HALLOWEEN K🔪LLS 2021 | dir. david gordon green

Campfire Horror Mash fan art (2021)

Art by: Patrick Brown

Michael Myers plushies scare me

myers stans how are we doing tonight

x

Michael: My "hyperfixation" is murder and I will be "infodumping" your body in the lake.

What if slashers but psychonauts?

I need to be stopped

Foxy grandpa wants to show us how to play baysball 😁😁😁

Please sir, that’s my emotional support slasher

boomer’s day out

horror

while it isn’t super common, i’ve seen it enough to want to say something. and i don’t know who needs to hear this, so,

ima need some of y’all to stop infantilizing disabled slashers.

i’ve seen a couple people say things along the lines of, “i don’t know how people could ever write/read smut about [insert], he’s too pure and just baby 🥺🥺”

these are grown men. who have hormones and sex drives. they are adults like many of us. treating them as if they’re small-minded children is just feeding into ableism. stop it.

funnyguy 4 funnyguy <33 :)

Slashers as memes/pics I have stored in my phone (Part 1)

Michael Myers:

Jason Voorhees:

Bubba Sawyer:

Nubbins Sawyer:

Choptop Sawyer:

Drayton Sawyer:

Bo Sinclair:

Vincent Sinclair:

Lester Sinclair:

Thomas Hewitt:

man i love the plot of the chucky tv show

I should be sleeping but made some cursed snaps as slashers instead

are…. are we going to get michael myers content…. i am shaking and crying and throwing up pls,,,, i will sell u my soul.

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’s 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’s waiting for her at the end of this. She knows that he’s 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’t 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 -

“Michael,” she murmurs so quietly that it’d 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’t 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’d 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’t know what he wanted. She didn’t 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’d 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’s 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.

“Michael,” she says again as he rubs against her - the hefty bulge of his cock pushing into her ass. He’s breathing hard, the pattern of it muffled behind the mask.

She doesn’t want the mask tonight - she wants him. But that’s not her decision to make.

He shoves her toward the kitchen - his hand firm at her back before he’s forcing her down over the table. He reaches around her hips to cup her pussy - thumb slipping through her cotton-covered folds. She’s soaked. She’s been wet since she heard the sirens - felt it in the air - heard the panic from the neighbors.

Go home. The streets aren’t safe.

Someone’s 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’s 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’s hold is unrestrained - brutal, really. His gore-damp fingers all over her - painting her - clutching her pussy possessively because it’s his. Her skin and mind and guts - everything circulating inside her is Michael’s.

She doubts he cares for her. She certainly doubts that he loves her. He’s incapable. But - still - she can pretend. When had broken her so completely the year before - when he’d ruined her - scrambled her head - it was her own tongue crying out: i love you michael i love you i love you please don’t leave don’t leave me here -

He’d pulled her into his arms and let her rest her cheek against his chest. He’d stroked her waist - the hot bare skin coated in him. He’d massaged the marks he’d left by his fingerprints and the chafing of the rope. He’d made soothing, mouth sounds and she’d sunk into him - gone soft and pliant and easy as she breathed his name with wild reverence -

He’d been kind. He’d 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’s 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’d 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’s feverish and sopping. She’s ready for him, but it still feels as if he’s 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’ll 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’s 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’s overwhelmed - trying frantically to accept all of him - take all of him. He’s 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’s a copycat. It has to be.

It can’t possibly be him. He’s dead.

Michael’s cock continues to spear molten through her - pushing up against her core - her cervix. There’s 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’s 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.

“Please, Michael,” she pants. “Please. Please. I-I need to - want to -”

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’s punishing length. He’s quick to follow - a rasping grunt shudders from his hulking frame. There’s 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’s not over. This is just the beginning. He’s sated that initial hunger - the one that always burns fast and harsh through him after a kill. He’s exhausted himself to a point, but it won’t 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’t.

She knows she’s 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’s a threat. He can snap her wrist and fingers if he wanted. He could crush her head like a melon.

“Don’t,” 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.