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welcometowhore-rrorville · 10 months

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𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒩𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝐸𝓃𝒹𝓈

Featuring: Michael Myers

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: nsfw, mdni, unprotected sex (don’t do it, kids), basically just 3k of smut, probably ooc but y’all didn’t come here for accuracy, no verbal consent but y/n is into it, size difference, rip that pussy, rough sex, biting, fingering, blood mention, little to no prep, yeah just general nastiness :), proofread and edited but also probably some mistakes bc i am human

By the time you got home it was nearly two in the morning. Despite your insistence that you were fine, you wound up in the hospital, treated for your minor cuts and bruises. The entire time you were there the man that had interrupted you made conversation. From what he told you, the man you’d come into contact with that night was nothing short of evil, and he’d never seen anybody come that close to him without dying in the process. You also found out he was once his psychiatrist, which you thought was laughable. He sure did a bang-up job didn’t he? Regardless, Dr. Loomis was nice enough, despite his ominous warnings.

You weren’t quite sure what to do with his information in the first place—you were certainly glad to still be on this plane of existence, but why were you the exception? What part of you intrigued him, and what would happen if you were to meet again?

You let out a sigh, finally collapsing onto your bed after a long shower. Your skin was still moist, and you shivered in the open air. You couldn’t find the energy to do anything but lay there, still wrapped in your towel as you dampened the sheets. You thought about falling asleep just like that, but irrational fears of something crawling where it didn’t belong stopped you. You let out a huff.

You lived alone despite your age, and found it quite nice most of the time. Tonight, though? You weren’t sure. It would be nice to talk to someone.

You turned on your side, hands tucked against your face as you stared out the window. You could see the darkened front yard, street lights buzzing with soft light.

Despite all that had happened, you couldn’t sleep. Your eyes refused to close, and you weren’t sure how long you laid there before finally sitting up, towel slipping off of you as you stared at your closet. You should get dressed, you told yourself, instead of sitting naked as you let your thoughts wander.

Finally making a decision, you slipped off your bed and out of your towel, padding to your closet. You opened it, eyes scanning in the darkened room to find something to put on. You reached forward to grab a shirt off its hanger, hand resting against the fabric.

The hairs on the back of your neck suddenly stood up. You felt exposed, and slowly turned around to find out what had spooked you.

You shouldn’t have been surprised at who you saw standing outside your window. You opened your mouth but nothing came out. You shut it again, grabbing the shirt and sliding it on, the bagginess barely covering your bare thighs.

You stared into the black voids of the masked man’s face. Michael’s face. He had returned. You didn’t bother to think about how he’d found your house. It was inevitable.

Your heart rate accelerated with each step you took, cautiously approaching the shape at the window. With a shaking hand, you reached out, fingers gripping the window’s edge. Giving it a tug, you pulled it up just enough to feel the cool air wisp against your thighs. A flimsy screen flexed inwards with the wind. You stepped back again, taking a seat on the side of your bed.

“Here to finish me off?” you questioned, arms crossing in front of your chest. “Couldn’t even give me a night’s rest, huh?”

He didn’t reply. You huffed.

“Your doctor told me about you, Michael,” you continued, elbows moving to rest on your knees as you leaned forward. Your fingers rested against your chin. “He says you’re evil. That you can’t be saved.” You scoffed. “Sounds like a pretty shitty doctor to me.”

You shook your head. “You were how old when he started taking care of you? Seems like he just dropped the ball. But still. I guess you did try to kill me. So I can’t exactly argue with him.”

You weren’t sure why you felt so compelled to chat with the man lurking outside, but you supposed anything was better than being alone. Well, maybe anything. You still didn’t know where he fell on that scale. You might die tonight. Again.

You let out a yawn despite your rapid pulse and the adrenaline flowing through your veins. Your body was tired of fighting or flighting. It was time to sleep. You closed your eyes, neck stretching towards the ceiling. A satisfying crack along with your muscles relaxing let you know you’d stretched enough, and you returned to stare out the window. He was gone.

You blinked. That wasn’t good.

You stood up, slamming the window shut once more before turning on your heels. Did you lock the door? The gentle creaking of hinges let you know your answer. Two heavy footsteps sounded at the entryway.

