pain and destruction. You watched your own hand travel to your throat, it was still sore from where Michael had stuck his cock down it a few days before.
You shivered at the memory, the pain and the way you couldn’t breathe, like it had burned itself into your mind.
You wondered if this was his method of killing you - to put so much strain and stress on your body that it simply gave out. Perhaps it was simply an experiment. Michael definitely seemed to enjoy it, otherwise he wouldn’t keep coming back for more.
Your thoughts were blank as you showered, it was almost as if it was your minds way of protecting you from the dark thoughts that seeped black ink into the grey matter of your brain, staining you dark just like him. Michael was leaving his own sickly imprint on your body with every cruel fuck.
You wrapped a freshly laundered towel around yourself, not bothering to dry your skin anymore than that. It was a warm day and you didn’t mind the chill on your wet skin as you walked into the kitchen.
The kitchen was alight with sunbeams streaming in through the gaps in the closed blinds, highlighting the dust particles dancing in the air. The plaque of wood you’d fixed temporarily to cover the hole in the glass left by Michael’s fist cast a grim shadow across the otherwise pleasant day. You planned on fixing the door yourself - it wasn’t like you were going to tell your landlord that a murderer had made child’s play out of your double glazing with his bare fist - but honestly you had no idea about glass or doors.
This was what men were for, you thought absentmindedly, perhaps you’d ask Michael to take a look at it the next time he dropped by.
You smirked at the absurd thought as it crossed your mind before your smile promptly dropped. You really were going mad, weren’t you? Maybe Michael hadn’t escaped at all, maybe he was just a figment of your crazy imagination, or maybe you were locked up next door to him in Westbrook Sanitarium.
You opened your fridge door and spied a bottle of Chenin Blanc you’d bought for this very weekend, wondering briefly if midday was too early to start drinking, but then you figured that if anything were to drive you to it, then your new friend was.
You hadn’t made your mind up when your kitchen went dim, like someone had turned the brightness down on the sun, and you frowned to yourself. It was rarely sunny in your hometown and you were enjoying the temporary reprieve from the cold and rain, but now it looked like it was turning back to your regular scheduled programme of overcast grey skies.
You closed the fridge, one hand wrapping around the knot at the top of your towel to keep it secure, as you turned to the back door.
Oh fuck.
It wasn’t the clouds that had blocked out the sun, it was Michael.
You couldn’t see him clearly through the blinds, but his bulky silhouette casting a dark shadow over your kitchen floor was enough.
Fear shot through your spine and you backed off, nearly tripping and stumbling over your own feet. You couldn’t, not again, you couldn’t take him again, fuck, fuck, fuck.
You glanced towards your only exit, the door to the living room, before remembering how well that went last time.
“Just leave me alone!” You screamed foolishly at the door, and the monstrous presence that lurked behind it. “You sick fuck! I don’t want this, just fucking go away!”
You supposed it was your distance from Michael that made you so brave, the door between you giving you some sort of power that you knew you didn’t really have.
Your screams were silenced with a deadly ferocious crunch of wood as your back door shuddered dangerously, another thud and a large crack appeared in the wood, your door creaking and dipping, hanging on for dear life by the aged metal hinges fixing it to the doorway, the wood splintering at the edges. You screamed again at this inhuman knocking, before another blood-curdling blow came, and then another, rattling the door, the frame, the walls and all you could do was sob and watch as the metal hinges gave out and bent inwards, screws spitting out onto the floor, and then the entire door was loose and falling, slamming into your kitchen lino with the same death rattle as Gulliver being slain.
Michael stood in the doorway, his bare hands poised in front of him as if he were preparing for a fight. His knuckles, you could see, were torn and bloodied, from pulverising your door to the ground, no doubt.
Your stomach jumped into your throat at the sight of him bleeding, before he was marching into your home again. His heavy footfalls creaked the wood of the door at his feet that he was walking over, until the glass of the backdoor was cracking under his boots, then he stepped off of the door and onto your lino, stopping in front of you.
He lowered his hands to his sides again, unclenched and unflustered, and merely peered down at you with a slight cock of the head, as if it was no bones to him that he’d just torn your door down - unphased by something it would take a team of men and power tools to accomplish.
You shivered in your towel, were you crying? You didn’t know anymore. Your cooling skin felt like it was being burned by Michael’s close proximity with the heat that broiled off of him. Hell fire.
You glanced up at him with fearful eyes and your voice came out shaky: “I - I should give you a key so you st-stop bre-breaking th-things.”
He cocked his head from one side to the other as he regarded you through those empty eyes of his devoid mask, as if trying to decipher a foreign language you were speaking to him in.
You blinked, now you could feel the hot tears on your cheeks.
“Just kill me, please,” you begged softly. “I can’t live like this. I don’t know what you think I can give you, but I can’t, please just let me go.”
You didn’t know what you were asking for, to be honest, your brain just went to mush around Michael like it always did. You just wanted whatever this was to stop, so you didn’t have to feel all this guilt and regret anymore. Your stomach felt hollow just at the thought of never having his thick fingers around your throat again, or his thick cock stretching you open, but you didn’t care.
You closed your eyes against him, trying to expel the heinous thoughts from your mind that ignited those animalistic and wrong urges inside you. He was a murderer. He murdered innocent people. Why couldn’t you get that through your thick skull? Maybe you deserved to di-
A solid brick hand around your throat made your eyes fly open again, meeting Michael’s mask. He was closer to you now, his back bowed to reach down to you, his heavy breathing faster and harder than before, as if angry with you for closing your eyes against him. He wanted your full attention and he took it. You will look at me, little girl, you’re mine.
Both of your hands shot up to grasp at his wrist and you shuddered when your fingertips didn’t even touch each other. You tugged uselessly at him, but it only made your own muscles flex. He just stared at you as you tried to wrench his hand away from your neck, as if slyly asking, are you done yet, with a tilt of his head.
“Please, let me go.” You gasped. Michael wasn’t cutting off your oxygen, not as much as you knew he could, but your voice still came out raspy.
Michael’s only answer was that heavy breathing, loud in the otherwise quiet room. He was utterly still as he held you firm against the fridge, but you caught a shadow dancing across the sunbeams that were streaming in freely now through the open cavity of your kitchen and then those bloody knuckles of his free hand were pressed against your collarbone and his thick fingers were curling hot around the knot of your towel.
You wailed when he ripped it from you, letting the sodden fabric hit the floor disinterestedly as he took a step closer to your now completely naked body, utterly bared for him. Michael’s large back protected you from the spirals of chilly air coming in through the hole he’d made in the back of your house but you shivered all the same. His heat crowded you as he stood closer still, his mask hovering just above your forehead, head cast down so you could feel the cool rubber against your hairline, his metronomic breathing was the only sound.
Michael’s hand flexed on your throat, almost as if in warning of what would happen if you even tried to move. You stifled your cry and bit your lip as you swallowed your own tears, feeling more afraid and more vulnerable than you’d ever felt around him, naked and exposed like this.
Michael pressed his rough and calloused palm against the soft flesh of your belly and you let out a low moan, expecting it to hurt and you were surprised when it didn’t, except for the drag of hardened flesh of course. It was an experimental touch, flat-palmed and curious. You trembled.
Michael watched his own hand as he dragged it up your side, rough and tickling, hot and heavy until every hair on your body stood up, tingling in the wake of his rough, killing hands on you.
He paused when his fingertips pressed against your ribs, he didn’t need to pick a left or right side, his hand settled comfortably around your entire rib cage. You imagined he was weighing up how easily he could close his hand, crushing your ribs inwards until they pierced your own heart. You wondered how many people he’d done that to and felt panic rise in you like bile.
Michael finally moved his hand and cupped your breast.
You let out a breathy exhale. His skin was hot and rough against your tender flesh there. Your head span, your nipples peaking to attention, your insides soaking yourself.
He waited like that for longest moment, maybe even minutes as he just stared silently before finally giving your soft and vulnerable breast an experimental squeeze.
“Oh, fuck,” you moaned quietly.
He wasn’t listening to you, but then how would you know, as he ran his whole palm over your breast, grazing the stiffened peak of your nipple with his calloused flesh and you gasped loudly. The sensitive sensation went straight to your clit and you trembled.
You were utterly frozen, caged in a murderer’s hands as he tried and tested the most vulnerable nerve endings in your body, and all you could do was take it. You didn’t know if it was actually possible to come like this, but your desperately clenching cunt was giving it a damn good try.
Michael’s mask moved stiffly, finding your face again, and he kept his head bowed so he was level with your gaze, as if studying your face, as he dragged his palm across your nipple again and you bit your lip, your cheeks scarlet with blood as you stifled your moan.
Your body wriggled. You’d always been particularly sensitive there, it was a sensation you wanted more of and was too much for you to handle.
He flexed his fingers around your throat, tightening incrementally but you didn’t know what that meant, you didn’t know what he wanted from you so you kept silent and still.
He dropped his hands from your breast and your throat and you barely had time to take a breath in before you felt his fingers curling around the backs of your thighs until he was scooping you up, quite literally lifting you into the air.
You gasped at the suddenness of it before tucking your legs around his waist to stop yourself from falling. Your hands, once gripping his wrist, worked on instinct alone and you wrapped your arms around Michael’s neck for support as your fingers linked together and your whole front was pressed snug against him, your head in the crook of his neck.
You could smell him like this, the heat and dirt and copper of blood. You could feel him against your cheek, just a single strip of human, male flesh where his boilersuit met his mask and your whole body shuddered against him.
His hands were solid under your ass, holding you tight against his body as he took you from the fridge and walked the pair of you away from the kitchen and into the living room.
You couldn’t guess why he was moving you, maybe he didn’t want an audience with the door off or maybe he just liked fucking you on the couch.
You trembled even as you clung to him, unsure as always of what was going to happen to you, if you were going to make it out alive this time, all you knew was that you were at his mercy.
You could feel the heat and pressure of his solid cock, pinned against your core and sodden with your wet cunt pressed against it, wetting the dark blue of his boiler suit to black with your desperate desire.
He stopped in the middle of the living room where your coffee table used to be and you were grateful for his large hands curled under you. Your arms and thighs were beginning to strain under the effort of clinging to such a thick body, he was quite literally about three times the size of you, and your legs weren’t meant to spread that far. Michael made them spread as far as he wanted.
He tilted his hands and your whole body followed, tumbling back slightly in his grip and your forearms tightened a little around his neck in response. You were face to face with him this way, well, face to mask. In any other situation, if you were a normal couple, this would be the part where he kissed you. But you weren’t and he didn’t.
You dipped slightly when he adjusted his grip on you before he steadied you again and good christ why was that so hot? The cocksure flex of his fingers like he knew he wasn’t going to drop you, it made your body flush with heat.
You realised what he’d done then, transferred your body weight to one hand so his other could drag his zip down, which was quite a feat, really, with you pressed against his front like you were. That must have been why he tipped you back, to make that room for himself.
Not that you cared even a little bit as that sliver of pale flesh came into view. For one mad second you wanted to push the fabric aside and see him, but you knew you were going mad, and that you’d be dead before you even tried.
Then Michael’s cock was in his fist and you lost all sense completely. It was thick, hard, his head red and sopping and twitching in his mammoth grip and he pumped himself in his hand just once. Your mouth fell open as molten lava flooded your core just at the sight before he was adjusting his hand under you once more and running his head through your soaking wet folds.
