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Anne Carson (2009)

Arthur S. Way (1898)

George Theodoridis (2010)

Ian C. Johnston (2010)

E.P. Coleridge (1910)

Theodore Alois Buckley (1892)

John Peck, Frank Nisetich (1995)

R. Potter (1906)

M. L. West (1987)

William Arrowsmith (1958)

Philip Vellacott (1972)

Michael Wodhull (1782)

Kenneth McLeish (1997)

David Kovacs (2002)

Andrew Wilson (1993)

Euripides - Original (408 BCE)

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Michael Michaud fruit necklaces

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mikey ko-fi request for @slasherholic 🌶

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the shape

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tired

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uh oh

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staring contest

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Hi sorry to bother you but I had an vision of Michael having a worship kink towards his s/o. Can you make that happen?

(Sorry that this one was so short! It was a bit hard for me to imagine Michael having a kink like this, so this was all that I could come up with ^^’)

NSFW

• Michael is, by nature, a selfish lover; his lust manifests itself as a primal, instinct-driven desire, and in the heat of the act, he will always prioritize his release over your pleasure. Only after he had screwed you silly would he bother to slow down and take the time to appreciate the body which was the cause of his undoing.

• Michael would pull you possessively against his chest and allow his hands to take on a mind of their own as they roamed freely down to explore the softness of your breasts, where he would grasp and knead and marvel at the way that you fit so perfectly in his palms.

• As Michael’s touch travelled to your abdomen it would become torturously soft; the barely-there sensation of his rough fingers ghosting along the delicate skin of your hips would be enough to leave you quivering.

• Michael would ensure that no inch of your body went unexplored. He would familiarize himself with every part of you, leaving you to marvel at the gentleness of his task; so different he was now to the way that he had bent you over and claimed you only minutes ago.

• He would save the valley of your thighs for last; when Michael’s large fingers brushed dangerously close to your dripping sex, and his breaths became once again laden with desire, you could tell that his rare moment of tenderness was over- Michael was hungry for round two.

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58 for Michael if you don't mind

Drabble prompt: “You smell like a wet dog”

Gloom | Michael Myers x Reader

It’s raining hard; pouring, even. Fat droplets plink against your umbrella and softening dirt squelches beneath your shoes as you walk. You haven’t seen Michael since before the rain began, but you know where you will find him. He often disappears into the quiet wood behind your sleepy suburb to be alone with his thoughts. You don’t make a habit of disturbing him in the midst of such moods, but you are also fully aware that if you don’t intervene now, Michael will bear the rain with the stubbornness of a mule even as he becomes drenched from head to toe.

You find him seated on a damp log not a hundred feet behind your house, but even here the forest has swallowed the suburbs from sight. Michael stares off into the tangle of thick oaks and sprawling branches. Through the rain and haze you see his shoulders stiffen at the sound of your approach. He turns his head and follows you with watchful eyes as you kneel beside him on the log.

“You smell like a wet dog, Michael.” You jest, scooting a bit closer to shield him from the rain with your umbrella. He looks like one too, you think. His soaked curls cling wetly to his brow and his undershirt is slick and shimmering.

Michael regards you with a stony expression. His scrutinizing gaze flits across your face and it is clear that he is studying you, evaluating you, deciding whether or not he cares to share your company. His eyes are cold— his remaining stormy-blue iris has become dull and grey in the gloom of the rain— but they are not empty. Michael’s mind is still his own.

Then, his posture relaxes. The stiffness ebbs from his broad shoulders. Your presence seems almost to slip his thoughts as he lifts his head and resumes his dutiful stare into the murky woods.

For now at least, Michael will tolerate you.

You lean in and press your cheek against his damp shoulder. Michael is warm; even through the chill of his drenched undershirt, heat radiates from his skin like a furnace. You shut your eyes and just listen for a moment to the wind whistling through the swaying branches, to the plinking of heavy raindrops overhead, and to Michael’s steady breaths— they are deep and rhythmic, and oddly comforting.

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The Predicament | Michael Myers x Female Reader (NSFW)

You’re stuck. Stuck in a shelf, and, yes, it is ridiculous, and embarrassing, and entirely your fault.

You grunt as you wiggle your hips, struggling to lift the weight off your back for the umpeenth time. Something— a book, probably— is keeping the wood from collapsing on you entirely. There is room enough for you to breathe, and room to squirm a bit, but other than that, you’re pinned. Half-in, half-out of a bookcase. What a wonderful way to spend your evening.

You had been reaching for a book— had nearly gotten your hold on the damn thing, too— when it toppled from the shelf with a papery ruffle, becoming wedged between the bookcase and the wall, completely out of reach.

When the case proved too heavy to move, you opted instead to dive head-first through the shelves like a fearless spelunker. Just as your fingers closed around the book, the bookcase gave a shrill creak, and the shelf above you came sliding down. The rest was history.

