#slasherfics

[yeyinde]

IN YOUR ROOM  ⋮  THOMAS HEWITT | LEATHERFACE ☓ READER

and it's so cold it seems my hands

are colder than yours, warm me up inside

your face turns red and so does mine

and we climb all around

It was an accident, of course. He got a little too carried away last night. A little too lost in the haze of skin, and sweat, and sex.

As you stare at the bruise on your hips - in the perfect shape of his massive hand and long, thick fingers that smears across your hip bones and stretches all the way to your spine, the dip of your belly button - you can't stop that dark, gnarled thrill that coils, molten, in the pit of your abdomen at the sight of it.

Thomas would never intentionally hurt you.

But you can't help that little part of yourself that wants him to.

⤷tw: smut, light body worship, the slow and steady corruption of Thomas Hewitt (consensual), marking kink (explicit, giving and receiving), unfettered filth, size kink (explicit), more religious imagery in connection to sex (why is that a thing with me - it's anybody's guess), mentions of gore, death, and trauma (brief, mostly just in connection to the burgeoning relationship between MC and Thomas), just fluffy smut for the big boy whomst i adore (despite the fact that my writing sometimes makes him sound like bigfoot : just really big n’ hairy)

⤷notes: this was supposed to just be smut but it ended up kinda turning into more  ╮(. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)╭ so oops. 14k of smut and stuff - certainly not plot but… stuff.  this is somewhat of a continuation of my other TH x Reader fic, but it's very easily standalone. also, my thirst for Big, Hairy Belly Thomas is even more debauched than before. 

i also tried something different with my writing style. not entirely sure how it turned out but - here it is

Your hands run down your sides until you meet the first blackish smear staining your skin. The edges are a little jaundiced, casting a facsimile of a halo along the clean indigo lines that darken into a deep black at the jut of your hip bones, where his palms fit over the curve of your waist. Two lines jut out from the Rorschach smear, twisting up diagonal to your navel. 

Your eyes are drawn to them, pulled in like magnets. You can't stop staring at the marks on your body in the shape of his hands. 

You turn your torso, gazing at your back where a perfect impression of his four fingers sits on your iliac crest. The blood pools under your skin, turning the contusion a deep plum.

You turn back, fingers sliding over the darkest part of the bruise, nestled on the crux of your bone. It stings a little when you press your fingers into the skin, irritating the burst capillaries with your insistent prodding. 

You should leave it alone, let it heal. 

But you can't. 

You fit your hands over the flare of your hips, lining your palms up over the bruise. Your fingers curl over the jut of your pelvis, thumbs sliding back. You twist in the mirror once more, staring at the comparison.

The angle is off, but that doesn't matter: the bruise easily spills over your palms, even when you spread your fingers open. 

It doesn't fit. 

It doesn't even come close. 

(Thomas is massive. His palms swallow you whole.)

There are only a few inches between the dark juts his thumbs left behind. If he stretched out his fingers, you wonder if his hands would mould around your waist; thumbs touching below your naval, fingers meeting at your spine. 

The thought scorches through you with such a visceral sense of want, intrigue, that you're dizzy with the thrum of it buzzing in your veins. Your hand reaches out, palm resting flat on the mirror as you steady yourself. 

He'd have to squeeze you tight, wouldn't he? He could do it, you think, running your tongue across your dry lips. He's so strong. So massive.

He would never do it, though, would he? 

This, the blood pooling under your delicate, thin flesh, was a mistake. 

It was an accident, of course. He got a little too carried away last night. A little too lost in the haze of skin, and sweat, and sex. 

You slipped - a little too eager in your movements, a little too desperate - and Thomas was there, as always, to help you. His hands wrapped around your waist, keeping you steady, holding you as you bucked above him. 

He gripped you a little too tight, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to hurt when you begged him to go faster, his hips stuttering into yours with an almost fervid desperation that you matched with a delirious fever burning through your veins until a veil of white static blotted out your vision and you whispered psalms in his name.

(The thought of what caused these dark marks on your skin makes you smell the faint tinge of oil and gunpowder: acrid and metallic - the heady scent of iodine fills your nose when he leans in close, the sweat glistening on his dark, sunkissed skin-)

Your knees still feel wobbly, but you lift your arms over your head, stretching them languidly in the air, and watch - rapt, hungry - as the bruises dance in the mirror with your movements. They're mesmerising. 

As you stare at the bruise on your hips - in the perfect shape of his massive hand and long, thick fingers that smears across your hip bones and stretches all the way to your spine, the dip of your belly button - you can't stop that dark, gnarled thrill that coils, molten, in the pit of your abdomen at the sight of it. 

Thomas would never intentionally hurt you.

But you can't help that little part of yourself that wants him to.

………

Thomas is a wreck when he sees the contusions smeared on your skin. He whimpers, hands reaching out as if to touch you, but then they stop - like he's not allowed, not permitted. It's with a mournful whinge that he clenches his fists in the air before dropping his hands to his side in punishment. 

In his mind, he did the most unforgivable thing in the world. He hurt you. 

(And hurting you is something that should be punished.)

It, unfortunately, means that his version of self-flagellation extends to yourself as well because until the abrasions are entirely erased from your flesh, he won't touch you. Won't make any attempt to do so. He'll clench his fists by his side, mewl out sorrowful little whimpers, and twist away from you in his hasty escape to avoid hurting you again. 

You don't know how to tell him that without his hands on you, you might go mad. That your skin itches for the firm way he holds you close, safe and secure in his arms; that your body yearns for the rough scratch of his scarred palms and calloused fingers dragging over your flesh until you see Orion behind your eyelids. 

(And the press of them, then, burrowing into your flesh makes you see god.)

Thomas is contrite - practically vibrating with the tremors of his despair - and forlornly turns away from you each time you reach for him, trying to get him to see that you like his mark on your skin. Like the thrill of it all. The implication. 

It's stark against your body. The perfect impression of his hand branding your flesh. 

A symbolic rendering of everything that transpired between you, much like the blooms of red you nip across his broad chest and expansive back, up and down the column of his neck, his plush collarbones; little kiss marks you imbed into his pulpy flesh that are meant for your eyes alone. 

It's that greedy thing inside of you rearing up yet again. 

That gnashing, awful part of you - twisted and dark - that aches to have. To possess. You see the brands you decorate his skin with and know that they're yours and yours alone. No one else can see them. No one else can put them there. 

And no one else can take them away. 

(Not Hoyt. Not Monty.)

They're yours. 

And these - 

These are his.

His hands, his brand, his mark on your skin that stings when you twist your hips. A throbbing reminder of his presence etched into your flesh, deep enough to bruise your bone. You see them and feel fulfilled, nourished. You can't explain it - can't even begin to try - but it's there and it's his, and that alone makes your knee quiver and threaten to buckle under you.

You can't stop touching them, and in doing so, it keeps bringing them to Thomas' attention. 

Sorrow twists, gnarls across his brow. 

The tremble in his shoulders, the aching, choked wail caught in his throat when they turn the prettiest shade of amber and lilac you've ever seen, makes you wish you felt something other than absolute satisfaction at the sight of them. 

(And then rather doleful when they start to heal.)

The contusion fades. Skin healing into a flaxen hue as the damaged capillaries knit themselves back together.

He doesn't understand. He hurt you - unforgivable - and now he must repent for his sins, his transgressions. 

You let him sulk, let him take the time he needs until the bruises are gone and he doesn't feel the need to pull away from you in penitence. Give him space. Hide the marks from his guilt-filled gaze. 

And you plot. You plan. 

Because you will - you will - get his mark on your body once again, and for as much as he bows his head in contrition, you can see that gnarled thing lurking in his eyes, the same shade of possession as the one reflected in yours.

(A matching pair.)

You just need to warm him up to the idea until he appreciates them just as much as you do.

………

It takes him three weeks before the heavy weight of compunction dissipates from his shoulders, and the glaze of remorse and self-condemnation fades from his eyes when he gazes at you. 

It takes another week before he touches you. 

You're starved. Famished. 

There is an unsatiated desire deep in your marrow that begs for his touch, that yearns for the feeling of his skin on yours. The want batters against your ribcage - an anvil clattering into your bones without respite, reverberating through your body until you're quaking with the aftershocks of a need so unrelentingly deep and consuming, that you sway on your feet from the intensity of it all.

When the first touch comes, it almost blisters your skin, razing across your body until you tremble. 

The first brush is accidental. 

He comes to bed, shoulders slumped and bone weary from unfettered exhaustion that bleeds into his marrow. Today was hot, busy, and you can see the aftermath of his hard work draped over his sagging shoulders. 

He looks like he might fall asleep on his feet where he stands, and you can see just how lost, how tired, and how out of it he is when he doesn't even hesitate before he drops on the mattress, his back to you. 

You roll a little toward him when he drops, the bed dipping under his bulk, sliding you forward. You don't touch him (not yet); you just wait. And watch. 

Thomas folds his hands between his massive thighs. His head drops, bowing down, and he rests for a moment, catching his breath. 

He bends down when he starts to list, jerking awake before he tumbles off the mattress, and reaches for his shoes, his shaggy brown curls bouncing in a way that makes your fingers itch - and starts unlacing his boots. The mechanical way he moves, the ragged, even breaths he takes, all give you an idea of how truly fatigued Thomas is.

His hair is a little greasy around the roots. His once white shirt is stained yellow and dirty from grime and sweat. He's so exhausted, he stumbled up to bed without even showering. You can smell the thick humus scent on his skin; the salt, sweat, and the pungent tang of copper when he moves. It's a heady cocktail that has you licking your lips, salivating for a taste. 

But - 

Not yet. 

The boots are shoved to the side. His elbows rest on his thighs, hands slung loosely between his legs. The deep, rough way he heaves makes your heart twinge. 

Poor baby, you think, pouting at his back. So tired. So sleepy. 

You sit up, and the gentle jostle of the bed makes him turn his head glancing over his shoulder at you in question.

You won't touch him even though your palm aches. 

Instead, you make a soft noise in the back of your throat. It's full of palpable pity. The taste of it saturates your words when you say, "come lay down, baby."

His head lifts at the pet name; shoulders trembling from the way your saccharine voice curls over the word. His next breath shutters out of him, shoulders falling in a huff. 

He relaxes when you speak. You can see it by the way his spine liquefies; the tension easing from his body on his next exhale. 

Thomas shifts on the bed. It dips down as he pulls himself up, and lays back on the pillow, sighing deep. His frame melts with his next breath; legs spread akimbo.

He's too exhausted to shuffle to the very edge like he'd done the past several weeks, too afraid to touch you, to hurt you again. 

You lean up, elbow resting on the pillow with your chin tucked against your knuckles, and you watch him. Watch as his eyes flutter, and his chest heaves.  He'll be out in a few minutes. You can see him struggling against the fatigue that drenches itself across his brow. 

You settle in as close as you can. The small movements you make cause him to jerk, to snort awake. He glances at you, making a soft groaning sound under his breath. 

"It's okay," you murmur, soft and soothing. 

His head lulls when you speak, facing you. He tries to keep his eyes open, blinking slowly, languidly. His breath is even, deep. 

It's then, in his exhaustion, that he forgets his silent pact to himself. His arms splay out, brushing over yours.

The first touch in nearly a month. It almost makes you whimper. 

Goosebumps erupt across your skin. Your body is candescent when his arm grazes your flesh. The hair dusting his arm is matted with dirt and dried sweat, but the feeling of his tacky skin makes your stomach flutter. 

It's an accident, of course. His self-condemnation isn't over. But it's a start. 

You take the opportunity to slowly inch closer to him. His fatigued state allows it with nothing more than a slight tremor of his eyelids when you move. Your hand slides over his forearm, the barest ghost of a touch skirting over the tangled, coarse hair. His skin is so warm. He burns hot, flesh nearly rutilant with the constant heat rushing through his veins. 

Your eternal furnace. Burning lucent and fervid just for you. 

A soft snort is the only sound he makes when you brush over his chest. He shudders when your fingers splay wide over his pectoral; the centre of your palm perfectly matched with the steady, low thrum of his heart. 

You wriggle closer until your chest brushes his arm, and then relax, melting into his side. Your nose nuzzles across the thick bulk of his shoulder, breathing in the astringent tang of dried sweat. The scent is as comforting as it is intoxicating. You sigh, spreading your arm further across his broad chest until you can't anymore, knuckles grazing his ribs.

His arm twitches, and he slowly, carefully, slides it under your body, wrapping it around your back. He tucks you close to his side, where you belong and breathes into your crown. 

He must be starved for it, too, you think, when his fingers dance across your spine, brushing over each knob of your vertebrae; carefully stroking up and down as if he can't get enough of your flesh on the pads of his fingers. 

"I missed this," you murmur, watching the chest hair that peeks out through his loosely buttoned shirt flutter in the breeze your breath creates. 

It's enough for now. 

Thomas eases into you slowly, slowly, and then all at once.

His massive body twists, and then you're under him. Bracketed by the shadow his bulk casts over you. Your Cimmerian god: looming over you in all his sleepy, dazed slumber. 

Thomas pulls his arm out from under your shoulder, resting on the pillow above your head. The dip it makes angles your chin up, and he shivers when your tongue snakes out, running over your bottom lip. 

There is only a brief hesitation from him, and then your cheek and chin are being cupped in his scorching palm. His legs tangle with yours before he rises, lifting himself further up.

It's incredible how deft he is, how spatially aware of his body he always is, considering just how vast it truly is. Thomas is incredibly dexterous. He moves fluidly; liquid. A nimble wave arching over you, brushing over you like you're something fragile, worth protecting. 

His belly rests over yours, swallowing your torso whole. You shiver at the doughy soft feeling of it falling on you, weighing you down.

He doesn't do anything else. He just stares at you. His thumb brushes your eyelids, underneath your eye, your cheekbones, your cheek, your chin, your jaw, and back up again. Roving across your skin like he can't quite get enough of it. Eager. Hungry.

Your breath stutters. Eyes fluttering when his nail skims the underside of your lashes. They stay lidded, heavy with want, when he pulls away, and you gaze up at him with nothing short of pure longing. 

He's starved you for so long. 

Your legs spread, hands reaching up to tug at the strings on his mask, wanting - needing - his mouth on yours. You hear the click in his throat when he swallows. His shoulders rise, hunching up to his chin, but he doesn't stop you. He lets you pull on the strings, trembling when your legs wrap around his, your ankles crossing over the backs of his thighs.

Your hands are greedy when you tug him closer, slipping the leather off his face, and tossing it somewhere beside you.

Bared to you, he tenses. His shoulders coil. 

You hear another thick swallow when your hands slide up his massive, bulging arms, fingers squeezing the plush flesh around his shoulders, and then slowly sink your hands into his hair. 

He doesn't let you move your head off the pillow when your urgent hands begin tugging him closer. He leans down, more of his weight falling over your body in a way that makes you gasp and your toes curl in delight when his soft belly falls against you. 

The first kiss is tentative. Almost shy. He brushes his lips over yours - not really kissing, just a soft graze - and his mouth quivers, trembling over yours. It's not enough - 

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and you pull him down, moulding your lips to his with an almost delirious need to taste him. Your legs lock around him, rocking his body into yours as you pull him closer. 

There is too much distance between your bodies, it feels like a cold, vapid chasm, and you want to fuse your atoms together until the idea of space and separation ceases to exist in the tangle of your limbs. Two symbiotic entities moulded into one. 

Thomas grunts, the sound vibrating over your mouth, and he hastily adjusts himself, trying not to crush you under his weight. It makes you pout into the kiss, vocalising your displeasure with a soft mewl of frustration. 

You want to be crushed under his bulk. You want to feel the full press of his belly on yours, his chest, his mouth - 

You want it all. 

Thomas is unmovable. A mountain. He doesn't yield under your desperate pulls, but he knows - he knows - he can't deny you forever. Something, eventually, will have to give. 

(And that something is often him.)

Thomas, always so giving, acquiesces to your squirming demands. 

He lowers himself, letting his chest rest on yours, and you nearly choke on the gasp that leaves you, breathless and wanting, when the full bulk of his body lays over you. His belly spills across your torso, his chest is so big, that it feels as if two of you could fit inside his ribs. 

(You think you'd give anything to chisel a spot inside of his chest cavity where you can hide inside of him forever.)

Your legs barely make it around his waist, stretched so wide that the inner crease of your hips where your pelvis meets begins to ache from the strain of trying to keep your ankles together to nudge him closer.

The feeling of being trapped under his bulk is the closest you'll ever come to heaven. 

But -

"Wait…" you murmur into his chin, pressing a kiss to his thundering pulse. "I wanna make you feel good Thomas."

He groans low in his throat, the noise vibrating over your lips. 

"Yeah…" you whisper, a touch breathless when he raises himself up, still towering over you. Your hands cup his jaw. "You're so tired, baby… I'll make you feel so good."

You can see the lilt of excitement brimming in his smouldering gaze when he finally meets your eyes. Slowly, he nods, another grumble erupting from the depths of his chest, and sits up on his haunches, watching with lidded eyes as you shuffle out of the way to give him more room to lay down. He's tired, a touch clumsy, but he settles, supine, on the mattress. 

The way his body stretches out before you feels a little bit like a feast. 

Your teeth ache with the urge to sink them into his flesh when he prostrates himself like this. It's all for you. All yours. 

Your hands drop to his chest, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt (suspenders dropped, already, by the door of the bedroom, forgotten in his haste to sleep), and you lean up, straddling his massive thigh as you take the chance to tower over him. 

It's hard not to feel a little drunk off of the visceral feeling of accomplishment, of conquest, this position affords you. Almost dizzy with the sense of victory you feel when you perch yourself above him like this, because Thomas is strength personified. Raw power draped in flesh and bone. Your own Hercules. 

And being so tall above him like this, with his thigh so wide, so hard and unyielding, between your legs, feels a little bit like you're sitting on a throne. 

His shoulders lift when your hands tug on the fabric keeping his expansive chest and soft belly from your eager gaze, and you hastily pull the shirt off of him, sighing in nothing short of satisfaction when you run your hands from his broad shoulders, down his pectorals, over his budding nipples, and letting them rest on the tumid swell where his belly curves up. Running your fingers through the coarse, black hair on his chest, you lean back, and just - 

Devour. 

You eat him alive. 

The fire in your eyes makes him sweat. He whimpers under you, chest heaving as your gaze flickers down his body, eagerly taking in the delicious spread of roseate that flushes down his cheeks, his neck, his chest. It makes you pant. Makes you mewl. Your nails dig into the soft, plush flesh where his waist meets the swell of his belly. 

"God, baby-," you breathe, voice drenched in thick, palpable want as your eyes raze across his exposed flesh. "You're amazing. You look so good-"

His cock twitches against the side of your thigh at the ache in your voice; the praise that drips, dulcet and seeped in reverence, from your lips. Thomas shivers, letting out another whimper when you shift, rocking over him. 

Seeing him like this, hands trembling, stuttering, like he wants to touch you, but isn't sure how, if he's allowed. It's that juxtaposition between his indomitable, formidable size, and this - 

Soft. Gentle. 

It's almost funny, you think, how everyone went out of their way to warn you that Thomas wouldn't hurt you. 

("He's a gentle giant," Luda Mae says at dinner. She slowly, slowly, warmed to the idea of permanence between you and Thomas. "He won't hurt'cha. And he'll hurt anyone who does."

Her eyes stray from yours, that soft, motherly sheen fading from her gaze as she glances at Monty - "what?" he snaps, shaking his head: "I want no part of this," - and then pointedly at Hoyt where her poignant glare sharpens. 

Hoyt sucks on his tobacco, smacking his lips. "I ain't meddlin' in this," he spits his dip into the cup beside his elbow. "'Sides, I'm proud of my nephew here for snaggin' a good one."

He claps Thomas on the shoulder, and you quickly shove the piece of cornbread into your mouth to stop the blossoming grin from spreading across your face when he flinches. The spot Hoyt slaps is the same place you sunk your teeth into last night.

Thomas frets when you glance at him, the sultry triumph in your gaze hidden by the bread in your hand.

You thought, then, that perhaps they should be warning Thomas about you.)

It's strange.

You grab his wrists, stalling the unsure fretting motion, and pull them to the hem of your shirt, slipping them under the fabric. He shudders when his hands brush over your blazing skin, and you wonder if anyone warned him about girls like you, ones with insatiable appetites and a burning desire to consume every inch of him. 

(Luda Mae probably did. Hoyt, too. 

But he'll never tell them - not when bad little harlots like you have nirvana nestled in the junction of your thighs - and stroke his skin with absolute reverence.

Your little secret, then.)

The shirt is stripped off your body, leaving nothing covering you (another little surprise for him).

Thomas' mouth parts at the sight of your nude form resting above him, his tongue sweeping out to wet his lower lip as he gazes at you - at the swell of your breasts, the curve of your waist - and rests on the apex of your thighs, spread to accommodate his thick knee between them. His chest heaves at the sight; cheeks burning a bright vermillion at the way you grind your unclothed sex on his thigh. 

Thomas has a way of making you see the cosmos behind your eyelids when he stares at you like this - like you're a god meant be worshipped with the universe buzzing through your veins and the taste of nebula on your tongue, and he's a lowly mortal man who isn't allowed to look, let alone touch. You feel the well of that blistering want, that aching need, settle low in the pit of your stomach, where his eyes keep darting to, hungrily devouring the way you perch yourself on his knee, then hurriedly looking away like the sight alone is blasphemous and he's about to smited just for sneaking a peek. 

