Visit Blog
Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.
#michael myers
tunacasserolequeen19 hours ago
Tumblr media
Foxy grandpa wants to show us how to play baysball 馃榿馃榿馃榿
288 notesView notes
thegothempress2 days ago
while it isn鈥檛 super common, i鈥檝e seen it enough to want to say something. and i don鈥檛 know who needs to hear this, so,
ima need some of y鈥檃ll to stop infantilizing disabled slashers.
i鈥檝e seen a couple people say things along the lines of, 鈥渋 don鈥檛 know how people could ever write/read smut about [insert], he鈥檚 too pure and just baby 馃ズ馃ズ鈥
these are grown men. who have hormones and sex drives. they are adults like many of us. treating them as if they鈥檙e small-minded children is just feeding into ableism. stop it.
250 notesView notes
riphimopen2 days ago
Tumblr media
Tumblr media
funnyguy 4 funnyguy <33 :)
209 notesView notes
slasher-catchera day ago
Slashers as memes/pics I have stored in my phone (Part 1)
Michael Myers:
Tumblr media
Jason Voorhees:
Tumblr media
Bubba Sawyer:
Tumblr media
Nubbins Sawyer:
Tumblr media
Choptop Sawyer:
Tumblr media
Drayton Sawyer:
Tumblr media
Bo Sinclair:
Tumblr media
Vincent Sinclair:
Tumblr media
Lester Sinclair:
Tumblr media
Thomas Hewitt:
Tumblr media
212 notesView notes
charnelhouse2 days ago
are鈥. are we going to get michael myers content鈥. i am shaking and crying and throwing up pls,,,, i will sell u my soul.
Tumblr media
A/N: Michael Myers x F!Reader. This is dark. Probably dub-con/non con. stockholm syndrome. violence. torture. rough sex.
It starts like this -
In the doom and gloom of her latest Halloween, she watches shadows burst open across Haddonfield and its kitschy streets and square-box houses. Sirens squeal flame-hot through the air. There鈥檚 a far away scream. The ripple of agony and grief sweeping through the rotting pumpkins and trimmed hedges.
She walks over clutters of leaves, listening to them crunch like shards of bone beneath her heels. She already knows what鈥檚 waiting for her at the end of this. She knows that he鈥檚 fulfilled his blood-lust and now has his other desires. His other needs.
She gingerly climbs the stairs to her house. Her new purchase. Her mistake as most neighbors would call it.
Why on earth would you buy that one?
Are you crazy?
Do you know? Don鈥檛 you understand what kind of house that is?
She does know. She knows all of it. Its gory history. The lore trapped in the floorboards. She strolls through the front door - tossing her keys into a bowl. They jingle in the dead-silence of the entryway. She moves to the kitchen. The house smells like sharp paint and turpentine and -
鈥淢ichael,鈥 she murmurs so quietly that it鈥檇 be near-impossible to catch. A slip of wind - a velvet exhale from her parted mouth. But he hears it. He always hears her. He always knows exactly where she is and what she's doing. He looms in the shadows - the Shape - in his white mask and dark coveralls that are sticky with god knows what.
This is his house just as she is simply his. A possession. A piece. His victim if she were to ever dig deep enough to give herself that title
She recalls the very night that he finally broke her. She understands - vaguely - that this is Stockholm Syndrome and that this is wrong and terrible and her life is over in all the ways it had once mattered. But that particular night sits inside her ribs - swells with memory and a strange longing. He had come to her a year previous with the sky blooming violet and milky. The crisp wind and gnarled trees and how she had thought she had spotted him so many times in the distance.
It had been a cold autumn.
She had felt him pricking at the nape of her neck. She had heard him.
Waiting. Watching.
A week before Halloween, he had appeared - the ghost that he was - unfolding like a specter in her bedroom doorway. That blank face and giant frame and she had thought - he's too big to be so quiet before realizing who he was -
But he hadn鈥檛 wanted to kill her - at least not immediately. He had just wanted her to believe it. He had chained her up for days, looming over her with his height devouring the wan light from her mirror. He had dragged the edge of a kitchen knife across her chest and pressed the flat of it over her heart. He had stared at her as she sobbed and pleaded frantically for her life. The black holes of his mask gave nothing away. Just endless and sightless and barren.