You give up your struggling in favor of observing the shadows on the walls, watching as they warp and stretch with the setting of the sun. It isn’t long before you begin to feel invisible eyes on you, as if some silent observer is studying your predicament from afar. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. Anyone else might have chalked such feelings up to simple paranoia; but, not you. You know better.

A tense, silent minute passes, until finally, you notice it— the thing that causes your breath to catch in your throat.

One shadow is out of place. It is an imposing shadow, completely unmoving, as if its caster is standing perfectly, eerily still. You give an exasperated huff.

“Michael,” You whine, your words muffled by the bookcase, “Will you please stop stalking me and come lift this thing?”

For a vexing moment, the shadow on the wall remains stubbornly motionless. You suck in your breath as you nervously eyeball the dark shape— is he seriously just going to leave you stuck like this? Are you even surprised? You really wouldn’t put it past Michael to ignore your helpless state, at least until he gets horny, or until your fridge runs out of food, or until—

Your racing thoughts are silenced by the approach of heavy footsteps. You blow out a puff of air, muttering a silent “thank you” under your breath.

“Just lift the shelf,” You suggest to the unseen figure. “-and I can probably wiggle free from there.”

Michael’s boots squeak to a stop against the tile. Those familiar, husky inhales are drawn from somewhere above you, and you can feel the heat and closeness of his body. You frown. Actually, his body is too close— something hard is pressing against your thighs— is that what you think it is?

You nearly squeal as Michael’s large, hot hand settles across your hip.

“Hey!” You cry out in protest, squirming and thrashing against your confinement. “Michael! Not like this, please, just get me out!”

Your begging is lost on Michael. A second hand joins the first to grope at your ass, squeezing and cuping hungry handfuls. You give a muffled squeak from inside the bookcase. What a horrid day to wear tights. The skin-tight fabric hugs your curves, offering no protection from Michael’s rough hands. You swallow hard. It is painfully clear that he has no intention of letting you go; at least, not before he has seized the opportunity to take advantage of your helpless state.

You grunt as your thighs are pushed apart. The hand on your ass slides down between your legs, and a shudder sweeps you as Michael’s fingers brush up against the tight fabric which hugs your folds. Such teasing is a rare occurance indeed. You’re almost tempted to let him continue without putting up a fight. Almost. However, in the name of being stubborn, you try and clamp your legs shut on his hands anyway.

Michael’s breaths hitch momentarily as you wiggle and squirm against him. When he draws his inhales again they come heavier than before, as if fueled by a sudden desire. His warm fingers dig into your skin and capture the hem of your tights. Without haste, the garment is shoved down your legs, gathering below your knees. Your panties go next. When Michael’s roving fingers return again, they rub along your exposed sex. You grit your teeth and bite back a moan. This isn’t like Michael— he isn’t typically this giving. You can’t help but marvel at his patience as he explores your sex, disturbingly gentle, as if he were studying some delicate curiosity.

His hot digits find your sensitive clit, and suddenly, you can no longer stifle your gasps. Any lingering thoughts of resistance are melted away into hazy, fleeting memories. A sigh falls from your lips as he teases around the pleasurable spot in tight circles, the stimulation slickening your walls until wetness pools at your opening. Michael must feel your wetness too, because his fingers abandon your clit. You whine in protest at the loss of the sensation, and the whine builds into a moan as two thick fingers are pushed into your entrance. 

The digits pump in and out of you, stopping occasionally to rub along your walls in a come-hither motion. You grip the bookcase for support as waves of pleasure rocket up your spine.

Then, the heat of Michael’s fingers falls away, leaving you empty— but only for a moment. There is the hasty drag of a zipper as Michael saddles up against your backside. Your breath catches in your lungs when his throbbing heat springs out to press between your thighs.

You groan lowly as Michael slides inside, stretching you in a way that is more painful than pleasurable; still, your muscles flex and twitch greedily around his member, desperately trying to take in more of him. Michael presses on until his hips press against your ass, and, fuck, he always makes you feel so full. His hands dig harder into the soft flesh of your waist, securing you in place.

Michael rocks his hips, his pace agonizingly slow. You curse him under your breath— you desperately want to tell him to fuck you hard and fast, like he always does, but you suspect that such a demand might only delay your release.

Thankfully, Michael can’t contain himself for long. His pace picks up as he pounds harder into you, grunting heavily. The grunts are stifled as if drawn from between clenched teeth. He gives another, and another, and one with every thrust, until his facade of self-control has slipped away like a mask, and Michael is grunting and growling and moaning.

One of his rough palms leaves your hip. He reaches up past the fallen shelf, finding the nape of your neck. His fingers dig in hard. You gasp and moan at the conflicting sensations. Each roll of Michael’s hips rocks your entire body, slapping so hard against your ass that you know you will wake up in the morning red and raw and bruised, but you don’t care. It hurts so good.  

You cry out as you come around Michael’s swollen cock. Your walls spasm and grip his member tighter. Michael’s fingers clamp down around your neck as he, too, is sent spiralling over the edge. You shudder at the sensation of the burning pressure spreading against your walls, its blissful heat dripping down your legs. You wish that you could see Michael in this moment— you want to revel in his undone state, want to watch his broad chest heaving and falling with those quickened breaths, want to watch that stubbornly empty expression slip as pleasure takes him in steady waves.

