synopsis: Michael gets chained up. You have fun with it. He does not.
This is a re-imagining of a fic I wrote at the beginning of this year. That fic never felt very in-character to me so this is my atonement.
Impulse | Michael Myers x Reader | NSFW
You straddle his lap as he comes to consciousness. He stirs at the sudden contact, his shoulders stiffening, winding with tension. His eyes flutter open and he blinks sluggishly.
When Michael lifts his head, when he makes eye contact with you, the lethargy drains from his body in an instant.
Without missing a beat he tries to lunge for your throat. The length of chain binding his hands behind his back stops him short.
Drugging Michael had been an easy task—you’d simply slipped the sedative into his dinner and let the drug work its magic. A dull thump from upstairs told you when it had worked.
‘Out like a light’ seemed to be the most appropriate expression to describe the state you found him in. He’d managed to smack his face against your nightstand on his way down and give himself a nosebleed, which you hadn’t bothered to clean.
Hoisting Michael’s unconscious body onto the bolted-down chair had been the hard part. To say you’ve been meticulous in your efforts to secure him would be an understatement. His ankles and calves are bound to the front legs of the chair, his wrists and elbows cinched to the back of it. You’ve wound a length of chain around his waist for good measure.
The chair creaks and whines in protest as Michael tests the restraints. They hold, to your immense relief. You study his face and find it blank as ever, frighteningly blank, but his eyes teem with a raw intensity that sucks your breath away. This transgression will not be forgiven.
You feel his thighs and abdomen tighten beneath you, hard as a board. His entire body is poised to strike. You are reminded of the power Michael possesses, of his strength which borders on inhuman, of the ease with which he could snap your neck if he does manage, by some ungodly miracle, to break free from his restraints.
Michael is a caged predator—and he has never been more dangerous.
“Have you ever wondered,” You finally begin, removing the knife you’ve been hiding behind your back. Michael’s own carving knife. Its sharp surface gleams with yellow beneath fluorescent kitchen lights.
“What it’s like to be helpless?”
Michael stares at you. His breaths come slow and steady. He is wholly unfazed.
You raise the knife to his jaw and rest the flat of it against his skin, aquatinting him with the sting of its cold metal. He doesn’t jerk away from it.
“What it’s like to be afraid?” You continue, and Michael remains motionless as you ghost the blade delicately along his jawline, running it across his burning neck, miming the motion of slitting him from ear to ear.
The cold, patient ferocity in his eyes is enough to make you shiver. Your questions are rhetorical. You already know the answers.
Hoping to take him by surprise, your fingers wind nimbly through his curls. You seize a fistful of his hair, yanking hard. Michael awards you no resistance. You wrench his head backward and force his gaze up to the ceiling. Just above his Adam’s apple is where you press the blade in. Not enough to break the skin—but enough to sting. Enough to hurt.
As if to deny you the satisfaction of a reaction, Michael refuses to struggle.
“I could kill you.” You tell him. “I could kill you right now. Or I could call the police and have the government do it for me.”
Michael stares at the ceiling and he looks almost bored. As if your words hold no value to him. As if the knife pressed against his throbbing pulse means nothing. As if he feels nothing.
“Do you think they’re going to lock you up in an asylum again, Michael? After all the people you’ve killed? I highly doubt it.”
At that, Michael’s gaze shifts downwards. His expression is unchanging—but the uncomfortably intense focus in his eyes bores like an icepick into your skull and threatens to freeze your very heart in your chest. Michael’s look is more than a glare; it is his promise of what’s to come.
Your pulse pounds as you dig in the knife a little bit deeper and lean in close, whispering in his ear.
“How does it feel to be helpless?”
Michael observes you passively as you rock the blade into the collar of his shirt. Fabric rips where you cut it harshly away. When you are finished you deposit the blade in your lap and press your palms flat against his bare chest, watching intently as his body draws breath. His chest rises beneath your hands to fill out his broad frame. His skin burns, radiating heat, as if he is immune to the chill of the autumn night. The scene is strikingly intimate—for a moment the circumstances slip your mind. You find that you want nothing more than to touch him.