His cock glistened with your need for him until it dribbled down his hot shaft and wetted his balls.
You tried to breathe steadily. You wanted to close your eyes, or maybe bury your head back between the crook of his neck, but you couldn’t look away from the way he fucked his cock against you before he sunk inside, like he was enjoying the foreplay, and it was the single hottest thing you’d ever seen.
Your hole was quivering entirely of its own volition, desperate to be stuffed and fucked and he knew it, he was playing with you, watching for your reaction as he slipped his crown up and inside you and your eyes rolled.
He kept you speared just on the thick and unforgiving head of his cock as both hands cupped your ass again, keeping you utterly immobile as you clenched uselessly and deliciously on just the tip - you wanted desperately to beg for more but you just couldn’t, not to Michael, not to a murderer.
He seemed more patient with you today than he had been before, more exploratory, like he was testing your body’s limits and reactions. You hardly knew why, maybe he just didn’t want to accidentally kill his favourite wet hole.
His devoid mask was inches from your face and if he wasn’t wearing it then you’d have felt his breath fanning over your lips.
His fingers gripped the meat of your ass and the familiar sparks of pain made you sigh, before he began lowering you down on his cock.
Oh, fuck, yes, your mind gasped at your descent, as Michael stretched you obscenely around the fucking steel rod he called his cock, sliding inch after inch wetly into you, his weight and heat and girth carving up your insides like a pumpkin on halloween.
Your legs tightened around his waist and one of his hands inched up, pressing the small of your back firm against him while his cock twitched and jerked, fully seated inside you. Your mouth fell open as your head tipped back, you’d swear you’d never had him so deep before. It felt dangerous , like any minute shift from either of you might tear your insides. It was worth it, it was so fucking worth it, he felt so fucking good that you might die anyway if he didn’t move.
Michael tilted your hips and your thighs responded by clinging even more pitifully around his broad waist. Every shift inside of you felt like fire, felt like breathing again after days of being under water.
Your cunt squelched audibly around his cock and you winced, fear thrumming through you and adding to your arousal as Michael tipped you back. You envisioned your back crashing to the floor and at this height? Something would break.
Then hot and large hands were curling around your hips, holding you steady and you let out a little breath, your eyes fixed to Michael’s hollow mask eyes as your heart hammered. He began to move your hips up and down, bouncing you on his solid cock and every upward thrust drove him up into your guts.
Guh, fuck, your head tipped forward into his neck, your whole body trembling as he fucked up into you. Michael’s body was utterly immobile, a solid mass, a shape, servicing himself inside your weeping cunt with every brutal bounce of your hips.
Your eyes fluttered at the mixture of pain and pleasure, both one and the same, and the lightning in your nerve endings. Cradled like this in his large hands, your tits bounced with every one of his thrusts and you waited in embarrassment for when his mask tipped down to watch but it never did, it just stayed on you,
Tight to his pelvis like this, you could feel every vein of his cock as he slid into you, and the fat head splitting you open from the insides, making room for himself in your small body. Your wet folds kissed his black pubic hair as he pulled you down on him over and over again with that same steady rhythm that managed to be calm and aggressive all at the same time. He went as he always did, like a machine, the stamina of a teenager and the control of a middle-aged man. He was everything, both, nothing, all at the same time.
You tipped your head back as your cunt clenched and your stomach rolled, thighs quaking - you didn’t know what ripped it from your throat but rip it did -
“Michael, I’m going to come.”
Suddenly, the pressure between your legs became intense as the piston of Michael’s hips sped up until he was ramming inside you. You could hardly tell if he was thrusting in and out anymore, it was just a hard and fucking amazing feeling of fullness.
You couldn’t help it when your mouth curved into a silent cry and you came hard on Michael’s cock, your fresh spend copious and spurting around his thick length, flying eveyrwhere with how hard and fast he was fucking into you.
Your eyes actually crossed as he kept his brutal pace, hurtling you over the edge once again in a matter of seconds and the feeling of your release being fucked from you was glorious, it made your entire body quake.
The noise you made was loud and hardly ladylike as pure animalistic pleasure was ripped from you. Michael didn’t react, not in any discernible way and somewhere in your subconscious, because your conscious was having its brains fucked out, you realised that you weren’t being punished for making noise. Instead you rode out orgasm after orgasm, coming pitifully on this beast’s cock over and over as he didn’t falter for a second and you had no choice as you were forced to clench and squirt and shiver until you couldn’t think straight, no, you couldn’t think at all.
Your vision was hazy and your head was swimming, nothing in your mind but hot fierce coming pleasure as you eased your forearms down Michael’s neck a little, not realising until you’d done it that you were searching for and then gripping the seam of his exposed flesh with your fingers, shuddering under the warmth of his hot skin.
He stepped closer to you, bringing your hips down against his, until that space between your torsos disappeared and your bare and sweat-soaked chest was rubbing against the unforgiving material of his boiler suit with every measured rut into you. Your nipples rubbed cruelly against the fabric and you winced and shivered as your hitherto untouched clit trembled and kissed Michael’s solid abdominal muscle.
You buried your head where your hands were, and you sobbed as you came again, the new sparking sensations running tight through your body forcing you indelicately over the edge again. The rubber of Michael’s cool mask pressed into the seam of your neck, that loud breathing right against your ear and you whimpered.
The rub of his boiler suit against your cunt was unforgiving, scraping your clit in a way that was almost painful. You didn’t think, your animal brain zeroed down as you let one hand leave his neck and trail between your tight bodies until the pad of your finger found your clit. It was hard and aching, ready for the attention it had been so cruelly denied for the last few weeks, and you shuddered as a gentle rub made your eyes flutter and your cunt clench deliciously on the big cock inside you, this new and intense orgasm making you dribble onto Michael’s collar.
You yelped a little unexpectedly as your body dropped, but then Michael’s hand was framing your ass again and you breathed as you rolled your hips against him, your hand pressed protectively against your still twitching clit.
Michael’s large hand framed yours, his fingers pressing messily against your spent cunt and you squeaked as you felt his calloused fingers rubbing hard against your clit in a poor and heavy-handed imitation of what you’d just done to yourself. You winced as pleasure shot through you, too over-sensitive to feel anything other than intense, and your fingertips found the bones of his wrist, not so much to pull him away but more to hold on for dear life as he rubbed sloppily against your poor, used clit and your cunt squeezed his still moving cock as your hand reflexively squeezed his wrist and you came sharply and painfully, clamping down on him until a deep exhale caught your attention and Michael stilled, holding you tight against him as his cock erupted a gallon of burning seed into your used core.
You blinked slowly, overwhelmed, grip not loosening on his wrist as you felt your exhausted head spin. The feel of Michael’s heartbeat under your fingertips accompanied your descent into darkness.
The world came back to you slowly, like strips of colour entering your vision as your heavy eyelids blinked open. You floated aimlessly on the edge of consciousness for a few moments before your mind re-entered your body and you groaned, feeling every sore and pained inch of it. You were still naked, and still damp from your shower, but you were rested wonkily on your couch like a cadaver in a horror movie.
You sat up with a frown, muscles stiff, trying to remember when you’d passed out. Your thighs were stuck together with the creamy white mess of Michael’s come and the memory of the herculean beast bouncing you on his cock came back to you with a flash and your eyes fluttered.
It was still light outside, so you reasonably couldn’t have been out for very long, but you couldn’t see or hear Michael anywhere. You made your way cautiously upstairs to retrieve a nightshirt and pull it over your head for decency, and for the chill that was beginning to sit deep in your bones. Michael wasn’t up here either.
He must have left, you thought, like last time, as soon as he’s done with you.
You walked, bow-legged and shaky, back into the kitchen, definitely after that wine now.
The first thing you noticed was a hammer on the countertop, which was weird, primarily for the fact that you were fairly sure you didn’t own one. The second thing was that the door was no longer on the floor, which you’d completely forgotten about, but rather it sat wonkily back in the door frame with heavy screws brutally nailed through it until the heads were at odd angles. Regardless, the door was back in its frame, haphazard but sturdy. You walked slowly towards it like it might jump out and attack you. It creaked a little as you swung it open onto the empty street, but open it did.
Huh, your startled brain chipped in, as was often its way lately, at the most inopportune moments, Michael really did know about doors.
Your relationship with Michael (if you could even call it that) had fallen into a strange little rhythm. He came for you, and you submitted like a good little victim. You'd never angered the shape enough by your non-compliance that he'd wanted to punish you for it.
Until now.
masterlist ❤️🖤 ao3
chapter tags: serial killer, death, violence, blood, gore, weapons, knife, non con, female reader, stalking, choking, spanking, squirting, forced orgasms
You needed a drink, and a nice distraction wouldn’t have gone amiss either, so when your co-worker Katie suggested you both go out for a bevvy after work you agreed before she’d even finished her sentence.
She chuckled but her expression creased a little as she stopped behind the bar to regard you.
“You okay, princess?” She asked kindly. “You seem a bit distracted today.”
You sighed a little as you pushed the cocktail you were meant to be bussing around the bar and leant against it, slouching forward. You knew you couldn’t tell her what was going on, but even if you could, you weren’t entirely sure you’d even want to tell her, or what the hell you’d even say. Instead, you ran your hand through your hair and didn’t look up.
“Yeah, no, I’m fine. I just,” you blew out your cheeks as you struggled to get your words out. “A…friend of mine had a…a pretty close call with…with…Michael Myers.”
“No shit!” Katie exclaimed quietly, aware of the customers around them, her eyes bugging as she lowered herself down to your height on the other side of the bar. “Are they okay? Did they tell the police? Girl, I can’t sleep because of that psycho.”
“She’s fine.” She fucking isn’t. “It was just a bit of a shock, I guess. It put me on edge, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise!” Katie looked horrified. “He’s a monster! I’ve heard he’s killed like, what, 30 people since he escaped? They were saying on the news this morning that no one can figure out why he’s staying here and not going back to his hometown like the last time. You’d reckon if that were really the case then they’d have caught him by now.”
You were silent. You didn’t know if you were the reason he was staying, but then you also didn’t not know. Your stomach was in knots.
“All the more reason for that drink.” Katie smiled kindly. “Get your mind off that animal.”
“Yeah,” you managed a small, genuine smile. “That sounds amazing.”
You both hit the bar after your shift, still in your work clothes, and it was dark outside by the time you left. You’d only had a couple, but enough that you were feeling merry, maybe even happy, almost completely forgetting the waking nightmare you were living in.
You and Katie shared a cab back to yours and you hugged her goodnight before stepping out into the cool night air of your street, your front door in view. You heard her giving the cabbie directions to her house and then the car and its headlights disappeared around the corner and left you back in the darkness of the evening.
You slotted your key into the front door and pushed it open, already feeling your bed calling you, and you fumbled blindly next to the door until you found the lightswitch and turned it on, illuminating your living room.
Michael was stood in the corner of the room. He was staring, or seemingly so, at the front door. He stood as stiff as a board, his hands clenched by his sides. It was the only indication of his anger at all because he didn’t react when he saw you.
You stilled, your hand still on the door handle and you contemplated running back out into the street and screaming for help. You already knew that at this time of evening that the street was dead and he’d be across the room and your neck would be snapped in a second.