The fingers which pinch your neck disappear as Michael mercifully withdraws his hand. You slump over the bookshelf and go utterly limp, your dripping hole aching as Michael pulls away. Suddenly, he has become nothing more than a stoic shadow on the wall again, just observing you. Studying you. Or maybe, simply admiring his work. You shiver at the thought. It’s so much easier to see Michael as “The Shape” this way— nothing but a blank figure. A mere shadow of humanity.

A shadow of humanity who will hopefully now get you out of this fucking bookcase.

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so I held my breath and really quickly wrote this scene of the reader cuddling Michael while he’s sleeping and I didn’t look back so I’m s o r r y if this is hot garbagé

Human Needs | Michael Myers x Reader

Michael’s body rises and falls rhythmically against your shared mattress, outlined by a sliver of ghostly moonlight that seeps like honey through the drawn curtains. You trace with weary eyes the profile of his tousled curls, noting where they fall in gentle waves across his face. Tonight—unlike most nights— Michael does not toss and turn. He sleeps soundly; not only his body but his mind, too, is at peace. It is a total, dreamless slumber, hard-fought and well-earned. 

Hours ago you had watched him step out beneath a burnt-umber sky not as Michael Myers, but as something inhuman; human-like, even human-shaped, but only on the surface. When he returned his hands were slick with scarlet, but his mind— freed at last from errant voices— was once again his own. 

Desire tugs at your heart as you study the broad figure dozing at your side. It is a woefully human desire, one that yearns to touch, and to be touched. Your teeth find your lower lip as you consider your chances of success. Cuddling is a tricky thing with Michael; you can never tell if he will tolerate your advances or if he will simply shove you away, as if you are nothing more to him than a fussy dog begging for his attention.

Lucky for you, Michael presently has no say in the matter.

With the utmost of care you shimmy across the bed, cringing at the whining of springs. Thankfully, Michael does not stir. You settle yourself against his chest and nuzzle your face deep into the crook of his neck. A soft breath leaves your lips at the contact— Michael is as warm as a stove beneath your cheek. His warmth envelops you, spreading and blossoming throughout your body until your muscles have gone limp and you are molded to his form like soft clay. You press your mouth tenderly to his neck and draw a languid inhale. A coppery scent clings to him, rich and sweet, though you know what the smell is you do not find it to be unpleasant; it is so very Michael. Your lips part as you inhale again, deeper this time, so as to fill your lungs with the primal scent.

You wish that you could freeze the world in this moment. You wish that you could preserve the night and forsake the sun just to hold Michael in your arms a while longer, to feel his hot breath on your skin, to feel his strong pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips. Though you can never bring yourself to admit it, you long for Michael to love you as you love him— you wish, and you hope, and yet, you know that it will never happen.

To love Michael is to love a natural disaster, a beautiful and captivating and violent force of nature. When one stares up in awe at the ferocious majesty of a seething volcano, or a raging wildfire, or the sun itself, one does not expect to be admired in return.

Still— in these tender moments, one can imagine.

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Random Michael Myers Headcanons

Here, have some random Michael headcanons that have been rattling around in my brain for god knows how long.

● Michael is extremely observant and surprisingly adept at reading people. What the staff of Smith’s Grove did not realize was that for all the years they were watching Michael, he was silently studying them in return. Don’t ever lie to Michael— he can tell.

● While Michael retains his stubborn silence for the most part, there are rare instances where you might get a simple one or two-word response out of him. It’ll happen mostly when he’s feeling tired or impatient and not in the mood for playing charades to get his point across.

● As much of an emotional black hole as Michael is, he’s capable of experiencing a few shallow emotions, such as bursts of short-lived rage, contempt and irritation. Michael’s anger is silent and controlled, and it’s often not intense enough to influence his actions, but I don’t think I need to mention how stupid you would have to be to test him. Michael won’t hesitate to end behaviors of yours that he doesn’t like with an ice-cold stare and a firm hand around your throat.

● Michael is not capable of romantic love. He does not love his “significant other” like a mentally healthy individual would. He simply views his “s/o” as a means to fulfill his biological needs, and cares for said person like one would care for an expensive possession— he doesn’t want them to become damaged, because that would hamper their usefulness to him. Although in a totally realistic scenario, I can’t see Michael ever having the self-control to not murder his significant other. To attach an s/o to Michael we must first assume that for whatever reason this person doesn’t trigger off Michael’s violent impulses. So congratulations, as the only person in the world who Michael doesn’t feel the overwhelming need to murder, his pent-up sexual desires will now be projected onto you.

● As evidenced by the novels, Michael’s killing sprees are brought on by schizophrenic episodes. To summarize, he hears voices, and these voices are what urge him to commit acts of violence. “The Shape” (aka Michael’s murderous impulses) will go quiet for a brief time following his hunt so that his body’s needs can be met.

