#skulfic

Whatever Michael felt tonight was unlike he's ever felt before. The thrill of a chase, the rush of a satisfying kill, these were the things that had sent Michael's blood boiling in the past. What drove him forward on every Halloween before, and what drove him tonight.

But there was something else too. A dark urge laying in wait the whole year, ignored while he continued to wreak havoc and spill blood wherever he went. And it finally got the better of him when his rampage brought him to you.

You hadn't heard him enter. You were nothing but shocked when you nearly ran into him walking out of the kitchen, his knife piercing into the tender flesh of your stomach and sending you sprawling to the floor. You screamed like the rest. You wept like the rest. What was different now?

You struggled to get up, only managing to slide across the hallway towards your empty living room, with Michael lurking over you the entire way. He slid his boot beneath you, and flipped you onto your back, where your puffy face and teary eyes could be seen.

"Please don't kill me!" you warbled, the first dredges of blood making their way up your throat. "Just take what you want, I don't want to stop you!"

The masked face tilted to the side as it watched you. The stirring that pooled in his gut was not an entirely unfamiliar feeling. But it had certainly been a long, long time since he had even thought of indulging it. Why now?

"I promise," you continued, even clutching your hands together over your chest. "Please. Please let me go."

Michael was troubled, which was not something that happened in the middle of killing sprees and it was frustrating. He brought his thumb up beneath his mask and bit at the edge in annoyance. He could feel it now, his body responding to some unspecified stimuli in his body. What was it about now that was making him this way?!

The floor shook when the massive man dropped to his knees, prompting you to push yourself back and narrowly miss cracking your head on the wall behind you. Yet still he was silent, his own breathing nearly undetectable save for the slight rise and fall of his chest. Your lip wobbled, and you spit the blood from your mouth to save yourself from choking on it.

"Please..." Your composure broke, sobs wracking your body freely as you prayed for any sign of mercy. You covered your face, brain overflowing with panic, adrenaline, fear, and alarms ringing over and over to warn of your impending demise. Your body was telling you to run. But you didn't have an ounce of fight in you.

Michael...liked that. For some reason. Another thing he discovered was how badly he hated seeing your face covered. Before he realized what he was doing his knife hit the floor, and each of his oversized hands curled around your wrists and yanked them away from your head.

Your eyes popped open wide, uncertainty mixed with terror, red cheeks and a gently open mouth still creaking out sobs. A heavy breath escaped him as he slowly lowered your wrists until they were pinned to the floor on either side of your head. Now everything was silent, and Michael's jumpsuit grew tight as the very sight of you beneath him. Wondering what he was going to do to you. He could see it in your eyes.

Soon, he found himself itching to hear you say more, beg for your life even harder, more desperately, just for him. Nobody had ever looked at him and thought he was someone that could be reasoned with, and they were right. Never believing he could possibly like the sound of someone asking him to ignore the voices in his head. But now you were quiet, and he had to change that.

Slowly, like he had done to so many others, he brought his fingers up along your arm until they reached your neck, where they slowly snaked around and found a hold. And just like he expected, he didn't even need to start squeezing to get the reaction he wanted.

"No no no no please please please--" With your free hand you grabbed onto his to pry it off, and the contact sent an involuntary shiver through him. He let go of your other hand and it quickly joined the first, but even your full strength was no match for his casual grip. You were so distracted trying to remove the hand from your neck that you didn't immediately notice where Michael's other hand went.

It was hard to find a pace that even he liked, so unused to touching himself. His palm ran along his length through the jumpsuit, hips jutting forward to the foreign contact. All while he drank in the sight of you, you growing more frantic the longer he went without removing his hold. He gave an experimental squeeze, and you let out another whimper. "Don't. Don't."

Every second that passed, the confine of his suit became more and more unbearable. Finally, after a long moment of watching you devolve into unintelligible babbling and crying, he moved his hand up to begin undoing his buttons. Starting at the naval, he undid the next two down and spread the fabric enough for his cock to come springing free.

Finally you noticed. Your eyes rolled back in your head, lips muttering something silent and unreadable. Perhaps begging someone or something that stands a better chance of answering you than him. He rubbed himself up against you through thin pajama pants, and fresh tears were squeezed out of your eyes.

Again, he grew impatient. Wanting more out of you. He tightened his hold around your neck and rose with you, walking you into the living room while your feet scrambled for purchase. The first surface he noticed was a leather bound chest used as a coffee table, and that was what you were dropped on, fresh blood squirting out from your wound.