“What do you want, Michael?” You asked cooly, like you didn’t know. You assumed it was the alcohol giving you dutch courage, but there was still an unmistakable tremor to your voice when you spoke.
He didn’t answer you, because of course he didn’t, and for the first time you felt anger joining the fear shooting up your spine.
He took a measured step across the room, under the main light, and it was only then that you really noticed that his boiler suit was splattered with blood, the material of it sticking to his body in places, there was even a streak of gore on the cheek of his pale mask.
Your eyes widened and you hurried into the room and closed the door before taking a shaky step towards him, as if you’d accepted somewhere inside you that if you were the only one who got hurt, then that was okay.
“What did you do?” You asked the silence. Michael’s fists were still clenched, even though he was quiet and still as always, you could feel the waves of fury rolling off of him like it was tangible. Like flames of anger were licking across the room and burning you.
“How long have you been here?” You didn’t know why you even asked, it was just a force of habit at this point, you supposed. You were shrinking by the door, he was…different tonight. Mad. Maybe it was the blood, it reminded you of how dangerous he was, or maybe it was the way he was breathing, maybe it was the way he wasn’t moving - he’d have been all over you by now, but this time he wasn’t, like whatever was wrong was somehow your fault.
“Wait, are you mad at me for being out?” You asked incredulously. He didn’t move. You laughed maniacally at the absurdity of it. You definitely had dutch courage tonight. “Don’t stand there and stare at me all pissed off like I’ve missed fucking date night. I have a life outside of you!” You were fully shouting now, spurned on by his lack of response. “I’m not just going to be readily available whenever you want something to stick your cock into!”
Michael strode across the room faster than you’d ever seen him move until he was towering over you. His blood-stained fist curled around your throat, cutting off your air so you couldn’t even scream as he lifted you into the air until you were nearly two feet off of the carpet. Pain shot through your neck and your fingernails scraped at Michael’s large hand instinctively but he was solid and immovable, he just watched you silently as you scrabbled for air and kicked your legs out uselessly to collide painfully with his.
Your whole body felt like it was caught in flames as the blood rushed to your toes and you felt yourself going hazy.
“I’m sorry!” You gasped out weakly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please put me down.”
After an apparent moment of deliberation, Michael opened his fist and you fell to the ground and collided heavily with the floor. You landed on your spine but the pain dulled behind you as your hands scrambled protectively to your throat. You knew you’d have deep bruises there tomorrow. You looked up at him as your eyes swam with tears.
Fear bubbled inside you when you saw the blade in his grip, crusted with the same blood that was on his boiler suit.
You darted to your feet but then his heavy boot was on your sternum and you were hurtling back, your spine hitting the carpet again and this time it knocked the air out of you.
You coughed in pain, your eyes bleary with tears, as Michael lowered himself to his knees in front of you. He leant over your small body, utterly dwarfing you, until his masked nose was rubbing against yours and a bizarre streak of heat shot through you.
The sharp edge of his kitchen knife pressed cruelly against your throat and you honestly didn’t know if it diminished or added to your arousal. Either one was the wrong answer. You waited for the inevitable push down and the flash of pain as your flesh was rendered apart and blood spilled down onto your carpet.
Your eyes met the eyes of his mask and you felt strangely calm, maybe a little sad, as if silently telling him goodbye.
After a few more measured, bloated moments, filled with nothing but your twin breathing, the knife left your neck and scattered across the carpet as Michael discarded it without a second thought and his gore-thickened hands pushed your legs up and out of the way.
You gasped as your cheeks burned bright, only just realising how wet you were now your thighs were in his hands.
“Fuck…” You gasped, your heart hammering from adrenaline and arousal as Michael tore your trousers down your legs and discarded the ruined fabric behind him and then he was wrenching your legs apart, holding you down by the backs of your knees until your thigh muscles were straining painfully, your core utterly vulnerable to his murderous rage. Your thighs glistened with your own slick.
You rasped out his name and he reared back to sit back on his ankles before his gargantuan hands scraped up your thigh and you whimpered. The harsh slap of skin on wet skin as he struck the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh echoed around the room and you yelped, your body twisting off of the carpet in response. His other hand kept you pinned as he slapped your other thigh, leaving a raised and red welt on your sensitive skin.
“Fuck, Michael," you gasped as the searing pain shot through your thighs and right to your core and dollops of arousal dribbled from your traitorous little hole and a whine fell unaided from your lips. It was like he was spanking you as some sort of punishment for disobeying him tonight.
Michael looked down at you as he raised his hand again and you jolted on instinct as a heavy spank landed directly on your exposed and dripping cunt.
Your whole body arched and an inhuman screech left your mouth as your clit trembled under the violent abuse of Michael’s punishing strike.
“I’m sorry-” You gasped out. “Please-”
He surged forward with a burst of speed that scared you before he was wrapping his fingers around your throat and then he was holding you to the ground. His silent fury was unmistakable. You will be sorry.
You’d never seen him like this before. He was angry, angry with you. He had no hesitation in his movements as his hand left your neck and he sat back and yanked his zip down with a harsh growl of metal teeth and then he was pulling himself out.
Oh shit. His cock was hard in a way you’d never seen before, it was red and angry like his mood, swollen and dripping, the colour of blood. He throbbed in his own grip.
He lurched forward and wrapped his fingers around your thighs, dragging you across the carpet until it scraped painfully over your ass before hauling you against him. He threw your legs around his broad hips, his hand disappeared between your bodies for a moment and then you were groaning when you felt his engorged head breaching your weeping hole.
Michael surged forward, bending you in half until you were whimpering in shocked pain from the abuse to your thighs and your stomach and Michael was shoving his long cock all the way inside you. You felt the pain of his brutal thrust and his cock throbbing inside you as your cunt fluttered and clenched uselessly around his whole length. It burned so good, stretching you wide and deep and tears fell from your eyes from pure intense feeling alone.
Michael’s hands found your wrists and gripped them tightly, holding you firm to the carpet and it hurt, it hurt so bad that you couldn’t think, but then he was rearing his hips back and slipping his cock from your tight heat before shoving himself back in again with the same ferocity as before, pounding solid against your sweet spot immediately.
Your eyes rolled. His thrusts were brutally hard and the slam of his hips against your hips ignited a pain deep in your bones. Your entire body jolted upwards and your skin rippled as he fucked you with enough force that you’d be shoved across the carpet if his hands weren’t pinning your wrists immobile against it.
You were delirious with it, with the fucking pressure of his cock against your walls with solid and unforgiving and aggressive pleasure.
You felt like an animal, being disciplined with cock. You were being shown exactly what you were for and forced to submit so he didn’t cause you injury while he was deep inside you. You were his, not yours, his.
Your mouth was open but no words came out. Your eyes were hazy and he swam in front of you. The heat of his body mixed with your cunt clenching on his cock inside of you as your thighs quivered and your hips bucked up and a soft, strained whimper fell helplessly from your mouth.
A full-bodied sob left your mouth as you squirted hard around Michael’s cock. The feeling of your release being expelled was fucking incredible and it felt like it went on for days. He slipped from you, pushed out from the iron-tightness of your coming walls, his cock jamming against your folds and you whined, delirious eyes searching blindly as your cunt clenched, trying to find him.
“No, no, no, Michael, please, fuck, fuck m-”
An almost hoarse exhale of breath left Michael’s mouth and it was the loudest he’d ever been with you as one hand left your wrist. It was deeply bruised but that wasn’t the only reason you didn’t move as you watched him grip his wet cock - the squelch of his fist on it deliriously sexy - as he slipped himself down and entered you again.
You groaned and your head tipped back as he pushed back inside you, his cock rock solid and hot, and then he was leaning over you again, his fingers finding your wrist but it was clumsy as he fucked back into you. Instead, his palm fell flat against yours, your fingers rested against each other as he dwarfed your hand. He didn’t even need to use any energy to pin you down, he was heavy enough to do it.
Michael’s mask rested against your forehead as his cock pulsed against your sweet spot, and every thrust in brought an obscene squelch with how wet you were. You groaned and whimpered as his thrusts sped up again between your legs, somehow even harder than before, and then his hand was leaving your hand and wrapping around your neck. Your eyes locked onto the eyes of his mask and you gasped weakly as your legs wrapped painfully hard around his broad waist and you squirted again with a groan, hearing the splash of it. He didn’t let you push him out this time, instead he held your throat tighter, his body flush against yours as he fucked you through it. He ploughed you with enough force that it hurt, rubbing your vulnerable and spent sweet spot until you were shivering and jolting against it. He came to a halt as you clenched on him, rough breathing escaping his mask as his cock throbbed inside you and you felt the warm gush of Michael’s release in your damn womb.
Your whole body trembled on the carpet, trapped under Michael’s scorching weight. He seemed to stay on top of you for a long time, his hand lax on your throat and there was something about it that was sort of - nice. He was holding his own weight somehow, so that you could feel every inch of him pressed against you but he wasn’t crushing you like you knew he could very easily.
You felt a wave of emotion that brought tears to your eyes, upset that you’d upset him tonight, you didn’t want to do it again, you just wanted him close like this forever. Your brain quickly rejected the thought as you instinctively remembered yourself. You were fuck-drunk, and maybe even actual-drunk, and you were overhot and sluggish from coming so hard. You tried to compare it to some other time in your life but you couldn’t. You’d never come that hard before, simple as.
Soon enough, Michael was sitting back, his cock slipping from your wet hole with a slather of liquid, both yours and his, and your cheeks burned with embarrassment.
He was soft. It was the first time you’d seen him like that, but somehow the flop of his spent cock sent waves of arousal through you. The swollen and limp shaft hanging heavily between his legs was one of the hottest things you’d ever seen. You’re so fucked, you reminded yourself routinely.
“Michael.” Your voice was a rasp, and his mask tilted up as if he were listening to you. You had nothing to say.
Instead, his hands found your thighs and pressed them back apart. His fingers ran through your folds, gathering your spend on them before he was bringing his hand up to his mask as if to inspect it. You blushed harder. Michael’s fingers disappeared under his mask for a long moment and when he retracted them, they were cleaned with his own spit.
Before you even had time to process whatever the fuck you’d just seen, he was trailing his fingers between your legs again and finding your wet heat before sinking inside you. It was easy, with how blown wide you were, for him to sink up to the knuckle with his index and middle, but when he flexed them, your whole body jolted as his calloused fingertips brushed against your swollen and used sweet spot.
“Ah!” You gasped as the spirals of oversensitive pleasure coursed through you. Michael’s hand squeezed over the red welt glistening on your thigh as his fingers sped up, thumb swiping memorably over your trembling clit as he pistoned in you in a less than gentle way.
Your cunt clenched uselessly as pleasure churned violently inside you and shivers hit the nape of your neck as you neared your crest. You wailed as you squirted liquid spend into Michael’s open palm, he didn’t stop, fucking you through it as spurt after spurt of you landed on him and you couldn’t help yourself, throwing your head back and moaning in a way that would put a porn star to shame.
Michael pulled his fingers from you and your cunt quivered from overuse, your cheeks hot, your whole body trembling. Forget stars, you were seeing the gates of heaven.
You just about managed to crane your neck up with what little strength you had in time to see Michael wrapping his slick-soaked hand around his own cock as it thickened up in his grip again. Your eyes widened. He wasn’t human, you knew that already, but it still surprised you.