● “The Shape” also takes a back seat when Michael cannot physically act on his impulses (such as when he’s incarcerated.) The voices are still present in his mind, they just aren’t screaming at him. When Sartain brags about how Michael didn’t kill the cats that were put in his cell, this was a simple matter of Michael’s violent urges being “dormant” due to his incarceration. He didn’t need to kill the cats. That, or Michael was being purposefully manipulative in his actions. I’m not sure, to be honest!

● When the hunt is over and “The Shape” has retreated to the recesses of his mind, Michael will seek the sexual gratification that he has been forced to quell. That means you, bub! Expect to be screwed silly upon Michael’s return home.

● Michael does not feel the need to wear his mask outside of his schizophrenic episodes. I believe that Michael’s obsession with keeping his face covered stems from the way in which he killed Judith. He was masked in that instance, and so now Michael’s mind, having attached itself to that detail of his sister’s murder, demands that he carry out all of his kills with his face covered.

● After his mask and knife have been tucked away, Michael’s attention shifts to the fulfillment of his next need: this boy is hungry. Killing, as it turns out, sure works up an appetite. Michael doesn’t know how to cook, so if you leave him to his own devices he’s gonna raid your fridge for lunch meat and chug the milk straight out of its carton. Seriously, he doesn’t care. He’ll look you dead in the eye while he’s doing it too. No remorse equals no shame.

● If you do cook a meal, don’t expect Michael to sit down and eat it with you. He’s likely to snatch up his plate and fuck off to some quiet corner of the house. If you haven’t figured it out by now, Michael does not crave your company or companionship; his own is all that he will ever need.

● Afte he eats, if Michael doesn’t immediately flop down on the nearest bed and pass out, you might be able to gently coax him into letting you tend to any scrapes or cuts he received during his hunt. Michael will sit motionless on the bed or couch and study you with a fixed gaze as you care for him— bear in mind that he is allowing this not because he’s concerned about his injuries, but simply because he enjoys the sensation of your fingers against his skin. Michael is accustomed to the clammy hands of detached orderlies prodding at his body, and so your tenderness is something of a curiosity to him.

● The stability of Michael’s sleep-cycle is totally dependent upon his mental state; when there is fresh blood on his hands and the voices are satisfied, Michael sleeps like a log. As the days go by however, and The Shape begins to writhe once more within him, Michael’s sleep will become broken and erratic. The room is always too hot or too cold, the voices in his head too loud, and “rest” becomes a foreign concept. As dawn breaks, Michael’s hands twitch impatiently towards his mask; the cycle has begun anew. There will be no trace of Michael when you wake in the morning; The Shape has returned to the hunt.

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76 with michael please? thank you dear

Drabble Prompt: Put your penis away 

Michael Myers x Female Reader (NSFW)

At first you think that you’re imagining it; the throbbing heat which presses like a rod into your backside.

Then you feel his harsh fingers dragging across the flesh of your breasts, groping and tugging where they fall, and suddenly the stiffness prodding at your ass is no longer such a mystery. Your lips part in a groan and you shuffle across the bed, away from Michael’s roving hands. It’s too early for this.

But Michael does not give up so easily; those strong hands follow you, find their home around your waist, and you know that you lack the strength to stop him as he drags you back into the radiating heat of his chest. His arousal pokes and prods at your cool skin and a whine builds in your throat.

“Put your penis away, it’s too damn early.” You protest, burying your face into your pillow and shoving meekly at Michael’s hands. The proximity of it all— from the heavy breaths beating down your back to the hot fingers digging into your hips— it’s too much to handle. You just want to rest.

Behind you, a labored breath deepens to a husky growl. As if in response to your struggling Michael begins to buck his pelvis against your thighs, your ass—you arch your back and whine as his member grinds into your panties and gasp when it grazes your entrance, separated only by teasingly thin fabric. The heat— it’s not only Michael’s now— the dampness growing between your legs is impossible to ignore. You heave a stifled moan at the pulsing of your own sex. 

“Fuck, fine.“ You hiss, relenting at last, and hastily tug your panties down your legs.

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I absolutely adore how you write Michael (it's helped me try and finish my own story involving him), and was wondering if I could request how he'd react to an s/o that likes to nibble/bite in the heat of the moment or to simply rile him up for the hell of it? Never hard enough to draw blood, though~

(That makes me beyond happy to hear, and I wish you the best of luck with your story!)

Michael Myers x Reader— Biting/Teasing (NSFW-ish)

Michael’s ragged breaths beat against your neck like hot and heavy steam— you reach down to intertwine your fingers through the chilly bedsheets to combat the unbearable heat. Every fervent roll of Michael’s hips against yours is blissful; with a breathy gasp, you arch your head deep into your pillow, your fingers lifting from the sheets to instead drag lustfully across the man’s chiseled back, and then drink in his scent through parted lips; his deep and savory tang is intoxicating, and delicously primal. You want to taste him. Michael’s neck is perfectly exposed to you, and so without a second thought, you lurch forward to bury your face in the crook of it. The salt of his sweat pervades your senses. Your teeth graze across his pulsing skin, and you grin inwardly as you catch the rasp of his heavy breath hitching in his throat. A strong hand travels down to grip at your hips— a warning, but one that you blissfully ignore. You aren’t finished yet.

