gh0stlyshape - Michael Myers simp
Michael Myers simp

Hey I'm Wulf. He/Him. Love me some slashers, monsters, and robots. Michael Myers is my boy. I draw sometimes. 18++ ONLY.

153 posts

Big Tiddy Michael

Big Tiddy Michael
Big Tiddy Michael

big tiddy michael

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More Posts from Gh0stlyshape

2 years ago

respect beginner/less experienced artists and writers or die by my blade

2 years ago

From my Halloween grown killer Jamie au

From My Halloween Grown Killer Jamie Au
From My Halloween Grown Killer Jamie Au

Later

From My Halloween Grown Killer Jamie Au

Chaotic family of 3


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2 years ago

themes commonly found in international friendships

- ‘u dont have (insert food/music/restaurant here) over there??’ - ‘wait what time is it. shouldnt u be asleep’ - alternatively: timezoned/clockblocked again - ‘do u need a hug. have a virtual hug’ - weird slang terms - ‘i will fight everyone thats mean to u. i will fight them rn’ - vague embarrassment regarding ur accent - ‘dont maKE ME COME OVER THERE’ - ‘oh yeah i have a friend who lives in (insert country here) and apparently’ - no real hugs :(( - suffering - fahrenheit vs celsius - the measuring of things in feet fucks one of u up, probably

2 years ago

Hi! I saw your slasher imagines post and I was wondering if I could make a request of a NSFW of either OG!Michael or peepaw Michael with a transman reader (top surgery done but not bottom)? First time or established I don't have a particular preference. Would love to see some bloodplay and knifeplay and just have Michael absolutely have his way with him. He can just have his mask on most of the time, and when they kiss Michael can just pull it up enough for his lips to show. Would also be great if there was some form of aftercare when they're done, in however Mikey would do it. If he decides he will take his mask off at some point I would not be opposed to that at all. Thanks!!! ;v;

Hey anon! I chose peepaw, though it doesn’t come up much in the story. Also sorry this got a little out of control. Oops. 

Peepaw!Michael Myers x trans!male!reader (NSFW) 2.4k words

You were a liability. Every second Michael spent with you, he risked getting caught. Even being as good at blending into the shadows as he was, there was still a chance of him being spotted every time he made the trek from the sewers to your apartment. You were just glad your roommate had moved out. 

Explaining why there was a serial killer in your bed wasn’t high on your to-do list. 

He’d shown up a half-hour ago, letting himself in the door you never kept locked—why worry when the Boogeyman was your kind of, sort of, maybe boyfriend? You’d immediately pointed him to the shower, a request he was used to by this point in your relationship. You loved him and all, but not so much the smell of rats and dirt and garbage. You could hear the shower running now, the door not closed fully because Michael didn’t care much about privacy. You walked by the door, ducking inside to grab his boilersuit and throw it in the wash. His mask and rusty knife sat on the counter by the sink, also needing a good cleaning, but you were sure he wouldn’t let you near them. There were some lines you didn’t even try crossing. 

You left the bathroom without looking at his silhouette behind the shower curtain, feeling like it was an invasion even though you’d barely see his outline. You were basically just killing time until he got out of the shower. You checked on dinner—spaghetti, garlic bread, and a salad, wondering if Michael would sneak out of bed in the middle of the night to eat like he normally did. The sauce was simmering, fragrant with spices. You wondered if you should eat now to shore up your strength, especially for whatever Michael had planned for you. 

Down the hall, the shower cut off. Too late to eat a full meal, you realized, and grabbed a piece of garlic bread. Moments later, Michael was walking out of the bathroom, fully nude, mask in place and knife in hand. 

“I hope you aren’t planning on going out like that,” you joked, watching him walk down the hallway toward you. You chuckled at your lame comment as he stopped in front of you, putting you chest-level with his naked body. Despite the uncountable badly healed scars, he was still in pretty good shape for a man of his age. His muscles were firm, legs strong. Your eyes slid down his body, taking in the line of his half-hard cock. “Thinking about me in the shower?” you asked, waggling your brows. 

Michael, as usual, didn’t respond or acknowledge you in any way. You’d never heard him speak, never really heard anything but heavy breathing, and once, a groan, from the man. He was a good listener, though, letting you ramble on about whatever silly thing popped into your head, still and silent. 