He curled his hand around your hip as he pushed himself up higher on his knees and ran his head through your folds, smearing his own white come onto you like a mark. You groaned at the sight and the heat and even managed a tired smile.
“I don’t think I can go again.” You said honestly. “I think you broke me.”
Michael’s head cocked but he didn’t look up at you as he sunk his cock back inside you and somehow he felt even bigger than before, it felt like air was being punched out of your gut as your back arched against the carpet. You were wet and stretched enough that he slid home with relative ease, but you were so hyper-sensitive that you could feel every vein of him, every inch of hot cock as he pushed up in you. You looked down, your brain nearly offlining with pleasure and horror as your theory was confirmed, there it was, a bulge in your stomach where his cockhead sat.
You were mesmerised by it, him inside you, a part of you, or was it the other way around? You blamed your fuck-drunk brain as your hand snaked lazily down and pressed against it.
Michael jolted up and your eyes flicked to him, widening as he gripped your ass as if in response and rolled you down onto his cock. Your hands fell to the floor and you groaned as your sore sweet spot pressed hard against his thick length, every one of your outward breaths was a lengthy and desperate gasp as he fucked you for the second time that evening. It wasn’t as ferocious as before, like he wasn’t dashing for the finish line this time, rather he was enjoying himself. You assumed that meant you were forgiven.
“Oh, fuck, please be gentle,” you begged. “I’m so sensitive…”
His fingernails gripped your thighs as he fucked into you with measured strokes and your shoulders shook as your drawn out pleasure was nearly painful, your cunt clenching uselessly. You didn’t know how long it went on for, but it felt like forever, like a never-ending sweet torture.
Michael’s grip on your thighs tightened and you recognised the cruel action, the warning infliction of pain when you’d angered him. You frowned in your post-orgasmic haze, wondering what you’d done, or what you weren’t doing -
His hips sped up between your legs and you gasped, your head shooting up as your thighs quaked at the unexpected change to hard and fast and unrelenting and -
Fuuuuuuck, your brain scrambled and you choked on your own spit as you gushed around him. He slipped free from you willingly and watched your spray gush out messily and you winced and blushed and then he leant up, his cock still stiff and bobbing, wet and ignored, as his fingers went back inside your cunt. You damn-near sat up on his hand, impaling yourself and gasping as you scratched at his wrist uselessly.
“No, no, no, no more, Michael, I can’t -”
Michael was already three fingers deep inside you, hammering up against you roughly, squelching with every flex of his murderous, strong fingers and you sobbed loudly as his thumb pressed back on your sensitive clit and pain shot through your thighs and you quivered and pulsed and a few weak spurts dribbled down his wrist.
His breathing sounded ragged as he let his fingers slip from you, watching the pitiful squirts of your pussy as you collapsed back and your chest heaved, utterly spent with how much you’d come, and how hard. Was Michael a demon or a god? Or both? You didn’t know. You were so zoned out that you didn’t realise that he’d just pleasured you, if only for the curiosity of watching you come all over him.
Michael seemed to decide that his good deed was done for the night, however, as he speared you open on his aching cock and you dribbled down onto your own neck, fucked out and useless. Your hand found his wrist and gripped, anchoring yourself as he fucked into you. This cruel fuck was nothing to do with you, you were just a wet vice-grip around his cock, your body a masturbatory aid as he rammed into you. That didn’t stop your cunt clenching on him though, it didn’t stop the obscene spikes of overstimulated pleasure drowning you and you had no idea if you were coming, none at all, but you didn’t have anything left to give, you didn’t even clench particularly hard, and Michael slipped out again.
You waited for him to thrust back in but he didn’t, instead he sat up, taking his wet cock in his fist and you watched delirously as he pumped himself in his huge red fist, one hand gripping your knee painfully, and then he was pulsing in his hand and his hot spray was coating your stomach like he was marking you, giving you his come in a bizarre imitation of taking yours.
You felt his hot spend on your stomach and your hand came down to wipe it around, coating your stomach in him. A traitorous and horrible part of your brain wanted to bring it to your mouth and taste him, like you were desperate for it, but you couldn’t. He was still a murderer, an abomination, you still hated him.
Michael was watching you spread him all over your body like you were trying to wear him and you promptly stopped, letting your hand fall limply to your side.
Michael started to tuck himself back into his ruined boiler suit and you became more aware of yourself, you knew he’d broken in somehow, you knew his knife was lying around here somewhere. What he planned to do with it, you didn’t know.
You turned your head to search for it and a sickly wave washed over you. The world span for a moment until your exhausted body gave up, and the carpet beneath your head suddenly became the comfiest thing in the world.
…
It was pitch black when you woke up, so much so that you couldn’t see an inch in front of your face. You let the events of your evening wash over you with mixed emotions before wondering briefly if you’d fallen asleep or simply passed out, before deciding that you honestly didn’t know.
You laid there in the dark for a long time, the thrill of waking up alive every time was becoming less intense but it still played on your mind. You knew you were fucked when you considered your monsterous lover not murdering you as a small convenience to your life.
Tonight had been different though, hadn’t it? You couldn’t put your finger on exactly why and you were too tired to even try.
Finally, exhausted, you pushed yourself up and frowned when you felt spongey resistance beneath your sore palms.
Following a hunch that couldn’t possibly be true, you let your sense-memory guide your hand and, sure enough, you found your bedside lamp in the gloom. It bathed your bedroom in a mellow light.
Your bed was soft beneath you, and, as usual, Michael was gone.
LISTEN...when I TELL YOU your fic "Virginal" is my ALL-TIME FAVORITE you just don't understand 😤
I reread it at least once a week. Open it like it's a newspaper on Sunday mornings at breakfast 😩 I tell everybody about when they ask for fic recommendations because I love it so much. I want to freaking print it out on golden paper and make a leather bound book from it so I can sleep with it under my pillow.
I just wanted to say thank you for creating something so marvelous 💋
Okay I'll shut up now and go crawl back into the hole whence I came ✌️
I don't physically know how to handle this??
Thank you SO MUCH for saying that, I really mean it, I'm so so so so happy you're enjoying virginal, and I can't believe it, I'm so unbelievably lucky 🥺😍❤️
I have notes for the next chapter on the go, I can't promise exactly when it'll be up, I study part time so my work load will increase alot in September, but it will come, I promise that!
Everywhere you went, you looked twice, constantly checking over your shoulder for something you couldn’t see. You were living behind yourself, because that was where he lurked.
It was nearly two weeks this time, fourteen days, since you’d last seen Michael Myers, since he’d broken into your home and destroyed your one place of refuge, where he’d laid you out on your living room floor, spread your legs and torn you apart as he’d torn apart innocent bodies across town - twenty-seven, now, by the way.
He fucked with the same unkind and uncaring ferocity that he killed with, gentle was not a word in Michael’s vocabulary. Not that he had a vocabulary at all.
You wore the remnants of his brand on your body. The bruises on your hips had yellowed out by now, and the deep bone ache in your thighs and pelvis had lessened to the point where you could walk and sit without limping and wincing, but you were still tender.
Used, your brain reminded you.
You’d had to lie to your co-workers, you’d pretended that you’d attempted an intense crossfit routine the day before and that was why you were sore and swollen and bow-legged, little did they know that the killer being discussed on the radio perched on the bar, the seven-foot goliath who was dwindling your local population like he was born to do it, was responsible for the devastation to your body.
Your boss had tried to send you home at first, but you’d refused - the last thing you needed was to be alone with your thoughts any longer than you had to be, sat on your threadbare sofa and staring at the patch of carpet that you’d stained with your own release when you’d come hard and dreadful on a murderer’s cock.
Though you tried your best to keep your mind blank of the memory, however, you often found yourself straying to it. You felt changed by the experience, somehow. Ruined, maybe.
You felt complicit in the gruesome murders your grisly bedmate had committed, like if he hadn’t have found you that night, then he would have moved on and no one would have died.
You knew it was stupid of you, a demonic beast like Myers couldn’t be stopped or swayed or persuaded, all you could do was run and hide and hope he didn’t find you. Why he’d taken such an interest in you was anyone’s guess.
You’d surmised, unconfirmed of course, because it wasn’t like you could fucking ask him, that Michael was a virgin. Was, you shivered.
It explained why he didn’t fuck you that first night, and why he’d investigated you so thoroughly on your living room floor. It made sense, the man - ghoul, demon, beast - had been institutionalised practically his entire life, now he knew what the long cock between his legs was for and he couldn’t get enough.
Why he’d come back for you, that’s when things began to make a little less sense. Perhaps he hadn’t realised yet that he could fuck literally anyone, that seemed silly, but you had no gage on Michael’s intelligence. He’d escaped, twice, and tracked you down, and evaded capture for nearly a month - but was that just down to brute strength? A lion tearing through a herd of gazelles that were unprepared and weak, you were all mere defenceless prey against whatever stronger mutation of life Michael was.
You couldn’t even entertain the idea that he might like you, it was absurd, and something you highly doubted he was even capable of. What were you, a speck? A nothing? And what was he? Magnificent. Terrible. Extraordinary. Your living nightmare.
You didn’t like thinking about what he thought about you, because it always led traitorously to what you thought about him. You hated him, obviously, he was a monster. He was your abuser. You’d accepted his presence in your life as some sort of inevitability, you had no way of stopping him. Except for contacting the police or luring him into some sort of trap, but was doing that just inviting some poor officer to his or her death? At least if you were quiet, the only one that died was you. It was a flimsy excuse, but it was all you had.
It was still light out when you left work that day, shucking off your apron and leaving it on the hook. It was only a small bistro pub where you worked, but it paid the bills and you enjoyed the friendly regular customers and the fast-paced working environment. It was especially useful lately. You said goodbye to your friends with a smile before pulling on your cardigan and slinging your bag over your shoulder.
The front of the bistro opened onto the town's high street, filled with other shops and people walking around and enjoying the afternoon, cars passed leisurely by and kids skipped, holding dog leads, chatting and laughing and arguing. A perfectly normal afternoon.
Michael was stood waiting across the street, directly in your line of sight as if he’d somehow known exactly where you would stop. His bone white mask and dark boiler suit stood out in stark contrast against the green trees of the small park behind him, tucked back a little behind the high street so that passerbys didn’t notice him.
But you did.
You shuddered in fear just at the sight of him, gripping the handle of your bag with a clammy hand. Your cunt twitched entirely without your consent.
You didn’t know what to do, feeling like you were in stalemate with the murderer, eyes locked on his fake ones as he stared at you, as still as marble, and making no attempts to move.
The first thought that popped into your head was to turn and head straight back into the bistro. There were too many people, customers and staff alike, for him to follow you without being caught. Once you were safely inside, you could call the police and end this once and for all. Surely he couldn’t kill that many people between then and now?
Your eyes hadn’t left him, but they did begin to waver as you noticed the people walking not five feet away from him, as if they were suddenly coming into sharp focus over the mist Michael made in your mind. They had no idea they were bypassing a murderer. If you turned and went back in, if you deviated from what Michael expected you to do, it would take nothing for him to yank anyone walking by, a child perhaps, behind the trees and bury his knife in their neck. You felt your eyes glisten just at the thought. If he followed you, which you highly suspected he would, then maybe no one would get hurt. No one except you.