You nip and nibble and roll Michael’s sensitive flesh tenderly back and forth between the tips of your teeth. You can practically feel the resonant growl forming deep within his chest, can envision the way that his thick brows have knit together, can feel his patience with you wearing dangerously thin. You know that Michael doesn’t like to feel this vulnerable— and as you continue to tease your teeth along his neck, oh-so-close to his fluttering pulse, by the way that his muscles have gone rigid and tense, it is apparent that the man above you has become a ticking time-bomb.

Sheerly with the intent of setting off the bomb, you bite down. Hard. Michael jerks away with a frustrated hiss; that was the last straw. In one swift motion, his hands clamp around your waist, and the chill of the bedsheets meets your bare stomach as you are flipped over like a ragdoll. Thick fingers snake through your hair. The world goes suddenly dark as your face is pressed into cushy fabric, and your head is tilted forcibly downwards, exposing the nape of your neck. A violent shudder siezes your spine as Michael’s teeth prick against your tender skin like wet needles. The eager bucking of his hips into your body do not slow as he bites and sucks voraciously at the flesh of your neck with far more aggression than you had dared to use against him. You can only guess that Michael intends to leave you bruised and aching, in hopes of detering any of your future teasing— but, if the muffled moans which you now heave into the pillow are any indicator, Michael’s efforts will prove only to have the opposite effect.

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So this is literally just 600 words of The Reader playing with Michael’s hair I hope this is what yall wanted

Ruffled | Michael Myers x Reader

You find him sitting cross-legged on the floor beside your bed, unclothed, covered only by the towel drapped loosely around his waist. He hasn’t moved from this spot since you stepped out of the shower. Michael has been waiting—just waiting. You know exactly what he wants; and so you clamber atop the bed, straddling his body and letting your legs fall on either side of him. The hairdryer in your hand whirs to life. Michael’s hair is still wet from your shower, but even soaked, it retains its stubborn waves. The warm caramel-brown strands have darkened in their wetness to a shade which reminds you of ground coffee. As you reach out and delicately sweep his dampened curls away from his forehead, slicking them backwards, miraculously, Michael does not fuss. He does not pull away. He does not protest your preening of him in any way. You know exactly why:

It is because Michael has a weakness. For all his blunt disinterest in your affection there exists one gesture that he, without fail, will not rebuke—one gesture which he actively seeks out. And by god, you are going to milk it for all it’s worth:

Because Michael loves it when you play with his hair.

No, he doesn’t love it outwardly. His expression is unchanging as you continue to tease his strands backwards, his disinterested gaze never rising from the floor. But there are other signs that Michael gives of his enjoyment—subtler signs. You know to look for them. 

You wave the hairdryer side to side over his head, and his broad shoulders relax. You run your fingers along his scalp and he tilts his head back, only slightly, but still it is clear that he means to nuzzle into your touch. You introduce the comb to his strands and his eyelids flutter, suddenly heavy, as if they might close at any moment.

Before long Michael’s hair has returned to its former volume, cascading in a wavy halo around his head and catching the golden glow of the nearby lamplight. You admire its softness as you wind a caramel lock around your finger. When clean, Michael’s hair is soft as fleece, and just as fluffy. The delicate, rosy aroma of shampoo wafts upwards to meet your nose. Without hesitation you bend, burying your face in his hair and inhaling deeply, drinking in his scent until it is all that remains in your lungs. What you wouldn’t give to keep him smelling like this all the time.

Through all of this, Michael has not moved an inch. He gives no sign that he is tiring of your pampering. He’s telling you to continue; and so you do. You sweep it to one side, then the other. You bundle it here and there into tiny braids which come apart the second you let go. You ruffle it into a hopeless mess and then tediously comb your fingers through again, smoothing it all back into place. You run your nails up and down his neck, down his back and across his shoulders, and then sometime after you have begun to massage his scalp in slow circles, Michael’s eyes close completely. His head dips forwards. It tilts further, further, further—

—until he tilts too far and wakes himself up with a jolt. He sits upright. Blinks sluggishly. A frown pulls at his lips, ever-so-slight, but it is plain as day to you. Michael is flustered. You cannot contain your beaming grin; you’ve melted him. You’ve cracked his stoic shell with your fingers alone, and there is hardly a more satisfying feeling.

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Michael Myers Headcanons— Guilty Pleasures

Not sure if these really count as “guilty pleasures”, but yeah, here are a few things that Michael enjoys. 

● Michael enjoys being outside. Can you blame him? He spent his formative years under lock and key, and so he recognizes the freedom that a stroll through a wooded area signifies. For Michael, just the feeling of the wind blowing against his face is a simple pleasure in and of itself.