A man this indomitable, this imposing, has no right being this cute. 

Affection cudgels into your chest at the nervous, rapturous, way he looks at you still, despite the vast amount of sermons you whispered into his flesh. He looks at you like you're too good for him, too good to be true. His hands quiver as if he's waiting for permission to touch you - as if you'd ever deny him the pleasure of your flesh, or the nirvana of his skin grazing your body. 

Sometimes, though, he looks at you with scepticism drenching his brow, wariness pulling his jaw taut, as if he doesn't quite believe you're real. That your want, your ardour, is genuine. It breaks you each time you see it.

How he could ever think that the maelstrom brewing inside of you, festering like a sickness, an addiction, for his flesh, his body, his love, him, isn't real, isn't true, the most absurd enigma to you. 

Nothing, not even the threat of death hanging over you like a noose, could have kept this man from your greedy hands.

Hoyt likes to throw around ugly words, hissing into Thomas' ear when he thinks you aren't around to hear them. Things like usin' him to survive, or comin' between the family, or girls like that don't love boys like you. It sets your teeth on edge. 

(The first time you heard it, you threw a punch that knocked out the false teeth in his mouth and spat, what? Mad I didn't pick you, you ugly prick? 

You then sobbed into Thomas' chest as he crooned softly in your ear. Don't believe him, you pleaded. I'm not going anywhere that isn't with you.)

Thomas never assented to your words. He hummed and pat your crown as you blubbered out your love for him by soaking his apron, but even now, even today, he still hasn't shown the slightest acquiesce that he believes the tender words you utter.

It's not that he doesn't love you - he does, wholly: you know this because of the reverence in his touch, the rapture in his gaze - but he takes Hoyt's word as gospel, so when he says, you'll see, boy, one day she'll try an' escape from ya', 'cause the only thing keepin' 'er here is self-preservation, so you might as well get yer fill of the bitch, Thomas waits with bated breath for that day to come. 

It's aggravating. 

It prickles under your skin when you murmur your love for him into his flesh and you see the flicker of incredulity, disbelief, that swarms the thin tendril of happiness at your asseveration, snuffing that little ember out before it can flare to life. 

Maybe that's why you're so insistent on branding yourself with his mark. 

But no -

The thrill you get at the sight of them on your skin isn't borne from desperation, but triumph. That carnal gnashing inside of you preens at the way they decorate your body. They're mesmerising. You can't get enough. 

And you want him to want them, too. You want him to be comfortable enough to press his fingers into the knob of your bones, to break the vessels apart and mark you for the world to see. 

(If he didn't want it - if there wasn't that flash of pleasure in his eyes before compunction swallowed it whole - then you wouldn't push. That haunting, burning look, however, says he does, and you're more than willing to give in to the debauchery swelling inside your chest.

For not you, then for him as well.)

"Love you," you whisper, hands roaming across his chest, feeling the rise and fall beneath your palms. The heat of him bleeds into your skin. "More than anything,-" there is that unfettered adoration, the loose curl of bliss, and then it's swallowed by disbelief. 

You breathe out through your nose, your hands curling around his arms, and you tug his hands back on your body. You settle one on your waist, right in the spot he marked before, and pull the other to that aching spot between your thighs, shivering at the rough, warm way his fingers glide over your dewy flesh. 

You toss your head back, lifting your hips to let his fingers slip across your wet, aching skin. 

And really - 

You're ready. 

While Thomas worked hard all day, you rolled around the sheets with your hands between your thighs, Thomas' name on your lips, and Antares behind your eyes - all in preparation for tonight. 

("Lazy bum," Luda Mae called out when you failed to show up for breakfast and lunch, her insistent knocks on the thick wood going ignored.

You huffed, then, rolling onto your belly with your head nestled in the crook of your arm, and you glanced at the glossy sheen of your efforts smeared across your fingers. Kicking your feet in the air behind you, you counted down the hours until Thomas would finally join you in the tousled sheets that smelled of your skin and sex. 

Hardly, you thought when she huffed. I'm working overtime.)

He'd starved you with his contrition. His remorse deprived you of the solid feel of his body on yours, the taste of his flesh on your tongue - 

And you want it. Need it. 

He's a banquet spread out beneath you, and you're starved. Ravenous. 

Thomas rumbles when you roll your hips against his palm - the width the size of a bough, and the thought alone is enough to douse your nerve endings in battery acid - and the sound punctures your chest, sending liquid want to the junction of your thighs. 

"Want you so bad," you keen, the litany rolling off of your tongue as his fingers brush across the wet mess there just for him. "Need you, Thomas-"

He grunts, hips canting into the soft give of your thigh, and you glance down, licking your lips at the wet spot gathering at the turgid bulge in his trousers. Your belly flames with liquid heat. Desperate, you reach down, tugging at his pants. 

Thomas flushes bright when you pull his trousers down, his cock springing free.

He's already hard and leaking, prespend budding on the bulbous mushroomed head. It dribbles down his frenulum, the droplets leaking a viscid smear of milky white down his swollen flesh. 

Seeing his cock always fills your belly with molten heat. It pools there, making you throb with an achy want, a desperate need to be filled. His cock is big - dauntingly so - and wide. His girth alone is the same width as your wrist. It's fat, thick. 

Perfect. 

You didn't know the meaning of size queen until your torturous little wiggles on his lap made his cock twitch, stirring in interest as you squirmed against him. 

When you first saw it - when it became clear to you that he was absurdly proportional - it knocked the air from your lungs like a vacuum, leaking gasping for breath. Thick, was the first thought; the second, holy shit there is no way that's going to fit inside of me.

It did. It does. But after seeing his flushed cock so many times, it still brings about that same tendril of trepidation inside of you. 

His length is partially concealed by the softness around his pelvis, pillowing the base of his cock in doughy flesh and a thick bed of black curls, and a part of you is a little thankful for it, really. His thickness alone is enough to test your mettle - anything more and you might just burst. 

You reach down, fingers ghosting across the side of his cock. The soft brush makes his body twitch, and his cock jerk in your hold, spitting more pre-cum that drips down the length of him, pooling at the base. Thomas lets out a small moan, head tipping back as your thumb rubs his frenulum until his thighs are shaking. 

Thomas is always so vocal in bed, so expressive. Sensitive. Your gaze alone has him panting; your touch has him groaning. It's barely more than a whisper, and yet - his breath shudders as if he's already on the brink of overstimulation. 

Even now, after spending the better part of a year acquainting yourself with his body until you mapped every inch, every spot that made his head fall back, his breath stutter, and his big hands grip the sheets as he groaned and bucked into your touch, he still reacts like it's the first time, the first night, all over again. 

His inexperience surprised you a little. 

Thomas is astronomical in comparison to most grown men - both in height and bulk - and the sight of him, this mountain of a man, barrelling toward you with a chainsaw in his grip and the decaying skin of another man on his face, is enough to send even the most hardened, resolute fighter to their needs in abject terror.   

Still: Thomas isn't unattractive. 

Scary at first, especially when he's bounding toward you (defying established laws of physics all the while), but you've seen the photos Luda Mae dug out. He was handsome when he was younger. Is still handsome, even with the old leather mask covering his lower face. 

It might be a small stain in the middle of nowhere Texas, but surely there were people willing to drag him behind a hay bale and kiss him senseless. Maybe not now, when the town has dried up into nothing but a gas station and a homicidal, cannibalistic Sheriff, but certainly before. 

Though - snippets of conversations, words uttered in passing, all swim to the forefront of your mind. Luda Mae said he was teased - ridiculed for his skin diseased, his deformity. Mocked for his weight. The pictures you saw show a healthy, stocky boy with full lips and a scarred nose. Maybe he had a little bit extra around his stomach, a bit more fat under his chin, but nothing in those photos made you think hideous or ugly.

The teasing was relentless, they said. Hoyt said you were using him, implying that your love could never be genuine, and not only because of the circumstances pressing down on you, but because of his looks.

Thomas scared you once, and only once. Hiding under a rotted car while your friends bellowed in pain, his massive boot fell inches from your hiding spot. The impact of his footsteps shook the ground you cowered on, and you felt fear for the first time in your life when his hands fell to his side, one wrapped loosely around the handle of a bloodied, gore-covered chainsaw. 

Terror, unlike anything you've ever felt, pooled in your bones until your teeth chattered from the absolute horror that burrowed inside of you. 

And then, like the coruscating crest of the ocherous sun breaking through the tenebrous squall over the mountains, you glanced up at this indomitable being before you. The hazy glow of the sun cast a ring around his head, and the sheer bulk of him felt neverending. 

Fear rushed out of you quite quickly after that. 

In its place, sat a most inadvisable sense of intrigue. They really didn't make them like that back home. 

You tried to humanise yourself to him - telling him about your life, your likes, dislikes - while he chased you around the field, wielding his chainsaw around like a shield to keep the words you uttered, voice shaking in fear, from getting to him. He was driven by a command. Moving on instinct and some proxy of cultivated aggression toward your kind: outsiders. 

It was a long game of cat and mouse. Of hide and seek. 

Looking back on it now, it felt a little bit like a lurid courting session with you as the purser. The chaser. 

Each time he got close, you managed to skirt away, yelling out a question about him, his life. That - the interest in him - seemed to rattle him more than your pathetic pleads about your family, your friends.

You blew him a kiss on the rafters of the old, decrepit husbandry facility, and he stumbled. 

The chase came to an end when he cornered you in the freezer. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, you knew it was over. 

With the blade roaring at you, death bearing down upon you, you didn't beg for your life. For clemency. 

Maybe it was adrenaline from the chase, from the prospect of an awful, gory demise, but instead, you asked him for one thing before he killed you: 

A kiss. 

He jerked back, eyes blinking through the droplets of sweat that ran down his brow in rivets, and at the unfathomable request. 

It was a cacoethes, you're sure. 

It jarred him. He stood there, expansive chest heaving from the chase, the swelter of the mid-August heat, and did nothing. The chainsaw rumbled in his hands, idling in front of him like a bulwark. His wide, wild, eyes never strayed from you, but you don't think he was even seeing you at that point - his mind muddled by the strange, unfathomable supplication you uttered, and the aberrant chase that ensued. 

You didn't move - couldn't, really; not with the chainsaw so close to your jaw that you could feel the air pulsing across your skin from the centrifugal motion - and just watched him. Watched as his expression vacillated between several different emotions: disbelief, suspicion, anger before stuttering over two  - curiosity. Embarrassment. It bled into wonderment. 

Then anger again. 

The chainsaw raised. 

"Come on, big boy," you swallowed thickly, fear bludgeoning into your chest, but you didn't look down, didn't glance at the chainsaw. Your eyes are only for him. "You're not gonna at least fulfil my dying request?"

His arms tense. The chainsaw pitches forward.

"I really wish we met under different circumstances - maybe at a bar. I'd buy you a drink. Dance with you. I'd like to take you to dinner. A movie. Maybe go down to the drive-in and share a sundae." Your breath stutters out of your chest, but you push through it. "I think you're really handsome," - your words make him flinch, make his shoulders bunch up, muscles coiling in a way that has your mouth watering. "It's a shame it has to end like this. But won't you at least let me have a little kiss? You're gonna kill me, anyway, so why not let me pretend we're on the beach sharing a margarita before you do it?"

The chainsaw cuts off abruptly, and the silence that fills the room is oppressive and heavy. It almost feels more deafening than the roar of the saw. 

He stands in front of you, heaving. Suspicion fills the divot between his brows, and he glares at you with bitter contempt bleeding into his narrowed eyes. 

Your hands raise, placating. In surrender. His eyes dart to your empty hands, then back to you. He tugs on the cord of the saw in warning. 

"I have no weapons," you breathe out, offering a smile that feels a little too dreamy, a little too serene for the horror that encapsulates you now. "I'm completely trapped. I can't fight you off - you're too-," you trail off, licking your lips as you take in the sight of him standing over you like a skyscraper; a mountain. The open, honest want in your gaze seems to bludgeon into him, and he takes a shuddering breath, eyes skirting to the end of the hallway. "Y-you're too big." 

His gaze feels weighed, heavy, when it cuts back to you. 

"I can't get away, and I'm not trying to." 

It feels a little silly to admit to your own weakness in front of a predator, but - fuck. You really want a taste. Something inside of you must have broken when you watched this monster of a man carve open your friends, and then turn toward you with a deadly determination set on his brow. 

"I just… I'm gonna die, anyway, so… I just want a kiss. I'll close my eyes, pretend we're somewhere nice, and then you-," death by chainsaw sounds absolutely excruciating, and panic wells inside your throat. You don't want to die. You don't want to, but - what other option is there? You choke on a sob, offering a watery smile at the man you're more than a little smitten with despite his wanting to murder you in a more gruesome way. "You can do whatever it is you're going to do… sound fair?" 

His expansive chest rises and falls in quick succession. He lifts the chainsaw again, and you squeeze your eyes closed, unable to watch the blade tear into your flesh, trembling in front of him. 

"If not you're not going to give me a kiss-," you choke again, tears leaking down your cheeks. "At least make it quick."

The awful revving never comes. 

Death never happens. 

The blade is tacky with blood and pulpy from the gnarled remains of your friends, but when it touches your cheek, it feels like a twisted parody of a caress. Viscera smears across your face when he draws the chainsaw back, and you crack open your bleary eyes to stare at him, blinking through the sheen of tears and sweat and grime (and now gore) that clings to you. 

It's then that you see it. When he turns his head, ducking his chin to avoid your stare, you can't help but notice how red his ears are. 

Sunburn. The heat. Blood. There are a number of reasons why the tips of his ears are stained that particular shade of roseate. 

It's the coalescence, then, of his deep, gasping breath. The way his eyes seem to dance around the room, looking at everything but at you, and the way his hands tremble on the chainsaw. 

He's almost timorous in the way he moves. Shy. 

It makes your hunger grow. Cute, you think, swiping your tongue across the salt that gathered on your lips. He's cute. 

The contrast makes you sway. How could a man so imposing, so inherently terrifying, be this adorable?

You ask him. The words are tremorous with the abrupt crash of adrenaline, the unignorable threat of death hanging over you, and the rapid thunder of your heart that reverberates through your body.

"How are you so-," his chin jerks toward you, and he flinches, tensing. Like he's waiting for scorn. Ridicule. Threats of death and curses hissed at him. "So cute?"

You think you broke him, then, with that simple word. It hardly was enough to sum up what you thought of him - endearing, adorable, massive, attractive, handsome, deadly, protector, predator - but it felt right when it slipped from your tacky lips, hanging in the stifling atmosphere between you. 

Thomas - 

Well. Shattered, you think, when you called him that. You tipped his world on its axis in the same way he threw you into this strange space of wanting, yearning, for a predator who tried to gut you with a chainsaw and rubbed your cheek in the gore left behind by the only people who mattered to you. Strange. 

The world as you knew it was split apart at the seams in the midst of a growing paradox where you believed, quite suddenly, in the fantastical idea of soulmates and love at first sight.

Everything ceased to matter except the way your heart ached for something you couldn't understand. 

You sometimes wonder if it was fate that brought you together. Or if it was the trauma that made you see this hulking beast of a man who partook in the unfathomable slaughter of other people and consumed their flesh, viewing everyone who wasn't family as cattle, as someone you wanted in a protective guise of survival and self-preservation. 

There really isn't any explanation for this - you, Thomas, and all of the things that unfolded in the aftermath of a brutally humid day in a place where hell dug itself up from the depths and saturated the landscape with its macabre, horrific machinations - but:

You can't really be bothered to care. 

You can understand why people might fear him, but then it dissolves into nothing, into this confounding thing, because how? How could they when he looks so sweet?

"You're perfect," you say, your hand sliding down his hot, throbbing flesh. "You're amazing. Wonderful-," he keens low in his throat at the duality of your words - the bare sincerity in the way the litany spills from your lips - and the careful way you touch him, bringing him nothing but white-hot pleasure. "-Amazing. I don't know what I'd do without you, Thomas."

His hips stutter, more prespend leaking across your knuckles as you pump his cock in a slow, steady caress. 

The bright flush on his cheeks makes your teeth ache. You want him. Always. Always - 

His fingers slip away from you, and his hand - wet with your excitement, your want - grasp at your hip desperately. 

His hips lift off the bed, canting into the clench of your fist, and he very nearly bucks you off with his insistent thrusts, but his hand squeezes your flesh, steadying you. 

You tremble. The heat of his palm sears into you, the clench makes your bone ache.

"I'd do anything for you," you whisper, words drenched in reverence as his eyes beg you for more. 

Thomas shudders, a little whimper slipping past when you drag your hand up the full length of him, feeling his thick heft in your palm. He chokes on his whimper when your thumb rubs across his frenulum, stroking the sensitive skin until his cock weeps and his hips jerk into you. 

His wide, feverish eyes bore into you; a silent plea for more, and you can never deny him. Not when he looks like this spread out below you: eyes delirious with want, his cock twitching pre-cum down the length of him, belly smeared with the milky release. 

Your fingers tease the soft head of his cock, watching as bliss shutters across his face. His mouth drops open, chest heaves with his deep breaths - it's all so addicting. You could stare at Thomas in bliss for aeons, but it's his eyes that ensnare you. The way his lids flutter closed, only spring open when you squeeze his cock. 

"You look so good, baby," you mewl, rocking your hips against his thigh when he pants into the balmy air. 

He shivers when you pull your hand away from him, eyes opening to look at you questioningly. They widen - pupils blooming into a full black - when you bring your hand to your lips, tongue snaking out to get a taste of him. You moan when the salty release falls on your tongue. He tastes like the ocean. Briny. Bitter. You rather like the piquant tang of him. 

Thomas lurches under you; his hips jouncing sharply when your lips seal around your thumb, cheeks hollowed to suck the soupçon of his release off of your skin. 

Thomas is expressive: he wears his feelings in the dip of his brow, in the gleam of his eyes, and the clench of his jaw. The way your tongue rolls out to taste his release makes his brows raise to his hairline, eyes widening as desire floods them, turns his pretty slate hue inky black as his pupil broadens with that salacious want that makes his hips buck, arching his throbbing cock toward you like a fair string being stretched past its limits. 

Your thigh is coated in his excitement; his burning cock leaks prespend all over you as he desperately rubs it against you, seeking friction. 

You release your thumb with a pop that makes his chest rumble, makes his squeeze his eyes tightly together like he's in pain. 

"You taste so good, too, baby."

You'd give him whatever he wanted, so when he looks at you again, trembling hiccups spilling out and making his chest and belly quiver, the need in his eyes so deep and wanting that it lures you in, you know you teased him enough. You don't mean to - Thomas just makes you insatiable. Drives you mad with it. Makes you dizzy with desire and need. Greedy for him. 

Still - 

You can't help yourself when you lean down, bracing your hands on his trembling chest, and press your mouth to his in a searing, needy kiss. 

With his taste on your tongue, your lips pressed to his, you ask: are you ready, baby? and it's worth it alone for the vigorous way he nods his head, very nearly knocking his forehead into your nose, and the loud, agreeable whine he makes. 

You give him one last, almost chaste, kiss before pushing off of his chest and steadying yourself above him. Straddling his lap always makes you feel so incredibly tiny - his hips are wide, so wide, and your legs stretch over him in a way that makes your muscles tense from the strain. He holds you as you move above him, hands fixed firmly on your hips. 

The way he squeezes you once, twice, like he just can't help himself makes anticipation run down your spine. His mark will be on you before the end of the night. 

You sink down his unending length, shivering from the sheer stretch of him inside of you, and throw your head back as that molten coil of unfettered pleasure spools deep in your abdomen where the head of his cock now sits, pushing hard and insistent against your walls. Like this, it always feels like he's so deep you could choke on him. It makes your head gummy with blinding pleasure that leaks into your marrow, making you stupid drunk on the too much too full way he fills you up. 

Whimpering, you lift your shaky hand to the taut skin of your navel, stroking up and down your belly button. 

"Mm… I can feel you, baby," you slur out, words drenched in the visceral quake of your pleasure. "You're so deep inside of me, Thomas-"

His hips jerk, jostling you suddenly. Your hand slap down on his broad, heaving chest at the unexpected movement, keening loudly at the absolute burn of pleasure that lacerates through you. It's too much, too much -

He's so deep inside of you, the blunt head of cock pushing into you like he wants to spear you open.

(And god, oh god, he feels so good you just might let him-)

Thomas whimpers, his hands immediately on your waist to keep you from toppling over. The sharp wail of an apology spills past his quivering lips and is quickly swallowed by a deep moan when you lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest. The coarse hair on his chest rubs against your hardened nipples and the delicious scrape makes you suck in a deep breath. Like this, the stretch is almost unbearable - the thick base of his cock splits you wide, as thick as your wrist - but gulp down the whimpers when pries you open further as you bend down, bringing your mouth to his in a sloppy, shuddering kiss. 

He's unpractised: his kisses are always so wet. Saliva dripping down your chin, mouth flooded with the taste of him. They're all tongue and teeth, hindered by the ruined skin around his mouth, patches chiselled out, but it's the best kiss you've ever had, and anything Thomas lacks in experience he makes up for in unbridled passion and enthusiasm. 