You kept your bag clutched to you as if it could provide some sort of comfort as you turned and began walking shakily home. You knew he was following you from a distance, but every time you anxiously threw your head over your shoulder, he was nowhere to be found. That was the scariest part, that you couldn’t see him but you could feel him, your silent stalker, wearing you like a second skin.
You thrummed with fear, or anticipation, you didn’t know at this point. Was this the day you died?
Michael finally made himself known to you when your key slotted into the lock of your front door. It was a quiet street, most of your neighbours nine-to-fivers who hadn’t returned home yet, so no one saw him when he appeared like a shape from the mist.
You felt him before you saw him, his warm, rough hands on the tops of your arms and his solid front pressed against your back, caging you from behind and shoving you face first into the wood of the door. His mask was against the crook of your neck, that steady breathing in and out, in and out, breathing you in, sounding almost ragged in its metronome.
You could smell him, too, blood and fire and dirt, as if a scented map of where he’d been the night before. What he’d done. You shivered, trapped utterly within this killer's body and the stench of death.
“Michael!” You gasped out.
Perhaps he’d already been planning it, or maybe it was a lightning strike reaction to hearing his own name stuttered from your breathless mouth, that his hands surged forwards and wrapped around your hips, his fingers settling instantly into the thick grooves of your body that he’d left there for himself before.
You hissed immediately as pain coarsed through your body from your already abused hips. His breathing didn’t change, nor did the strength of his grip on you, instead he responded by sliding his large hand down your side and yanking until your jeans bit painfully against flesh, like he was trying to ruck your trousers down there and then against the door, right in the middle of the street.
“Michael, fuck, wait.” You gasped, wriggling against his tugging hands, already feeling and hearing your trousers rip at the waistband. It thrilled you as much as it scared you, how desperate he was, in his own stoic way. You could tell pretty well from the thick lines of his prominent cock pressed hard against your back.
You just managed to shove the door open before he fucked you against it, Michael’s body weight pressing against yours made you tumble inside, crashing painfully into the arm of the sofa and vaulting you over it.
His heavy breathing was like a lion’s pant as he crowded you again, you doubt he even lost his footing, looming over you from behind like a gargoyle. His hands curled under your thighs and shoved you up and over the couch and you squeaked in shock and discomfort as your thighs were forced over the arm of it, your face pressed into the couch cushions and your ass up and on display.
There was no exploring this time, no confusion or hesitation, there was just the rip of your jeans and the scorching heat of Michael’s thick fingers between your legs, searching for what was his. You were utterly breathless, he was insistent today.
His large fingers sank inside you, two at a time, right up to the knuckle. Your position with your back bent over the couch meant that his fingers were surging upwards, stretching you open with immediate pressure against your spongy walls. You gasped, your hips bucking against the intense sensation, away from the intrusion.
Michael didn’t like that.
His free hand came down hard on your hip, holding you like a brick would hold down a scrap of paper, rendering you utterly immobile as he twisted his meaty fingers disinterestedly inside you. He was playing with the vulnerable flesh of your core with the same ferocity he would crunch a bone, but your insides weren’t a bone, they were soft and pliable, vulnerable, and your mouth fell open and your hips tried to buck, for an entirely different reason this time, but they couldn’t. The helplessness overwhelmed you and the only thing your eyes saw were the back of your skull as Michael forced you to take him, prodding cruelly at that place inside you that soaked his fingers with your traitorous desire.
How did this killer give you more pleasure than anyone else you’d ever been with? How did those hands that killed bring you to life in ways you didn’t even know you could experience?
You moaned, soft and low, your head resting near-comfortably into the couch cushion. Michael’s fingers stilled inside you and you felt like you were dying, but you dared not move. The nightmare of stillness lasted mere seconds, his presence within you solid and heavy, before he was moving again and you gasped again, biting your lip to stop yourself from making any more noise. He didn’t seem to like that, but if he was truly angry with you, he wouldn’t have carried on, would he?
Michael pulled his fingers from you with an obscene squelch and you buried your face in the crook of your arms, wondering if he got some sick satisfaction from what he was doing to you. Maybe that was why he’d chosen you, because he could see the darkness in you that enjoyed what he did to you. Monsters together.
No, you ground your teeth together, you weren’t a monster, you were clutched in the claws of one.
Michael only had one hand gripping your already bruised hips, hard enough to bring tears to your eyes, and you shuddered in arousal when you realised where his other must be, gripping the base of his thick and burning erection as hs crown kissed at your seam, running up and down your sopping opening and making you clench desperately, your animal brain couldn’t wait another second to have his cock in you again even though you knew it would hurt, even though you knew it might kill you. Everything zeroed down to that moment when he forced himself into you, breaching you wide against his unforgiving length, like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. The only thing that made sense to you.
You wailed desperately and gratefully, his cock sliding into you actually weighing you down to the arm of the sofa in its heft. Your feet kicked uselessly at his shins, your thighs spreading desperately around his thighs and oh yes, this was so much better. Michael sunk deeper into you immediately, until his clothed hips were pressed against your bare ass, then his mask was in the cleft of your neck again. If he’d not had his face covered, you would have been sharing the same breath. His weight was like a comfort blanket, warm and safe, but you knew it wasn’t, it was a body bag, killing you from the inside.
He kicked your ankles apart wider and you shrieked, the thin bone bending dangerously under his steel-capped boots. Your scream was muffled by the couch cushion but it turned into a continuous molten yell as his hips began that brutal, familiar pistoning, fucking up into you until you thought his huge cock was prodding at your spine.
The pain was a familiar ache now, blossoming inside you like a bruise, like a mouse not meant to take the cock of a tiger. You realised you were waiting for the moment his breathing sped up in your ear, like an ex boyfriend, but that never came. He was silent, stoic, fucking you like a machine whose only purpose was to plough you to stupidity. It made you throb and clench as your thighs were forced painfully against the hard arm of the couch but you just didn’t care. Stupid, indeed.
You felt so fucking good in your core, pleasure spiralling inside you like deadly spikes, sending ice-cold shivers through your nerves that were burnt out by each scorching line of Michael’s body against yours. He made you feel so much, too much, with the enormous length of his hard cock pulsing into your poor cunt again and again. The pink flesh of your seam was stretched white around his veined girth, the wet squelch of your whorish liquid spend lubing him up to go faster, harder, gliding into you.
You imagined what you must look like from the outside, his body dwarfing yours as each one of his hard thrusts scraped your couch across the carpet. If the wood of your floors was juddering, imagine what was happening to your insides, being pulverised like fresh meat.
Michael’s hand pushed up your spine, as if pushing the air out of you like a tube of toothpaste, until his fingers were curling around the back of your neck like the first night. It took you a moment, in your delirious haze, to realise that he was holding you down, in place, keeping you submissive. You gasped, pained and dizzy, you couldn’t understand why he was cutting off your air, holding you immobile, you weren’t struggling, you were being good -
Michael’s free hand tucked under your hip and pulled your ass flush against him, sinking him even deeper still inside you, before he began to pound you relentlessly. There was no space between you this way, just glorious, intense, delirious, inescapable pressure.
You yelped and surged forward from shock more than anything, trying desperately to expel this new, deep sensation, but the hand on the back of your neck rendered you utterly immobile.
You sobbed as he fucked your poor hole for all that it was worth, each brutal thrust of his hips sending electric shocks of pain and pleasure through you, lifting your feet fully off of the ground until you were being held up off the floor entirely by Michael’s cock inside you. The thought made you quiver with heat.
There was nothing in the room for a few long moments except for your muffled cries and his heavy breathing, and the squelch of desire quite literally between the pair of you. You felt yourself going hazy, your mouth fell open and drool soaked your cushion as any notion of holding back your orgasm this time went completely out of the window.
Your cunt clenched uselessly around him and your liquid release spurted around Michael’s cock so forcefully that he slipped out a couple of inches and lost his rhythm, cock nearly completely expelled from you with the intensity of it.
The hand on your neck squeezed painfully and you knew he was furious, fingers curling and gripping until he cut off your oxygen supply and you wheezed. The relentless pounding began again, aggressive this time, so deep in you there was no chance you’d push him out again, his front pressed so tight to your back that your lungs were crushed as forcefully as your windpipe.
The fingernails of Michael’s free hand dug viciously into the skin of your ass as if to anchor himself, and the pain combined with the dripping pleasure and you wailed, high pitched and helpless, as your hips bucked up and back uselessly, escaping or chasing, you didn’t know. You just fucking didn’t know.
The obscene stretch, the overwhelming fullness of his monster cock in your small little opening, the constant pressure against your sweet spot, and your rapidly deflating lungs, were making you hazy and humbled and delirious. Your eyes fluttered and your collapsed exhaustedly, even your pitiful attempts at breathing in seemed to have ceased.
Oh yes, your brain hummed, what a way to die.
Michael’s hips snapped forward and then stilled deep inside of you, you felt the hot heat of his erupting orgasm slathering your cervix and boiling you from the inside. His hands left your throat and you desperately sucked in air, half-mad with the live wires of electric pleasure surging through you.
Michael’s large hands clamped down on your hips, reigniting that familiar pain you were beginning to associate with him, as he held you utterly immobile on his coming cock. He was spearing you open with it, stretched wide and wrecked around his throbbing length, like the good, warm little hole that you were.
Your senses returned to you agonisingly slowly as air returned to your pained lungs, you became aware of your body - sore and stiff, and Michael inside you. He was still coming, you registered somewhat numbly, you could feel it spraying you like blood sprayed the walls when he went on a spree. It burned you the same.
You were sure your stomach was going to bulge with his seed, but of course that space was already taken by the bulbous head of his monster cock practically making a home for itself against the soft flesh of your belly. You reckoned if you could snake your hands beneath yourself, you’d be able to feel him.
All you could do now was shiver and spasm as you lied there and took it, feeling his cock with every involuntary spasm of your spent cunt. It was too much for your overworked nerves.
“Michael, please let me go.” You begged quietly, voice half-muffled by the cushion beneath you. “I can’t take it. Hurts.”
Michael was still impossibly hard inside of you, despite having just come, and either he didn’t hear you or ignored you completely as he kept you pinned firmly on his cock with the vice-grip of his hands, like he was enjoying himself too much to release you. You’re not going anywhere .
You didn’t even know why he was doing this, did he just like how warm and wet you felt? He wasn’t even moving, he was just rock solid against your core. Was he preparing to kill you?
You clenched, maybe from fear, or arousal, probably both, and your mouth curved and your back bowed in utter surprise as you vaulted over that edge again, liquid spend dribbling pitifully around the base of his length, stoppered by the sheer size of his cock.
Well, that’s embarrassing, you registered hazily, you just came on Michael Myer’s cock and he wasn’t even moving, you desperate slut.
Suddenly, Michael pulled himself free and you gasped as you felt the gush of warmth as your come sprayed out onto him, your cheeks burning in glorious release and embarrassment alike. You couldn’t gauge Michael’s reaction because he didn’t give you any time to. In a matter of seconds of hearing your own squirt hit the carpet jesus christ, Michael had flipped your small frame onto your back.
You saw him, sweet god you saw him, his boiler suit was unzipped but still shrugged over his shoulders so you could see nothing beneath, his white mask was staring sightlessly down at you, but a pair of very human, if deadly, looking hands curled under your knees (you didn’t know why that ignited something white hot and molten inside you) and hauled your ass up onto the arm of the sofa, bringing your core level with his. Michael held your legs, which looked positively tiny in his calloused hands, against the brickwork of his chest, sliding his fat cock right back home again.