Your fingers are everywhere, exploring his body in a way that he has rarely allowed, drinking in his strength and tone. You grope the curve of his firm biceps. Run your hands down the solid plane of his abdominal muscles. Trace a delicate finger along his prominent collar bone from one shoulder to the other.
Michael watches, but it is no longer a passive effort. His steady gaze is keen and alert. Hawk-like. He is observing your every move. Cataloging your every breath.
At last your fingers slip below his waistline. You fumble with the zipper of his coveralls. When you free his cock you discover, much to your amusement, that his body has betrayed him. He’s already getting hard. You wind your hand firmly around his velvety shaft and all it takes is a few harsh pumps to bring him fully erect.
Michael’s poker face doesn’t falter. But there’s a stiffness he now holds in his jaw which wasn’t there a minute ago.
You pick up the knife again.
“I’ve always wondered what it might take to make you beg.”
When you rest the frigid blade against Michael’s inner thigh his body clenches—an involuntary response. He’s ticklish here. A fact that you are going to abuse.
“Would you beg me not to cut you?”
You look up at him again to scour his expression for a hint of budding anger, but find none. Michael’s face is stubbornly vacant. Teetering on bored. The question is rhetorical. He won’t beg.
“No, of course you won’t.” You admit. “I know that I could plunge this knife straight through your chest and you still wouldn’t say a word.”
At that you let the knife fall daintily from your fingers and clatter against the tile. Leaning down, you pick up another object instead.
“But Michael, I’m going to teach you a valuable lesson tonight.” You continue.
This new device is long and white. The spherical top of it whirrs to life as you click it on.
“Pain is not the only weapon.”
You watch Michael’s facade of boredom slip. His eyes linger on the curious object for a beat too long. You can see the gears turning in his head as he studies it with morbid intrigue and you know that he is keen enough to piece together what comes next.
He sets his jaw. His strong chest fills with a deep breath and then falls again, the first real reaction you’ve gleaned from him—he’s steeling himself for torture.
“You can stop this at any time. You just have to ask for it.”
When you press the vibrator to the flesh of Michael’s inner thigh he jerks. The chains clank as he strains against them. His biceps flex and his hands wind tightly into fists behind his back. But his stony expression is unchanging. And his steady glare never leaves your eyes. It will take far more to crack his composure.
You take great care to ignore his erect cock as you introduces the vibrator to every inch his groin. It is no secret when you uncover a particularly sensitive spot because Michael’s muscles twitch and clench, betraying his stubborn refusal to react. You linger at these spots, massaging the muscle in deep, slow circles until Michael’s breath catches. His nostrils flare with every heaving intake.
Still, frustratingly, his silence is unrelenting.
It’s time to change that.
His arousal throbs beneath your touch as you take him in your hand, hot and swollen. You give him a few painful pumps to engorge him further and then hover the vibrator just above the base of his shaft. There is a little ‘click’, and your toy whirrs faster—a gesture which Michael seems to notice, because the look now brewing in his eyes is one of stone-cold murder.
“Just tell me when to stop.”
The moment the vibrator meets his shaft Michael’s uncaring facade crumbles. The chair whines and metal clangs together as he bucks like a stallion against his restraints in an effort to throw you off his lap. His strength is stunning—you are forced to wind your legs around his waist to keep from being jostled.
You grip hard at his penis and you don’t let up, stroking up and down the length of his shaft with a slowness that borders on torture. Michael thrashes. His thighs and biceps flex and strain. At this point it would not surprise you if he pulled a muscle in his struggling.
When Michael’s cock begins to weep with a glistening bead of precum you grind the vibrator hard against its swollen tip—and then comes his first vocality.
The heavy sound reverberates up his heaving chest and becomes laced with just a hint of pain. The breaths falling from his mouth turn deep and shuddering. He grunts again, gritting his teeth together to bite the sound back. He’s coming undone.