You whimper into the kiss when his cock twitches deep inside of you, the feeling of it roiling through your core until you're panting with the ache of him so deep, impossibly deep inside of you. 

Your head is cloudy; hazy with want and pleasure and the taste of him in your tongue, and the godly feeling of him stuffed inside of you, curling against your mettle. Your agenda sticks out in stark contrast to the liquid slurry of molten ecstasy coiling inside of your veins. 

It's nearly impossible to lean up, bones heavy and body humming with electric want that buzzes down your spine, but somehow, you manage. Your palms press on his chest, feeling the rapid staccato of his heart under your hand. You take a moment to bask in the feel of his solid, firm chest expanding under you, mind going fuzzy at the inexorable sturdiness under your fingers despite him being so pliant under you, and the contrast of it all, of what he gives to you, what he allows you to take, makes you whimper again, heart thrumming with affection. And then, with a lingering kiss, you push off of him, already mourning the doughy feel of his belly moulding against your curves. 

Sitting atop him like this, his hands gripping your waist to keep you from falling off as your legs struggle to find purchase in the mattress, thighs spread wide enough around the bulk of his waist that you already feel burn in your hips, you can't help but fall to pieces. 

He's pure, unyielding iron inside of you. There is no give, no respite 

Delirious, drunk off the stretch of him and the way he stuffs you so full, you think that if he was just a millimetre wider, just a hair bigger, he'd split you apart at the seams; unravel you until you were an unspooled, tangled mess of buzzing atoms on the verge of dissolving into the aether that leaks with the heat of your bodies. Clouded with the miasma of want and sex and salt that clings to you in a spindrift, you sink, willingly, into that hazy abyss where nothing matters but the way Thomas wrenches you open. 

That taut tug, the rapid throb in the place where you meet sends bolts of pure electricity to every nerve ending in your body, reverberating through you like a strummed chord until you trembling, shivering with the raw sensation of just how good, how utterly, unexplainably good, it feels to be filled by the length of him, stretched to the brim with the girth of him until you're mewling out orisons of praise, of love, of adoration in his name. 

He has the capacity to absolute ruin you, to wreck you in a way that will render you into nothing but a melting puddle of base molecules at his feet, saturating his toes in carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, sulphur - the smeared residuum of what you once were now broken down into nothing by his hands - and god, if the thought alone doesn't send a ripple of undulating pleasure from your core to the very ends of your fingers, the tips of your toes. 

Thomas squirms under you, restless and wanting to feel the drag of your sex clutching him so tight, so snug, in a vice that knocks the air from your lungs and sends a fluttery heat through your body.

It's easier when he takes you - when he fucks into your body, siphoning pleasure from you and leaving you gasping and panting into the sheets - because when he's inside of you, all thought is devoured by bliss; reason and logic have no foundations in chossy of his thrusts that batter your consciousness into a gummy slurry of him him him him. But you want this. 

You want to ride him, to feel the delicious drag of his cock against your throbbing walls, to seat yourself in his lap where the bracket of his thighs pressed into you feels like home, and the soft give of his belly makes you drool with a fervid hunger you stopped trying to give meaning to long ago when he first pressed into you, his body the perfect equilibrium of white-hot iron wrapped in soft molasses. 

The juxtaposition of his mountainous body, sturdy and unmovable, blanketed by a plushness that fills every gap and crevasse when he hugs you close seems to light up that little part of your brain that reverts back to a primal, animalistic being until you're feral with desire, with need. 

It starts out slow: little, sinuous rolls of your hips to acclimate to the burn of him edging past your mettle. Your clumsy gyration is more for his benefit than yours - Thomas tends to get a little antsy, a little anxious about hurting you, and cautious swivels of your hips, barely lifting off of his cock more an inch or two, is meant to drive him mad with the urge to rut against you, to see that you can take him - all of him - until he's heaving with the strain to keep from bucking up into your wanting, eager body. 

You could cum like this - with his large hand swallowing the thickest part of your thigh whole, and the other gripping the sheets beside your knee; his jaw clenching, opening, clenching again; his brow caught in a now permanent furrow; his eyes darting to place where you meet (his cock always giving a little jerk inside of you when he sees you split open on him) and then back up to your face, whiplash quick, as if he's afraid to be caught looking at how good you take his whole cock, and his eyes molten and dark with pleasure, rapture at the sight of you - it's enough to send you to that vertiginous precipice. 

But - 

You can't, you can't -

"Thomas…" his name slips, wonton and aching, from your lips, and it sounds like a benediction when it fills the balmy air that simmers between you. 

His eyes are heavy when they land on your face, meeting your eyes. Wide and wild with frenzied pleasure, they bore into you until you're shaking from the weight of the rapture, the adoration, swimming in the Stygian depths. 

Unable to help himself, his hips jerk up - once, twice - and the friction, the bludgeoning way he fills you, makes you arch your back, and moan at the sensation of it all. Thomas grunts beneath you, the voice rattling through your core, and you bear down, meeting his clumsy cants. Each desperate plunge has you singing hymns of veneration - broken gasps, mewling whines, and sharp moans - and he matches the mellifluous noises wrenched out of you with the baritone trill of his rough, raw grunts and belly-deep groans that scratch at strained coil inside of you with each little squall you pull out of him.  

It's not enough, not yet - 

You want his mark on your skin, you want to feel that unyielding pressure creaking against your bone as he brands your body. He isn't pertinacious about this - you caught the way he glanced at the garish bruise that looked worse than it felt, the unfettered curiosity, the little ember of satisfaction, that curled in his depths before he turned away, contrite and sorrowful. If there wasn't that little twinge of intrigue dancing in his gaze when he dropped his eyes and notified, for the first time, what your skin looked like when he gripped you tight, then you wouldn't be pushing so hard, but it was there. It was there, and you want more.

The thought alone has you quaking, has your mind clotting with feverish desperation for more, for his hands on your body, laying claim to your flesh. 

It burns through you, and you bear down on him with a frenetic need for more, more, quickly getting swept out in the undertow of pleasure and rivets of bliss that curl inside of you, stemming from the apex of where you meet, where you slide down the length of him over and over again. The staticky haze of desire lashes through you with each plunge of his cock battering into your gummy, sensitive walls. 

You glance down at him, watching with adoration as bliss split across his face when you settle into a demanding rhythm above him. His heavy eyes flutter - lidding and lifting, dropping to the apex of your thighs, then up to your face, snapping shut when you writhe on his cock -, and you're lost in the way he wears what he's feeling so clearly visible in his expression, so open, so honest. Your gaze fixes to him, lingering on the draw of his brow, the deep divot that sits between, the deep flush in his cheeks that spread all the way down to the tips of your fingers, the clenching of his jaw as he grits his teeth, or the way he relaxes, mouth falling open to drag in deep, greedy lungfuls of humid air in his heaving, gasping lungs. 

Thomas is breathtaking. 

The expressions he makes are cloying, desperate, and the sight of him whimpering, groaning, below you is enough to make your body bluster with a smouldering heat that billows through you; mind turning to ashes from the blaze of his skin sliding, slick with sweat, across your own.

The delectable sounds that are dredged up from deep within his belly, that ripples and shudders against you in the most delicious way, knock into you until you're teetering on the edge of that unforgiving metaphysical precipice. You can feel the plush give of his body, the firm, sturdy press of his hard muscle, and the deep press of his cock inside of you, but your mind is lost in an endless haze of pleasure, floating weightless in the incorporeal cosmos where the taste of ozone burns your tongue. 

Want is the impetus that drives you. Your hand splays over his chest, finding purchase, as you lift the other to clutch at his wrist where his hand undulates over your hip - cautious and careful despite the thrum of pleasure cresting into him - and you squeeze, fingers curling over to press into his pulse point. Thomas jerks against you, hooded eyes snapping open, fixing his gaze where your hand grasps his atop your hip. 

"I want it, baby-," he's already shaking his head, trying to pull away. 

He's so good to you. 

(Too good to you.)

"Thomas," you breathe his name, cooing softly to calm him down. "I want you to mark me, baby." 

A low whine is drawn out of his throat. Fear. Worry. His brow tremors with his unease, his hesitance. 

You bear down on him, taking him deep. "Please, Thomas… didn't you like them?"

He hesitates. His fingers flex around your hips. 

Thomas won't lie to you. He never does. 

"Because I did. I loved them." 

He's overwhelmed - vacillating between glancing at his hand gripping your waist, your smaller fingers clinging to his wrist, to the apex of your thighs where you take him deep, so deep -, and he's getting close. His mouth drops open, heavy pants rattling through his chest, his belly ripping with the heaving gasps. 

You shudder at the feeling of him inside of you, at his gaze burning into you, pleading for respite. 

"Do you like when I mark you, Thomas?" His head jerks up, eyes darting to yours, and he nods, quick and eager. It makes you purr. "I like your marks on me just as much."

You let it sit with him. Let him mull over your words while you arch your back, and brace yourself on his heaving chest, taking him deeper, faster. 

It starts as a scintilla of white-hot pleasure; a slow burn in the pit of your abdomen that roils into a molten coil that begins to burgeon, to build, until a crater opens wide, the tremors wracking through your body until every synapse inside of you is filled to the brim with liquid ecstasy that spumes inside of your core. 

Your limbs are filled with honeyed bliss, mind a chanting gale of Thomas Thomas Thomas Thomas, and oh god so good so good so good as your nails cling to his chest for purchase amid the torrent inside of you that lashes out until you're stupid, drunk, sloppy off the way he fits inside of you, stretching you wide, and carving out place so deep, so unfathomably good, that it knocks all thought that isn't the deep ache of his cock inside of you, the doughy flesh beneath your hands, and the heady scent of sex and sweat that fills your nose. Each little jerk of his hips makes you quake, makes your eyes roll until you see the cosmos in the back of your skull.

And then you feel it.

His fingers curl over your hip, tips digging into your flesh. The bite of them sends heat fluxing to your core - molten and throbbing - until your limbs are deliquesced, mind a honeyed slurry of pleasure. The ache, the pressure - of his hands on you, squeezing and gripping you tight; of the full, fat feeling of his cock twitching inside - all burrows into you until you're floating back into that haze of blunt, unyielding ecstasy. 

A litany of moans, broken, choked hymns of his name, spills from your lips as pleasure spools in your belly. Your nails grip his chest as Thomas bucks into you, holding you steady as he seeks his pleasure. 

Your back arches in bliss, your spine liquifying as ecstasy spumes inside of you sending electric shocks of honeyed pleasure through your body until you're dizzy with the intoxicating sensation swelling inside of you.  

You're so close, so close - 

He tenses under you, heaving, and you gaze down at him, panting out his name in tandem with each deep plunge he makes into you. 

"Come on, baby…" you mewl, tossing your head back as undulating pleasure wracks through you. "Cum for me, Thomas-"

The sounds he makes, and the feel of his hands on your hips, tip you over that precipice - a throaty growl, a deep groan, a firm squeeze - and you're gone. Lost in a haze of liquid pleasure as the molten coil inside of you pulls taut, snapping when his firm grip on your hips makes your bones creak. 

Thomas spasms under you, letting out a deep, guttural groan that rolls through your palms, and sends you spiralling. You're superlunary. Mind a blanket of nothing but the smouldering heat, the potent, heady scent that surrounds you - the thick tang of sex, sweat, and the unmistakable musk of Thomas, something rich, metallic and humus - and the feel of him, his palms burning your feverish skin, his cock jerking sharply inside of you, his solid, hard body under you, bucking into you.

You're pulsing around him, throbbing in tandem with your rapid heartbeat. 

It's so good, too good, and you grind down on him, greedily seeking more of that addicting pleasure he brings you. 

His cock jerks inside of you; molten heat blooming as he cums inside of you. You can feel him throbbing as he spends himself in your wanting body. 

Your head drops - exhausted, body buzzing with the tremors of your release - and you pitch forward, hands sliding up his chest until your palms are resting on his collarbones. The movement makes your hips twinge with a deep-seated ache, and you gasp at the throb of pain that rings through your bones. 

Despite the smarting in your hip bones, a slow smile curls on your lips. Satisfaction roils through you. 

It'll bruise, you're sure. 

You glance up, catching Thomas' eyes. "That felt so good, baby." 

His face is rubicund, chest dusted with the hue, and the sight of it has you biting your lip to keep from cooing aloud at how adorable he is. 

His eyes are lidded, hazy with the remnants of his bliss - and exhaustion. 

"My poor baby," you pout, leaning down, and the motion makes his spent cock shift inside of you, and the feel of him, of his cum leaking out, makes you shiver. Without the slurry of dopamine and oxytocin dulling the sting, you feel the ache, the stretch, more than ever, and you struggle to hide a wince. 

He notices, of course, and his eyes spring open. Concern immediately floods the bliss in his glassy glaze, and he makes a soft, worried trill in the back of his throat. The sound is raspy, gravelly - from fatigue, from dryness, overuse - and you fight to hide another shiver at the ragged lilt that spills out. It sends a jolt of pleasure to your spine, heat fluttering in your belly. 

"I’m fine, Thomas," you pant, peppering kisses across his sweaty face to ground yourself. "But let's get you to sleep, yeah?" 

(Because if you don't, if he keeps making noises like that, you might just take him again-)

Thomas is still worried, anxiously fretting over you, but he slowly acquiesces to your gentle insistence that you were fine - more than fine. His hands settle on your waist to steady you as you slowly clamber off of his lap, mindful of the ache inside of you thrumming with your ginger movements. 

Thomas guides you, refusing to let go of you for even a second, and you bask in the aftercare he provides - wordless comforting stability - melting just a little more at the soft coos he lets out. He doesn't settle until you're nestled into his side until you give a verbal affirmation that you're okay, you're fine, it's okay, and even then, he frets. 

Despite the weight in his lids as he gazes at you, eyes dropping with fatigue and exhaustion that drapes itself over his shoulders, he doesn't relent until he knows that you're safe, secure, and wrapped up in his arms. 

He's too tired for cleanup, and your legs feel like sap when you sprawl out beside him. You won't make it on your own without collapsing into a heap of liquified flesh on the floor, and while Thomas would fight through the exhaustion to help you without even a groan of frustration, you can't bring yourself to do that to him. Not when he was settled so peacefully in bed already before your insatiable whims pulled him from that vital slumber. 

Something for tomorrow, then. 

There is a twinge in your hips when you rest, relaxing into the mattress. Your bones smart with discomfort, but even with the ache inside of you, it feels so good. So satisfying. 

Thomas bundles you in his arm, pulling you taut to his side with your head resting on his still heaving chest. The rapid flutter of his chest echoes in your ear, the perfect lullaby, as his fingers soothe over the skin on your hip, brushing over the bruise in what feels like an apology, but the hum in his chest sounds very much like a satisfied purr. 

His hands are appurtenant on your flesh. His mark, too. 

He rumbles into your crown, breathing in your scent, and you find yourself following suit until the taste of him is heavy on your tongue and filling your lungs until they threaten to burst with the miasma of his smell - gunpowder, phosgene, humus; the ocean, petrichor. Thomas presses a kiss to your head, a soothing purr reverberating through his chest until your bones peal in response.  

You feel his fingers brush over your hips before settling over the unmistakable bruise that will be present tomorrow, and find yourself smiling, nuzzling your face into his chest. 

His mark. You suckle your own where his heart beats, steady and strong, and find rapture in the way his taste settles on your tongue. 

Home is in his arms: his heart pulsing in your ear lulling you into a deep slumber, his rumbles bringing an inexorable sense of safety, and security. 

………

The black of his pupils completely eclipses the sapphire plumes until a pit of coal remains; his wide eyes are fixed on the smears of midnight, amber, and violet smudged across your skin. 

The slight tremor to his hand makes you think that, perhaps, it's contrition gnarling in those unfathomable depths, but there is something about the greedy way his eyes open, entirely fixated on your flesh, that makes you doubt any sorrow is congealing inside of Thomas right now. His hands twitch. Curling into fists, then splaying wide across his thighs, rubbing the moisture away, back into fists - an unconscious action that gives away a little bit more into what he might be feeling as he looks at you, decorated in the marks you begged him for. 

The way his hungry, leaden gaze devours the marks on your skin, roaming over the near-perfect facsimile of his hands, fills you with a deep, almost delirious thrum of satisfaction. The want in his gaze is a visceral thing that reverberates through your bones until you're quaking with the aftershocks that rattle through you. Possession. Hunger. 

He, like you, is only human. 

It's hard for him to hide the way he feels when he stares at the bruises he left behind on your flesh, a (woefully semi) permanent reminder of how his hands touched your skin, and how much you wanted him to do it. 

The divot between his thick, dark brows deepens when you stretch your arms over your head, locking your fingers around your other wrist in a parody of a loose halo. 

He can't seem to stop the rapacious way his mouth drops open, tongue lolling out to swipe across his bottom lip (where, you're sure, an impression of your front teeth still remain embedded in the plump flesh) when the contusions on your body flex and flutter with your slow, languid movements. 

When you roll your hips, giving him quite the view of what the full length of his palm looks like smeared over your hips, he can't hide the deep, shuddering breath, or the tacky click in his now dry throat when he tries to swallow. 

You make his mouth a desert. He makes your body burn. 

"I like them," your voice is nothing but a gentle rasp; smoke coiling up, dissolving into the aether. "I like them a lot, Thomas." 

He shudders, and you think of the quaking mountains rumbling through the aftershocks as the plates below the surface clatter and slide together. There is a roar billowing up from the depths; a drawn-out rattle. 

Greedy thing, you think, when his hands lash out - almost against his will - and then hover there, stopping abruptly. He blinks slowly, as if coming back to himself, and then gazes at the way his knuckles just barely kiss your skin. 

His Adam's apple buoys. Once, twice. Thrice. His fingers twitch when you arch your back, eyes wide and wanting as he stares at the way your spine curves; the knobs in your vertebrae flexing with careful motions you make. Enticing him. Luring him in. 

Thomas makes a low sound in his throat - a noise not unlike that of a wounded animal - and then his hands are on you. 

Your breath stutters, catching in your oesophagus, when his worn, rough hands close around your waist, bleeding unfathomable heat into your body. The way his fingers smooth over your sensitive skin has you tensing as every atom in your body splits apart with his gentle, reverent touch. Static thrums down your spine until pools at the base in a sea of electricity that makes every nerve, every synapse, inside of you go haywire. 

With his hands on your skin, you see a tangled web of nebulae exploding into existence behind your eyelids; phosphenes so refulgent it nearly blinds you as they dance across your vision. 

His flesh is a lambent heat on your body. 

Goosebumps erupt. You shiver, trembling when those massive hands that easily swallow you whole slide down. You watch them in the mirror as they meet the swell of your hips, settling in the inky black bruises he left behind until they're consumed by his palm. Gone. Covered up. 

Your hands drop when your knees threaten to buckle under you, catching on his broad shoulders. You have to stand on your tiptoes just to link your fingers at the jut of his spine, elbows locked as you stretch your body out. 

Your head barely passes his first rib. 

They told stories, warnings, about falling into the clutches of giants - he'll devour your flesh and torture you for eternity; he'll lock you away, hide you from the world - but they failed to tell you how easily you'd find home in his arms. 

"It's nice, yeah?" You murmur as you drop your hand to his, palm sliding across the hair tangled on his arm, before slipping your fingers between the spaces of his own. He spreads them easily, letting you in, and then closes his thick fingers tight, trapping you palm to hand. You lean into his broad back, tipping your chin to stare up at him in the mirror. "They're so pretty-"

And it seems almost unfathomable to him that any mark on your body - that anything other than unmarred skin - could be seen as nothing short of sacrilegious, but when you pull his hand down, letting the jaundiced start of the bruise peek out beneath your hands (the difference in size almost comical, almost making him feel like a beast while simultaneously making you ascend to another plane of existence where the sight of his overly massive hand - his palm nearly the side of your head - makes you see nothing but nirvana when you stare at it), his head tilts, and it's enough.

But not yet.

So, you pull it down a bit more where the ecchymosis is stained rufescent, plum, flaxen, showing him just a bit more like you revealing a dirty secret. 

It's the amber in the centre, the little smear that peeks over his index finger that gets him. His thumb strokes across the hue, rubbing the mark tenderly, barely grazing it as if he was afraid of hurting you. 

"It doesn't," you say, ignoring the sting in your hip bone. A secret you'll take to your grave. "It doesn't hurt at all. I love your mark on me, Thomas-"

He groans low and desperate, the noise echoing through your bones. His hands clench around your waist - an unconscious squeeze that has fireworks crackling down your spine - and drops his head to nuzzle your crown. 

"Don't you?" Your hands slide back, fingers curl delicately over the thickness of his wrist, stroking over his throbbing pulse point. He flexes, fingers digging into your flesh - of his own accord this time; intentional, purposeful - and the shudder of his breath rattles across your spine. "Don't you like them, too, Thomas?"

He makes a mournful noise in the back of his throat - something so achingly woeful that you almost, almost, feel a little bad for ruining him like this, corrupting him - but then his gaze shifts, his molten eyes meet yours in the grimy mirror. The light overhead, flushed pale yellow and flickering, can't hide the unbridled satisfaction from the inky depths. Hunger swims in the unending abyss. Want. Possession.

You arch into him again, feeding that little part of himself that just can't get enough of you, of this, of the way your skin colours with just a deliberate press of his fingertips, and Thomas breaks.

