Rest For the Wicked [Michael Myers x Reader]

Chapter 6

He wakes you with hot, grasping hands, his fingers dig hard into you, his breath on your neck-

Fear takes you first, cold and crisp in your veins. You remember what happened last night, that you've stripped him down and even taken off his mask. You press your eyes closed and expect the pain at your throat as he crushes your larynx- resumes right where he left off before-

and fingers grapple, fumble with your sleep shirt. He's rolled half onto you, one huge leg covering both of yours- and his hips rock against your thigh. His hands are fever-hot, his touch making you sweat under the blankets.

You look to him, not quite sure if you can believe-

His eyes are open, or at least the milky, blind one is; he lies on his right side and the icy blue iris is hidden. But the eye you can see is unfocused, half-lidded, blinks lazily. Does he even know what's going on or is all he knows is the primal urges under sentient thought? He opens his mouth- a shuddering sigh escapes. He grabs at you, pulls you closer as he ruts.

His skin is feverish, frenzied- and you remember. He's naked under the blanket, the only thing between you are your thin pajama pants, shorts. His hand slips down and paws unintelligibly at the hem of your pants. Heat floods your core.

You grab his wrist and wince at the warmth you find even there. "Michael."

He grunts and fumbles, closing his eyes and pressing his hips harder against your hip. You can feel him; thick and firm. "Michael, shh, shh,"

You let go of his hand and worm your way between your bodies- the heat is unbearable, makes your palms sweat as you find him. The angle is hell on your wrist, but from the choked-off noise that rumbles through his chest, you don't think you'll need to do much of the work.

He's smooth, almost soft to the touch, and yet so firm it makes your legs tremble. He could fuck you now- even delusional with infection, he could overpower you. Make this so easy. Stop the frustrating dance between you with one fevered impulse.

You shudder, push the thought away that you want him to.

You want to know what it feels like to have that deep ache filled properly, want to know the feeling of him moving inside you- and he ruts into your hand, his eyes dropping closed. You curl your fingers tighter, turn to alleviate some of the pressure on your wrist, and try to remember how he'd touch himself.

You swipe your thumb across the underside of the tip, twist your wrist as best you can with the angle- his breath is hot and humid on your shoulder. He tries to move with you, but ends up with a stuttering, off-rhythm cant of his hips. Three short nails bite into your skin as he tries to drag you closer, your hip bone already digging into your forearm again. You roll with him, try to sate his need for closeness until you're nearly properly front to front. His cock is already pressed between your stomach and his.

His teeth find your shoulder. You cry out sharply as he agitates the still healing wounds he'd left on you a little over a day ago-- but there's no real threat behind it. His incisors scrape off your neck with relatively little damage. It's almost normal, as tortuously close to a real lover's embrace as Michael can get. It makes you mewl, traitorous body leaning your head away so he can bite at your already purpled neck.

You free your other arm from under him and grab at his back, reaching up to feel his short hair under your palm. His right hand finds the back of your left thigh, slides up to just under the curve of your ass, pushing the leg of your shorts out of the way.

He grinds against you, uses what leverage he can to push himself into your hand. You stroke him in the little space you have, feel the blood pulsing in him. He exhales, breath cooling where he's bitten. The nails dig in again, crescent-shaped pain lighting up your skin- a wetness gathers on your palm and you know he's close.