Your eyes fluttered and your shoulders shook, thighs quaking in his hands from oversensitivity of the stretch and the burn you couldn’t handle yet utterly craved. God, you were fucked.
Michael didn’t wait, not even for a second, before he began to build up that pace again. His hips pistoned until they became a jackhammer, his hands under your knees bringing your useless and spent body down onto his cock as much as he was fucking forward into you. Your head was tipped back, your hands scrabbling for anything and latching into the cloth of the couch as the delicious rubbing against your walls had you seeing stars.
“Michael-” You tried weakly, wincing as your cunt contracted and flooded him again, orgasm-loosened and pliant and sending waves of endorphins and exhaustion through your body. “I can't-”
You lost your words, you were coming again, uncontrollably, blushing when you could feel how wet you were, how you’d soaked the front of his boiler suit, you could feel it in every squelch. A part of you that your fuck-drunk brain allowed through liked the way you were almost marking him as he marked you, that he’d have something to remember you by when he inevitably left you again. Or killed you.
Michael didn’t care, he seemed as unaffected as always, but his hips sped up just as you came, as if enjoying the challenge of fucking you mercilessly through your abortively clenching walls, or maybe he enjoyed the tight grip, the vice-like milking of his cock.
Michael didn’t make a sound as he stilled, pumping you with his seed again, boiling hot and excessive like he was just producing this stuff. You could hardly believe it.
He softened a little after the second orgasm and you breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t react as his cock slipped freely from your absolutely drenched opening, too wet and fucked open to hold anything in. He didn’t move back any either, nor did he release his grip on your legs that was making you shiver, he just let his cockhead rest thick and twitching against your clit, his half-hard cock still lazing coming on your folds and dribbling down obscenely to join the wet heat that, you realised with scarlet and shameful cheeks, was beginning to drip from your ruined hole.
Michael dropped your legs and stood back, his cock hanging heavy and spent and swollen between his legs from his twin orgasms and you knew then he wasn’t human, not now, he was something else.
Your exhausted head hit the cushion beneath you but you sort of just left your legs hanging in the air for the time being, you knew your muscles would be sore and pulled and you just couldn’t face that right now.
You could feel yourself begin to disassociate as you looked up at the cream paint of your living room ceiling, feeling the tears leaking from your eyes.
You’d played this game before. Michael would leave, the beast having had his fill, until he wanted you again, whether that was days or weeks or even years, you didn’t know. You’d dread the day he returned and you’d miss every single second he wasn’t inside you.
You heard his measured albeit heavy footfalls on your carpet and you didn’t turn your head, you didn’t want to watch him leave.
Then, rather unexpectedly, thick and wet fingers were tangled in your hair and yanking your head to the side with enough force to make something pop that probably (definitely) shouldn’t have.
You hissed in pain, eyes widening when you were greeted with Michael’s thick cockhead pressing against your lips and you had no time at all to ponder before he shoved the whole thing cruelly down your throat.
You coughed and screamed as you felt the skin of your throat tearing as he shoved himself deep into your oesophagus. Your nose was tickled by the dark pubic hair at the base of his cock.
You thought you might pass out, from the pain and the cock so thick and deeply jammed down your throat that no oxygen could fit around him.
He didn’t fuck your throat like you expected him to, he just held your head immobile on him, watching down on you almost expectedly as you spluttered around his rude and painful intrusion.
Your survival instinct kicked in and you did the only thing you could think of, and began to lap desperately at the underside of his cock with the flat of your tongue. He didn’t move or react in any way except to keep his gaze level down on you, his hand strong and unmoving against your scalp. He didn’t hurt you or pull you or shove you, which you took to mean you were doing the right thing, so you continued.
You could feel your eyes welling with tears and your vision going hazy as you choked on him, but still your tongue lapped at him, tasting his flesh, his come, and, shamefully, yourself too. A needy whine ripped itself from your stuffed lips before you could stop it.
Michael ripped free from you then, it was harsh and immediate, and when you coughed and spluttered, your spittle-slicked chin was shining with red. Your throat was on fire but you could still taste Michael there.
He let your hair go but you kept your head turned, watching as he tucked his wet, but now clean, cock back into his boiler suit and zipped himself up, readying himself to perform his usual nightly activities.
Your whole body was shaking as you watched him, used, devastated, he didn’t look at you.
“Why are you doing this?” You asked hoarsely.
He didn’t answer you, he didn’t even look back as he walked into your kitchen, probably from memory of where the back door was. You heard the door opening and shutting and then you felt nothing but your own company in the house.
After the eerie presence of Michael over your shoulder all afternoon it felt kind of lonely.
You stared up at the ceiling as the tears and blood and spit dried on your face, and suddenly you didn’t feel so sorry for Michael’s victims, not the same way you had before.
They didn’t know the living hell it was when he kept you alive.
Peter and Wade have been broken up for six months now. Peter is pining after his lost love and refusing to date anyone else and Wade is only interested in stabbing people. Everyone else is wondering what the hell happened between them.
It was a really bad time for Otto Octavius to start experimenting with tritium. Spideypool fic.
Warnings/Tags: Post-Break Up, Angst, Pining Peter Parker, Slow Build, Flashbacks, True Love, Blood and Violence, Gore, Torture, Suicide, Explicit Sexual Content, Mental Health Issues, Bisexual Peter Parker, Pansexual Wade Wilson, Multi Chapter Fic, also posting on ao3
masterlist ❤️💙🖤ao3
They’d been broken up for about six months now.
The general consensus among the Avengers was that Deadpool had a psychotic break that was so bad it had freaked Peter out and made him retreat back to his apartment in Queens and hide away so that Deadpool couldn’t find him.
It was easy to believe that version of events, particularly with the noticeable absence of the mercenary in their lives lately, but they had to concede that it was just a rumour. No one knew why Peter had broken up with the man he’d so ardently defended against them for the two years they’d been an item, but it must have been something pretty serious, because Deadpool was just gone. He’d disappeared abroad with the protection detail company he’d set up while he was dating Peter. X Force, that was what he’d called it. It comprised of a few enhanced individuals, most notably Cable and Domino, and a smattering of others, some were from Wade’s army days, others from his mercenary days, but it seemed like a school for wayward criminals who wanted to clean up their act. In as much as murdering in the name of protecting the highest bidder compared to murdering for fun was, anyway.
Tony had been keeping track of them regardless, whether the big guy knew it or not, and not just to make sure they weren’t breaking any laws or doing anything the Avengers would have to step in for, either. The other reason he was keeping tabs on them was to make sure they stayed as far away from America, and Peter, as possible. It was one thing for Deadpool to go gallivanting off into the sunset after leaving Peter in a mess, but it would be another to return and do it all over again.
Because that was what Peter was. He was a mess. He’d spiralled into a depressed seclusion and refused to talk to anyone about it. Not his Aunt May, or any of his friends or colleagues at Stark Industries, certainly none of the Avengers, and it wasn’t like anyone could get a hold of Deadpool to ask him what had happened, nor did anyone particularly want to.
Peter had stopped visiting the Avengers tower for get togethers, even mission briefs, and the rumours among them had been circulating like wildfire.
“What Deadpool did to that kid has terrified him. Either it’s still giving him nightmares, or that asshole is threatening him.” Sam Wilson was grinding his teeth, after Peter had texted a solid can’t make it to Thor’s welcome back bash after being off world for the last few months.
“It’s not exactly like we’ve asked.” Steve pointed out, sipping a whisky that wasn’t going to affect him in any way. There was a murmur between the others, because he was right. No one had outright asked Peter what had happened, and it was because they didn’t want the answer. They didn’t want to have to make an enemy of Deadpool when the loud-mouthed murderer was finally out of their lives, seemingly for good this time.
They just hoped that Peter would get out of his funk soon and start living his life again.
…
Peter looked at the data entries in front of him and blinked his eyes, the numbers turning to a blur in his vision.
He’d been staring at them all afternoon, in his quiet lab in Stark Industries. This was one of Tony’s personal projects, perfecting a bug found in his nanotech research, and Peter had been given the unfortunate task of trolling through the data until he found what wasn’t working, and fix it. This felt entirely too much like his intern days, and not like he’d been on staff for years. He tapped something out on his keyboard before scratching the back of his neck. He was just itching to scale to the top of the tower and sit outside in the breeze for a while, to distract himself and to get rid of some of his pent-up energy.
“Knock-knock.” Peter looked up at the familiar voice to see Harry Osborn strutting into his lab like he was walking a runway. He was wearing a Prada suit with the buttons of his shirt undone, his hair coiffed perfectly and a smile on his face revealing perfectly straight teeth. Ever since the death of his father, Norman Osborn, Harry had taken over as the CEO of Oscorp, which was a direct rival to Stark Industries, and he rubbed his friendship with Peter in Stark’s face every chance he got. The other unfortunate thing about Norman’s death was that it had revealed to Harry that his father was the Green Goblin, and that his best friend was Spiderman. Harry had kept his secret from the world, but some days he tried harder than others. “Working harder, little Spider?”
“Harry!” Peter hissed. He knew the lab was empty, but still. “Why don’t you just announce it to the world?”
Harry smirked and stood behind Peter, gripping his shoulders and staring seriously at the lines of data on the screen in front of him. “Hmm. I’m no analytical expert, Pete, but I’m fairly sure those are numbers.”
“Fantastic work as usual, glad to see all the time I spent tutoring you in school didn’t go to waste.” Harry twirled Peter’s chair so he was facing the young CEO, who was beaming at him. “Who let you in? You know Stark will go crazy if he sees the competition witnessing his private data.”
“Would he believe I don’t understand any of it?”
“Easily.” Peter snorted.
“Well, then, what’s the fuss about? Officially, I’m not here at all.” Harry perched himself on the end of Peter’s desk. “You know, you could just come and work for me.”
“How many times do I have to say no?”
“Yeah, yeah. I know how loyal you are to Stark and how much you love being an Avenger.”
“I’m not an Avenger.” Peter certainly didn’t feel like one, especially not these days. “I mean, yeah, I still help them out, but I’m trying to stay closer to the ground.”
“I know, friendly neighbourhood Spiderman and all that.” Harry looked less than interested. “I’ve come for something fun. I’m throwing a party at Oscorp for my newest investment. Friday night, and you’re coming.”
“I can’t Friday.” Peter said without thinking, it was a knee jerk reaction now. “I, err, have dinner with May.”
“No, you don’t. Don’t lie to me, Parker.”
“I have a lot of work to do. You might not see how messed up this data is, but it is. It’s going to take me all weekend.”
“Peter.” Harry sing-songed. “You can’t sulk forever, which is why I have the perfect enticement for you.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
Harry’s grin could have reached the moon. “Otto Octavius is the guest of honour.”
Now that did pique Peter’s interest.
“Doctor Otto Octavius? The nuclear scientist?”
“The one and the same.”
“You’re kidding? I’ve studied his work my whole life. How did you get him to come to one of your parties?”
“Come along, and maybe you’ll find out.”
Peter’s excitement waned as he imagined standing in a room of people laughing and drinking while he was all alone and his smile dropped.