His hands slide down, shaking from worry, fear, want, and grip the sensitive skin of your thigh. His thumb pushes into the valley where your thigh and the plush curve of your ass meet, his hands spreading wide under your hip bone. And then he grips you tight. 

It's unyielding. Firm. Nothing at all like the accidental clutch that caused the bruises to blossom on your skin, and for the first time since meeting him, you understand why they warned you about him. 

Thomas would never hurt you, of course, but his grip is ironclad when he holds you; inescapable. 

Your heart thunders in your chest, pounding with that dormant sense of primal preservation that rears up in the face of an atavistic predator, and - 

A sick sense of satisfaction.

"Do it, baby," you whisper, turning your cheek to nuzzle your nose into the sweat-slicked skin of his chest, the hairs prickling across your face. He smells like sulphur and ash; the humus clinging to his skin is so potent that your eyes flutter, rolling back into your head as you greedily suck in deep lungfuls of his heady scent. "Mark me, Thomas-"

His hand tightens, but he's ever your gentle giant, and his other comes up, snaking between the valley of your breasts, locking to you his chest, and he coos low in his chest, a soft sound meant to soothe, to comfort. You hum at the mellifluous sound that floods your ear - the rapid patter of his heart filling the gaps. The cacophony of it all makes you melt, and you barely feel the burn of his palm branding your skin with another contusion in the shape of his hand. 

Ownership. Possession. You wonder if he feels that same sick thrill that bludgeons into your chest as the vermillion marks you smatter across his body. 

Your eyes blink open, languidly drifting to the mirror in front of you, and -

Oh.

Your lips curl into a soft, satiated smile. 

Your tongue darts out, tasting the lingering salt from his skin, and you can't stop the purr from rattling through your chest when he pulls his trembling hand away from your skin, and blood blossoms under the surface, congealing as the burst capillaries weep crimson in the moulted shape of his palm. 

"So pretty," you say again, voice liquid with want. "You make them look so beautiful, baby." 

Thomas shudders. His thumb brushes over the fresh contusion. The first intentional one he left on your skin. 

It's good. It's so good -

And you can't wait until you have a matching ring in the shape of his teeth on your shoulder. Something a little more permanent than a bruise. 

But Thomas is a little too wrung out, a little too overwhelmed by the sight of a mark - something he was taught was wrong and immoral, bad - on your skin, and the oppositional feelings that swell in his chest when he looks at them staining your flesh, makes you back away from that thought for now. So, you let it sit in your chest, where all the other darkly possessive, greedy feelings reside. 

You lean back, catching his eye in the mirror, and listen to the steady beat of your heart that seems to thrum out the syllables of his name. 

When you turn your head, the responding echo sounds just like yours. 

You think he must know this, somehow, when his chin lifts, eyes seeking out yours in the mirror. The deep slate brims with delectation. His gaze holds yours - happiness, want, adoration - before dropping down to the smear of vermillion that blooms from his hand, the burst capillaries pooling a pocket of blood under your skin that slowly turns indigo and amber as it sits. His thumb brushes over the haloed ring above the curve of his palm, and in the cobalt depths you see the briefest flash of contrition - worry over tarnishing your skin, hurting you, becoming the very beast they accused him of - and you nuzzle your cheek into his expansive chest, listening to the strong heat of his heart echoing in your ear. 

"I love them," you affirm, words soft but pointed. 

You hold his hand, keeping it steady and fixed on your hip, and grip the other, bringing his palm close to your mouth, pressing a kiss to the centre of his palm. Your eyes flutter shut when his grip on your hip, his arm fixed across your chest, tightens, bringing you closer. In his arms, it feels like home. Safety. Security. 

There is a click in his throat when he swallows, and you glance at him in the mirror. His lids lift, eyes seeking yours once more. The breath shudders out of his chest, but the doubts are quelled. The shadows of worry that once lingered in the corner, seeping into the recesses of his heavy gaze, dissolve. Tentative want, burgeoning hunger blooms. 

You press a kiss into his love line, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beating across your smile. He stares at you with dulia in his eyes: love, adoration. 

You can't help but echo the words back. 

"I love you," you whisper into his palm.

Happiness, adoration, blooms in his gaze. In the endless slate that stares down at you, the elation, the love, in his eyes remains unclouded, unpolluted, by needless thoughts that have no place in the Magellanic space between you.

You smile, nuzzling your lips into his love line when his pulse beats just for you.

………

It starts when Luda Mae spots the black ring on your collarbone when you bend down to grab the linen from the basket - a matching pair to the one you gave Thomas several nights ago when you convinced him that yes, his teeth scarring your skin was just divine.

It draws her attention mainly because Thomas can't stop staring at you, at it, despite the bales of hay that needed to be moved hours ago. He's distracted - that much is obvious by the way his gaze skirts toward you, your neck, then darts away with a roseate flush scorching the tips of his ears. 

(Though, you're not exactly trying to hide it - especially not with the way it makes Thomas fumble when you reach up to touch it.)

You pretend not to notice the weight in his stare. The heaviness of his gaze, molten and wanting, on your flesh. On you. 

There is a snort, and then: "stop this foolishness and just get her a damn ring already, Thomas."

You try to hide your dazed grin in the yellow sheets when Thomas lets out an embarrassed squawk, his head darting over to see if you'd heard what his mother said.

You busy yourself with the laundry, feigning obliviousness to the conversation that easily carried in the stagnant Texas swelter, but it's unignorable how the weight in his gaze seems to change with her words. 

Thomas can't quite look you in the eye for the rest of the week, and you let him simmer on the idea for a bit, content to go at his pace.

But really - his mark on your flesh is a perfect gospel of his love, worth more than metal. He knows this, of course. Knows the pithy, concomitant meaning behind each kiss mark, each bruise, each nip you give each other.

A symbolic rendering of your presence on him, and his on you, and that, in itself, is more than enough for the two of you. 

………

(Though, if your mind wanders, wondering what his big hands would look like, feel like, with a ring on his finger that belongs wholly to you - then that's your secret to keep.

And if that glassy look is sometimes reflected in his endless oceans of slate and cobalt when he stares at your hand, that insatiable hunger, greed, brimming up much the same as it does when you glance at him and think - well: 

That's his, then, isn't it?

At least until he plucks up the courage to give you the little ring he fashioned himself. Until then, you’re content to pretend you don’t notice it sitting in his back pocket, or the way he reaches for it sometimes, just to make sure it’s still there.)

[yeyinde]

I’M ON FIRE  ⋮  THOMAS HEWITT | LEATHERFACE ☓ READER

sometimes it’s like someone took a knife, baby

edgy and dull and cut a six inch valley through the middle of my skull

at night i wake up with the sheets soaking wet

and a freight train running through the middle of my head

only you can cool my desire

A shudder rolls through his massive frame and it makes your heart twinge with that greedy type of want that’s never quenched no matter how many times you see his eyes widen at your open, honest affection, at the love you pour into his skin, and the way you worship his flesh. It sits heavy in your pericardium: always there, always wanting. Never satisfied no matter how much of him you consume.

(You never quite understood the meaning of hunger, of want, until you met Thomas. 

It's a good thing, then, that there's just so much of him to devour.)

⤷tw: shameless Thomas Hewitt body worship/worship in general. softcore smut. so sickeningly sweet it'll rot your teeth. ultra light breeding kink. ultra explicit size kink. gendered terminology (female gendered body parts). no substance - just smut and fluff

You trace the constellations into his worn, rough palms - Ursa Major, Cassiopeia, Centaurus, Orion - and murmur to him about the universe, the sun, and stardust. 

Thomas makes no noise as you etch your fantastical stories into the white-hot skin of his palm. He listens, intently, as you speak; his burning gaze fixed on the way your mouth moves, gentle and soft, around the unfathomable cosmos that you don't, entirely, think he understands. But he likes the sounds you make - the way your lips mould around the words, and the susurrus lull of your voice as you tell him about quasars and moons and the intricate gases of the Nebula that you don't really understand much, either. You echo the words inside the books you've read and try to find your place in the limitless, infinite galaxy. A place, you know, will be just for the two of you. 

When the curve of Orion finishes and you've exhausted your knowledge of Betelgeuse, you bring his massive paw up to your lips, press a kiss in the deep divot of his fate line, and hope that somewhere along the linear curve, your name sits. That inside the harsh, rough crevasse is a world where the two of you gaze at the stars and find yourselves between Virgo and Leo, locked in an eternal embrace where nothing can hurt you and the world doesn't matter. 

(Like here: in this humid room you haven't left since mid-morning, where just the two of you exist in a little microcosm that smells like the sweat on his skin and feels like home.)

The heat of his palm almost scalds your lips.

Thomas burns as hot as the summer sun. A constant inferno that scorches you when you touch him. It burrows into your flesh, warming you from the outside in. 

It might be the lingering fever: a mid-July cold that had him bedridden for nearly a week. His immune system isn't the best, Luda Mae said. Colds take him a while to recover from. You coddled him - much to the derision of Hoyt. 

("Stop babyin' the idiot already," he snaps at you as you bring down an empty bowl of soup. "He's a man, goddammit, not a fuckin' child."

You trade off the bowl with Luda Mae for more water and blow a raspberry at him. "Aww, Charlie, are you upset that no one takes care'a you when you're sick?"

His threat is swiftly cut off by the sharp glare from Luda Mae, who then turns to you, now all soft, motherly smiles, and says, "thank you for takin' care of him."

You don't think she'd be particularly impressed to know that your version of taking care of him meant mapping out the star systems in his skin, and finding nirvana in the way he fits inside of you.)

After nearly a week in bed, tossing and turning in the throes of a fever, it finally broke. You'd spent the rest of the day helping him thoroughly sweat it out. 

The thought of it makes your cheeks flush. Makes that ache inside of you spume.

You never quite understood the meaning of hunger, of want, until you met Thomas. 

He rips open a vacuum inside of you: a festering black hole that needs and yearns - insatiable - for more. It's a constant ache that drives you delirious with the urge to consume him whole. But no matter how much you try to stem the rapacious chasm, it's never satiated, never full. 

(It's a good thing, then, that there's just so much of him to devour.)

Your lips part, tongue rolling over the line to get a taste of his molten flesh. 

Thomas smells like sin and tastes like warm milk and honey. 

A shudder rolls through his massive frame and makes your heart twinge with that greedy type of want that's never quenched no matter how many times you see his eyes widen at your open, honest affection, at the love you pour into his skin, and the way you worship his flesh. It sits heavy in your pericardium: always there, always wanting. Never satisfied no matter how much of him you consume. 

Your thirst for his taste is unending. 

His other hand flexes on his thigh. A nervous, fretting tick when the kittenish way you lap at his palm becomes too much. The movement draws your eyes to the bulk of his legs which are almost as big as the trucks on the Magnolia trees down the road. Your mouth runs dry at the sight. 

It's easy to worship him, you think. Easy to press offerings into his flesh, and sings hymns into the soft, plush give of his stomach. 

"Thomas…" you whisper his name softly into the humid summer night, tone drenched in that voracious need that never really goes away. 

The sound of his name spilling from your lips makes him flinch,  a low whine rolls up his throat, muffled by the pursed press of his lips. You like the sounds he makes. The grunts and the whimpers. The groans and the huffs of breath into your neck when you sit in his big lap and whisper praise into his ear. 

You'd spent most of the day with him nestled in bed with you. He rutted inside of you over and over again until you were filled to the brim with him - his scent, his sweat on your body - and even now, hours later, you're still hungry. You can't get enough of him. Parched for his touch. His taste. 

You bring both hands up to cup his wrist, tugging him gently toward you. 

He makes another noise in the back of his throat. A wanting trill that burrows into your chest and sends liquid heat to your abdomen. 

There is an almost needy haze in his eyes when you meet his gaze. If you're not careful, you think you can easily get lost in the endless cyanic that stares up at you, soft, pleading, irises almost entirely eclipsed by his widening pupils. The fathomless black of the cosmos has nothing on the endless pools of cerulean in front of you. 

"C'mon…" you say, and he goes, willing. Eager. He rocks up on his knees, his frame easily towering over you. Large. Indomitable. He eclipses you entirely, blocking out the soft light from the candle flickering on the bedside table. 

Kneeling over you like this, he looks every bit of a Cimmerian god meant to be revered, admired. The messy curls on his head, moussed from the sweat of the summer swelter and his lingering fever, and the many times your fingers threaded through the locks, falls over his forehead when he bows his head and stares at you underneath him. 

And you, as always, stare back.

It makes him twitch; embarrassment, and shame prickle across his expression. His chin quivers, turning slightly away from the open way you swallow him whole with your look. You tut softly, a gentle warning that no, that's not allowed here, in this space made just for the two of you. 

Thomas frets under your admonishment; the hand still in your hold shakes, and you're quick to soothe his worry with a wet kiss to his thundering pulse. You suckle the thrumming vein until another mark sits on his flesh. By the end of the night, when the moon is nigh in the aether and the ocherous smear of the hazy coruscating sun breaches the inky black above you, his whole body will be a mosaic of your reverence. A testament to your devotion. 

(The thought thrills you. You love seeing your mark pressed into his sunkissed flesh: a red map of Orion across his chest and Cassiopeia over his shoulder.)

When he quiets, when his shoulders ease from the coiled, self-conscious hunch that makes him feel like he's smaller than what he is, what he ever could be, you offer him a small, reassuring smile. He huffs at the sight of it, his broad chest deflating with the deep exhale. Relaxing above you at the wordless praise in the tilt of your mouth. 

It amazes you just how much self-doubt lingers in the broad vastitude of his neverending bulk, but you're determined to wash it all away with each nip you scour into his body. Slowly, slowly, because the last thing you ever want is to make him nervous, scared. 

But that doesn't matter with Thomas. The trust in his gaze shines as true and effortless as the love and affection in the abyss of blue that tugs at your heart each time you look over at him and find that mushy, misty-eyed look in his expression. It steals your breath away each time. A paradox that you can't even begin to unravel.

He's so massive. So big. An unstoppable force. But he gives you so much power. He lays everything in your hands, as gently as possible, and looks at you like you're responsible for the smattering of stars that gleam across the astronomical cosmos.

Thomas looks at you sometimes, and the weight of his gaze makes you feel like the most powerful being in the universe. It's an odd little juxtaposition coming from a man who looks like the personification of Hercules. A sentient mountain.

He tugs out his heart, such a precious treasure, and hands it to you for safekeeping next to your own, where they beat congruent. 

"You're perfect," you say, a little drunk on the dazed way he makes you feel. The power he gives you. 

His breath catches in his throat at your unexpected words, chin ducking bashfully to his broad chest. A man this enormous shouldn't be as cute as he is, as endearing. It jars into you, and makes your stomach flutter when you catch sight of the red staining his ears, his cheeks. 

Your eyes greedily follow the rufescent plume that snakes down his throat, his chest. 

It gleams with his sweat. With red smears from your nips and kisses on his skin. The thick bed of hair hides most of your work, but his nipples - reddened from your mouth - peek out from the blanket of tight curls across his upper chest. Your gaze follows the trail. The hair dissipates over the curve of his stomach. His belly hangs, paler than the rest of his body, and partially concealing the flushed cock between his legs that twitches under your appraisal, your wanting stare. 

Thomas is big - everywhere - and you ache with the reminder of the way he stretches you, stuffs you full of him until you're clinging to the precarious precipice of that inexorable pleasure-pain that lacerates up your spine. He fills you in a way that knocks the air from your lungs. That makes you keen into the sheets. 

But despite his sheer size, he's so, so gentle with you. 

He doesn't fill you up entirely - always so worried about hurting you - no matter how much you asked him for it. During the last several couplings, he fisted his hand around the base of his cock, and slowly rocked into you, not giving you the entire length of him, not pushing in too deep. It was good - so good - like it always is, and even with half his length inside of you, the girth alone steals the air from your lungs; but this time, you're determined to get all of him.

All of what he has to offer. You want him to devour you whole. To swallow you up in his heat, his touch, his caress. You want to fuse your limbs together until you can't find the space that separates you anymore. A tangled web of sweat-slicked skin and that haze of pleasure that makes you feel drunk on the sensations he wrought from your body. 

The thought alone makes your heart hammer in your chest, and your gaze waver. Your misty eyes slide down to the thick, hairy thighs that kneel between your legs. You want to touch him. To grasp at the flesh there as he pounds into you. 

It's been so sweet thus far. So soft. So gentle. And now you want him to mess you up. You want Thomas to take whatever he wants from your willing body. Take what he needs. 

(To give you what you need.)

Your eyes roam his body again - greedily, appreciative, wanting - and you hear the hitch in his breath. His cock twitches; a bead of pre-cum dribbling out of his engorged, flushed head. 

"Please…" you whimper, and his whole frame trembles once again. The rattle of an earthquake. The bed shakes with him.  

His hand drops to the pillow behind you, and you immediately follow, lowering yourself down, matching his pace until your head rests against the bed; Thomas bracketing you from above. He stretches out, yawning over you like the infinitely dark cosmos; a Stygian King. You see Orion in his eyes. Map Cassiopeia in the dusting of birthmarks and blemishes that line his thick face. You see forever in the way he stares back at you. 

Your thighs spread as far as you can manage - wanting him, needing him closer - but it's still not enough. He's too big. You're too small. But somehow, he feels like a perfect fit. The drag of his tummy settling over yours makes you mewl; the weight of it, of his body on top of you, makes you pant and gasp into the balmy air. 

You whisper more praise into his ear when he finally rests on top of you - right where he belongs - and pull his hand down until it lays on your breast, a wordless plea for more. He shudders above you when your hardened nipple catches the rough skin of his palm, a callous making your thighs squeeze his sides, and he quickly kneads the flesh you offered him. 

The soft give of his body feels good. You reach up and trace the stretch marks covering his belly and chest, cooing softly when he whimpers. He doesn't cover himself up as much as he used to. You've kissed every silvery line on his body. Every scar and dimple. Thomas knows you love every part of him - even the ones he tries to hide. He knows you want him. Need him. He knows because you tell him so every day. Your lips kiss prayers into his flesh until he's a quivering, whining mess. Until his ears burn red and his chest is flushed the perfect hue of roseate that makes your mouth water. 

"Want you…" you murmur into his shoulder, flicking your tongue out to lick across a small stretch mark that dips into his underarm. The rough scratch of his hair feels good against your tongue. 

His hips buck into you, his belly ripping against yours with the sharp movement. His thighs drag across the delicate skin on the inside of your legs, and the rasp of his coarse hair rubbing against the soft, sensitive flesh makes you gasp into his shoulder. His cock - tacky from the slowly drying mess of being inside of you for most of the day and white-hot to the touch - slides so deliciously over your mons and lower stomach, that you can help but to cant your hips up in response, eagerly seeking more of him. More of his touch. 

Fuck, you can't get enough of him.

"Please, Thomas…" it's all he needs to hear, but it's not enough for you. The adulations slip from your lips until he's quivering above you, your lower belly covered in the messy smear of his excitement. His cheeks are stained sunburn red and you push to make them blister. "Please, I want you so bad-"

His hand pulls away from your breast, reaching down to take hold of his cock. Your breath stutters in your chest when the head drags between your folds, pressing against your aching pussy. You're so wet. So messy from his cum. He's filled you so many times today. Your hand slips below the flesh of his belly, pressing against your naval where you can almost feel a little budge. 

"You filled me up so much today, Thomas," you pant into his shoulder, nuzzling your lips into his skin. He trembles above you, letting out a deep whine. His cock rubs through the mess still spilling out of you, jerking sharply at your words. "You wanna gimme more, baby?" 

He keens, his head dropping down to your neck as he ruts into you, desperate and wanting. He likes it. Likes filling you up. Making you messy with his cum. Likes watching it slowly drip out of you just so he can push it back inside after. 

Thomas isn't normally so open, so honest, about his desires. He hides it as if it was something to be ashamed of. But with the sickness still clouding his mind, spooling over his inhibition, he lets it out. Let's you see the things inside his head he covers up, that he pushes aside. 

You like it a lot more than you thought you would. The warmth deep inside of you when he cums, head tossed back in euphoria, mouth open as he groans, whines, deep in his chest. The sloppy way he thrusts inside of you with his release, as if he can't help himself, as if he can't get enough of you. 

The glossy sheen of his eyes when he drops to his elbows, burying his head in the crook of your neck, nuzzling your skin after he finishes makes your heart thrum with contentment, and affection; both so visceral, they bludgeon into you like a club. 

You wiggle your hips, unable to stop the molten ache billowing inside of you at the prospect of having Thomas fill you so deeply once more.  

"Please, Thomas," you whisper again, splaying yourself under him like an offering. "Please-"

He's there before the next plea finishes rolling off of your tongue. The scalding press of his cock inside of you has the cosmos flashing across your eyes. Phosphenes dance behind your eyelids when you squeeze them shut against the delicious ache, the burning stretch, of him splitting you open, carving out a place inside of you meant just for him. It's good - too good - and you can't stop the hiccuping whines from tumbling past your parted lips, a mindless chant of his name, and more, more, more.

Your legs slide over his, curling as much as you can over his broad back, and you push your heel into the rounded softness of his ass, forcing him deeper.

He whimpers. His hand fumbles. You reach out, fingers curling around his elbow, tugging his hand up. 

"All of you, Thomas," you gasp into his ear, pleading and wanting. A needy keen wells up in the back of your throat. "All of you - I want all of you."

