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Your calves burn. You’ve long ditched your heels, but your feet and legs are on fire as you sprint through the woodland. Your lungs and throat are aching and dry, chest heaving as you clutch the cramp at your side. Every fiber of your body is screaming at you to stop and catch your breath, but you keep moving forward even as your limbs feel heavy as stone. Fear and adrenaline coursing through you are the only things currently keeping you upright, and a glance back at the tall man walking in pursuit sending a fresh jolt through your veins.

You’ve put up an annoyingly good chase, one that has Michael all the more excited. You can’t run forever- you know it, he knows it, and you know he knows it. The faster you run, the closer he seems to get, long strides easily catching up to you despite how hard you’ve sprinted. You curse yourself for not listening to the reports of escaped convicts hours ago, choosing to pay the radio no mind. You know it must be Michael Myers, the clinically insane convicted murderer Michael Myers. And now, in hindsight, you’ve never felt so stupid, praying to whatever god may be listening that you’ll never sin again so long as you survive this.

Your bare ankles are cut and bleeding from the shrubbery you’ve been running through, the thick layer of roots and twigs only deepening the wounds. While adrenaline has numbed most of it, there’s a dull ache throbbing in the deepest cuts, your body protesting the intense physical activity.

When your ankle catches on a particularly strong and sharp root of a shrub, you cry out in pain as you feel your knees buckle. You scramble to get up, hyperventilating now, but your assailant is on you in a second, and you know you’re dead. He seems to be unarmed, but something primal inside you knows that he exudes violence and danger, so you’re horrified all the same.

You desperately claw and fight against him as he leans over you, your scalp burning as he grips the back of your head. You’re aware that you’re screaming, but you can’t even think as you’re slammed into the ground.

“Fuck!” You cry in pain, blood begins dripping out of your nose and your vision blurring from the tears that form. Michael cocks his head, letting you scramble to your knees while you whimper and groan and blubber in pain. Your survivor instincts are screaming at you, your heart beating out of your chest as you fumble to get up, feeling for anything along the floor to use as a weapon. He lunges at you, fingers grasping around your neck until your back slams against a tree. As he pulls you up, you grab a log from the ground, and find some strength to slam it into the side of his head, where it connects with a loud thump. Though you feel like you’ve pulled a muscle in your arm, all you can feel in that moment is overwhelming relief that, even momentarily, you’re free.

You throw yourself away, turning and scrambling to your feet, but you’ve barely taken two steps when you feel movement behind you again. His arms, so long and thick, swiftly wrap around your torso, pinning you against his body. His body dwarfs yours, and your heart drops when you find you can’t pull away.

You wriggle in his grip, desperately attempting to kick or elbow him to get away. His grip is iron clad, one hand sliding up around your neck to lift you off the ground, the other keeping your arms pinned to your side. One of his thighs splits your legs apart, and your eyes fly open in shock as you’re dragged up his thigh. At the friction, a small, involuntary gasp escapes your lips.

Instantly, Michael stills, his head tilting quizzically. His breathing is hard against his mask, and is the only other thing you can hear apart from your own hammering heartbeat. You whimper in anticipation, as slowly, his sizeable hands adjust against your body. His hand slides off your neck, down, until his fingertips trace along the tight costume framing your chest, just barely ghosting over your skin. You let out a shaky breath, too afraid to move, some part of you wondering what the fuck is going on. Why did he stop? Is this part of his sick game?

Almost experimentally, his large hand grips tighter around your waist, and he slides you ever so slightly against his thigh again. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, but the friction feels delicious, and your thighs clench around his massive one, body reacting astray from your mind. He seems to grow more bold after you react, and your heart sinks further as a realization dawns on you.

He moves his hand roughly under your shirt and up to pinch your nipple, and, shamefully, your head rolls back against his chest. You bite your lip, trying to fight the whimpers his actions are eliciting. Apparently, he doesn’t like that, his grip tightening on your neck and he moves his hand to palm your chest, probably harder than he should. Though sloppy and uncoordinated, the friction is quickly making your underwear dampen, and you try your hardest not to whimper any more at his movement.

“m- shit..” Against your greater conscience, your breathing is becoming increasingly labored, and you’re acutely aware when he spreads your legs further. All you can do is try to keep your mouth shut and your body still to preserve any dignity you might have left.

His hand leaves your neck, and you gasp for air. Leaning your head back to look at him in confusion, you’re met with his expressionless mask, and the reminder that he could still very much easily kill you sends a shiver down your spine.