“Listen, Harry, I-”
“I’m not taking no for an answer, Pete.” Harry hopped off of the desk and clapped Peter on the back. “Every science-enthusiast worth a damn is interested in my new investment. It’ll be boring and stuffy and you’ll get to nerd-talk with your hero. What’s not to love?”
Peter couldn’t see a way to get out of this. He flexed his fingers.
“Fine, I’ll…”
“Yes! I’ll see you on Friday, 8pm sharp.” Harry was already heading for the door. “Wear a suit, and not the red and blue one.”
“Harry!”
“Gotta go! My driver is outside.”
Peter watched as his friend let himself out of his lab and left him to his own thoughts. He sat back in his chair and stared at his screen, wondering what had just happened.
Peter shut his laptop down a few hours later and left his lab to go home. He checked his phone on the subway and saw he had messages from Natasha asking him to swing by (hilarious, thanks Nat, he thought) downtown Queens because she had a tip off that an arms deal was planned there that night. He fired off a quick reply that he’d check it out, actually grateful for the opportunity to put his suit on and clear his head.
He spent all of five minutes in his apartment, dropping off his laptop bag and shedding his clothes. He caught himself in the mirror with just his underwear on and looked at his reflection for a moment.
He could hear May’s voice telling him he was too skinny, and the little dip under his ribs attested to that. His skin, still as milky white as it always had been, was home to faded scars from wounds he could track back to various fights in his life. The Green Goblin, the Chitauri, even just run of the mill stabbings from muggers when he’d been a teenager just discovering his powers, and before he’d met Tony Stark, when his suit had been less defensive against, well, knives.
He tilted his head and his bedroom light illuminated the thin scar running horizontally across the right side of his neck. He gulped. No amount of upturned collars could hide it forever, and suddenly growing his hair out and getting a predilection for turtlenecks would have drawn even more attention. There were only three people in the world who knew how he’d gotten that scar. Himself, Tony Stark, and…and Wade.
Peter’s eyes dropped from his reflection as he picked up the blue and red of his Spiderman suit and slipped it on over his frame, pulling his mask over his face and covering himself completely. Once upon a time, he’d designed this suit to protect his identity and somewhere along the way, it had turned into something to hide in.
He opened the window and sat on the ledge, letting the cool air wash over him for a moment before he shot a web out that wrapped around a nearby tree branch and launched himself into the air.
He swung downtown, enjoying the breeze and the exhilarating rush of adrenalin and freedom that never got old no matter how many times he did this. It cleared his head, and stopped him from being alone with his thoughts, which was a much-needed release.
He spotted the trucks about half a mile away. There were two of them, big, armoured machines that he imagined had once been used to transport cash through New York, but what the three men in black hoodies were loading into the back didn’t look like it had come from a bank. Big, heavy looking boxes were being passed from man to man, taken out of one truck and loaded into the other.
Peter came to stop on a nearby rooftop and crouched down, watching them.
“Hurry it up, man, we don’t have a lot of time.”
“Chill out, dude, this is the last box.” As if on cue, the man holding the box lifted the lid, showing the contents. Nestled inside was an array of guns and small explosives. Peter didn’t know where Nat gotten her intel from, but he was glad she did.
They closed the box and Peter stepped off of the roof, landing in a relaxed crouch right beside them. “Now I’m guessing you don’t have any official authority to be moving those.” He said conversationally.
“Holy shit!”
“It’s the fucking spider!”
“I told you to hurry up!”
“Relax.” Peter put his hands up, walking towards them. They all took a step back. “Look, I’m kind of tired, okay? Long day. So how about we do this the easy way where you guys all put your hands behind your heads and I call the police?”
The three men pulled handguns from their waistbands and pointed them at Peter. He sighed.
“Fine, we’ll do it the hard way.”
He shot a web out and yanked one of the guns away, it clattered somewhere behind him on the ground. The second gun man took a shot and the bullet bounced off of his side, the force of it sending him back a few paces with a pained grunt. He ducked as bullets sailed over his head and sprang up, landing a kick to the belly of the first gun man and sending him hurtling backwards. He hit the truck painfully and slid to the floor. He shot out a web from each arm and wrenched the remaining two guns away. The two men glanced at each other before they turned and began to run.
Peter rolled his eyes and shot another two webs out that hit the backs of their hoodies and yanked them back. He grunted when the movement made pain spark in his side where the bullet had hit him. He kicked out the legs of one of the gun men and sent him to the ground while the third yanked his hoodie off, along with Peter’s web, and attempted to flee again.
“Hey.” Peter gripped his forearm before he could get too far, twisting it behind his back and making the gun man gurgle. “That was pretty smart.” He kicked him in the small of his back and the gun man collapsed down, rolling over onto his back as Peter leant over him.
“Hmm.” Peter said quietly, stilling.
“W-what?” The gun man asked, fear in his voice. “You almost broke my arm!”
Deadpool’s logo was splashed across the assailants t shirt. The red and black staring up at Peter like it was mocking him. The assailant was also staring up at him in terrified confusion.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Are you going to eat me?”
“Do you work for X Force?” Peter asked softly.
“Who?”
“I said, do you work for X Force?” He curled his hand around the collar of the offending shirt and hauled the man up, who gave him a terrified squeak in return.
“N-no, man, never heard of them. My boss, he ain’t one of you, it’s just a small outfit. Gang violence downtown is getting out of control; we need to protect ourselves.”
He wasn’t wrong. Gang violence had indeed gotten worse in his hometown in the last few years, where May lived, and peddling guns and explosives was only going to exacerbate the problem. Peter’s expression was steel under his mask.
“Big Deadpool fan then, are you?”
The assailant’s eyes were wavering. Apparently, Peter’s repeated change of tact was doing as much damage to his brain as any punch would.
“Y-yeah, of course. Dudes like crime-Jesus.”
Peter had heard enough. He punched the jerk swiftly across the face and knocked him out cold, dropping him to the floor with his other criminal buddies. He went to the truck and opened it, there were boxes and boxes inside, all full of guns and weapons assholes like this planned to use to kill each other in downtown Queens. He scowled to himself, already planning to do more patrols in this area to stop it from happening. This was his home, and maybe he’d spent too much time with the Avengers so that these clowns thought it was unprotected. That changed today.
He called the police and sat on a nearby rooftop as the squad cars pulled in, including a bomb disposal unit, and watched them cuff the assailants on the ground, including the idiot in the Deadpool shirt.
Apparently, he couldn’t escape him anywhere.
He left soon after and swung back to his apartment. He was texting Nat before he’d even gotten out of his suit, telling her he’d found the deal and that he wanted tighter security around Queens, before he put his phone down and peeled his suit off.
As predicted, he had a large bruise forming down his ribs. The suit did wonders to stop him getting shot, but its shock absorbance wasn’t as effective. He hissed as he disrobed, another mark to add to his collection then, and took an awkward shower.
As the water dripped off of his nose, he couldn’t stop thinking about that Deadpool shirt. Of course, he knew Wade wouldn’t be involved in this kind of thing, it was just a piece of merchandise, but seeing someone who would hurt May with Wade’s logo splashed across him was bothering Peter. For more than one reason.
He turned off the shower and towelled himself down. He picked up his phone and stared down at it, ignoring the reply from Nat for the moment as he clicked on a number he hadn’t clicked on in a long time. He didn’t even know if it would still be in service.
The last batch of texts from six months ago were still there, and Peter’s stomach clenched so hard it hurt his bruised side.
Monday-16th
Peter: I’m going to be late tonight. I’ll pick up dinner? X
Wade: CHIMICHANGAS. Luv u xxxxx
Wednesday-18th
Peter: You’re scaring me. We need to talk x
Peter: Please x
Peter: You can’t do this, I forgive you, okay?
That was the last message, and since then, the text thread had been abandoned. Peter had stared at it many times before now, but he’d never gotten up the courage to send another one, but right now, he was having a moment of weakness.
Tuesday-3rd
Peter: Gangs in Queens wearing your logo.
Stopped who I could find and will keep an eye out for others.
Thought you’d like to know.
Peter threw the phone as soon as he’d finished sending the text, feeling like a teenage boy all over again. He shouldn’t have done that; it was too desperate. He knew he shouldn’t be in contact with Wade at all, but it was about work, right? And it wasn’t 'in contact' if he didn’t reply, which he wouldn’t, which also made it even worse.
His phone buzzed and he turned it over.
Wade: Thank u
Peter was going to hyperventilate. That was the first contact he’d had in months. He didn’t reply, even though he wanted to, instead he just tried to put it out of his mind and go to sleep. He achieved neither.
…
“Peter, you’re barely touching your food.”
“Sorry, Aunt May.” Peter apologised, making a show of shoving a roast potato in his mouth and chewing. “My mind was wandering.”
“I can see that.” May smiled at him, but the concern was evident in her eyes as Peter devoured his meal with less gusto than usual at the table.
“You look ever so handsome, sweetheart.”
“Oh, thank you.” Peter had worn the only suit he owned. It was a simple black tie, off the rack, nothing nearly as expensive as something Harry would have picked out for him.
“Do you have a date?” May sounded so hopeful Peter actually felt bad for having to shake his head no. May had been nothing but kind and accepting of his previous relationship, and while she didn’t push him, like the others did, he could see the sadness in her eyes and he made attempts to be jovial around her whenever he could.
“Harry is throwing a party tonight at Oscorp. He asked me to come by.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful.” May looked as pleased as she sounded. “Do give Harry my love, I haven’t seen him in far too long, though I suspect he’s a busy man now, looking after his father’s company, god rest his soul.”
Peter winced a little at the mention of Norman Osborn, and the strange mixture of guilt and relief he always felt when he thought of his death.
“Yeah, I will, Aunt May. He's kind of making me go.”
“As he should, dear. You can’t possibly spend all your time working, it’s not healthy.”
Peter neglected to mention that it was technically a business party, and he was going to meet one of his idols, not to get drunk and dance and hook up with anyone like he was a teenager. Not that he ever did any of that when he was a teenager, of course. He supposed that was because he was shy and nerdy, but also other teens weren’t discovering they had superpowers and trying to save the world.
“What about Mary-Jane?” Aunt May asked him. “Do you see much of her these days?”
“Not so much, we’re both busy, I guess.” Plus it’s awkward as hell to hang out with an ex.
“There was a time, not too long ago, where I thought you were going to get married.”
Peter winced. “That makes one of us, Aunt May.” His mind was unwittingly drawn to MJ, something else in his life he’d messed up, and he ran his hand through his hair.
“You’ll find the right person one day, sweetheart.”
Peter wanted the ground to swallow him up, and he also wanted at least one person in his life that wasn’t obsessed with getting him laid. He knew he’d pulled a wild card by dating Wade for two years and thrown everyone off of his scent, but he ardently wished that his friends and family would go back to treating him like the nerdy loser he’d always been that couldn’t pull anyone to save his life.
“Maybe you’ll meet someone tonight.”
Peter gripped his fork. He knew his Aunt meant well, so he took a small breath and smiled at her. “I’d joke to Harry about inviting Ryan Reynolds or Scarlett Johanson for me but he could probably pull it off.”
May laughed, and Peter laughed with her, and luckily for him, no more was said on the subject.
He kissed May goodbye after dessert and left the house he grew up in. He passed MJ’s house next door and saw her deadbeat father throwing something at the TV through the window, before he made his way to the subway.