“Want to eat now?” You asked, already knowing the answer. Michael didn’t shake his head like he normally did, instead grabbing your wrist to pull you in the direction of your bedroom. His hand on you was firm, maybe even skirting the edge of harsh, and he tugged you along after him as he walked back to your room. You were glad he decided to drag you back there—you’d never tell him this, but he didn’t exactly have the knees or back for a fuck against the wall or on the couch, he was almost three times your age. 

He pushed you back against the bed and you went willingly, tugging off your shirt and kicking off your pants and boxers as you did. He followed you up onto the bed, slotting himself between your legs with an ease borne of practice. “Hi,” you said awkwardly, staring up at him from your mound of pillows. He discarded his knife somewhere off to the side, both of his hands coming to your sides to squeeze the flesh there. They ran up your chest, lingering over the scars from your double mastectomy—he was fascinated by the thick scars, often stroking or toying with them. You wondered if he understood what they were from. It didn’t matter, anyway. With Michael, you never had to worry that you didn’t exactly look like your average man. He didn’t seem to mind. You’d explained it to him once, when he’d been petting your scars in the afterglow of some mindblowing sex, so you knew that he knew, in theory, that you were transgender. 

You were pulled from your thoughts as the lips of his mask brushed your lips, eyes widening. It was rare for Michael to initiate affection of any kind. Slowly, as not to startle him, you raised your hands to the edge of his mask and started rolling it up. He allowed you to, stopping just above his nose. His face, what was visible, at least, was just as scared as the rest of him. Your hands on either side of his face, he leaned in for a kiss. It was surprisingly slow, for him, and tasted like mint from the toothbrush you left out for him. His teeth dragged over your bottom lip, asking for entrance, and you granted it with a little groan, locking your legs around his hips. He rutted against you, his hardening cock slipping past your heated core. You were more focused on his tongue in your mouth, silencing your little noises and playing with your own. It was as responsive as you could get him to be. He supported himself with one arm over you, the other straying back to his knife. 

You startled as the cold metal pressed into your side, but you weren’t afraid of him. It ghosted over your ribs, pressing in and drawing a raised, red line in its wake. “Michael,” you began sternly, “you can’t use that knife. I’ll get tetanus.” You wracked your brain, trying to think of the last time you’d gotten a tetanus booster. It was probably recent enough. 

That was a good thing, because Michael didn’t seem to be listening to your complaints about possible diseases. The knife dragged over your hipbone, scoring a line of red that had blood welling up in its wake. It stung, the blade dull, more of a tearing sensation than a smooth cut. You sucked in a breath, pulling him close for another desperate kiss as he pressed the flat of his blade against your core, cold pressure on your engorged clit. 

The threat was enough to make your rolling hips still. The knife wasn’t sharp enough to accidentally cut you, not really, but you wouldn’t put it past Michael to try it anyway. The blade pressed harder, spreading your folds, the tip of it a sharp pressure against your entrance. What little slick you produced after years of hormone therapy coated the knife. “Michael,” you warned against his lips, not quite telling him off, but not fully supportive. In theory, Michael Myers fucking you with his knife was hot, enough to send a pang of curling heat to your gut. In practice, it sounded messy—not to mention painful. The knife withdrew, dragging back up your stomach and he was rutting against you again, thick cock sliding against your core, wet with precome and your slick.

He traced a path up your chest with the knife, cutting in enough to send rivulets of blood down your sternum. The blade reached your neck, traced almost lovingly over your jugular, and then he was pulling back slightly, running the flat of the blade over the seam of your lips. His single eye stared down at you as you opened your mouth obediently, cleaning slick and blood off of the knife. It dipped into your mouth, a gruesome imitation of a blowjob, and you hollowed your cheeks, sucking on the rusty metal. It tasted like dirt and copper, unpleasant but heady. He slid it deeper, and tears welled in your eyes as it scraped against the back of your throat. If he forced it any deeper, he’d truly be stabbing you. You took it as the threat you knew he knew it was. Your tongue laved against the blade, mouth lolling open to show him the twist of your tongue against the metal. His breathing turned harsher, lips opening just the slightest amount. For a second, you felt the pressure increase against your throat, and you fought not to gag. You knew he was thinking about it, about killing you. You rutted harder against him in response, tears welling in your eyes as you fought off your gag reflex. The taste of copper flooded your mouth before the knife withdrew and he was surging forward to kiss you, licking up the taste of life, threatening to tongue fuck your throat for another taste of your sweet blood. 