He would leave and then return. Shocking her. Scaring her. His boots caked in mud and what had suspiciously looked like flesh and grey brain matter.
This was the endless cycle of it. Again and again.
And then one night he had lifted his mask to reveal his naked face. She鈥檇 been stunned.
Beautiful. Marble. Chiseled. His one bad eye was pale as a fish-belly, but the good one was fog-grey blue. It had reminded her of the brunt of a storm. Her gaze traveled to the fruit-pink lips and then to his furrowed brow and the faint blush burning across his cheekbones. He crouched - his stare pinning her in place - nailing her to the wall. He touched her and she jerked.
He continued.
He traced her jaw with his fingers and then he dug his thumb into her lower lip and he leaned forward inch by inch - a predator stalking toward its prey despite the fact that her vision was clear and she saw what was coming.
He kissed her - insistent and blunt and more like a crash of mouths and teeth. It was wet and hot and clumsy. It blinded her.
She didn鈥檛 know what he wanted. She didn鈥檛 know what to do, but respond in kind. It had been weeks and she wondered if this was a life raft.
She kissed him back and just as her tongue met his, he stilled. Something deep and ugly rumbled from his chest before she felt pain sear across her belly. She dropped her chin to see a stain darkening the thin fabric of her tank top. He鈥檇 cut her. Not too badly, but it ached. Tears sprang to her eyes as she pressed her hand to her stomach. He left her like that. Bleeding and alone on freezing bathroom tile.
It took her several more mind games to realize that everything was always on Michael鈥檚 terms. He kept her tied up - only allowing her to use the phone in order to not raise alarm. He fed her and frightened her and occasionally brought her dead things like he was her enormous cat.
Slowly - deliberately - he won.
His hands are on her - the smell of him like iron and sweat. He smears red across her forearms before he tugs her hard against his chest. Michael is made up of flat planes and curves - the ripple of muscles and broad shoulders. He is perfect physically aside from the blinded eye. Part of her believes that even that imperfection gives him something - a mistake that seems almost correct to his makeup.
鈥淢ichael,鈥 she says again as he rubs against her - the hefty bulge of his cock pushing into her ass. He鈥檚 breathing hard, the pattern of it muffled behind the mask.
She doesn鈥檛 want the mask tonight - she wants him. But that鈥檚 not her decision to make.
He shoves her toward the kitchen - his hand firm at her back before he鈥檚 forcing her down over the table. He reaches around her hips to cup her pussy - thumb slipping through her cotton-covered folds. She鈥檚 soaked. She鈥檚 been wet since she heard the sirens - felt it in the air - heard the panic from the neighbors.
Go home. The streets aren鈥檛 safe.
Someone鈥檚 been killed. Strung up. Blood everywhere.
There must be a copycat. There must be someone else because Michael is dead.
Michael is dead. Myers is dead. I know. I know. I saw it myself.
But Michael is hot and sweaty against her - his heart thrumming with his adrenaline in the quiet stillness of the room. It鈥檚 such a strange scene. The expensive plates and delicate teacups. The floral-printed hand towels. The bowl of fruit that goes flying when she accidentally knocks it away. The pristine beauty of this kitchen that she has worked so hard to maintain is marred by the smear of the Shape. He stands in layers of dirt and grime as he restrains her against the table. She is unsettled by the fact that she wants it - she is desperate for it. She craves him like nothing else. Her body sings for him.
Michael鈥檚 hold is unrestrained - brutal, really. His gore-damp fingers all over her - painting her - clutching her pussy possessively because it鈥檚 his. Her skin and mind and guts - everything circulating inside her is Michael鈥檚.
She doubts he cares for her. She certainly doubts that he loves her. He鈥檚 incapable. But - still - she can pretend. When had broken her so completely the year before - when he鈥檇 ruined her - scrambled her head - it was her own tongue crying out: i love you michael i love you i love you please don鈥檛 leave don鈥檛 leave me here -
He鈥檇 pulled her into his arms and let her rest her cheek against his chest. He鈥檇 stroked her waist - the hot bare skin coated in him. He鈥檇 massaged the marks he鈥檇 left by his fingerprints and the chafing of the rope. He鈥檇 made soothing, mouth sounds and she鈥檇 sunk into him - gone soft and pliant and easy as she breathed his name with wild reverence -
He鈥檇 been kind. He鈥檇 been gentle. He had seemed like he had cared. She clung to that.