His body overshadowed yours easily. He could feel his heartbeat line up with yours, stronger and pounding in excitement while yours waned. His nose pressed into your hair, but inhaling brought only the pallid musk that lingered inside of his mask. Taking off his mask felt wrong, like removing a layer of skin. But he needed this, needed to be able to smell and feel and taste you.

He found his compromise in blinding you, covering your eyes with his grime-covered hand while the other tore away the cracked latex and dropped it on the floor. Now he dived in, grabbing a fistful of your hair and breathing in deep.

It became a race, wrestling between the desire to run his hand over every inch of skin he could find, and tearing your pants down your legs to sate the burning in his gut. With only one hand he couldn't do both, so he made do with his mouth, his bites and licks experimental but nothing close to chaste or gentle. You kicked once while he undressed you, and he responded by tearing away the cotton pants like they were nothing.

After a few attempts with no guidance, he slid his fingers between your folds to find what he was looking for, and gasped himself when he slid the tip of his finger in. You gasped to, chest spiking up as you began raving at him again. All your pleas were weak at this point, hazy with blood loss you could no longer form proper words, or at least couldn't bother with the effort, given that they wouldn't have slowed him down any more than the nonsense. His hand retreated and grabbed his cock, positioning himself and forcing himself in.

Was it supposed to be so tight?  Were you supposed to scream so loudly? Michael was quickly finding out that he didn't care. He didn't give a shit how to do this right, only that he was satisfied, and right now it was satisfying to press his cheek against yours and ravage you with all the pent up frustration that resided in him. He yanked your leg high and hooked it around his waist, then kneaded the tender flesh of your inner thigh when you didn't pull away.

You were warm. Warm and soft, everything Michael wasn't, and he could feel himself tearing you apart from the inside. Soon you wouldn't be either. You would be bloody, cold, and silent, just like him, just like everyone else he got his hands on.

His hand had managed to land on your waist, and he brought it up higher until his fingertips were sliding over your wound. It was pulsing now, making it easy to dive beneath all the clotting blood and find the wound itself, where he slowly inserted his middle finger. Your only protest was a low wheeze that made the flesh around his digit shudder.

He moved slowly here, where his cock slammed into you without pause nor concern his finger seemed deliberate, almost exploratory. It curled and slid between your insides the deeper he pushed, blood oozing out around him and covering his hand in yet another coat of red.

He was growing hot now; he could feel his body grow unsettled as it prepared to surf a euphoric wave that it hadn't ridden since he was a curious kid, not long before he was locked away. Before he could do the things he could do now. He bucked and growled, he ripped his hand out of your flesh wound and grabbed the edge of the table, letting it crack beneath the pressure as he struggled not to crush your skull in his hands.

It was close now. So close.

When his orgasm finally hit him he shouted, his own voice foreign and unpleasant to his ears. More of the wood gave beneath his fingertips, then broke off entirely so he grabbed your leg, gasping as he pumped everything he had inside of you. It hit him over and over again, his hips pumping back and forth while he struggled to catch his breath. He finally released your leg and it instantly flopped to the side, unresponsive.

He pulled back and moved his hand from your eyes, placing it in the center of your chest. Nothing. Your face was vacant, the blood around your lips was no longer bubbling.

Michael struggled to recall the exact moment you had died beneath him, but he supposed it didn't matter. He got what he wanted out of you. He released a deep sigh, the knot screwed tightly inside of him uncoiling with the satisfaction of another Halloween slaughter. Without much rhyme or reason behind it, he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours, numb but still warm. Almost still there.

With nobody left to see him he didn't move to put on his mask right away. He fell back onto your couch and simply let his lungs fill with cool air, his eyes drifting idly over to a window.

The pattern of Dwight's love life was disappointingly regular. Lots of crushes, and no girlfriends. He was the butt of the joke at work, he had no friends outside to hang out with, and even his neighbors were mostly elderly. Just another sad part of Dwight's reality. And when cravings for human touch get too strong for the internet and his right hand to solve, he had a ritual for that too.

It started with the same black turtleneck, pulled up over his nose and mouth. He traded his glasses for rarely-used contacts, and pulled a skull beanie over his hair, adjusting until he would barely be visible. Then, he climbed out the window of his first floor apartment and stalked off into the night. It was almost 9:30, he had the timing down pat.