And Thomas -

He can never say no to you when you beg him so prettily.

He breaks, and the way he crumbles has you seeing stars when he fills you so deeply. Pushing in until he can't anymore, until his hips are flush against you, and his cock is burrowing past the limits of what you can take, of what you can handle. It's so hot. The searing heat, the ache, jars into you like a sledgehammer, and you whimper at the too-full feeling of him stretching you. He brushes against a spot that makes you keen, that makes you feel that intense whiplash pleasure as it ricochets down your spine, pooling liquid bliss in your belly. 

You're pinned under his sheer bulk, but you can't help the way you shudder and arch into him. It's good, too good, and the pleasure lacerates through your core as he ruts into that tightly winding coil deep inside of you that spumes with molten ecstasy. 

You chant his name into stifling air, breathless and quaking from the undulated pleasure he brings you; the way his body moulds over your frame has you mewling, and panting at the smoulder of his suffocating heat. 

It's dizzying. Intense. The inferno of his heavy body nearly smothers you. You tip your head back before hypoxia settles in. Black smears moult across your vision when he moves, when he pulls back, the thick drag of him inside of you makes your toes curl in bliss. 

Thomas' thrusts are messy. Unpractised despite the numerous times he's fucked into your willing body. It's cute. Endearing. The eager, desperate way he pushes into you makes your head heavy with a pleasured slurry of endorphins and dopamine. 

"You feel so good-," he moans at the sincerity in your slurred words, and bucks into with a deep cry. The force of it sends you reeling. It makes your head feel gummy with that gossamer of euphoria that grips you tight when he makes noises like that. "Oh, god, Thomas-"

You pull your hand out from under his body, dropping it down to grip his plush hip, the flesh bulging between your spread fingers. It dredges up another squall from his chest, and he rocks forward, his head pressing down into the crook of your neck. His breath is hot on your skin. His hair tickles your cheek. Your other hand slips into the messy locks, nails scraping over his scalp in a way that makes him twitch inside of you, hips jerking into you - fast, hard. The force of it has you wailing his name, and your body tensing with the sudden pulsating pleasure gnashing inside your abdomen. 

You're close, you think, deliriously careening toward that precipice of pure nirvana only he can bring you to. 

His thrusts are sloppier. Sluggish. You can see the fatigue drenching his brow under the rivets of sweat that pour down his hairline. You lost count of how many times he's been inside of you today; how many times he held you down and fucked you until you cried into the sheets with his name turning into a hymn on your tongue. Your skin is soaked with him - his metallic, ozone scent, the slickness of his sweat, his saliva - but you want more. 

You're always wanting. Always hungry. He makes you feel ravenous; a need so deep, so infinite, that it's never satisfied, never quenched. You're always yearning for more. 

You're drunk on the taste of him. Addicted to the way his flesh feels under your palms. You breathe rapture into his pores and sing about your eternal devotion to him. Thomas shivers under the intense way you eulogise your matins in his name. 

The slick sound of him rutting into you sends jolts of pleasure to your core. 

You pull him deep, holding him tight to your smouldering body as he rocks inside of you, grunting in your ear. With the raspy way he whimpers, the hitch in his breath when you shift your hips to take him as deep as you can, you know he won't last much longer. 

Your paean turns into a breathless miserere in his ear, one that makes his chest reverberate with a deep grunt in response to the pleading way you prose your love for him. His hips stutter into yours with fevered desperation. The frenetic way his cock pistons into your oversensitive body makes your chorale turn into a nonsensical babble of choking whines and hysterical moans. You rasp out his name - a fervid plea as hedonism congeals inside your marrow, making you cant your hips into his as he sends you toward that rapturous edge.

Each jarring thrust spools an incandescent heat in your lower belly, where the blunt head of his cock slams into the soft, spongy wall that has you burning with bliss, and bucking into the molten feeling that gnashes into the base of your spine. It coils tighter and tighter inside of you until Thomas drops to his elbows above you, the force of his body resting on yours, lax with his exhaustion and out of his mind with pleasure, sends the scant vapours in your lungs rushing out as his weight descends on you, pressing you deeper into the mattress as he batters into you. 

You can't breathe. You choke in greedily lungfuls of air to sate your oxygen-starved mind as each plunge Thomas makes into you wrenches it out. 

All you can do is take it as he gorges himself with your body and renders you into a mindless, mewling mess under his bulk. 

You can't get enough of this. Your fingers dig into his sweat-slicked skin, wanting him closer despite the ache in your lungs and white-hot lashes of pleasured pain that chisels into you. It's so good, so good, so -

Your toes curl, muscles spasming with the electrifying force of the release Thomas dragoons out of you. 

His name is wrenched from your throat, and you cling to him as your vision whites out under the deluge of pleasure. 

Each thrust cudgels into you. In the kaleidoscope haze of phosphenes, you see Orion in the milky gossamer. The fulgent prisms erupt into static before shuddering out of existence where the effulgent face of Thomas swims in front of you. The look on his florid face when he cums clots behind your ribcage where it sits just as heavy as his body over yours. It's that coalescence of feverish delirium and the sfumato of delectation that percolates into your pounding heart, making it swell from the sheer elation he brings you. 

You can feel his hips stuttering as he rides out the last throes of his orgasmic haze, spilling liquid embers into your body. His body quivers under your hand. You scratch at his crown with your nails when he blubbers into your neck, mewling at the oversensitive feeling of your walls, molten and drenched with his release, clinging to his spent cock. 

You might have pushed him beyond his mettle tonight. There is a stab of guilt in your pericardium as he slumps into your embrace, quaking with the aftershocks of your greed and gluttonous insatiability, but it's gone when you feel his humid pants into your neck, the blunt press of his teeth to your skin. 

You coo softly to him as he trembles over you, your hands petting the body you so thoroughly worshipped today to ease the strain in his quivering muscles. 

When he lifts his head, you slide your palm to the base of his neck and kiss the nasolabial space between the decayed remnants of his nose and his cheek. He flinches, shying away from the soft kiss. He tries to hide his face from your view, shoulders trembling under the nervous thrum of shame, shyness, and embarrassment. You hate the look in his eyes - the ghost of self-abasement that sets your teeth on edge and makes your heart prickle with agony. 

"Don't be so mean to the love of my life," you murmur softly, tracing Orion into his shoulder. 

Thomas jerks his head up at your words, eyes widening. You hate the shock in his expression whenever you confess your love to him - like he doesn't think he deserves it. It makes your stomach churn with sorrow. How could this man not see how much you want him? How much you adore him? 

"Yes, silly," you pepper more kisses over his face, smiling at the flush you can feel scalding your mouth. "I mean you."

Thomas nuzzles into your affection like he's starving for it, and you're determined to make him surfeit by the end of the night. 

It's when you stretch your legs out that he shakes from his exhausted revere, jerking back with noises of distress and worry spilling from lips in a rapid cacophony of sorrow and concern. Thomas pulls himself up, looking over at you with contrition bunching up in his brow. 

"It's okay," you soothe him and try to hide the way you greedily suck in deep breaths without the pressure on your chest stemming the flow. "I'm fine."

He doesn't believe you. Compunction pinches the corners of his mouth. 

"Thomas," you whisper, but he rises to his knees and drops his head into his hands, shoulder shaking. "Tommy, baby-," you sit up, wincing at the ache inside of you, the tacky mess between your thighs, and reach up to grasp at his wrists. Your thumb and forefinger never meet. There's a width of space the size of your own wrist between them. 

You can't say that the sight of it, the sheer vastitude between the difference in your sizes, doesn't make you pant. 

"Tommy," the breathless tenor of your voice makes him look up, and you grin at him. "Baby, I love when you crush me-"

It's the wrong thing to say. He squalls deep in his throat. Morose shutters over his expression. He tries to cover his face up again, but you squeeze your hands. 

"Baby, baby… I'm sorry," you say, not at all apologetic for the words, per se, but certainly the timing. "I love your body, Thomas. I love the way you feel on top of me. I can't get enough of it." 

His whimpers begin to quiet, but the rueful look in his eyes doesn't lapse. 

You huff and slowly clamber to your knees in front of him. He watches you, body coiled like a whip -as if he is waiting for punishment. 

You draw his hands close to you, and pepper kisses all over his palms, his fingers, his knuckles, his dorsal, his wrist. 

"I love your big hands and the way they hold me so tight…" you glance up at him, watching him as you slowly lap at his pulse. "I know you'd never hurt me, Thomas. You're so gentle. So kind." His breath stutters in his chest when you nuzzle along his arm, your lips tickling the sensitive flesh in the crook of his elbow. 

It seems you aren't finished with your quixotic hymns. The look on his face spurns you on, makes your chest froth with liquid affection, adoration. 

"I love your arms, you know that. I love when you wrap them around me and hold me close. I love the way they swallow me up," you huff out a small blissful laugh. "You're so big, baby - god - it's amazing. I feel so small next to you." 

You press your head into his chest, breathing in the heady scent of sex and ozone that clings to him, letting it fill your senses. It makes you dizzy. Makes your head feel mushy with contentment. You slide your face up until just your chin rests against his sternum.

The open, raw, look in his eyes makes you keen low in your throat. 

"You're so big, and I feel so safe in your arms, Thomas. So protected. You'd never intentionally hurt me, right?"

Noises of distress immediately pour from his lips as his head quickly jerks to the side in an emphatic refusal. 

"I know you wouldn't," you dip your head down, pressing a kiss over his heart, feeling the rapid pulse beating under your lips. "I trust you more than anyone in the whole world." 

Thomas shivers. His body wracks with tremors under the sincerity, the bluntness of your words. 

Your hands drop down from his wrists, sliding over the smooth curve of his belly. He flinches, blushing scarlet at the way your nails scratch through the coarse smattering of hair you find. 

"I love your belly," you drop down, following the path your fingers took with gentle kisses to his flesh. His belly quivers. Your lips sink into the plump skin. "Fuck… I really love it. Love how soft it is compared to the rest of you. You're so bulky. So hard, strong… But here-," you nuzzle your nose into his luscious skin, words laced thick with an amatory drawl. "You're so comfy." 

Your gaze drops to the soft cock now hidden behind the bulge of his stomach, and your grin turns wicked, eyes burning with desire. You can feel him give a small twitch when your hands brush over his mons, fingers playing with the thick bed of coarse curls. 

"And you know how much I love your-," his whine cuts you off, and you chuckle in response. He's overstimulated. You've worn him out today. You slide your hands down, resting the flat of your palm over his legs. His skin scalds you. The smear of hair tickles your skin. "-Thighs," you finish with a wink. 

Thomas huffs above you, the flush deepening as it spreads over his chest. You can tell he's growing restless under your arduous exploits in making him acutely, pointedly, aware of just how much you love his body and how good he makes you feel. 

His belly ripples when you pull away from him, and the sight makes your mouth quiver. Your hands snake around his thighs, squeezing the generous globes of flesh you find when you reach up and grab his ass. He squawks, flinching when you do. It pushes his belly into your face, and press one last kiss to the tumid flesh offered to you before you pull away. 

Mournfully, you release your grip on his succulent flesh, and slide your hands up his back, feeling the taut ripple of his muscles under your palms. He's so brawny. So stalwart. You love the contrast of his soft belly and the hard, burly planes of shoulder blades and thick thighs. 

Your arms loop around the nape of his neck as you press your body firmly into his. The hefty bulk of his body fills you with an intense concupiscence. The way his bare skin moulds to yours has you seeing Antares behind your eyelids. 

"I love every part of you," you murmur into his chest, words breathless and heavy with desire. 

Even on your knees, your head barely brushes past his sternum. It's supposed to be a tender, loving moment, so you pretend the absurd girth of him, the length, doesn't make your mouth water. Doesn't whet your appetite. 

After a whole day of rolling around in the sheets, you still want more. 

"Every single inch." You punctuate your words with a kiss. A smile. 

Nervously, he returns it. It's just a quake of his mouth to the side. A crooked, lopsided grin. But it sends a thrill down your spine. 

"I love you." 

He bleats in response, eyes lidded and heavy with fatigue. He's still on the mend. You can hear the residual sickness in his voice, feel it in the humidity clinging to his rubicund skin. 

"Let's get you to bed, now, yeah?" 

He nods, eager, sluggish, and his arm wraps around your waist, tugging you close to his body before he leans down, his other hand balancing on the mattress. Thomas lays on his side, pulling you down with him, before rolling onto his back, arm opening wide, beckoning you forward. 

You smile down at him, the mushy thrum of affection swelling inside once more, and clamber into your space on his chest.

Thomas pulls you close, tucking you in to the folds of his side where you fit like a puzzle and he feels like home. You lean up, brushing his hair away from his sweat-slicked forehead, and press one last latria to his skin, murmuring your devotion into his flesh.  

When you lay on his chest, his heartbeat marches in tandem with your own, dragging out another smile that tugs on your lips. Thomas nuzzles your crown, cooing wordless adherence into your hair. He kisses your crown, and a sappy, soporific haze shudders over you; somnolence seeps into your marrow when his arm drapes over your shoulders, locking you to his side in an unyielding hold. 

You settle into his embrace, tracing constellations into his kiss-bruised chest. He fits around you like a Magellanic cloud, and you think you'll never be satisfied when he reels you into his gravity without evening knowing the magnitude of his pull. Thomas is the sun, and you're a tidally locked planet on a rapid spiral from which there is no escape. As he pulls you closer, you contemplate the benison of this perigee and find solace in the fact that your name must be etched into his fate line because you don't think the way his flesh burns into your skin could ever be happenstance. There is no fortuity in the way you fit beside him, and how much he smells like home. 

You belong to him, and if there is no place for you by his side, then you'll rip apart the cosmos until you can find a microcosm meant just for the two of you, nestled somewhere in the middle of Virgo and Leo, in between the infinite everything that threatens to consume you. You'll shred the Nebula apart to be near him because Thomas brings out this need, this want, that spumes inside of you like an unfathomable chasm, and without the taste of his piquant flesh on your tongue, or the heft of body on yours, you might just starve. 

(And if it is a coincidence, well - you'll carve your own kismet into his skin just like you etched Orion into his palm.)

[yeyinde]

Hello :) English isn't my first language , so please correct me if anything is wrong . First of all you're writing is ABSOLUTELY AMAZING ! ! ! I don't know if you're taking requests but if you do can you please write an RZ|Michael Myers x shy reader , in which Michael comes home after a kill and finds his S/O showering and can it be smut ? But , if you don't take requests right know and you don't want to write about Michael , that's totally fine . Anyways , I hope you're having a wonderful day <3

ahhhhh, thank you so much!!!! 🖤🖤 i am absolutely taking requests, and i do write for Michael (i have been working on some peepaw Myers smut on the DL for a bit now, so my apologies if some of OG Myers mannerisms bleed in), but love all versions of MM, so thank you for giving me an excuse to flex my hand with some RZ Myers~

and sorry for the delay! i wanted to get reacquainted with RZ Myers so i spent some time watching the films again to get a better grasp on his movements, mannerisms, and the little idiosyncrasies i could spot!

i really hope you enjoy this! and - sorry, again: this kind of got away on me, and its maybe-sorta-kinda clocking in at 11K. oops. 🥹

⤷tw: gratuitous smut, fluff, mentions of gore and death, Michael being Michael, dom!Michael

You tell yourself you're not nervous, that there is nothing to be nervous about in this strange little microcosm you've fallen inside (snatched, dragged, locked in a gilded cage where you are tucked away from a world that might lash out and hurt). 

No, nothing at all. 

In this ethereal, otherworldly place inhabited only by two (and your cat - cats, really, because you love all of your strays equally) there is no set routine; therefore, there is nothing to be worried about since something like this could only be fretted over had you the luxury of normalcy. Of established rules. Regulation. Schedule.

It's silly to worry, then. Silly and stupid and pointless. 

You're not nervous. You're not.

But the anxious knot that gnarls inside of your chest spools and thickens with each passing minute calls you a liar. 

The clock in the corner ticks the time down like an augury, and your eyes bounce between it - this ugly grandfather clock with a pendulum that hangs too much like a noose for you to ever enjoy the sonorous lull - and the back door, as if in those scant microseconds, he would appear in the doorway, head hanging low to avoid clunking his forehead off the trim - because he's just so tall, just so massive -, and would just be standing there, watching you. Like he always does. Staring. Assessing. 

For such an indomitable, unfathomable mountain of a man, he's surprisingly catlike. 

A silent, stealthy jaguar hidden in plain sight. 

(There is a predator in this picture!, your aunt shares on Facebook. Can you spot him?

You never do. You don't have an eye for locating hidden danger, and when you scroll down, spotting the cat lurking in the red circle, you realise you weren't even close.)

When you look at the back door once again, there is nothing crowding the archway. No one lingering near the basement stairs. The open hallway is empty save for your bins lined up in the small mudroom that connects to it by a set of three steps on the halfpace.

You know the layout of your house like the back of your hand, just like you know the places he likes to hide. To wait. The little enclaves barely conceal the sheer, absurd bulk of him, and they're all empty. 

You hear nothing. Not the rattle of the lock. The creaking of the cellar stairs. Nor the unmistakable sound of his muffled breathing. 

You're not worried. Saudade doesn't belong in your heavy chest. 

Tick tick tick… 

There is nothing to be worried about. 

Tick tick tick… 

Your gaze tears away from the door, the clock, when the familiar jingle of the local news station cuts through the tenebrous clouding your living room. 

The man - clean, sharp, greying around his temples - jogs a stack of papers on the curved desk, his mouth set in a grim line. 

It's been nearly a month since you've seen him last. 

He comes and goes like the many strays you pluck from the alleys and take home, nursing them back to health, feeding them until they're plump and nourished, and then letting them wander back from wherever little corner they originated from, knowing that you'll see them again when the rats thin and the new litter is able enough to hunt on their own. 

Scarcity is what brings your family together. 

"...A series of murders are once again shaking up the county. No curfew is set as of late, but the police are urging the public not to wander at night alone, to stay in large groups, and to lock all windows and doors…"

Hunting in Haddonfield is scarce lately. 

You taste copper on your tongue before your bottom lip starts smarting as your teeth break the flesh. Your tongue rolls out, smoothing over the irritated skin, and wiping away the droplets of blood that pool in the seam of your mouth. It's salty, astringent. The metallic tang makes your mind wander, drifting to him. 

Like a magnet, your eyes are pulled back to the hallway. 

The taste of blood reminds you of him. The thick, heady scent of rust seems to exude from every pore on his body. The burning miasma of decay. Death. 

(Danger, something in the atavistic recesses of your mind spits. Danger and doom. Demise.)

"...Seven more bodies were found-," you blink, gaze focusing on the dim hallway that sits, stagnant, vacant, and turn your head back to the television. Faces flash on the screen behind his head. Their names sit in a little white rectangle below the last image of them alive, happy. 

The one in the middle looks familiar. A familiar stranger. 

It hits you when you spot the little mole on her chin. 

The bubbly clerk at the mum'n'pop grocer on the outskirts of the city. She always pretends to ring up your tampons and pads, but each time you sit in your car and glance at the receipt, they're never there. 

It's done with no words. She isn't seeking recognition, or plaudits.

The last time you saw her, she added a bag of chocolate clusters to your order, perching them on top of the box. You walked in looking like death and hunched over from the cramps that turned your face nearly ashen with pain that day. No words. No inclusion of nearly nine dollars and forty cents on your bill. She even grabbed the expensive brand - the one that uses all-natural ingredients. 

She winked when you looked at her. A secretive little thing meant only for you. 

And now - 

You suck in a shuddering breath through clenched teeth. The temperature drops. Your teeth ache from the cold. 

Sometimes you like to pretend that the world doesn't exist outside of the four walls that close in around you. That everything else is a bad dream, an illusion. It's just you on this lonely island on the outskirts of a town that bred the unequivocal evil that haunts the shadows and hunts down those misfortunate enough to stumble in its ravenous path. 

Just you, him, and your cats. 

And he, of course, is the shapeless chasm of evil skulking the town and butchering the lovely shopgirl who gives you free chocolate when you wander in like an omen of death. 

It's not his fault. 

The excuse is thin. Sorrow gnarls inside of your chest, edging into the anxious thrum that steady billows up, polluting you with that fretful, nauseating sense of worry. 

You know you can't just mark down the residents that are off-limits. No such thing exists to him. The concept of unkillable is as confounding to him as this whole thing is to you.

But - 

As much as you like her - liked - you've made your choice, haven't you? The sorrow is overwhelmed by the worry. 

What if the police found him? What if someone hurt him? What if, what if, what if - 

What if he never comes back? 

This whole thing started on an ephemeral moment of happenstance. You wandered out into the alley right beside your house, pstpstpst'ing in the dark with an open bag of Temptations whilst you searched for that little stray who ran off with your socks - the cosy kind that keeps all your toes warm - when you stumbled into a wall. A warm one. Fever-hot. A hand lashed out of the caliginous recess, sealing around your arm before the gasp in your throat had a chance to pass your lips. 

It felt like a vice. 

The unrelenting coil of iron wrapped around your arms, squeezing the bone with such unfathomable force that your knees quaked from pain leaking into your forearm. 

The bag dropped from your shaking hands, spilling shrimp and lobster flavoured cat treats all over the dank, grimy alley floor. 