He flips her skirt up as he pins her to the table. The edge is cutting into her thighs and she鈥檚 being nearly lifted off her feet. She hears him unzip himself - open up those coveralls that are coated in a thin film of whatever he鈥檇 done today. There is the blunt snag of his cock at her entrance. He rips her panties to the side - the brief sting of them digging into her flesh until they give way. Michael cock catches on the rim of her hole before he rears back and then slams forward, sheathing himself to the hilt. She鈥檚 feverish and sopping. She鈥檚 ready for him, but it still feels as if he鈥檚 splitting her in half. Michael is huge. He is and the stretch is something that continues to shock her. She feels as if every rut of his dick will hit the back of her throat - will stab into her heart and she鈥檒l die from Michael fucking her so roughly. He grunts as he draws his hips before sliding in again - boring down upon her with his calloused, blood-slick fingers gripping her hips.
She clings to the surface - nails scraping across the wood. Each thrust jars her upward - forces a whimper out of her mouth. The table creaks and bends. She鈥檚 not entirely sure if she can scream - if Michael would allow it since the neighbors could hear. There are cops and ambulances only blocks away. She鈥檚 overwhelmed - trying frantically to accept all of him - take all of him. He鈥檚 fucking her apart and she bites her tongue to swallow the noise that steadily builds in her throat.
No one can know. No one can suspect who she keeps in this house.
It鈥檚 a copycat. It has to be.
It can鈥檛 possibly be him. He鈥檚 dead.
Michael鈥檚 cock continues to spear molten through her - pushing up against her core - her cervix. There鈥檚 the echoing squelch of her pussy swallowing him. The rough fabric of his pants grazing her bare skin.
She feels his fingers slide through her folds - caressing the place where he is connected to her. He will tease and probe until she begs him and she knows that he will only make her cum for the benefit of himself - to feel her walls clench and grip him so deliciously tight. His breathing is labored now. His pace grows sloppy.
Her knees are weak and it鈥檚 only Michael who is holding her up. If he stepped away, she'd collapse to the floor. His sharp hips barrel into her thighs as he screws her into the unforgiving kitchen table. He continues to trace the seam of her sex - he nudges his thumb over her clit, making her gasp. His other hand palms her ass cheek before digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise.
鈥淧lease, Michael,鈥 she pants. 鈥淧lease. Please. I-I need to - want to -鈥
He flicks her clit harshly and then slaps it. It does the job. She shrieks - her lower muscles spasming and her cunt fluttering around Michael鈥檚 punishing length. He鈥檚 quick to follow - a rasping grunt shudders from his hulking frame. There鈥檚 the warm bloom inside her that begins to drip as he slips from her raw pussy.
She hears the mask drop to the floor and she knows it鈥檚 not over. This is just the beginning. He鈥檚 sated that initial hunger - the one that always burns fast and harsh through him after a kill. He鈥檚 exhausted himself to a point, but it won鈥檛 last long. His hands are on her - his thick forearms banding around her waist as he lifts her against his muscular chest. She peers up at him and loses her breath. His caramel hair, damp with sweat, curls boyishly around his temples. His blue eye scans her face lazily - soft from the haze of post-orgasm. Her lips quirk and she decides to take a chance. She reaches for the knife-sharp line of his jaw, hoping that he will accept her touch.
Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn鈥檛.
She knows she鈥檚 made a mistake almost immediately. His brow creases and he snatches her hand. He holds it tight enough that it hurts - jostles her bones. It鈥檚 a threat. He can snap her wrist and fingers if he wanted. He could crush her head like a melon.
鈥淒on鈥檛,鈥 he warns as he releases her. His voice is low and raspy with disuse. It is always a shock to hear him. A drop of water in this devastating desert of a house.
She longs for him to speak again.
The wind howls outside - knocks against the shutters - scrapes the paint and the screen door. The high-pitched flicker of a wind chime. The sirens are still wailing far away.
He carries her upstairs.
388 notesView notes