You lived just two blocks away, he found that out through an absolutely embarrassing amount of online stalking and detective work. All because he had seen you one day at work and became absolutely smitten, head over heels. Another crush, destined to go nowhere. Dwight often tried to find cute customers online, but never had he gone to the lengths he had with you to find out what you liked, where you hung out, if you were single...

He climbed over your small fence, crouching low to keep out of the sight of any neighbors. The tree in your yard had branches sprouting out low enough for Dwight to grab, making it easy to tug his way up to the second level, where he grabbed a familiar spot and turned to a lit window.

He had never met anyone who didn't leave their blinds closed, but he thanked every deity he could name that you were one of those people. From where he sat he could see a familiar sight, a white standing dresser and the edge of a closet door. He waited patiently, sweat beading on his upper lip until he relented and pulled the turtleneck off his face.

Then, there you were. You walked right in the middle of the room, a teal towel wrapped around your body and stopping right in the middle of your thighs. You tossed something--maybe your phone--on your bed out of sight, and turned around to face what Dwight had worked out was your mirror.

Dwight brought one hand up to his mouth to gnaw on his pitiful fingernails while the other slid beneath stained black sweatpants. He was already so hard it was shameful, Dwight's pink blush deepening to a full blown rouge. It only got worse the longer he watched you watch yourself, eying your form in the mirror before undoing the folds in your towel and letting it hit the floor around you.

Dwight's eyes instinctively closed, breath sucked in through his nose. He cracked one open, watching like a horror movie past his bedtime. His heart certainly pounded like it was, the fear of you glancing to your right and seeing him in the dark of the night made him wildly paranoid. But not enough to give up on this. Nothing felt quite like this.

You stretched your arms above your head before letting the flop abruptly to your sides, grabbing your stomach and giving it a squeeze.

Beautiful, Dwight thought, wrapping his hand around his cock and settling right into an erratic rhythm. Nothing to be ashamed of.

You turned your body towards him, but your eyes were still focused on the mirror, looking at your profile while giving Dwight an unintended show of your front side. He wished he could be closer, but he could already see so much, down to the polish on your nails and the tuft of hair that decorated the crux between your thighs.

You finally got bored of checking yourself out and entered your closet to get clothes. But that was fine; Dwight had seen more than enough. He turned and rested his back against the tree trunk, pulling his dick out the fly of his sweatpants and shamelessly fucking his hand while he covered his mouth with the other.

Every one of these nights could fuel Dwight's wet dreams for weeks. He felt sick, knowing full well that getting off on being a peeping tom made him a 100% creep. But that didn't stop him from scrolling through your selfies, using his knowledge of these nights to picture your body in each and every one. Where your arm was wrapped around him instead of your ex, and every night instead of looking at yourself you did a show for him, dropping your towel in that same slow cadence every time.

Dwight whimpered in his hand as he came, cum oozing between his fingers and dripping down over his knuckles and onto the bark between his legs. His hips kept thrusting, riding out his orgasm until the heat got to be too much to bear and he ripped off his beanie to relieve some of the sweating.

When he finally glanced over at the window again, the light was turned out. Seconds passed where he became bitterly aware of the warm breeze passing over his exposed skin, and he tucked away his cock with the same gut-pooling feeling of disgust that settled every time he indulged this craving.

 Frank had no issue  admitting   to himself that he had a bit of a god complex. To say he was a control freak would still somehow be an understatement; there was so much more to his method than pure control. There was fear, the panic when his prey realized that he held their life in his hands. There was capitalizing on that fear, toying with the idea of mercy and letting them think that if they begged, pleaded, and bargained with all they were worth, Frank would let them crawl away.

 That became a bit more complicated in the Entity's realm. Under normal circumstances, nobody would live to fall for that trick twice. But once the survivors caught their first wind that Frank wasn't known for his merciful moments, their deaths became more resigned, a grim acceptance. Those who did beg stopped, and those who didn't made it a point not to respond to his verbal jabs.                                    

 He thought it a shame. The Entity's realm was both a gift and a curse, allowing him never-ending sovereignty over those weaker than him while losing half the fun of chasing them down. Eventually he just held his tongue, straining to hold in his taunts and give the same silent treatment that he was always received with.

 He didn't make the connection when another killer--the first new one since his arrival--joined them by the campfire. He didn't think much of it when he materialized in a trial. It wasn't until he caught sight of the new arrival, focused intently on the moving lips of the pig-tailed girl, that the opportunity before him spelled itself out in his mind.