You clicked your tongue, eyes scanning your room for a hiding spot before you nestled inside your closet, closing the sliding doors in front of you as you slid down.

Was this a shitty hiding spot? Yes. But god-damn-it you were tired. You really didn’t want to deal with this shit again.

You held your breath, hands clasped over your mouth as you listened. Every creek of the floor let you know he was closing in. You had nowhere to go. Nothing to defend yourself. Hell, you didn’t even have any pants on. You were literally caught with your pants down and there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it.

You supposed it’s what you deserved for your earlier actions—getting frisky with a killer wasn’t exactly a smart decision. Still, you couldn’t help but let out a silent laugh. This was all ridiculous. Some Halloween this turned out to be.

You hushed your thoughts when the door to your room opened, and from your position on the floor you watched as a shadow cast itself across the floor. The large and imposing figure stepped inside. You held your knees against your chest, praying he wasn’t sane enough to check the only hiding spot in the room. You heard the metallic tap of a blade against the closet doors. Oh, lovely. He still had enough of a mind to check the closet.

You knew if you sat here you were dead. Your hands fumbled in the darkness for something to grasp onto but all you felt were clothes. What a surprise.

Still, you prepared yourself, getting on your knees and waiting to launch yourself forwards. With each passing second your pulse quickened. You knew he knew you were in here. Why wasn’t he opening the door?

You bit your lip. Was he waiting for you to come to him? To open the door only to be met with a knife to the chest? You were lost. Should you. . . ?

Your fingers brushed against the wood, finding the small slit between the two doors. You inched forwards out of the corner, eye peering out. You didn’t see him.

You pulled backwards, tilting your head in confusion. This was a trap. You knew it was. So why were you so tempted to push the doors open?

Despite your brain screaming at you to stop, your fingers slipped outside, and you yanked the closet open, shooting up and out to press yourself against the nearest wall.

Your eyes hurriedly scanned the room. Your door was wide open, but there was nobody there. Were you just going crazy? Seeing things? Where in the hell did he go?

Your shoulders relaxed and you rested a hand against your forehead. You could have sworn he was here somewhere. It didn’t make sense.

Irritated, you walked over to your wide open door, grabbing the handle before slamming it closed. That’s when you saw him, body formerly hidden behind your door now fully upright and ready to strike.

You couldn’t even scream, backing up until the back of your knees hit the foot of your bed. You stared in shock, hands balling up the fabric of your shirt.

“At least I’m not crazy,” you whimpered, back arching in a futile attempt to get further away as he slowly lumbered towards you. Each step sent a shiver down your spine. You couldn’t tear your eyes away. You were stuck like a rabbit in a snare. A feeling of deja vu washed over you. Would you be so lucky a second time?

You spotted the large kitchen knife clutched in his hand, the other hanging loosely at his side. Probably not.

You held your breath, chest ceasing its frantic movements.

You watched, speechless, as he rose the knife higher and higher, catching the light outside and glinting menacingly. You forced your eyes to stay open, teeth biting your lip so hard you tasted blood.

The knife came down swiftly, impaling itself onto your bed frame. You stared, looking at the blade lodged in the wooden surface.

You turned your attention back to Michael, who was now hovering so close that you could feel your breath fanning off of his mask. You collapsed onto your bed as a large hand pushed against your sternum, forcing you against your sheets.

If he wasn’t going to kill you. . . what was going to happen tonight? Your bare thighs smushed against each other as your hands gripped the edge of your bed. Was he trying to finish what he started in the kitchen. . . ?

His hands gripped both of your thighs, leaving you to let out a gasp as he shoved them uncomfortably far apart. There were no clothes to hide under this time.

He stared, head tilted down as his fingers dug into your soft flesh. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment. What was he doing? And why? You tried in vain to ease your thighs closer together, but he didn’t budge.

“Have. . .” you whispered cautiously, “Have you done this before?”

The more you thought about it, the more you realized he’d probably never seen this part of somebody so intimately before. He’d been in a mental hospital for all of his adult life. And you were fairly certain they didn’t give out porn-o mags to the criminally insane.

There was something hilarious about this situation. He broke into your house, had you in his grasp, and was now. . . stumped? He seemed perfectly capable earlier, but you supposed it was different now that you were fully on display and there were certain to be no interruptions.