● Michael has a bit of a sweet tooth, and he doesn’t bother to exert any self-control over it, so don’t be surprised if you catch him in the act of shamelessly raiding your cabinets in search of the pastries that he watched you put away. It actually might be dangerous to introduce Michael to caffeine— he’d get hooked on it pretty easily.

● If there’s one thing that Michael genuinely takes pleasure in, it’s the sensation of his hair being played with. Granted, Michael isn’t always in the mood for being touched— but, if he doesn’t pull away from your hands as you begin to tease your fingers through his curls, he’s giving you permission to continue. Michael is content to just sit for hours like this; you’ll get no reaction out of him that might betray his enjoyment, but inwardly, he’s melting.

(reposting this because it didn’t get in the tags. oh tumblr)

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Synopsis: Reader gets hella physical with Michael. Inspired by this nasty heatwave. As if I needed an excuse to write some shirtless Myers *cackles*

Sun-kissed | Part one | Michael Myers x Female Reader (NSFW)

Michael blinks as he wakes. Once. Twice. He stares up at the ceiling.

It is too hot.

Already he has stripped off his coveralls and the shirt beneath; even now, as he lies unclothed atop the covers, sweat pools beneath his back and pricks up to dampen his brow. 

It is too hot. 

The muggy heat seems to radiate from his very core and he cannot escape it. It laps at his reddened face and coils his body like a snake, and he feels constricted. Restless. There is an uncomfortable tension growing his chest. This is the third time that he is awake tonight because of it. 

He shifts his head on his pillow. His eyes fall upon the figure of the girl who lies next to him. Her body rises and falls peacefully as she draws her soft breaths. She is soundly asleep. Michael’s fingers twitch at his sides. He flexes them. 

The girl would be an easy outlet for his frustrations; but no. His fingers relax. Too easy. 

His muscles ache to be used to their fullest. His body craves to feel his strong heart pounding like a hammer against his ribs, craves the satisfaction of working up a well-earned sweat— a real sweat— to liberate him from this false one. 

Michael sits up on the mattress and stands from the bed. His coveralls lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. He tugs them halfway up his waist and then loops the sleeves into a hasty knot, so that they sit loosely around his hips. His shirt, too, is on the floor, but he ignores it, steps over it, slips silently out the bedroom door… 

…far too hot.

~

Today is miserable, you decide, as you squeeze half a lemon against your presser with a grunt and dip your head to wipe your brow on your sleeve. Your hair clings in a friz around your face, heavy with the sweat that has surfaced on your cheeks and on the bridge of your nose. You pull a rubber band off your wrist and hold it between your teeth, reaching back to gather your unruly hair into a sloppy ponytail. It must be approaching 100 degrees outside.

A breeze blows in through the open kitchen window, humid and hot, like a puff of breath against your face. You glance up from your half-pressed lemons to stare in silent disapproval at the world outside your kitchen. Even the boundless green leaves in the trees seem to succumb to the shocking humidity, swaying to and fro lethargically, as if battling indolence. 

When you woke that morning to find only tangled sheets in the spot where Michael had been, you were not surprised. You heard him tossing and turning as the night stretched on, waging his own battle against this disgusting humidity. He must have lost.

It is no cause for concern, you tell yourself. Michael vanishes frequently. Sooner or later he always turns up.

You push Michael to the back of your mind, nearly turn away from the window and slink back to your presser and your half-squeezed lemons. 

A blur of distant movement halts you. You look up, out the window, towards the patch of green wood that stretches just behind your house. A looming figure emerges from the tree line, pushing through the thicket. Your busy fingers still in your hair.

Oh, you realize. So that’s where Michael went.

He steps beyond the shade of the trees, out into the blistering sun, and your lips part in a gentle gape. The hair tie falls from your mouth. It is tragically forgotten about. You don’t bend to pick it up. You don’t even consider tearing your gaze away from Michael. At some point in your ogling, you realize you’ve forgotten to breathe— fuck. This is so unfair.

In this ungodly heat, under the sweltering sun which has flustered and marred your own composure, Michael isn’t just attractive— he’s downright gorgeous. 

The blinding light of noon filters through his caramel curls, setting the ringlets that frame his face alight in a halo of bronze. And oh. He’s shirtless. Of course he is. Sweat gleams across his bare chest, drawing your shameless gawk to the tone of his physique. You sweep your eyes down the length of his body. You feel almost like a vulture as you trace the taper of his abdomen, lingering on the prominent V-shape of his obliques, lamenting when they disappear beneath his coveralls, teasingly obscured. You can’t get enough of him. 

Beneath the revealing light of day, with no loose-fitting clothing to hide his athletic tone and no grisly mask to conceal his features, Michael looks like a renaissance sculpture that abandoned its pedestal. Undeniably angelic. 

What delicious irony, you muse; because this angel is on his way to screw your brains out.