 Someone who's never died before.

 Frank's fingers twitched. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, he fell forward and his feet were suddenly moving faster than his mind, knife flipped overhand and raised high in the air.

 He broke into the conversation with a single slice, running from the girl's shoulder all the way down to her elbow. Underhand grip, Frank whirled around as she screamed and lunged for you. Your hands flew up to defend yourself, not totally helpless even if you were no match for him. With practiced precision Frank forced a grimy blade inside of your guts, then quickly yanked back.

 You stumbled backwards, clutching your new open wound and screaming bloody murder. Fresh fear. Not practiced or restrained or in any way prepared for what was to come. Frank didn't realize how much he missed the sound until it sent tingles coursing throughout his entire body.

 While you panicked, Frank turned his attention back to the other girl, who had managed to get a good head start in the opposite direction. Killer instinct said to follow. The glowing crosshatch that she left in her wake was tempting. But not so much as his own hedonism.

 You had pressed your back against the brick wall behind you, shirt pulled up and wordlessly staring at your new wound. As though it fascinated you, the narrow window into your own inner working. Frank closed the distance in two steps, drawing your attention up in the same instant he shoved two fingers inside your newest opening.

 Again he trembled at your cry. Blood squelched between his digits and flowed out the small gap. He placed his right hand against the wall to steady himself, knife loosely pinned beneath his palm. Waited calmly for you to finish screaming before he opened his mouth. "I can tell you're new here."

 He watched the flurry of emotions cross over your tear-stained face, everything from terror and pain to pure bewilderment. Frank's grin beneath his mask widened. "What'd she tell you?"

 "Fffucking--She just--!" Frank tilted his head. You were pushing your voice awfully deep when he was sure you were on another octave just a moment ago.

 "Mm, cute." His fingers spread, stretching your narrow wound apart. But you didn't scream, this time you clenched your teeth and inhaled sharply, tears bubbling over with twice the intensity. "Not a very convincing tough guy, are you?"

 You exhaled as Frank brought his fingers back together. He was slow to push inside of you, savoring every new expression it gave. Soon his hips were twitching, bringing himself closer to you until your bodies were nearly pressed together and his mask rested firmly in your hair.

 And though you grunted and howled and everything in between, you never fought back. Because you knew it would get you punished, knew that he was the one with the power, knew that you were at his absolute mercy.

 "You know, the others will know how to fix this," Frank wiggled his fingers to show what he meant though he knew he absolutely didn't have to. You whimpered, tilted your head down further.

 "Others?"

 "Oh, sure. " Frank pulled his knife away from the wall and jabbed it down into a nearby crate, well within arms reach. "Couple others, they can mend you up and get you out of here. And since I'm so nice--"

 He pulled back and grabbed the bottom of his mask, sliding it up until it was pressed up into his hair. The Entity gurgled in the back of his mind, and he was all too happy to ignore it.

 "I'd be willing to let a newbie go." Your head snapped up, eyes immediately falling to his smug grin. He finally pulled his fingers out of you, looking first over his bloodstained fingers then at your wound. They never bled out as fast as they did in the real world, but his time was still limited. "I just need one thing from you."

 Your eyes narrowed. "No."

 "Don't want to hear my generous offer?" Without the mask there was no hiding it, Frank knew his excitement was written all over his face. Yet you shook your head again. He sighed without a hint of disappointment and moved his bloody fingers to his jeans, pulling down the zipper.

 And just as he expected, that simple noise changed your attitude in a heartbeat. You shrank away as you watched him undress, tripping over your own words until you could hardly speak at all. Once he tugged his jeans down his boxers were worthless, his cock springing up and poking out of the open fly. At the perfect height to push forward and rub the tip of his cock against your wound.

 You tried to squirm away and his free hand snatched your wrist, pinning it to the wall beside your head. Meanwhile he swiped away blood from your gushing wound to wet himself, shamelessly jerking himself off in your fluids. Your eyes met, and he broke away from biting his lip to smile.

 “Why don’t you give me a kiss?” You no longer hesitated. You shut your eyes and puckered your lips up, and Frank took a moment to simply admire that sight in itself before diving in. He grabbed you by your hair and pressed you to his lips, holding you there as his other hand slowly worked himself to orgasm.