He didn’t respond to your question—obviously—but he did tilt his head ever-so-slightly. If you could see his eyes, you imagined they’d be narrowed in concentration.

You moved to speak again, but any words were knocked from your throat as you were pulled harshly against his torso, one hand gripped tightly on your hip underneath your thin shirt as the other snaked up your thigh. A switch had been flipped, it seemed, and with no hesitation his large index finger thrust inside of you.

You let out a gasp of surprise, cunt clenching around the intrusion. You didn’t have time to think before his digit pulled out and plunged back in, and you squirmed in an attempt to ease the sting. It’s not like you hadn’t done this before, but normally you get a little warning before being finger-fucked.

His grip on your hip forced you still, and you froze, feeling his nails press threateningly against your flesh. He had no patience for you, it seemed. Every push and pull was exploratory, feeling the sponginess of your walls twitching with every movement. It was not unlike the violent pulsing of an open wound, but this was more. . . sensual. That same blood-lust that consumed him built, but this time with a different intent. He wanted to feel more. See more. Witness what you looked like squirming underneath his grip. Not pleading to stop, pleading for mercy, but pleading for more. He wanted you in a way so foreign to him and yet so achingly familiar.

Your fists gripped the sheets, gasping and breathless as he fit another finger inside of you. They split apart, scissoring you open. You bit back a moan before it was forced out when a thumb brushed against your clit.

Your back arched, trying to meet his hand uselessly. The hand underneath your shirt moved from your hip to press firmly against your stomach. He pinned you against your bed hard enough to knock the breath out of you. This was not your experience to control.

His fingers continued, forcing themselves as deep as they could go, twisting to feel everything. Every pulsing surface that writhed around him spurred him to go faster.

You were a mess, your pussy throbbing as it took in his fingers over and over. You could only watch as they appeared and disappeared, each time thrusting deep enough to have you clenching around him.

The sounds of your slick walls echoed in the dark room, making you close your eyes in embarrassment. They didn’t stay that way for long, however, flying open when his hands left your body, instead fixated on pulling down the zipper on his jumpsuit.

You took the moment of freedom to scurry backwards until you rested on the bed fully. Your legs ached from being pressed against the side of the mattress, thighs already marked with the indents of large hands overtaking your skin.

Each breath you took was shallow, and you fought to catch your breath. Before you knew it, though, he gripped your ankles, yanking you back until you hung halfway off the bed. You stared at him, mask still on but jumpsuit now halfway off, the dirty shirt underneath doing little to hide the solid rise and fall of his broad chest. You wondered if he’d ever take his mask off. It was ironic—refusing to show his face even during a time like this.

He was still so calm, even as his fingers raked against your leg to find a grip on the meat of your thighs. His other hand slipped past the waist-line of his boxers, and even through the dark cloth you could tell you were in for it. You may have done this before, but—a sudden vision of splitting in half filled your head. If you thought his fingers had you writhing—you watched with bated breath as he grabbed his dick, hand wrapped around the base firmly. You didn’t have time to process just how something that big would fit inside of you before he had already rested himself against your entrance. Suddenly, getting fucked by a murderer didn’t seem like such a good idea.

“Michael,” you whimpered, “please be—” you cut yourself off with a scream, cunt stretched and stinging as he thrust inside of you. His hand on your thigh pulled you flush against him, leaving no room to arch away from the intrusion nestled all the way inside of you. Tears filled your eyes. Your hands reached to pry away the hand on your thigh keeping him shoved inside of you, but you were met with his now-free hand gripping both of your wrists, pinning them above your head effortlessly.

“It—it doesn’t fit,” you whined, every breath stinging as you tried desperately to relax yourself around him.

At your words he tilted his head, looking from your stuffed cunt to your teary face as if to refute your point. It fit just right. There was no space left, and your tightness surrounding him only encouraged him to begin to move. Your body relaxed when his cock receded, but it was short lived. As soon as you felt only the tip nestled inside of you, his entire dick was back, slamming into you so hard your thighs jiggled with the impact.

You let out a cry which morphed into a moan when he once again pulled out only to shove himself into your aching cunt.