You couldn't see anything through the gloom or the sudden vertigo that ensnared you when you glanced up, trying to catch a glimpse of the mass of pure strength perched in front of you. Your head swam as the man's sheer length stretched on for aeons, never ending, roiling up nearly two metres tall. 

Your knees buckled. 

His hands gripping you was the only thing that kept you from collapsing into the murky puddle below. 

Through the town, murmurs erupted about the Shape. His history leaks blood and misery - mayhem and calamity follow him wherever he wanders. He's an omen of death. Decay and pain, murder, is his auspice. 

He's pure evil, the flashy doctor on the television set ground out, tone severe. His brows furrowed tightly together as everyone else around him hurtled blame and reason. He ignored them, his gaze unwavering as he stared into your very being through the monitor. Stay away from him. If you see him-, there was a hitch in his voice; and then, solemn. The silence of the newsroom was palpable: well, you'd be better off praying for a swift death. 

And so, that's what you do. 

"Please, please-," you don't pray to god. Gods. Your pleas are meant for him even though the black eyes that gleam in the low moonlight that hangs over you like a portant all tell you that it's futile. He doesn't listen to prayers. Your breathless orisons fall on deaf ears. 

You think about your cats. The ones locked inside your house right now with no escape. Food will run low. Water. You don't have many friends that keep up with you often enough for them to notice your absence. 

It's then, at that moment when his hands squeeze and your bones creak under the strain, that you wish you didn't prefer your own company over that of others. Cats. That if you weren't so docile and content to be alone, someone would notice the glaring lack of you, and rescue the poor strays you trapped inside your charnel. 

"Please," you choke, eyes burning with tears that stream down your face in rivets. It's your last adjure, plea, to whatever humanity is left to rot inside of him. "P-please just open my door…? My cats are inside, and I-"

The clouds overhead split apart. The milky glow of the moon illuminates the dim alleyway, cutting through the tenebrous cloaking the being that grips you from the shadows. 

The murky light makes the deep splashes on his chest look almost like ink. 

You thought it was his head. 

Oh, god. You'd been pleading with his chest this whole time. 

You glance up, nervous, shaking, and are met with the waxen mask, creased with age and covered in grime. Blood, perhaps. The sight of him, the way the back of your head has to nearly rest on your spine to stare at his face, makes you shiver. Makes your hands tremble and your heart thunder inside of your chest.

It would be very logical for the blood in your veins to run cold.

But with the intense, piercing way he stares down at you, chin tipped toward his chest, it spumes molten, liquid heat that rushes through you with enough force that you feel a little dizzy with it. 

Oh, no… 

Oh -

He bends down, and the thick, metallic scent of blood overwhelms you. Dirt. Sweat. The miasma of rot makes your heart give a painful thud. Fear. Terror. 

(And something else.)

His breath turns stertorous. 

You brace yourself, tensing for the sudden paroxysm of a vicious attack, your mind flashing with all the things you did, didn't do, should have done, and will now never get the chance - 

- He lurches, and then like a pendulum, swings back. 

You're jerked forward when he falls into the trash behind him, clattering against the bins stacked up near the garbage shoot. 

The silence that settles over you is smothering. 

You expect him to get up, to finish what he tried to start, but he doesn't. He lays, motionless, in the gutter. His grip on your arms slackens, and they fall, limp, to his sides. 

It's then that the damage to his torso reveals itself to you. The blood coating his body wasn't, entirely, foreign. 

He's injured. 

You hesitate. 

You should leave him here to die. Call the police. Thank your sudden stroke of luck. Kiss the ground and look for some deity to worship for this salvation. 

You should, but you don't.

(You've always had a soft spot for dirty strays.)

He comes and goes, now. Like the many cats you feed. 

Wandering around before slowly ambling back to your house in search of more sustenance. 

Somewhere in the muddled awakening, when he blinked his eyes open and found himself staring at the white popcorn ceiling in your living room, catching sight of you careful dabbing at the sweat drying on his brow after the rupture of a fever, you - and your house - become something victual for him. 

It was tense, at first - and really, it still is - but in the interim of patching together the gory remnants of his abdomen and breaking down in the solitude of your bathroom, huddled in the basin as water rippled across your skin in a baptism of sin, you found purpose in the murkiness that enshrouded you. 

The dubious morality nearly crippled you, leaving nothing but an empty husk of regret and terror as his skin knitted itself together, sealing over the wound that, had it been left in the trash, would have killed him. The infection, poisoned blood, animals - it would have all contributed to a corpse in the alley. 

The stench would have drawn notice to his final resting place, and the reign of terror the chasm of evil, the Shape, brought to your town would finally be over. 

And yet -

There was something itching in your pericardium that made leaving him alone feel tithe abysmal as the brief relief of letting him die. 

This is your fault. 

Your lip aches. Your tongue lolls over the broken skin, soothing the sting. 

Whatever it was that made him decide not to kill you when he felt your hands on his forehead, when he saw you trembling in the corner, gasping for breath and praying for a swift end, is a mystery to you. 

But maybe there is no logic. You feed the strays because you want to. 

You buy the extra cat food, and litter, and spend your earned money to get them spayed and neutered and cared for, not because you have to, but because you just do.

And maybe it's the same for him. 

You're somewhere in the middle of unkillable - for now - and nourishment.

Or you were. 

Then something inside of him snapped, evolved. 

You weren't here when he slipped inside of your home like he belonged, flinching at the state of him dripping gore in your mudroom, and then slowly, cautiously, skirting around him, fretting in the background. 

You weren't there.

No -

You were at the vet. 

When you returned, cat cradled under your arm and dozing off the effects of anaesthesia, you were met with an eerie silence, and bloodied footprints pacing across your floors. 

You had just enough time to set the cat down on the landing when his hand lashed out through the aether once more, grabbing your delicate neck and slamming you against the wall so hard the photos you hung (all pictures bought from Ikea to make your mudroom a little less drab) clattered to the ground, cascading glass and broken wood over the messy floor.

His breath comes in great, heaving rasps; anger seeps into every crevasse as his eyes, feverish with bloodlust, bore down at you. 

The apoplectic fury that roars through him is sudden, unexpected. He'd been so docile toward you thus far. Your defences lowered, almost, when weeks passed and he made no move to end your life. 

He crept around your house like he belonged, watching you from the doorway of your bedroom as you slept. It was the most he'd done to shake your sense of comfort and privacy. 

He never touched you, except that time in the alley and when he'd first woken up, both times grabbing you out of reflex rather than intent. 

This - 

This is purposeful. 

The quick rise and fall of his chest makes your toes curl in confusion, fear. 

Why now? Why he is - 

He leans in, the wheezing breath sounding muffled and garish behind the latex, and then he - 

Sniffs.

It's so unexpected, so jarring, that your head thumps against the wall when you flinch. 

Why is he - 

His hand reaches up, grasping at the wispy, tangled hair of his mask, and with a great tug, it's pulled from his head, and dropped - discarded - on the floor. 

You've only seen him barefaced when you lugged him into the mudroom, and settled him on the carpet between your couch and coffee table. It wasn't his choice; you'd removed it in your search for additional injuries. 

This, however, is all him - his choice, his decision.

And it baffles you. 

You don't know why he took the mask off, why he's so angry - why he keeps coming back, why he stares at you so much, why he does what he does, why you - 

You find out with the briefest flutter of his eyelids narrowing at you. His nostrils flare. And then he moves, plunging his head closer to you until your foreheads are pressed taut together, and suddenly - unexpectedly - his mouth is on yours. 

He doesn't move. His lips are lax. It might not even be a kiss, you don't think, but then his head tilts, slanting his mouth over your own, and his lips part, only just, and it's then that you realise that he is kissing you. 

Or in proxy of it, anyway. 

He mimics the right movements, but there is no action beyond that. It's almost as if he doesn't know how people kiss, just that they do, and this is what it looks like when you stand off to the side and watch. 

Movies. Real life. The images you've seen play in your head over and over again, lining up perfectly with the way his head moves, the way his body leans into you, bracketing you against the wall. His hand around your throat keeps your chin up, your head immobile, while he cocks his head to the side in a mockery of romance that's so utter endearing you nearly pass out from blood that rushes to your cheeks. 

Oh, god. 

Michael Myers is kissing you. He doesn't know how, but he's trying, and it's - 

Oh, god. Oh -

It changes the chossy foundation established between you. 

Michael stakes a claim on you, on your house, that is incomprehensible to you; this abstruse chasm in which you're precariously balanced on the precipice, gazing in at the inscrutable abyss that looks back at you, and kisses you, and pulls you close, and smothers you with the sheer absurdity of it all, is confounding. Beyond reason. 

You haven't initiated any of it. 

All the lines crossed between you were at his hands, his whim. When he strips you bare and looms over you like a starving breast, a ravenous god, you let him - willingly, eagerly - but you never breach those parameters on your own accord. 

The abrupt physicality of your evolving - something - with Michael Myers wreaks havoc on your poor, straining heart. The embarrassment comes in a maelstrom. You skirt away from his grasping hands, gasping and flushing scarlet as the blazing heat of his body sears your skin. 

It's too much sometimes. 

To go from near death, to a ramshackle symbiosis of sorts - a ghastly, unspoken agreement in which you are not to be killed provided that you aid him when he comes skulking through the alley, and meandering about your haven like the very same alleycats you pluck from the barren streets -, to this, is, well, odd, to say the least. 

Was it there the whole time for him? Did he look at you with his lidded gaze from the onset? Did that dark hunger spool inside of him from the beginning or were the embers flamed by something you did after? 

Was it the empty house he wandered into that set him off? 

(Does it really matter?)

"...If you see any suspicious figures, do not engage, and call local authorities right away-," click.

You toss the remote on the cushion beside you, leaning your head back on the rest, gazing listlessly at the ceiling. The swell of panic hasn't subsided, but it's all futile. 

Michael has no collar. He comes and goes on his own, driven back to you by that strange unknowable thing that makes him desire you, that makes him tug you on his lap and paw at your body until you're quivering from his touch. When he finally sinks inside of you, all thought is dissolved into frayed synapses that spark, filled with nothing but pleasure. Logic, reason, questionable morality, the existential ennui that drapes over you like a stormcloud, only seeps into the tenebrous when he is around. 

And he hasn't been around for nearly a month. So, it comes in vicious waves, now. 

Maybe he found whatever he was searching for in your flesh, and didn't need it any longer. Maybe the tremble in your hands caused by his touch, the briefest brush of his skin nearly overwhelming you, and the etiolated countenance you carried when he loomed large and imposing, in your space, was disinteresting to him. 

You've seen it before in the others, haven't you? 

Hunger satiated. Thirst quenched. They wandered away from you, no longer needing the aliment you provided. 

You should be thankful that his curiosity has been abated. 

(But like most things you ought to be, you aren't.)

The only constant with Michael is a trail of bodies and the habitual sense of fear and unease as he lurks in the crevasses of Haddonfield, waiting to happen upon his next victim. 

He leaves you in a state of pell-mell and uproots your bucolic existence with his confounding presence, and the strange way he fits you inside of his world. 

Your thoughts are plagued by uncertainties that make your stomach churn with knots; a festering mass of unease and anxiety. 

You need a distraction. 

Your eyes glance furtively toward the hallway - barren as it has been for the last month - before the little sigh of dejection passes through your lips. 

It's silly to worry. 

With one last hopeful glance at the still empty hallway, you rise from the couch, and drift toward the washroom adjacent to your bedroom. You'll scour the nerves off under the scalding nozzle, and then watch something cheesy and stupid - a mindless movie you turn your thoughts off before falling asleep. 

Peanut Purrter and Jelly swarm you when you stand, mewling for the food they already ate, and you bend down, scratching behind their soft ears. Out of all of the cats, these two are the most affectionate. They never leave your side, either. You picked them up out of a bin, took them home, and they quickly decided that the outdoor life was just not for them. 

It happens sometimes. 

All their wants are fulfilled in the sanctity of your four walls, and they seem content to live out the rest of their days wandering through the halls, and watching the birds from out the window, or the fish in your tank. 

Jelly pushes his soft, orange head into your palm, eyes slipping shut as his loud purrs fill the hallway, and you can't stop the little thought that slips out of the recess where notions of grandeur and impossibilities are let to rot, wondering if one day, Michael will find that, too. 

(And then, embarrassedly, selfishly, you wonder if it would be with you.)

You bury your flaming cheeks into Peanut's lush fur, and use her as a shield to hide the silly little thoughts that roll inside of your head late at night. She's happy to go along for the ride, content to paw at your hair and flick her tail over your arms. 

"How stupid," you murmur into her fur, the flush spreading like a fever. 

She bleats in response.

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The shower eases the tension that builds, settling the cortisol that pools inside of you.  

Thoughts of Michael slip down the drain, but only just. He lingers in the periphery - has since you first found him in the gutter and dragged him inside - like an inescapable shadow. Your hands scrub over your face in a futile attempt to wash the blush off your cheeks. 

It's easy to push the idealistic musings into the chasm that chews them up and spits out realism. 

It's the worry of the unknown that refuses to relent. 

Is he hurt? Did he get caught? Why hasn't he come home -

Home. 

No. This isn't his home. His home is a dilapidated house in the suburbs of Haddonfield. 

Your little bucolic abode on the fringes of the wilderness is not home to him: it's a refuge. A place to get his needs met and lay low. 

A means to an end. 

The thoughts gnarl inside of you, festering under the weight of uncertainty.

You wish you could ask him, but even if he was here, you know you wouldn't. The words sat on your lips so many times before only to be swallowed down quickly by the fear of rejection, of pushing him into a corner. 

You reach for the soap and wonder where this is heading. Maybe he wouldn't return. Maybe he didn't need you anymore.

Maybe -

There is a rustle. A looming shape just outside of the blue cover. And then your curtain is wrenched back. 

The startled scream is smothered in your oesophagus at the sight of him, brooding, massive. He takes up all space in your small washroom - so tall that he has to duck his head down to look at you lest his view is hindered by the curtain rod. 

(Can you spot the danger? You didn't even know it was there-)

He appears almost as quickly as he disappears. His eyes never waver as he watches you huddled under the scalding spray of the shower head, hands curled between your breasts as you lather a bar of soap in your hands. 

(Sea salt and eucalyptus. The loam scent reminds you of him.)

You flush, hunching further as his usually impassive stare hardens, brimming with an intensity that is only matched when he's angry or victorious after a kill. 

Michael peels back the shower curtain, exposing more of your nude, wet flesh to his burning gaze. 

"M-Michael-," you start, stuttering over his name, but the rest turns into a breathless huff of surprise when he pulls off his mask, and ducks under the rod keeping the curtain in place, clambering into the shower behind you. 

As soon as the water hits the leg of his jumpsuit, grime and dirt bleed off of him in rivets, turning the pooling liquid black. The brackish water sloshes as he steps in beside you, looming over you. 

The shower seems comically small in comparison to the length and width of him. His shoulders hunch, head dropping to avoid hitting the waterproof ceiling. You shuffle back, numb with surprise at his unexpected appearance, and with the way he moves - agile and graceful, despite his size. 

He fills the space, pushing you back to the opposite wall with the nozzle directly over your head. It reaches to his sternum, the weeping spray drenching his jumpsuit until it's nearly black from the water and the dried blood that runs down the length of his torso. 

It must be uncomfortable, you think, but he makes no move to undress, and seems completely unbothered by the oddity of the situation. 

It's been a month. Not much has changed. He is still the same strange - deadly, dangerous - man he'd always been. Always is. 

Your smile is a touch wobbly, filled with nerves of a new kind; the same anxious thrum wells inside of you at the sight of him. Your mind oscillates between terror, fear, and that primal pool of self-preservation that quickly rips through you, and bellows to stay still, to hide so that the hulking predator can't see you, can't devour you; and the unmistakable sense of relief at the sight of him standing so close to you. 

He's here, your mind chants like a broken record, tone shifting like a swinging pendulum between nervousness, fear and happiness, solace. 

Michael has a tendency to wring out every iota of intensity in each emotion you feel. There is no slight, no halves - it's whole. All. You're never slightly happy to see him. You're exuberant. You're never a little scared of him. You're terrified. 

You've never felt this way about anyone else before. The visceral emotions he makes you feel leave your mind spiralling on a downward descent off the edge of a steep precipice. 

And even now, with him towering over you like an inescapable wall of pure strength, you're wracked with tremors from the force of the relief, the conflict of fight or flight, and the undulating sense of contentment at having him so close to you. 

"Michael…" you murmur again, caught between terror and need. 

The slightest narrowing of his eyes is all he gives you in response. His chin dips down, meaningful, purposeful, and you know, you know, what he wants. What he came for. 

Covered in blood that doesn't belong to him, fresh from the abattoir he makes of your town, you can't help the thrum of want, need, happiness that spumes inside of your chest, consuming the worry, the fear, in one quick bite. 

It's gone, dissolved by hydrochloric acid and the unrelenting urge to close the chasm between you and the bulk of his body where you stand, barely brushing past the last rib of his torso. Michael knows. Of course he does. 

You were naïve in the beginning when you assumed him to just be a mindless killer; that the eyes that gazed at you were vacant and unseeing. 

Michael Myers is more observant than you could have ever fathomed. 

Nothing escapes him. 

Not the tremble in your lip, the spasms of your shaking fingers, the glistening water that runs down your flesh, already prickling with goosebumps despite the steaming heat of the shower.

He can see the need, the want, brimming up in your eyes as you gaze at him fleetingly, unable to match his stare, and overcome with that burning tang of embarrassment, shyness, that overwhelms you when he stands too close. 

He can see the war in your mind: 

Yearning for proximity until all you can feel is his heavy flesh on yours, merging together into a muddled mess of euphoric pleasure.

And;

The hesitation to get too close. The nervous thudding of your heart when he moves, like a scared little animal of prey stumbling upon a resting predator. Unsure what to do. How to approach. And if you even can.

It becomes too much. Your eyes drop - submissive, docile - to the white panelled floor below, watching the blood run over your feet, staining the mat pink with the gory residuum of seven - known - victims. It makes you recoil slightly, toes curling in the river of ichor. 

Michael’s head tilts. Another display of impatience. 

Right. Your teeth sink into the soft bed of flesh. Nerves turning to ash. 

Your hands shake when you reach up, knuckles brushing over the metal chain of his zipper as your trembling fingers grasp the pull. Michael keeps his intense, heavy gaze on you as your fingers spasm, too nervous to take the lead and undress him. 

Like a skittish little mouse under the paw of a cat, you tremble. Paralysed. But not with fear - with nerves. 

It's been a month, you want to say. You're not prepared. You're not - 

It's a lie, though. You laid in bed for the last four weeks with your hand under the covers, and his name on your lips like gospel. 

If anything, you're over-prepared. All too eager to feel him. To let the boogeyman take you. 

The thoughts running through you make you shiver. In your musings, Michael's head tilts.

The amplitude of his patience is deep, but not endless. 

His hand reaches up, closing in your own. His palm swallows your hands with an effortless ease that makes your knees quake. 

The implication in his action is clear: hurry up. 

You nod, mostly to yourself and you scrounge together the nerve that is quickly being eroded by the cascading water pouring over you. The grind of the metal teeth peeling back on the zipper, the rush of the water, and Michael's deep, even breaths are the only noise that fills the small - too small - shower. The muted cacophony echoes against the ceramic walls, reverberating through you. 

The zipper snags on the grove, and can go no further. You swallow thickly, eyes darting up to catch a glimpse of his expression covered under the damp, tangled curtain of his long brown hair. An inky abyss stares back at you. Under the impassivity of his expression, the vat of unfathomable black churns and froths with intense, burning fervour.  

He shrugs his shoulders, and the jumpsuit slips down from the weight of the water, pooling at his ankles. 

You flinch when his cock springs up, freed from the loose confinement of his overalls, and you think you catch a glimpse of his canines when he spots the bloom of blood spuming under your cheeks. 

You peek up at him, stomach knotting with a flutter of nerves that batter relentlessly at your soft lining, anxious to escape the prison it's kept in. His teeth are hidden by the even seam of his lips, expression veiled with a thick veneer of that same implacable nothingness that's reflected on the latex laying dormant, forgotten, on the carpet. 

When you finally meet his gaze, Michael's eyes flutter. And then he drops. 

Michael sits in one swift movement, dropping down to the shower bench behind him. His knees jut forward on the seat that's far too tiny for someone so big. 

Without him looming over you, you feel like you can breathe again. Quick breaths are eagerly stolen into your starved lungs. His proximity alone makes you sweat, makes you feel like you're being smothered. Hypoxia sets in until you're dizzy with it.

His hand reaches out, wrapping around your arm in that same too-tight, too firm grasp he always uses. 

It would be a lie to say he doesn't know his own strength by now. Michael Myers is very aware. Very attuned to himself in a way that you don't think any other person could ever manage to be. There is no unknown with him, no indecision. No unease. When he does something, it's always with purpose. 

So, when he takes hold of you like this, a shade away from burgeoning pain, you know that this, too, is done with meaning. And when your gaze drops to the floor, unable to meet the burning smoulder that stares at you, expectant, waiting, you see the purpose very clearly. 

He's hard. 

The moment your gaze brushes across the pearlescent precum pooling on his flushed, engorged head, his cock twitches, jerking against his broad, firm stomach. 