 He held that for a long moment, amused as he watched your eyes slowly open and fill with betrayal as you realized that this wasn't going to get you out of this. He didn't want to break your hopes so soon, he wanted to let you go this time just so he could get one more out of you. So, with an annoyed roll of his eyes, he broke the kiss.

 "Well, a deal's a deal," Frank muttered on your lips. He felt you shake beneath him and he hoped you felt how it made his cock twitch. He pulled his head up and planted one more kiss on your cheek, brushing his lips over your ear as he pulled away. "You were a good boy."

 You tried to pull away from him but his grip in your hair tightened, holding you still. "Don't like when I call you that?"

 "Just...fucking...." Frank let go of your hair and you collapsed to the ground, your blood loss finally getting to you. You slumped against the wall, face going pallid as blood slowly pooled around you. Frank stroked his cock a few more times, really fighting the urge to finish himself all over your face.

 Then again, what was stopping him?

 You were barely conscious  enough   to feel the warmth splattering over you. First your forehead, then your cheeks, until you were covered in him. He wiped the last strand off on your lips, the head of his cock leaving a smudge of your own blood as it went.

Your shoulder ached at the angle your arm was held at, though the pain was dull compared to the jagged, shallow cuts that Michael was layering over your back. Struggling out of his grip was unfathomable with his inhuman strength, but his control over you was marked further with his massive legs straddling your waist, rendering an unlikely escape impossible.

“You’re such a piece of shit,” you spat on the ground, the words tasting like the tang of blood from the cut on your forehead. “All you monsters are, but especially you.”

With a curled flick of the blade that sent a fine spray of blood over your neck, he pulled the knife away from your back and set it aside. With his newly freed hand, he seized you by the hair on your head and slammed your face into the ground. The dirt was harder than you realized, and it only took two slams to get your nose bleeding. Three to make it gush. Four to turn into a pulpy mess of cartilage that spilled over your lips and onto the ground.

But the bastard didn’t finish the job. He let go, let your head fall forward and your body shake from the aftershocks of the incredible pain the open wound sent through you. His weight lifted from your body temporarily, your arm springing forward from being released,  and when it came back you instantly felt his intentions press against your jeans. Your head snapped up as Michael grabbed the tough fabric and tore a convenient slit from your belt line all the way to the crux between your legs. Denim barely protected your cock from popping out, and for all his rough handling Michael seemed to be conscious enough of your junk. At least the angle he held your hips at didn’t flatten you against the ground.

“I guess nothing’s below you, huh?” You spat, wiping your sleeve across your face to catch the worst of your masticated flesh. A fresh sting added to the already uncountable waves of pain. He ignored you, spreading the torn cloth apart and sliding his cock between your cheeks. You could feel your cheeky attitude being turned on its head as the situation fully sank in. “Fuckin’...seriously, Michael, don’t--please don’t.”

He didn’t listen. You didn’t expect him to, and yet somehow feeling him try and force his way inside of you was met with a shocked scream, squirming beneath him with renewed vigor. His focus was steeled, holding you apart as the head of his cock split through your unprepared ass, your thighs quaking beneath him. You didn’t think this could hurt worse than the missing skin off your face, and yet somehow it did, and it only got worse the deeper inside of you he got. When his hips finally pressed flush against you, you slowed to a standstill and pressed your forehead in the dirt.

Defeated. Humiliated. And you knew, knew deep in your gut, that it would somehow get worse.

Michael stopped along with you, luxuriating at the sensation of being buried inside you for a long, appreciative moment. His hips would rock slowly, but he didn’t pull back, didn’t move to press himself in and out of you so much as he shifted you around, letting you feel him inside of you as much as possible. His hands slid up from your hips to your sides, over the bloody cuts on your back and finally finding themselves at home wrapped around your neck. You didn’t react to his squeezing until it started to cut your breath off, at which point self preservation finally kicked in to speak.

“Stop,” you choked through your bloody spit, rocking your hips back against his in an attempt to placate him. More words were ready to spill out but Michael’s grip tightened even further, cutting off even the most strangled of speech. He held this until black creeped in the edges of your vision before he finally let go, letting your head hit the ground once more.

His body closed in on yours, chest to your back and face lining up next to yours. You could feel his breath warm and heavy on the shell of your ear. You heard a mutter, a single syllable, and your air-deprived brain couldn’t make anything of it. You barely managed to squeak, “Hn?”

He drew his hips back and cracked them into you again, earning a shrill scream. You heard the peel of thick latex beside you, and when his lips pressed against you again they were warm and full.