His brain went back to his high school days. Hanging out with Harry, staring at MJ any second he could. He supposed he really was in love with her back then. Maybe, if he’d never been bitten by that spider, things would have been different. He would have plucked up the courage to ask her out and she would have said yes, they’d get married in college, maybe even have a kid or two now, with Aunt May and Uncle Ben and Harry dropping by for thanksgiving. He wouldn’t know Tony Stark, or Natasha, or anyone else. He’d work a quiet job, maybe he’d be a science teacher, and every morning at breakfast he’d read newspapers about superheroes and supervillains trying to kill each other and he’d cluck at the absurdity of it. He’d be happy, and every single person he’d saved since he’d been bitten would be dead.
He tried to get out of his fugue by the time he reached Oscorp. Harry wouldn’t appreciate him being down in the dumps in front of all of his important clients and business partners, and honestly Harry deserved more than that from him.
The auditorium to the expensive building was lit up when Peter arrived. He flattened his hair and checked his reflection in a nearby window, pulling his collar up to cover as much of his neck as possible. The bruise on his side was completely healed now, so at least he could walk in normally.
The large room was sufficiently dark, with low lighting and music playing. People in suits and dresses were standing around, holding glasses of champagne and talking to one another, waiters were carrying trays of drinks and canapes. Peter snagged the first glass he came across and sipped it. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but tonight he knew he needed it to get through.
Peter’s spider sense sparked and his eyes darted to his right just as Harry grabbed him and dragged him into a half hug. “Pete, you made it, was starting to think you were going to bail on me.”
Peter smiled shallowly at him. “Sorry, I was downtown. May sends her love.”
“Aw, I need to visit her soon, it’s been too long.”
“The party looks like a success.” Peter mused, looking around himself. He hardly recognised anyone in the sea of cocktail dresses and suits. Then he saw flaming red hair and Natasha smiled at him and waved him over.
“Wasn’t expecting to see you here, Peter.” She smirked at him.
“I got bullied into coming.”
“Yes, he did.” Harry beamed, but there was something icy in his voice. “I see Stark is bulldozing my guest of honour.”
“Are you kidding? They’ve been talking all night.”
Peter spied Tony a little way away, wearing a crisp black suit with a purple shirt that probably cost as much as this building. He was standing next to a man in a simple suit, a pair of glasses perched on his nose, who was nodding along to whatever Stark was saying.
“That’s Doctor Octavius!” Peter exclaimed.
“Sure is,” Harry said, “come on, let me introduce you.”
Harry looked more than happy to waltz over and break up the conversation between Stark and Octavius. Stark smirked at him and then his eyebrows raised when he saw Peter standing there, too. Peter fought off the uncomfortable urge to cover his neck with his hand.
“Hello, Peter.” Stark said.
“Hi, Mr. Stark.”
“Excellent work on the nanotech data, by the way. The bug is fixed now; I was just telling Otto all about you.”
“You must be the famous Peter Parker.” Otto smiled at him, extending his hand out for Peter to shake.
“Yes, this is my good friend, Peter.” Harry smiled, it was a little forceful, like he was trying to take back control of the conversation. “Peter, this is Dr Otto Octavius. My newest business venture.”
“Such a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Peter was actually blushing a little bit when he shook Otto’s hand. “I’ve been following your work all my life. I actually did my college essay on your research with fusion reactors.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind. Harry has been telling me all about his brilliant friend.” There was something mischievous in the way Otto smirked at Harry. “This is my beautiful wife, Rosie.”
“Nice to meet you.” A pretty, middle-aged woman shook his hand and Peter smiled at her.
“So, what are you working on, Peter?” Otto asked. “Mr Stark keeps his work close to his chest.”
“In front of the competition.” Stark’s gaze flicked to Harry, who grinned at him.
“Nanotechnology.” Peter said, ignoring his two friends competing with one another in favour of talking to one of the greatest scientific minds in the country. “It’s in its early stages yet but the possibilities are truly endless. It could improve defence and save lives.”
“If operated correctly.” Otto tacked on.
“Well, yes.” Peter nodded, fully aware he was stood in Oscorp, next to Norman Osborn’s son. “We can’t let a lack of integrity halt innovation.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Otto nodded. “Which is precisely why I’m so grateful to Harry for investing in my latest project.”
“Happy to, Otto.” Harry smiled. “This is big, it’s going to make us some serious money.”
“I don’t care about the money.” Otto said, while his wife took his arm and leant into it. “Everything we do in science must be about the good of mankind.”
“May I ask what it is you’re working on?” Peter asked politely, intrigued. “Fusion?”
“Oh yes.” Otto smirked at him. “I plan to create a sustained fusion reaction that will create renewable, clean energy.”
“It’s going to change the world.” Harry quipped.
“Yes.” Stark’s smile was strained with just a hint of jealousy. “So long as the good doctor here has worked out all the kinks.”
“I can assure you, Mr Stark, it is perfectly safe.”
“Couldn’t it be dangerous?” Peter asked, a slight frown on his brow. Theoretically, the concept was fascinating, but in reality, any consequences could be devastating. He was sure it was just his PTSD talking.
“Tell you what,” Otto said, “why don’t you all come to the demonstration next week? That way you can see for yourselves.”
“Really?” Peter asked, eyes bugging. “I’d love to.”
It wasn’t lost on his friends around him how quickly he’d accepted the invitation, when he’d turned them all down for most everything for the last six months.
“Absolutely.” Someone tapped Otto on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. “Ah, I’m wanted by a few benefactors. Lovely to meet you, gentlemen, come along next week, and bring dates!”
He departed with Rosie, leaving Harry, Stark and Peter standing there. Peter’s stomach dropped just a little bit at his departing remark.
“Will you bring a date?” Stark asked pointedly, sipping his champagne.
“I’m not seeing anyone.” Peter reminded him.
“And that, is where I come in.” Harry said, taking Peter by the arm and leading him away. “So good to see you, Stark, as always.”
Stark waved them off with a quirk of his eyebrow before he went off to find Natasha. As Harry weaved them through the crowd, Peter’s brain was sifting through everything he’d learned.
“Nuclear fusion, Harry, really?”
“I know, isn’t it cool?”
“Yeah, it’s cool, but it’s also dangerous.”
“Octavius is a genius, you’ve worshipped him for as long as I can remember, even Stark is threatened by him. Did you see his face? Classic.”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“You have a bad feeling about everything.” Harry reminded him. “Besides, the Avengers will be right there at the demo, so what’s to worry about?”
Before Peter could open his mouth to argue further, Harry had stopped them by a table of food and was getting the attention of someone standing there.
“Peter, I’d like to introduce you to Oliver Hatch. He’s the son of Sir Gregory Hatch, on the board of directors. Oliver, this is my friend Peter Parker, he works as an analyst for Stark Industries, and he’s the reason I got through high school science.”
“Hello.” Oliver said. Oliver was a big guy. He looked the English type who played Rugby at Eton College. He had blond hair neatly combed back, he was wearing a dinner jacket and smiling down at Peter. “Nice to meet you.” His crisp accent matched his face.
“Yeah, you too.” Peter wanted to throttle Harry.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Harry was smirking, and he clapped Peter on the back before disappearing off into the crowd.
“Are you having a nice night, Peter?” Oliver asked, slipping one hand in his pocket and sipping from his glass. He was gorgeous, even Peter couldn’t deny that.
“Yeah, thanks.” Peter smiled awkwardly. “I just met Doctor Octavius. He’s been a lifelong hero of mine.”
“Ah, that’s the nuclear guy, isn’t it?” Oliver smiled. “I’m not much into science myself, I just know Harry through Oscorp.”
Yes, he did seem exactly the type of guy to be friends with Harry. Beautiful, rich, connected, everything that Peter wasn’t.
“Yeah, it’s not for everyone.” Peter sipped his drink, unsure what to say. He knew Harry was trying to set him up. A part of him wanted a hole to open up in the ground and swallow him.
“Are you here with someone?” Oliver probed, and Peter briefly wondered if Harry had told Oliver what he was doing as well.
“Uh, no.” Peter said. “Not tonight. Uh, are you?”
“No, no.” Oliver gave him a smile. “I’m single.”
“Right.”
Across the room, Natasha and Harry were watching the exchange with furrowed brows.
“That looks like the single most awkward conversation I’ve ever seen.” Natasha mused.
“He just has to get back into the swing of things.” Harry said, although he didn’t sound completely convinced. “He’s rusty.”
“He’s scarred for life.” Natasha said. “Whatever happened with Deadpool messed him up. I don’t know if he’s ready to start dating again. Has he told you anything?”
“Nothing.” Harry suddenly sounded grim. “He clams up whenever I try and talk about Wade.”
“Don’t mention that name.” Stark joined them, and Natasha and Harry turned in surprise to his sharp remark. “The sooner Peter forgets about him, the easier it’ll be on all of us. Heads up.”
Harry turned to see Peter standing directly in front of him and jumped again, turning back to see Stark and Romanoff were gone, and cursing them.
“Harry, what the hell was that?”
“I’m trying to set you up with a cute guy.”
“I can see that. Why?”
“Because you moping around isn’t helping anyone, least of all yourself. I figured your taste in men was like, big and scary, and Oliver is both of those things, so…”
“For god’s sake, Harry.” Peter looked annoyed. “I don’t want to date anyone. Please don’t do that again.”
“Okay,” Harry said, acquiescing. “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to help.”
“I know.” Peter sighed, scratching his temple like a headache was forming. “He seems nice.”
“He is nice.” Harry smiled and nodded. “And he has a thing for nerds so…”
“Oh my god.”
Harry dragged him into a few more conversations with people he didn’t know, but everyone was talking about Octavius’ fusion reactor so he could easily give his input without too much awkwardness, even if seeing everyone standing around with their wives and husbands made him feel a little lonely, but there were plenty of people here without a date, Harry included, so Peter pushed the selfish thought out of his head.
He left after an hour, saying his goodbyes to Harry and thanking him for the invite, and agreeing to see him the coming week at Octavius’ demonstration. He wanted to get home before it got too late, mainly so he could go out on patrol and see if he could find any more members of that gang from the other evening. Something about what they said about increasing gang violence was putting him on edge. He kept thinking about Aunt May walking to the store and getting mugged or caught between something she didn’t need to.
“Hey, Peter.” Peter turned as he reached the auditorium, to see Oliver standing behind him, his cheeks a little rosier than when they’d spoken before. “Are you leaving?”
“Yeah.” Peter said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I have an early start tomorrow, but it was nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, you too, listen…” Oliver dug into his trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet, he slipped something white and slim from it and handed it to Peter. “Take my card, it has my phone number on it, maybe we could get together sometime? If you wanted? You can explain the fusion reactor to me.”
Peter stared down at the card, and the number, and thought of the nicest way he could turn this guy down. He seemed genuinely sweet, and Peter just didn’t have it in him tonight.
“Yeah, maybe.” He pocketed the card with a tired smile. “Thanks.”
“No worries,” Oliver smiled at him, already walking backwards towards the party. “See you around.” He said before he disappeared.
Fuck. Peter groaned to himself as he left Oscorp, shrugging off his suit jacket and letting the evening chill wash over him as he walked to the subway. He was exhausted. Maybe Oliver the Eton rugby player had a thing for trainwrecks.