Michael is a man on a mission, and you can tell simply by the purpose in his stride, the raptorial fixture of his steady gaze on the house before him. He’ll probably do it right over the kitchen counter. Right where you were making lemonade. He’ll seize your hips and bend you over and tug his pants down just enough to expose his throbbing member and go to town. You imagine those calloused hands, murderer’s hands, falling roughly across your flesh, securing you against that powerful body. A quiver of excitement rockets up your spine. Michael’s animalistic lust is like cheap liquor— readily available and hopelessly addicting. Your body has come to crave him. To need him.

Still. Today, you decide, he’s going to work for it. 

Michael cannot pace himself. If you do not temper him, you know that he will fuck you hard and fast until you are tired and sore and then be done with you, and that simply won’t do. Not when he looks like this. No. You want to be held against his broad chest. You want to feel those powerful muscles contracting around your body. You envision yourself fighting back with the sum of your strength, but it will all be for naught, and when Michael totally and ruthlessly overpowers you he will have well and truly earned his reward. 

You are going to savor the strength and power of the predator coming to claim you. Your sex pulses at the thought, sore and needy.

Michael disappears from sight around the side of the house. You watch him vanish. Your heart pounds. The muscles in your legs tense. Some latent survival instinct seizes your body in a vice-like grip; it screams at you to flee, to run, before the hidden predator reemerges, before it is too late. A frantic plan shambles together in your mind. You scramble to place yourself behind the kitchen island— if you can keep it between you and Michael, it is just wide enough so that he won’t be able to make a grab for you.

You hear the patio door slide open hastily and then shut. Michael is in the house. His daunting footsteps head for the kitchen without a moment’s hesitation and you know he must have seen you from the window. You hold your breath as he approaches. Closer. Closer still…

Michael emerges from the hall. He stands beneath the kitchen archway. At this distance you can see the rivulets of sweat trickling down his brow, falling down past his dark eyelashes, plinking here and there to the tile. The flesh of his palms is discolored with a color that reminds you of rust— not quite red, but perhaps it had been an hour ago. He shoots you a calculating stare from across the counter, assessing the situation. 

You wonder if Michael can already detect the defiance in your eyes. You wonder what he’s going to do about it.

“Did you have a good workout?” You ponder innocently.

No reaction. Not even a blink. He’s sizing you up. Putting the pieces of your game together. You place your palms flat on the kitchen island as if to drop him a hint. His eyes follow your every movement. He looks to the counter. Then back at you.

When at last Michael stalks towards you he does so slowly, almost experimentally. He traverses left around the counter. You rotate right as he approaches, your eyes locked all the while, until the two of you have traded places. 

Michael turns abruptly on his heel. He paces back the way he came. You respond in kind. He gains no distance on you, but that no longer seems to be his goal; he knows the nature of your game, now. You can see the spark of predatory excitement lighting in his glacial eyes. He circles you like a lion circling wounded prey. He knows that you can’t escape him. You know that you can’t escape him. 

But for the moment, you are successful in evading him.

His brow creases. Only faintly, but the reaction is there. He regards you coldly, and you can almost taste the dangerous cocktail of impatience and frustration flowing through his veins. Just walking, Michael won’t be able to catch you. The counter is too wide, the distance too great. The both of you could keep this up all night and you will slip away from him every time. A smile dances along the corner of your mouth. Stalemate.

For a moment. 

Then; in the midst of his pacing, Michael turns back towards the counter. He places his hands atop its surface. Faster than you have time to process he is hoisting his body up, the muscles in his chest and arms flexing as they take his weight. In a surprisingly graceful motion he vaults himself across the counter. 

His feet meet the tile on your side of the kitchen with a hefty thud, and your grave mistake dawns on you; you have forgotten that Michael’s slow and leisurely stalking is a careful ruse, a purposeful deception, designed to lull his prey into the illusion of security; and when at last he strikes he does so like a cobra. Frightfully, dizzyingly fast. Faster than you can react, evidently.

Well played, congratulates your begrudging inner voice. 

Michael lunges for you, his hand outstretched. You try to leap out of the way; but nope. Too late. His fingers clamp like the jaws of a bear trap around your forearm. 

The force with which Michael pulls you back against his body nearly sweeps you off your feet. Your arm is tweaked behind your back and secured there. He seizes a handful of your hair. He shoves you against the counter, pushing your face down into the clammy granite. His body furls over yours, pressing in closer, enveloping you, until you can feel the heat of his breath beating down the nape of your neck and the sweat of his chest dampening your back, and you feel immensely small beneath the burden of his weight. Small and frail and weak.

Michael rocks his hips forward. When he meets your ass, you whimper. He begins a torturously slow rotation of his hips, grinding himself between your legs, rubbing up and down your entrance— ensuring that you feel the daunting presence of his member even through your clothing. 

Michael’s teasing draws a low moan from your lips. You can only guess at his intentions. He is reasserting the fact of his dominance over you, reinforcing your place as his prey. His plaything. Perhaps he is even amused. After all, your defiant stunt was pathetically short-lived. 