The hot water is limitless with your tank. It'll never run out so long as the electric light keeps it burning. But the spray that grazes your skin feels icy compared to the heat thrumming in your veins. You feel hot. Feverish. 

Panting into the steamy, oxygen-starved basin, you hastily snap your eyes shut, squeezing them tight to stem the sudden torrent of want that rages inside of you at the sight of him - knees spread in the perfect picture of languour, one hand on you, an effortless shackle keeping you from escaping, and the other limp by his side, knuckles brushing against the ceramic shower seat. 

He's probably tilting his head in that way he's wont to do - a little dip of his chin that conveys and implacable: well? and you can almost hear the accompanying, what are you waiting for? echoing in the stifling chamber. 

Your face is on fire. The embers flicker and drop sparks across your chest, spitting at the tips of your ears. 

You can't - 

Well. You simply can't. 

But Michael doesn't understand the concept of no, of wait, of this is too much and it's been so long and he's too -

Overwhelming. 

Everything is: his presence, the way his intensity feels like physical weight bearing down on you, his absurd size, his indomitable prowess and strength that sometimes makes your knees buckle and your limbs slacken in fear, his insatiable appetite -

He's hungry. Your teeth chatter from the shiver that rockets down your spine. 

There is no preparation for when his hands seal around your waist, unamused by the embarrassment that overtakes you. It happens too fast for you to keep up. His muscle coil, tightening, and then you're being heaved up into the air, suspended over his lap by nothing but his brute strength. 

Michael moves you around like you're a life-sized doll, filled with nothing but spooled polyester cotton. And to him, maybe you are. You're a malleable thing that flushes blood red in his presence, the hue never failing to catch his rapt attention immediately, and pique that little part of his brain that wants more. Little nips decorate your chin, neck, collarbones, chest - all a buccaneer smear of blossoming brands in the shape of his teeth; his insatiable lust for that particular cardinal shade manifesting on your flesh. 

He stares at them after. Eyes fixed on the burst capillaries that pool blood just under your skin. His breath is always a little quicker when he sees them the next morning, a little raspy, ragged. 

(He'll push you, then, against the wall and take you there, eyes never straying from the soot-coloured stains smearing flaxen and violet.)

There is no illusion of control with Michael. No sense of shared power or leeway. The ebb and flow begins and ends with him - his whims, his wants. You're merely adrift in the current, clinging to driftwood as his currents drag you along. 

It's here, perched on top of him, in a position where - had it been anyone else, you might have considered yourself in control, where the truth of that really stands apparent. 

Your knees aren't even touching the bench. They're folded up, caps pressed into the seam of the wall and Michael's hips, legs folded under your thighs, and toes dangling off the edge of his bent knees. 

He holds you tight, refusing to let you go, and pulls you taut to his chest until you can go no further. 

Even with you perched atop him, he has to angle his chin down to meet your gaze. Big. Towering. Mountainous. His arms flex, muscles coiling under the tawny flesh that barely contains it, and it's the jut of his veins that makes you gasp, eyes lidding as desire spools inside of you. 

Sometimes you like to imagine what he would be like had he chosen a different path in life, one void of bloodshed and terror. A model, you think, delirious with the hard press of his body against yours - so fragile and delicate by comparison. He'd be lusted after by an endless stream of people desperate, like you, for just a graze. 

It feels a little taboo to touch him, but you're imbued with the visceral sense of cacoethes.  

Unable to stem the itch in your palms, you press them against his chest, feeling the hard plains of his body under your fingertips. His skin is warm. Chest dusted with a flaxen smattering of ulotrichous hair. It prickles against your skin when you rub your hands across his broad torso, tentatively running them up toward his collarbones.

It had taken quite a substantial amount of courage - of the liquid kind, no less - to touch him of your own accord. He seemed rather pleased when you did, when your hand reached out and felt the bulk of his forearms, so wide that there was still a finger-width of flesh poking out around your thumb and pinky. His muscles tensed under your curious prods. The first tightening of his corded arm seemed largely out of the unwonted brush of your skin on the outside of his usual demanding design. Then he relaxed. His muscles flexed, as if to show you a proper demonstration of his indelible strength. 

His skin rippled. Veins bulged, pressing taut to his flesh. 

The sight of it made your mouth water. 

Still does, you think, eyes greedily taking in every inch of his exposed skin, the expansive flesh offered to you is irresistible. Your hands roam, free and unhindered by the usual hesitation that encapsulates you. It's the distance. The time apart has chiselled open a rapacious hunger inside of you. 

Michael watches as you paw at him desperately, eyes widening, breath stuttering when his chest expands under your hands. Your palm passes over his heart, and the steady thud is almost jarring. It knocks through the haze of want that overtook you, and you find yourself almost surprised, like always, when Michael's humanity is confirmed. 

He's not a husk driven by basic needs. Evil. 

He has a heart - one that beats just like yours. 

You pull back, your palm lifting off of his chest until just the very tops of your fingers remain on his skin. 

Sometimes you convince yourself that he's a spectre. Ichor and evil are confined in the pulpy sinew of a human. A matryoshka of sorts where the exterior seems largely normal - or as normal as someone as massive as he is could ever seem - but the inside is filled with empty layers all stacked together. 

Murder. Bloodlust. Mayhem.

Carnage. Death. Decay. 

It muddles together in your mind and makes you think of him as a quietus. A being that does not belong in this realm where ghosts and demons and ghouls are relegated to the altar where they are condemned by a vicar. Cast out of the established spectrum in the material world that closes in on you like a noose. 

The dense, solid flesh under your hands confirms corporeal nature, but everything else about him mystifies you. 

A little part of you wonders if he really is a quietus prowling around in this moral plane; an escapee from the pits of hell left to wreak havoc on the world of the living to satiate that lust for calamity that brims inside of his slate-coloured gaze; the same hue as death, decay.

The same eyes that ensnare you - captivate you - rendering you mute, silent, in the echoing cacophony of the dead that bellow at you, their blood running down your drain, congealing on your toes. 

(You wonder, then, what it says about you that you're willingly perched on the lap of Stygian ilk like a poised queen on a throne of skulls. 

Right where you belong.)

You meet that smouldering gaze.

He's surprisingly accommodating today, you note, glancing at him through the wet veil that hides his expression from you. Your fingers twitch on his chest. You're overcome with another inadvisable whim - the urge to sink your hands into his hair and scrub the dirt away from his ashen locks is hard to ignore, but that might be pushing the limits of what he allows too far. 

You dig your nails into the flaxen hair on his chest instead, grounding yourself against the silly notions brimming up inside of you.

It's in those musings over your unexpected caprice that Michael's patience wears. 

His jagged nails bite into the flesh on your hips, the stinging prickle of a furze meant only as a warning. He wants something. You're taking too long. He's getting impatient. 

But the thing is: you don't know what it is he wants. 

Your lower lip juts out, and you sink your teeth into the plush skin. It would be easier if he spoke, telling you what it is you're doing wrong, or if he showed you what it was he wanted. But it's futile. 

He does neither. Michael gave you a warning, and now he waits. 

The nervous gnashing in your chest grows under the intensity of his stare. His eyes narrow just a touch, fixed on the pink slip of your appendage poking out. He's so focused on it, that you feel like you can breathe a little better without the weight of his gaze penetrating into your being. Eye contact with Michael Myers fills you with the maddening urge to roll over and show your soft belly, to bare your vulnerable neck in submission. 

Your tongue flicks up, swiping across your upper lip. His eyes follow it. 

You do it again. Again -

Just as you're beginning to catch on to what he wants, he tires of the little game you're (unintentionally) playing. 

To him, you're toying with him. Holding up a piece of meat and dangling it in front of his maw. 

You flush, stuttering out a simpering apology, but Michael cares very little for the placating words you attempt to persuade him with. The burn of his unyielding grip burrows into you again, and it's the only warning he gives before he wrenches you forward, pulling you until your breasts are flush with his chest. 

He devours the broken gasp of his name that stumbles from your lips, feasting on you like a starving beast. 

Michael is a quick learner. Almost as soon as you opened your mouth, moulding your lips against his, he picked up the finesse behind the action, and consumed you. He doesn't let you take control of the kiss - once he learnt the little things that make you pant into his mouth, moan brokenly against his tongue, his hunger grew. His kisses leave you breathless in a way no one else has ever managed. 

Like most things in your life before Michael, kissing was always just okay. A prelude. A chore. 

And now you whine against his lips as his tongue lashes out, filling your mouth in search of more of your taste. 

It's good, now. Great. Amazing. An explosive sensation of searing heat, and kiss bruised lips. You pull away, gasping for air, and feel the sting on your mouth from the force of his ardour. 

Lidded, hazy with want, you pull yourself closer to him, whimpering when his cock presses into your navel, smearing precum across your wet skin. 

It's been a month. A month of nothing. The scent of him left your pillows weeks ago, and your imagination was barely enough to quell the rapacious ache inside of you that longed for the firm, unyielding press of his body over yours. 

And now, he's here. He's yours for the taking. 

Your fingers itch again - the urge to touch is strong. Consuming. 

But you don't. You flush a deep maroon, tipping your chin away from his gaze, and rock against his lap, seeking a quiet, unnoticeable pleasure. 

He's too much. 

You can't ever bring yourself to give into the greediness inside of you, and instead take what little you can get away with. The idea of just -

Taking feels a little too sacrilegious. A little too bold. It's not in your nature to do so, and the idea of testing those implicit boundaries with Michael is a little too daunting. 

So, you cant your hips against him, squirming in his lap to abate the ache growing inside of you with what little motions he'll allow as Michael nips down the column of your throat. His mouth on his skin, teeth burrowed into your pulse point, the thick length of him so close to where you want him, need him, is too much. 

He catches the bloom of red under your skin when you blush, feels the stutter of your breath as it crawls up your throat. The want in your voice, the need, is palpable when you choke out his name. A soft, meek little thing: the coo of prey, begging so prettily for reprieve.

Michael buries his chin into the curve of your neck, forcing your head back. His hands slide, bracing over the delicate vertebrates of your spine. They're almost fluid in his hand. The bones in your body are as easy as papier-mâché for him to snap. To break. He could ruin you. Sink his canines into your jugular and tear out your flesh, letting you bleed to death in his lap. He could keep the sensual arch of your back going, pushing and pushing until he snapped you in half. You're so -

Fragile. 

His cock twitches against you, spitting prespend over your belly. His cock burns hotter than a brand, molten against your skin. 

Michael's arms tighten around you, fingers digging into the knobs of your spine. Panic wells inside of you. He's going to do it - snap you in two -

-and Michael -

-picks you up effortlessly once again, and holds you over his aching cock. 

There is no foreplay tonight. He won't slide his hand between your soft thighs to feel how wet you are for him, fingers toying with your slickness until you moan out his name in that particular cadence he likes best. He won't drag them up, making you see them glistening with your desire. Forcing you to acknowledge your want for him, to see it glimmering on his hand. Evidentiary proof that your body yearns for him. That you belong to him.

He won't because he's impatient, now. Your wiggling, the little gasps of his name, the way you cling to him and fit in his lap, have all worn his patience down to nothing. 

(To Michael, he's had nearly a month of edging, foreplay, with each of his kills that left him half-hard and aching, and on the verge of wandering back to your familiar abode to satiate the burn in his loins.)

He'll take you like this. 

And maybe later, when he wakes in the middle of the night with you slumbering peacefully beside him, in the spot you belong, he'll slip under the covers and spread your aching thighs apart, rousing you to the sensation of his mouth devouring you, tongue greedily lapping at your centre until you're a quivering mess, begging him for respite that'll never come. Not when he hasn't had you in nearly a month. 

This is only an appetiser. 

You know this by the darkening glaze in his eyes as he pulls you close, grasping you tight, until the flushed head of his cock slips between your thighs. Shuddering from the way the blunt tip presses against you, you scramble to find purchase as he steadily lowers you down. His cock slips inside, stretching you wide to make room for the rest of him. 

Michael doesn't do things in halves. 

There is the slightest hitch to his breath once the first inch passes, bringing tears to your eyes at the burning stretch of him filling you. Once he's found his mark, he leans his head down, nuzzling into your neck.

You know what's coming. You know - 

But there is no time to prepare yourself for the suddenness of being split apart while his teeth sink into the soft flesh of your neck. 

A shrill cry is ripped from your throat when he bludgeons into you, the head of his cock battering into your cervix in a way that has you seeing phosphenes with your eyes wide open. Your toes curl, fingers dig into the flesh of his broad shoulders, body spasming with the sudden paroxysm of him being seated so deep within you. 

His jaw is vice on your neck, and for a moment you fear that he's going to pull away with a chunk of your flesh, but it's gone when his teeth go slack, and his tongue runs out with rapacious greed to lick up the fresh blood that spills down your chest in pink rivets. 

You sob, quaking from the suddenness of it all, and try to abate the hypoxia from inking out your vision. The abruptness, the pain of the bite, the burn of the stretch, all knocked the air from your lungs, and you struggle to come to yourself through the overwhelming sensations he ripped through you. 

It's a mercy that he stays still, letting you adjust to his girth as he laps at the blood he spilt, nipping at your broken flesh. Michael is big. You barely had time to marvel at the size of him before his urgency to fill you became too much, but you feel it now with incredible clarity. 

It pushes to the very edge of your mettle, teasing the resiliency of your body until you feel like you're on the verge of splitting apart. Broken, irreparably, by the thickness seated to the deepest depths inside of you. You shift, wincing at the way his cock moves when you do, the base of him stretching you in a way that has you heaving brokenly into his chest. 

It aches. He feels endless. You pry your fingers from his shoulders, only slightly remorseful at the sight of four indents cutting through his flesh, and drop your hand down to your stomach. More than a little delirious on that white-hot pain, you almost think you can feel his cock through the layers of tissue, pressing against the skin of your abdomen. 

"Michael-," you sob, head spooling with the thick haze of pleasure-pain that ricochets down your spine. 

He knows what you want. What you need. He always does, and while he might be a right bastard when it comes to giving it to you when you want it, he never leaves you dissatisfied. But this - the watery stream of blood leaking over your collarbones, dripping down your breasts, is what he cares for most, and so -

You'll wait. 

You pant. Squirming on the throne of his lap in a desperate attempt to find that spot inside of you that makes you see an array of refulgent nebulae behind your eyelids. 

Your walls tremble, body shaking, but slowly, slowly, the ache inside begins to spool, coiling into something different. Numbed pleasure seeps out of the place he's nudged, seated so firmly against, and begins to leak into your bloodstream. 

The first, quiet gasp that's ripped from your chest verges on absolute bliss. It's a call. A beacon. 

And Michael answers. 

Michael plants his feet firmly on the floor, and you feel the flex, the coil, of his strong hamstrings pull taut. Too busy admiring the strength in his body, you fail to recognise the signs. His hips jerk suddenly, pushing upward with enough force to jostle you. You gasp, slipping on his hard, wet skin, and slamming into his chest. Your hands reach up, holding onto his shoulders as Michael begins to move under you - the prowess of a tiger, a caiman, pure muscle barely contained by the prison of its flesh. 

He doesn't wait for you. 

All you can do is cling to him desperately, eagerly seeking purchase from the deep, demanding thrusts he batters into your body from below. 

His mouth is on yours again, swallowing the hiccuping moans you make, the keens, as he pistons into you. The pace he sets is rough, a touch brutal: he forces himself in as deep as he can go, pauses there just to let you feel it, and then pulls out until only the tip of his cock remains, and he waits again. It's a brief second, but they come so sporadically that you can't work out a pattern, not when the firm press of his cock inside of you knocks all logic out of your head.

Synapses overheat with each delicious drag of his cock against your gummy walls until they misfire, filling with a slurry of oxytocin and dopamine, rendering you stupid, dizzy, and drunk on the thickness of him, the way he fills you, and slams into the places inside that make your nucleus accumbens coruscate like a supernova. 

His hands clench around your hips, lifting you up off of his aching, hard cock, and forcing you to meet him in the middle of his next thrust. It rattles through your core until your voice is hoarse from the cries he rips out of you. It borders on the blissful equinox of being too much, too painful, and too good, too euphoric. 

All you can do is cling to him. Let him move you around how he pleases.

His breath quickens in tandem with your mewling sobs, head nuzzling into your chest when he lifts you up, and he pants into your wet flesh, head cushioned by pillowing softness of your breasts. 

The flesh is much too unblemished for his liking. 

His teeth sink into the soft underside of your breast, leaving behind a ring in the shape of his teeth that has your walls fluttering around him, squeezing him tight as the sudden burst of pain is perfectly complemented by the brutal pleasure he forces into you, head battering harshly into the gummy walls that have you singing his name in adulations. 

The sweet sounds you make spurn him on. The brands he decorates on your flesh split and bleeds as he trails his mouth through the valley of your breasts. 

His molten mouth seals over your aching, hard nipple, and pleasure whites out that place inside your head that worries. Your hand snaps up, burrowing in the messy tangle of his locks, pushing his mouth firmly into your chest, unwilling to let the way his tongue feels rolling over your buds go. He's sadistic, you think, fringing on utter delirium. He'll let go. You know he will.

His body rumbles with a growl when you tug on his hair, forcing his mouth to stay latched onto you. It vibrates over your sensitive flesh and makes you paw at his chest when the pleasure liquifies, roaring through your core until you can taste the cosmos on your tongue. 

It's not a warning. You know this because his mouth turns harsh, ravenous. He brutally fucks into you, pulling your body down to meet him with each thrust until you're howling his name so loud that you're sure the police department can hear your echoing cries rattling through the city. 

Your body dissolves in his hold, limbs turning phospholipid. The only thing keeping you together is his burning hands on your flesh as he moulds you in the ways he wants, bouncing you on his lap as molten pleasure courses through you. 

The coil tightens. Michael pulls away from your nipple, pushing his head between the valley of them, and pants into your sternum. The deep, haggard breaths he takes has you shuddering over him, so close now that you can feel it spreading liquid bliss through your body, pooling in the pit of your belly. 

Pleasure congeals in your marrow, and all at once you're on that precipice, careening over as you cum on his cock, sweet hymns falling from your lips as Michael's cock bludgeons deep inside of you. 

His hips shift, canting into you in a thrust that feels distinctly weakened, lax, compared to the others, and it's then that you hear it. A little grumble in the pit of his chest. He batters inside of you in quick succession, hands gripping you tight enough that you wonder, vaguely, drunk on the feel of his cock spearing into you, if he'll break your ribs before he finishes. 

In the muted slurry of your mind, you have the wherewithal only to glance up at him through your wet lashes when another rumble reverberates through your being.

And really -

It's enough to send you careening over that precipice once more.

His eyes flutter, full lashes dusting over his ruddy, wet cheeks. His chin tips back, jaw clenching to bite back the groan you feel ripple through his chest. You stare, mesmerised as his Adam's apple bobs. His fingers squeeze you tight, pushing your hips down on his lap as he struggles to fill you with every last millimetre of himself. 

Michael holds you steady, powerful thighs flexing under you, and then he lifts his hips, bludgeoning into you with enough force that you cry out his name, eyes widening at the deep pleasure, the burn of the stretch, the too-full feeling of him forcing his cock as deep as it will go. He jerks once, twice, and it knocks the air from your heaving lungs. Liquid heat fills you as he spills himself inside of you, and you mewl at the feeling of being too full. It's too much. Your eyes roll back as he grinds his cock inside of you, chasing the frayed ends of that intoxicating cudgel of pleasure that ripples through the two of you. 

Your spine is liquified. Body dissolves with the spray of the shower that patters across your back. 

You slump in his grasp, falling against his heaving chest. 

It's too humid. Too hot inside the shower, but your legs are mush, bones brittle and charred from the surge of electrifying pleasure that lacerates through your being. You can't move. Won't. You gasp wetly into his chest as the deluge of bliss spools inside of your veins. 

You blink, then, dazed. 

When Michael fucks you, it always ends up feeling like a battle. Like you rolled out of the combat zone, battered and bruised, aching in ways that sex shouldn't make you feel. 

But it's good. So good.

He's ruined you. Now, forever. You don't think you can live without the feelings he wrings from your being - the white-hot pleasure that rockets down your spine until you're screaming hymns in his name. 

It's the sensation of a freefall of a vertiginous precipice, and the unrelenting waves of panic that envelops you as you spiral downward toward an unseen end. What lay at the bottom is hidden by the murky abyss that spools inside of your mind whenever he's close, chasing out all logic and thought, all reason, until you're putty in his hands. 

You slump in his lap, sucking in desperate gasps of balmy air as your body reassembles; atoms fusing, molecules merging until you're flesh and bone once more.

You can't speak. Your throat aches, ripped raw with the force of your cries, but you whimper out just to confirm that you are, in fact, alive; that his intensity, the brutal way he fucked you, didn't send you into the heavens. It's a coo drenched in repose. A satiated sound. Lax and languid. 

Sagging into his chest, your limbs melt. Bones turning once more into putty. Reassumebed just to dissolve in his hold once again as the electrifying aftershocks of the post-orgasmic haze thicken in the spiralling slurry of your mind. 

Your head nuzzles into his chest. Another sigh passes your stinging lips, ghosting over the thick expanse of his chest. 

You could sleep like this. 