Michael dropped the knife off to the side, forgotten, and his hands were back on you, sliding down your body, fingers dragging over stinging cuts, smearing blood along your torso with a touch that was bruisingly hard. Your heels dug into his back, pushing his body against yours with a moan as you arched your back, pressing into the pain. His lips left yours, trailing down your throat to trace the cuts with his tongue, cleaning up your blood. His mouth was a balm against the dozens of nipping wounds, but you wanted more from him. 

“Michael,” you whispered, throat sore and stinging from the cut that bled down your esophagus, “fuck me.” His eye flicked up to meet yours in the darkness of your room, black and reflective like an animal’s. Tapetum lucidum, it was called, and it was impossible in humans. Another thing that set him apart from a normal man. 

For once, he obeyed you, straightening up to grab the bottle of lube off your bedside table. Besides making him shower, this was probably the only thing you’d taught him to do. Years on testosterone had essentially stopped your body’s natural lubrication, making penetrative sex painful without a little outside help. He slicked up his cock, his fingers, wet with lube, slipping over your folds, two fingers roughly nudging inside to coat you with lube. A gentle lover Michael was not, but you were into the perfunctory motions, the disinterest he seemed to have in foreplay that wasn’t violent. 

The only warning you got before he pushed into you was the slip of his fat cockhead against your slick opening and then he was tearing you apart, friction enough to make white sparks dance behind your eyes. It hurt like it always did, but you moaned anyway, pushing into the sensation as he slid all the way to the root, not pausing until he was fully seated within you. You bit your lip, hand coming down to rub at your swollen clit until the pain started fading int a tight, white-hot pleasure. You could feel your body clenching around him, instinctively trying to force him out, or maybe draw him deeper. Either way, it wasn’t working, he held himself perfectly still, and the only way you could tell he was feeling anything at all was his heavy breaths that puffed next to your ear. 

You dug your heels into his back, urging him to start fucking you as your fingers teased tight circles around your clit, your other hand drawing his face back to yours. Your lips dragged over his scratchy white beard, mashing your lips against his in a panting, open-mouthed kiss as he began fucking you with deep, hard thrusts. He was unforgiving, the angle of his hips sparking a painful pressure in your guts as he probably got a little too close to your cervix. It made your body cramp and clench reflexively, and you rolled your hips along with his thrusts, forcing your body down hard onto his cock. It hurt in the best way, it was almost euphoric, a heady mix of pain-pleasure-pressure against your insides that lit up your brain like an electric shock. 

You writhed against him as he fucked you harder, obscene squelching echoing in your ears, almost drowned out by the moans that spilled out from between your desperately locked lips. Your toes curled, hands shooting to Michael’s back, nails dragging against his skin, drawing blood in their wake. You held on for dear life as he plowed into you, barely faltering as he kept his pace. The only sign that he was working hard at all was present in the harsh pants that bled into your mouth. The hand that wasn’t occupied propping him up strayed to your throat, pressing down enough to restrict airflow without entirely blocking it off. 

Lightheaded, your hips bucked against him as your orgasm caught you by surprise. You bit his lip hard enough to make it bleed as you came, back arching while fireworks bloomed behind your eyes, a gasping, drawn-out moan slipping free of your lips. He swallowed down your noises with a groan, fucking hard into your convulsing, vice-tight cunt. He didn’t make a noise when he spilled his seed into you, the only indicator of his own orgasm was the way his shoulders relaxed just slightly. He fucked into you slowly, forcing his seed deeper in an animalistic display of ownership. 

You were both left breathing hard in the afterglow, his masked forehead pressed to yours. It was… surprisingly peaceful. Your fingers came off his shoulders stained with blood from where they’d bitten into his back. You grinned at him, lopsided and dopey, and kissed his bleeding lower lip. He was still against you, not returning the kiss. You were used to his stoicism post-orgasm, pulling him down and against you until he was laying on his side, your back to his front. You tangled your legs with his, and his arms came around you slowly, a parody of a lover’s embrace—but was it really parody? Michael’s nose buried itself in your hair as his breathing slowed back to its normal, steady pace. It was almost hypnotic, lulling you into a half-asleep state in the wake of your lovemaking. 

There was a laundry list of things you needed to do, but all of those things paled in comparison to a little one-on-one snuggling with Michael Myers, which was rare enough to begin with. He was usually the love ‘em and leave ‘em type, disappearing in much the same way he appeared. Maybe he was getting sentimental in his old age. 

Ha. Probably not.


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