Your cheeks burn furiously with the heat of your frustration and the heat of your arousal and the heat of the day, and the heat of Michael’s body careening into yours, because Michael is a furnace in his own right.

And so, you do something stupid. Terminally stupid, and yet you do it anyway. You kick back your leg. You aim for Michael’s thigh. If you can just get him to loosen his grip on your wrist then perhaps you can yank yourself free. 

Your foot connects. Above you, Michael gives a startled grunt. His breath hitches abruptly. Your heart falls to the pit of your stomach, because fuck, that was not where you meant to kick him.

The tension around your wrist falters just for a second. With a violent twist, you tear yourself away from his grasp. 

Within a split second it dawns on you that fleeing the scene is a horrible mistake. The safest option would have been to go limp beneath him in total surrender, to let the stream of desperate apologies which currently rattle through your mind fall past your lips, to pray that Michael’s retribution isn’t fatal— but it’s too late. You are already scurrying from the kitchen and bounding into the living room.

Michael seems to recover from your cheap blow almost instantly. You hear him empty his lungs in a furious huff and then start out of the kitchen after you. 

In the living room, there is nothing like the counter to aide in your retreat from Michael— there is a coffee table, which you are quick to scramble behind, but the shelter it provides is a fanciful one. It is foolish to assume that Michael will be deterred by it in any way.

Michael is hot on your heels. His brisk stride does not slow as he crosses the room. His face is horribly blank, but there is murder in his eyes, and it is not the quiet, calculating bloodlust that you are so familiar with, but rather raw and seething aggression. You prepare to dance around the coffee table in another roundabout tango— this time, Michael is having none of it. He seizes the edge of the table and flips it on its side, shoving it clean out of his way as if it were made of styrofoam and not solid wood. He keeps right on coming. Panic blares like a siren in your head but there is nothing more that you can do about it. Michael is unstoppable.

He lunges at you again. You expect his reaching hands to close around your throat. Instead, his hot fingers bury themselves around your hips. He shoves you backwards with the strength of a surging tide. This time, he does sweep you off your feet. He’s going to wrestle you to the floor, you realize, and you don’t stand a chance. 

You do the only thing you can to keep from going down— you leap on him. Michael grunts softly as he takes your weight. You wind your legs around his waist. You hug the back of his neck, your fingers locking together against his nape. Your face finds its home in the muscles of his shoulder. Michael’s sweat becomes your sweat. 

A valiant effort, if not a bit ridiculous. Still. You have only momentarily delayed the inevitable. 

Michael seems wholly unperturbed by your stunt. He bears your weight as if you weigh nothing at all. He sinks to his knees, taking you down to the carpet with him. His hands leave your hips. You grit your teeth as his fingers close around your arms. 

You squeeze your eyes shut as he begins to pry. It takes all your strength to maintain your grip on his body even for a second— your muscles strain horribly at the effort. Reason chimes in like a bell. If you keep this up you are going to pull something, it says. Shit. Is that worth it?

Luckily it is not a decision you have to make. As it turns out, Michael was not actually trying. 

He pulls again. He means it this time. Your locked fingers are pried apart in one fluid motion. He captures your flailing wrists in one hand and pushes you down until your back is flat against the carpet. He does the same with your legs as he had your arms, peeling them away from his waist with tremendous ease. 

He sinks down on top of you, holding your wrists to the floor above your head, straddling your hips, his thighs constricting your abdomen— and that is the end of it. You are pinned. You are his. 

Michael looms atop you an unmoving wall of tensed muscle and furious, seething arousal. Your mouth lolls open in a pant and your chest heaves up and down. You are unable to draw breath enough to satisfy beneath the brunt of his crushing weight. Your body flushes with a trembling heat.

You’ve got your wish; a display of ruthless domination, and Michael’s own breaths have not even quickened.

His gaze is steady and baleful. His thick brows are furrowed. His nostrils are flaring. You are taken aback by the raw display of emotion on his face; truthfully, Michael’s expression conveys only mild agitation, but when his fingers sear deeper into your flesh the scope of his seething fury is revealed. Michael’s power is breathtaking in more ways than one— your features contort as his hands snake tighter still. You give a strangled gasp. It hurts. God, it hurts— but through pain you cannot help but marvel at his strength. He could snap your wrists like twigs. He could leave your hands in ruins. But he hasn’t. It’s as if he’s brought you to the precipice of injury merely to demonstrate your utter helplessness. 

As if you needed reminding that you are desperately at his mercy. 

Though at the same time, you suspect Michael’s intentions aren’t quite so meaningful.

He no longer blinks as he stares down at you. He swear you hear his breaths halt. He looms above you with an eerie stillness, his eyes burning into your body. Observing you. Appraising you. He seems to relish in your every whimper. Seems to savor every grimace that flashes across your face. His arousal sits a daunting, burning weight on your stomach, and like some twisted foreplay, you know without a shred of doubt that he is getting off on this.

Maybe Michael is punishing you for your transgressions; perhaps he’s only playing with his food.