Tired eyes smeared with the residuum of many sleepless nights blink, wet, sticky lashes fluttering over his skin. It's a struggle to stay within the confines of reality. Your mind slips, easing into that metaphysical place where nothing except these four walls and the solid bracket of his body exist. The world fades into the aether. Forgotten. Discarded. Nothing matters but you and Michael. 

Under your temple, his chest rumbles with another sound that makes you keen in response. The modern synapses have faded into ashes, leaving nothing behind but pure primalism. 

And when your predator calls for you, you answer.  

It's the only affirmation he needs. His arms close around you, locking behind the soft curve of your ass. The movement makes you purr into his chest. The coarse dusting of hair tickles your nose. 

You're slipping, slipping - 

And then Michael stands. Abrupt. Purposeful. 

You squeak at the sudden movement, eyes snapping open, and dizzy vertigo overtakes you as your weight drops into the solid plinth of his arms. 

Michael's breath ghosts across the shell of your ear in something that might be almost mirthful, humourous, had you not known him. 

A burning flush singes the apples of your cheeks and the skin of your chest when he moves, and the motion jostles him - his cock still deep inside you. 

"M-Michael-," your whimper ends in a gasp as his spent cock twitches inside of you at the sweet way you mewl his name. "You-"

He ignores you, stepping out of the shower without even bothering to turn it off. 

He makes no move to grab at the fluffy towels you keep in the closet by the sink, nor does he seem bothered by the puddle of water each footstep leaves behind. You shiver when the cool air grazes across your wet skin, burrowing your head deeper into his neck, greedily seeking the warmth that seems neverending with him. 

In half the steps it usually takes you, he arrives at your bedroom, slipping inside with ease that warms your chest. You know he isn't the type to dawdle or worry about preamble, but the familiarity and comfort in which he moves inside your space, your home, fill you with the threads of contentment, happiness. You hide your blossoming grin, this silly little thing that tugs at the corners of your lips, into his flesh, and breathe in the loam scent that still clings to him. The heady musk of ozone and humus that is so uniquely Michael it makes your heart flutter. 

When the squall of that mushy affection recedes and your face isn't making the most outrageously gooey expression, you pull back, glancing up at him. 

You'll dry off, dress, and slip beneath the sheets with him beside you, finally getting the rest that evaded you for nearly a month. You wriggle in his grasp, straightening yourself for when your feet meet the ground. 

But it doesn't happen. 

Soaking wet, he stands at the end of your bed, and then turns on his heel, dropping down with you still perched in his lap. You gasp, jerking upright, but he doesn't let you go. 

In a fluid motion that leaves you reeling at the absurd agility of a man so damn big, he tightens his arms around you and shuffles on the bed until his head is under the pillow. He sinks into the mattress, unbothered by the way the bedding sticks to your skin, and the growing wetness under his back. 

The deep heave of his chest as he exhales in something that can only be utter contentment quickly dissolves the protest that pools on your tongue. They stick to the roof of your mouth before being swallowed down when his arms wind around you, closing out the modicum of distance that separates you as two beings. He tucks you under his chin, securing you to his body. 

You barely surpass sixty percent of his overall body weight, and the fact quells the little fear inside of you, the one digs in deep and says, oh no, you're going to crush him. Michael seems more than content to use you as a weighted blanket, his body lying supine on the bed that feels much cosier with him in it. 

Weeks of fretting over his safety are dulled under the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and the feverish heat of him that seeps into your marrow, making you repose in the unintentional succour his arms bring you when they wind around your back, locking you against his chest. 

There is no escape from the prison of his arms.

This gilded cage sometimes feels too overwhelming, too stifling, too much, but he wasn't the one who locked you inside. You shut the doors of your accord and handed him the key - free to come and go as you tended to your plumage and your strays. 

All thoughts and fears are adrift in the somnolent haze that fills the anxious flurry of your mind. Who cares about the linen? About morality and the consequences of lying with a devil. Does any of it matter when his arms around you feel like home. 

You nuzzle your cheek into the coarse hair on his chest, pressing your ear against the steady beat of his heart. Your pericardium pickles. Ataraxia floods your being.

"Welcome home," you murmur. 

And under you, Michael sighs. 

[yeyinde]

TEETH | Michael Myers

blood fest 〉 week one

You can't say it wasn't, in its own way, thoughtful.

Or: Michael brings you a gift

WARNINGS: mild gore, mild sexual themes, mild violence, Michael being Michael, gender neutral reader (but mild feminine adjacent language used extremely briefly), slight Dom!Michael

KEYWORDS: Wicked. Rain

NOTES: i left the version of Myers (OG, RZ, Peepaw) extremely vague so you can pick your own Michael poison.

this is also my first writing challenge. i hope you enjoy 🖤

He comes to you covered in blood that's rarely ever his own. 

The veracity of that statement has become ingrained inside of you to where you have quickly learned to stop worrying, to stop fussing over him, whenever you round the corner, and catch sight of the man in your foyer drenched in ichor, and dripping gore on the carpet. 

It's not quite a routine, but it's – something. 

Not rare enough to be considered sporadic. Not frequent enough to be anything quotidian in your life. His visits linger somewhere in the unspoken fringes. A truism, yet hardly anything banal. 

(A visit from the boogeyman could hardly ever be considered commonplace.)

While the biblical rain this weekend has washed most of the viscera away, he's still soaked in it, covering every inch except his latex mask. It's almost preternatural how it manages to stay free of blood, of carnage. 

He shakes his head like a giant, wet dog, splattering pink droplets of diluted townsfolk over your living room. Your mouth knots when it lands on the new cream-coloured Sherpa throw you bought, but you have enough sense to say nothing about it. 

It's not like he'll listen, anyway. 

He has a remarkable ability to hear everything and yet absolutely nothing at the same time. Cherry-picking. You say, don't get blood on the linoleum, and he hears it as get blood all over the linoleum. 

Or maybe he just purposefully ignores you, and does what he wants. 

(That one is far more likely than the rest.) 

You bite your tongue, saying nothing. He won't care, and it certainly won't stop him the next time he comes. 

The pat-pat-pat of something hitting the floor draws your eye to his hands. His bloodied fist is clenched loosely by his side. The awkward, bulging shape of it makes you wonder if he hurt his palm. 

"Are you–?"

His hand lifts, a meandering incline until it's pitched in front of you, unwavering. You gawk at the blood soaked knuckles in your face, uncomprehending, and then up to him. He gives nothing away. Bland impassivity colours the crescent outline of his eyes through the tenebrous holes of his mask. Blank. Unbothered.

"Michael, I don't know what you want."

His head tilts, chin dipping in a way that means you've displeased him. He's impatient now. Surely, his wordless, confusing actions are enough for you to interpret. 

You huff, rolling your eyes back down to his outstretched hand. Something about his palm. He has something in it. He's trying to give you something –

Ah. 

Oh. 

You shiver. Michael doesn't often bring gifts with him. It's only ever happened once before. Something you try – very hard – to forget. 

He lingered in the doorway one evening, watching you at your vanity. You didn't think he was paying much attention to you; before when Michael watched you, you just thought it was a scare tactic. That he wasn't observant. 

A mindless killing machine. 

How wrong you were. 

His eyes tracked the way you picked up the delicate opal earrings you'd gotten from your parents that year, sliding off the brass back with care before dropping it on a cloth to keep it from running off. His gaze never waved when you tilted your chin, fingers tugging on your lobe to line the post up with the hole. Slipping it in with a small wince when it caught on your tender skin. Reaching for the back to keep it in place. 

He watched as you marvelled at the pretty gem in your ear before doing the same to the other one. 

It was easy to mistakenly believe he was just there, looming as always. Or maybe it reminded him of something his mum used to do. Whatever it was that ensnared his attention, it didn't matter much to you. 

You forgot all about it until he came back with his first gift. A pair of earrings. 

(With the ears still attached.)

You shudder. "Oh… um…" 

How do you refuse the gift of a serial killer without becoming his next victim? 

You don't. You can't. 

Swallowing thickly, you try to peer into the eyeholes that fix themselves to your face, catching every glimmer, every expression, that passes. The abstruse abyss reveals nothing. Impatience radiates off of him. If presence alone was a physical thing, Michael Myers' might just suffocate you. 

It's a struggle to hide your grimace, the horror at what you might uncover, but it's all for nought. He catches it, anyway. His chin tilts again, lowering so that he can see into your eyes. 

You're not an expert at reading his body language, but you managed to pick up on a few of his idiosyncratic behaviours with each visit from the boogeyman. He's curious. You might even go so far as to proclaim him amused. Luridly so. 

Each shiver, tremble, wince, and shudder you give is observed with this slight decline of his chin. You can't even begin to understand how he ticks – Michael Myers is an enigma to you – but you know he enjoys your fear. He likes catching you unawares, likes it when you jump at his sudden appearance.

It's a truism, now. 

One that often ends with you underneath him, bracketed by his thick, firm biceps, hands perched as close to your temples as possible. Sometimes, if you've greatly entertained him, he'll wrap his hand around your throat, almost purring as he stares down at you, watching your soundless gasp, the way you claw, futility, at his wrist. He likes when you struggle. Likes when you give him the opportunity to chase you. To hunt you down. 

It's effortless for him to haul you back where he wants you, slamming the end of the blade into the end table, right where you can see it. Always within your periphery. And then he takes you. Bites your neck, and collarbone. The inside of your wrist. Thighs. All marked with the impression of his teeth, stained in a ring of black, and leaking blood onto the sheets. He'll press your raw thighs to his hips, holding them there so you can feel him grazing the irritated flesh with each controlled, brutal thrust into your body. It makes you yowl, an amalgamation of pain and pleasure wracking through you with such visceral intensity that you often sob into his shoulder, clutching his wrist in a desperate attempt to get some respite. Some reprieve. 

It never comes. You're his conquest—a prize for him to take, to claim. 

He likes your pain too much to stop. Enjoys the bloodied mess he makes of you. Likes, even more, when he pries your aching thighs apart, head cocking to the side as he watches his release seep out of you, joining the blood that soaks the sheets below. 

Michael takes. And takes. 

It's very rare that he ever gives. 

Another shudder rolls through you, eyes fluttering at the memory of his last gift, and how he sought gratitude from your body after. 

(There's a hole in the drywall from where he slammed you, a touch too hard, into the wall with the brutal way he pounded you, bloodied earrings dangling from your ears.)

Michael huffs. The noise is amplified by the mask's acoustics, a ragged exhale. He's waited long enough, it tells you. 

You can't stall any longer. 

You don't bother trying to hide your grimace when you slide the cup of your palms under his fist, feeling the steady beats of the blood dripping onto your skin. Another steady huff. Amusement. He relishes your disgust. 

His gaze never strays from you when his fist unfurls, fingers splaying wide. He watches, dark eyes boring into your own as you feel the first clump of whatever he's given you fall into your palm. 

You hold his eyes for a moment longer, unwilling to look down and see what small objects he's brought you. It's better to look into this cerulean abyss, into the gaping maw of a monster, than it is to see what awaits below.

But Michael tires of your avoidance. He's eager for you to see. 

It's only when his head leans forward, lids lowering only slightly, do you break the intense stare. 

You can't quite make sense of the little clumps in your palm, or the ones that slowly loosen from the congealed blood on his hand, falling into yours. They're small, white. 

Pomegranate seeds. He's giving you fruit. 

Oh. 

You begin to smile, wondering when he had the time to flesh the fruit, and why he kept it clenched in his hand for so long, but it fades quickly when the last one falls from his palm. 

The blood has mostly dried, and the object sitting on the top of the pyramid has little covering it. There is no mistaking what his gift is. 

Michael lowers his hand, letting it fall to his side. He doesn't clench his fists, he keeps them half furled. Relaxed.

But the look in his eye belies the bland nonchalance of his countenance. 

His gaze is unyielding, rapacious. Hungry. 

In your palm sits teeth. 

Human teeth. Some of them are still attached to the roots, and from the indents on his first knuckles and fingertips, you can easily surmise that he wrenched them out of the jaw with that very hand. You swallow hard, bile rising up your oesophagus. Guilt, terror – both spume in your chest, a dizzying, almost noxious compound that nearly smothers you with its unparalleled rue. 

But why? Why teeth?

It clicks, then, when the lightning outside the rain drenched window catches on the flash of gold on one of the incisors. 

Michael sees everything. Notices more than you might expect.

He is always watching you. Always. He's there, lurking, hiding in the shadows. At first, you thought he was just terrible at stalking. You could see him, you knew he was there. 

It was only when he disappeared from your periphery that you realised all those times when you saw him across the street, standing half hidden behind the door frame, garish mask catching in the black of your television as he lurked behind you, it was intentional. Michael wanted you to see him. To know he was there.

You relaxed when he was gone, thinking he must have gotten bored and wandered off. The tension in your posture dissipated. You greeted the locals, the guilt of having him waiting for you at home was gone. It was easier to breathe without his presence suffocating you. 

One man, in particular, approached you after your shift finished. You smiled at him. He grinned back, gold tooth gleaming in the ochre sunset. 

It started innocuously. An older man stopping you to speak wasn't uncommon. It was nothing that hadn't happened before. You listened, a brush impatient, as he introduced himself, and asked if you wanted to get a drink. 

You're cute, he grinned again, leaning against the door of your car. I wanna get to know you. 

You didn't think when you responded. It was all routine. A polite, impassive smile, slightly strained around the edges, eyes demuring to show your feigned contrition. Sorry, I have a boyfriend. 

Sometimes it works. They raise their hands, a little disappointed, and nod in understanding, respectful of your choices, and comprehending of your unavailability. 

Sometimes, however, it doesn't. 

He doesn't need to know. A wink. A cloy smile. I don't see him anywhere around here, anyway. 

You lost count of all the ways you said no without actually saying the word, too afraid of causing a scene, or of being noticed. You didn't want that kind of attention when your house was a steady crime scene, and a myth lurked in your foyer, eating all your cereal. 

Your smile waned. Please, I'm not interested.

You get it now. 

He scared you. With the wolfish grin, the firm hand he kept on your car door, the way he invaded your space, intentionally bringing himself closer and closer to you until your bodies were a scant hair away. It forced you from the handle. You kept taking a step back, away from the safety of your car. The gleam in his eye was wicked; his intentions vile, disgusting. 

His hand closed around your jaw, squeezing until your mouth opened. When the flash of your teeth was revealed, he smirked. There ya go, smile more for me, hon. His thumb brushed across your bottom lip, making you tremble. 

You only escaped when the security guard wandered around the corner, giving you a chance to flee.

Michael is infinitely complex and entirely inscrutable. You can't really understand him, or how he ticks, but you grew accustomed to his peculiarities – and his sense of humour. 

He's giving you the man's teeth – the same ones he used to smile at you, to scare you. Something that only Michael is allowed to do. 

(You're sure, then, that somewhere in your house you'll find the man's hands. The same ones he used to touch you.)

His chin dips again when you smile, taking in the wobbly edge to it, the tension in your shoulders. Your voice catches in your throat, tremulous, drenched in the coalescence of your fear, your uncertainty, and your gratitude. 

However wicked the boogeyman might be, however vile and evil, you can't ignore the thrum in your chest when he's near. You, paradoxically, feel safer under his gaze. Under him. 

He holds his palm out to you again, waiting. 

When he'd given you the earrings, you'd been shaken. Terrified. Unsure what to do, you kissed his hand. 

It's become a thing, an expectation. Whenever he does something for you, he expects a kiss on his palm. 

But –

It's covered in blood. Saliva. Gore. 

You reach out, fingers curling over the thickness of his wrist – so much larger than your own – and pull his hand close to you. He watches, bland, expectant. His eyes – vacant, stormy – narrow when instead of pressing your lips to his flesh, you pull his hand up to your neck, setting his heartline flush against your thundering pulse. 

It's a break in what has, unfortunately, become the norm, but his hand is slimy on your neck, reeking already of rot. You won't put your mouth there, where you can feel the pocks in his flesh from the teeth he ripped out with his bare hand on your skin. You'll show him your appreciation in another way. 

(Hopefully, this one doesn't end with another hole in the wall.)

Michael considers this, his head angling to the side as he takes in the contrast of his bloodied hand and your smooth, clean neck. He tips it the other way. A new angle. A new thought. 

A huff, then. He finds what he's looking for. 

His fingers stretch out, thumb pressing into your jugular as the others curl around the nape of your neck, index finger settling behind your ear. His hand is massive. His grip is tight. Choking. You gasp weakly when the tip of his thumb digs into the small knob on your throat. Phosphenes spume across your vision. 

Your hand barely fits around his wrist when you grab his flesh. You'll never get him to stop – you're not strong enough to ever dislodge him from your body; his grip is ironclad. Your bones are fragile in his hold. Holding him like this is to ground yourself. To find a strange, almost anomalous comfort in the steady thud of his heart beating against his pulse point. Touching him like this reminds you Michael is human, despite how much you believe otherwise. Flesh, bone. You find kinship in the warmth of his skin. 

"Michael," you croak, head spooling with the thick gossamer of hypoxia. Tears flood your eyes at the pressure, the lack of air. "Thank you."

Your head hits the wall when he shoves you back, the bulk of his body nearly suffocating as he looms over you. His flesh is burning, his hand nearly searing the skin of your thigh when he grabs it, fingers digging into the plush give of your body. His grasp is harsh enough to bruise the bone. Your leg aches already. Throat throbbing from the force of his hold. 

You're sure, then, that you won't be able to walk tomorrow much less swallow.

Michael is often mistaken as cold. Indifferent. Despite his vacant gaze, you can feel the heaviness of his desire curling over you; a thick haze of palpable hunger that leaks out of the bruising press of his body flushed against yours.

His other hand falls, fingers curling over your thigh. He lets you breathe for a moment, let's the anticipation simmer in your hazy stare until he's had his fill of it. Then, he squeezes. His fingers burrow into your skin, rupturing the capillaries under blood blooms under your flesh in the perfect replica of his handprint.

Michael hikes your thigh up, locking it around his hip, and drives into you with enough force to rattle the wall, shaking the pictures loose. They fall to the ground, shattering into pieces. The sound is dulled under the harsh, angry pants aerated from the holes of his mask; the cacophony of his want, his wild, untameable desire. 

He towers over you. His wide chest expands with each deep, ragged inhale, filling your vision until nothing remains but Michael, and his unfettered hunger. 

Desire and anger are one in the same with Michael. His fury reeks of his impatience to be inside of you; his need to cudgel into your body with thrusts that are too similar to the way he hunts, maims, to ever be a mere coincidence. He takes his aggression out in the softness of your flesh, leaving behind the brand of his claim. His ownership.

You'll never escape him. Never run from him.

His want for you is apoplectic. Your fate was sealed the moment you caught the boogeyman's interest.

(they told you, didn't they? don't let the boogeyman see you.)

His thumb moves from your jugular, huffing when you gasp for air, eyes nearly rolling into the back of your head as oxygen fills your lungs in a deluge. He's not gentle when he slides it across your skin, nail catching on the curve of your jaw, but it's as soft as he'll allow, as he's capable of. 

Rotting blood is smeared across your skin. His eyes trace the trail, narrowing when the tip of his thumb hits the slope of your pouting lip. 

You know what he wants. What he always wants. 

And you can never deny him. You should have known better from the start. 

Your jaw drops, lips parting for him. 

All you get in response is another deep inhale. A bland acknowledgement. But the fever in his gaze nearly consumes you in its fire. 

He wanted a kiss. Wanted to see your lips stained red with the fruits of his effort. You didn't allow him that. 

So, he takes.

His thumb slips over the bump of your lip, resting the first knuckle on the fleshy bed, and he waits. He knows, now, that you will obey.

Your mouth closes without preamble, puckering around the tip of his thumb, catching the crimson congealing on his flesh where it sits like a macabre lipgloss on your skin. 

You can feel his excitement as it bludgeons into your core, jerking at the gentle kiss. The hard thickness of him makes you whimper in response, lashes fluttering shut as a molten want gnaws inside of you. 

He tastes of iron when your tongue laps over his flesh, and you find you quite like the taste.

His gifts might be macabre remnants of his unhinged carnage, leftovers from his icy warpath, his insatiable need to tear into flesh until the stench of death permeates in the miasma around him. You might be dragged along to the pits of hell for letting this untameable quietus into your home, your bed, your body, your heart, but when he ruts into you like he's starved for the feel of your flesh, you can't help but to take an ungodly amount of pleasure from the horrible things he gives you. 

He takes. And takes. And when he gives – 

He makes sure to let the world know it was him, and him alone, who gave it to you. 

It's awful. Horrible, even. Vile. Any number of debauched things. But despite the morality of letting a murderer fuck you senseless into a blood soaked mattress until you're screaming hymns in his name, you're already looking forward to the next gift he brings for you.

(You just wish he would give you something that wasn't still attached to a person.)

–its my personal headcanon that Michael Myers absolutely gets off on terrifying people, but no one more so than whoever catches his attention. Mikey likes you? you better prepare yourself because this man is going to psychologically torture you as a form of foreplay and/or courtship. but ONLY Mikey is allowed to scare you. that horror movie you watched that made you jump? you find it destroyed in your living room. better not go to a haunted house or you'll have a massacre on your hands.

–he also gives terrible gifts. tell him you like someone's shirt, well. he gives you the shirt. cute. but it comes with their torso. coo at some birds? you find bloodied feathers all over your porch. he's a menace. and make no mistake – he knows this absolutely terrifies you. he likes that.

Thank you for reading~