You squeak in fear and kick your legs, attempting to elbow him away. He wraps one strong arm around your waist and arms, pinning you against him again. His other hand squeezes your thigh as he runs his hand up and down it, inching higher and higher. You’re now regretting your choice of skimpy costume, the short skirt providing easy access for Michael and leaving little to the imagination. You’re terrified in a completely new way now.

“no- please!” You start to sob. Of course, unbeknownst to you, the sounds you’re producing only spur him on. He listens closely, heart beating madly and skipping a beat after every whimper, whine, or sob you let escape. His touch grows bolder, rougher, as he chases the increasingly debaucherous noises you’re making.

You continue to kick and wriggle in his grasp, but one of his hands returns to your throat, producing a choked, terrified squeal as he firmly squeezes, and you slow your struggles. You take deep breaths, trying anything to steady the panic inside you, and wait to see what he does.

One arm still holding your arms tight against your body, he bends again slightly at the waist, and shoves a thigh between yours again. His free hand is placed on your hips, and he begins to guide your movements and he shoves you up and down his thigh again.

“Oh- god,” You mutter, infinitely ashamed at how pornographic your voice comes out. That’s a new tone to him- and he repeats his actions firmer, faster, only spurred on once you repeat it.

“M-Michael-“ You deliver, face burning with embarrassment and shame as you realize you don’t know what you’re begging for anymore. He stiffens at your words, holding your hips against his own. Your mouth goes dry and you timidly look back at him at the feeling of his stiffening cock pressing against you.

You can’t see his face, but can feel his burning gaze as you both stay still for a moment. Michael tilts his head again, looking down at your face for a moment.

Then, without warning, he tosses you down. You hit the forest floor with a thud and let out a yelp of pain, another noise that causes Michael’s breathing to quicken. Before you can even try to get up, the man is on his knees, roughly grabbing your calf and pulling you over to him.

He flips you onto your back with ease, grabbing both your legs as you pathetically try to kick him away. He slots himself inbetween your now spread legs and pins you down via your hips. Your eyes widen at the size of the tent in his pants, shivering in fear as tears begin to prick at your eyes.

You blink them away, and try to hit him as you sit up and attempt to put space between you two. He grabs your wrist- then the other one, and pins you back down again, positioning his hips over yours. The weight of his body pins you down, and no matter how much you kick and grunt and flail, you can’t seem to gain any leverage as he utterly engulfs you.

His hips move frantically, rutting into yours with a fervency. In your thin panties, you can feel that he’s rock hard behind his own clothes, the stuff material of whatever he’s wearing digging nearly painfully into your soft flesh. His weight on your wrists forces you into the sharp rocks and dry leaves cutting into your skin, and you cry out first in pain. Your cries are quickly turning breathy, you realize with horror, and suddenly, you’re whimpering and moaning, the delicious friction at your hips making you dizzy.

You throw your head back against the forest ground, wanton moans escaping your lips now. Your heart thumps wildly in your chest, and once again you notice Michael’s labored breathing. The sound makes your heart skip a beat, and sends a jolt of guilty pleasure between your legs.

This is crazy, you tell yourself. What are you doing? You’re going to die. These logical thoughts race through your head, yet you find your guard dropping, and your brain growing hazy as you bite back whimpers. Michael pushes deeper, rubbing his hips harder against yours, and as his hardness repeatedly rubs against your clit, you find your eyes rolling back and legs begging to shake.

“Fuck!” You’re moaning shamelessly now, hips moving in time with his, each swipe of his hips simultaneously too much and not enough. One of his hands finds your throat again, pushing you down against the forest floor, and he lowers his head, til your cheek is touching the cool plastic of his mask. His labored breathing loud in your ear, you’re suddenly and violently shuddering, as your arousal washes over you. Eyes rolling back, waves of euphoria numb the guilt, shame, and fear in your mind, and you’re choking out garbled whimpers underneath his iron grip. His pace stays consistent as you ride through your orgasm, until you feel the cold wetness of his cum ruining his pants. He doesn’t move at first, rutting his hips against yours slowly while his legs shake, riding out the aftershocks of his own orgasm.

Your breathing remains labored, deeper once your esophagus is free from his grip, and you’re still whimpering.

And to think he thought he’d heard it all.

Your brain is so hazy, you barely even register when he starts to move you again. He throws you over his shoulder easily, before turning and starting off, back in the direction you came.

- reblogs greatly appreciated :)