The stretch burned, but that pain quickly became your dopamine. Your walls were wet, providing easy lubricant for the massive dick with now thrust in and out hurriedly. He was rhythmic yet unpredictable, never hitting the exact same spot twice. You couldn’t wrap your mind around the speed he was keeping up, hands now limp in his grasp as you pressed the side of your face into your blankets. You did nothing, all your effort concentrated in not letting out another sound slip from your mouth. You didn’t know how to feel. This was wrong—stretched over a killer’s cock as you tried desperately not to moan his name. The name of the man who tried to stab you, choke you, snuff you out mere hours ago.

You didn’t care. It didn’t matter, you told yourself. It wasn’t like you were dating the guy, just getting your brains fucked out of you. Did that make it better? No, probably not.

Still, there was no denying your ever-approaching release, and with energy you didn’t know you still had you weakly bucked your hips forward, only to have them thrust back as he drilled himself into you once again. He was too caught up in his own moment. He stared at your face from behind the mask, taking in every detail of your exhausted expression. You fought to keep your eyes open, mouth permanently open as breathless moans escaped you. You did this to him. Had him confused. You were the one to blame for the feeling in his chest and the hardness splitting you open. It was your actions that night. You puzzled him. Intrigued him. Had him picturing vulgar situations he hadn’t thought about since puberty. He’d never needed something like this before. Why now? Why you? Why did you do this to him?

It didn’t matter.

Once this was over he’d move on, kill you and get on with his life. This meant nothing. Was nothing. Just something he needed to get over with before slaughtering another victim.

A new feeling pulled him from his thoughts. He felt a pressure, like a heart about to burst open, and with every shove of his dick inside of your slick walls it increased. He chased the pressure. He pressed harder, deeper into you, hand on your thigh gripping so tight he saw blood begin to trickle from beneath his fingernails.

You winced at the pain, but it was so distant, so muted compared to the undulating pleasure stirring inside of you. Your entire lower half was almost numb, body trying desperately to soothe the piercing pain of his dick splintering you. It worked for the most part, but now you wanted more. Needed more. It suddenly wasn’t enough.

You let out a whine. “More,” you mewled, eyes clenched shut as you chased that familiar feeling.

The hand on your thigh vanished, only to reappear, gripping your ass and forcing your body to match his excruciating pace. You knew he was close, pace ramping up even more, becoming more random, needy, like he was trying anything in a desperate attempt to relieve himself.

You managed to slip out of the grip holding your wrists, leaning upwards to wrap your hands around his neck. The position was different, allowing him to hit a different part of you—the spot you needed. Your head rested against his shoulder, letting out a whimper that turned into a moan as you finally hit your high, teeth biting harshly into the fabric of his shirt to muffle yourself.

Your walls clenched harshly, clamping down around his dick, triggering his own release. You could feel every spasm as he came inside of you, mixing with your own cum to seep out of your filled cunt. Even after your orgasm washed over you, his continued, leaving you to gasp in over-stimulation. By the time he finally finished, a small puddle of cum had collected on the blankets. You could only stare, still pressed against him, as he pulled out, only to collect the spilled juices with his fingers, pressing them inside of you. You bit back a whine, watching as your cunt leaked with the white substance. You suddenly felt disgusting—every part of you was unclean. You supposed getting fucked by a murderer will do that to you.

Your eyes suddenly shot open, and you pulled swiftly away from him, crawling backwards until your head hit your headboard. What now? You served your purpose. Was he going to. . .

You watched as he tucked himself back into his underwear before re-zipping his jumpsuit. You noted the red splotch on the shoulder of his t-shirt. Where you bit him. You stifled a laugh. At least you left your mark.

He turned his head to stare at the knife still embedded in your bed frame, ripping it back into his grasp with one fluid motion. You prepared yourself to run despite your exhaustion.

He stared at you, knife hanging at his side. He tilted his head, as if debating something, before finally turning on his heels and walking slowly out of your bedroom.

You could only watch as he walked down the hallway and out of sight. You heard the closing of a door.

He let you live. Again.

You let out a sigh, head limp against your headboard. You couldn’t bring yourself to move. “This is my life now, huh?” you muttered, looking down at the bruises and red stains on your thighs. “I guess that’s one way to spend Halloween.”

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