You realize, that, unsettlingly, still no hint of anger furrows Michael’s features. But his eyes, they are no longer ice. They burn. The raw intensity there sucks the air from your lungs and you know that if Michael were to break free from his chains this very second he would not offer you a quick death. The thought makes you dizzy.
You pump your hand along his shaft and simultaneously massage the head of his cock, rolling the vibrator slowly around the tip. Michael’s body seizes up. His thighs clench, solid as brick beneath you. When a low and feral growl rumbles up his chest you know that he isn’t going to last another minute. And so you stroke his shaft harder, faster, determined to send him toppling over that cliff.
Michael’s body quivers violently as his tortured release spurts out. It is hot and thick and coats your fingers. You don’t take the vibrator away as he comes. You don’t remove your hand either. Instead you pump his cock with more vigor, milking him of every last drop.
When it stops coming, you catch his seething stare. And you look him dead in the eyes. And you click the vibrator higher.
Now begins the real torture.
You trail it down the underside of his overstimulated cock and Michael snaps his head back. Throws out his broad chest. Squeezes his eyes shut tight. The chains around his wrists and ankles rattle as he writhes with a renewed vigor, his efforts never faltering even as angry red marks sear his flesh where the metal chaffes against his skin.
“Michael, stop it.” You scold him. “You aren’t going to break through solid metal. You can end this at any time. You just have to say it.”
Your words go completely ignored. As if he no longer comprehends them. Michael has become an animal in his desperation—a wounded and trapped animal, reduced to a single instinct; to free himself. To free himself and then tear his captor limb from limb.
When he doesn’t listen you grind the vibrator hard against his scrotum.
“Think long and hard about the choice you’re making right now.”
At last, Michael’s mask of composure slips away. His empty expression vanishes with the suddenness of a fired gun. His brow knits together and he writhes like his body is on fire. The muscles of his groin quiver and tremble.
“You have five seconds to give me what I want.” You whisper to him. “Otherwise I’m going to leave this thing tied to your dick all night and we’ll see if you’re ready to talk in the morning.”
Michael snaps his head forward. He looks you dead in the eyes. And if looks could kill, the one he shoots you would plunge a carving knife straight through your heart.
“Five…” You begin counting.
Michael grits his teeth. And sets his jaw. And wills his body still with incredible restraint. And just glares.
And Michael says nothing. He does nothing. Gives no further voluntary reaction. He no longer even blinks. His entire body bristles with a murderous rage and every ounce of it is directed at you, and you are sure that he has never needed to kill somebody to badly in his entire life.
And what’s more, he’s made his choice; his lips are sealed.
Nothing you can possibly do will force them open.
You press your mouth into a fine line and you scowl at him, clicking the vibrator off. You’ve had enough of his stubbornness. You bend, picking the carving knife up from the floor, and hover it threateningly over the base of his shaft.
“Start begging right now or I swear to god I’ll cut your fucking dick off.”
Michael doesn’t flinch. He does the opposite. Now that the torturous stimulation has finally ceased the tension ebbs from his strained muscles. He relaxes against the restraints and slumps back into the chair. His chest dips and rises rapidly as he reigns his frenzied breathing back under control. His body glistens with a sheen of sweat, his hair wild and disheveled, clinging here and there to his brow.
It takes less than a second for the blankness to wash over Michael’s face again. It comes as suddenly as a surging tide. Even though you have seen it so many times before you are almost frightened by it now, shaken to your core by the utter lack of fear in his eyes. By the utter lack of anything. There’s nothing there. Nothing but the want—the need—to murder.
Your head and arms are wracked with cold shivers and suddenly your brain has decided that the emptiness on Michael’s face is more than uncanny— it is unnatural. It is inhuman.
Michael sits still in the chair, watching and waiting. Either he doesn’t believe your threat. Or he doesn’t care.
You can’t decide which is more infuriating.
“Now, Michael.” You command, hoping to mask the quiver in your voice behind rising anger. “I’ll fucking do it. Start begging, now.”
Michael stares, and his eyes are pitch-black. Voids. You wonder if he’s even listening to your words. Or if he’s simply entertaining vivid fantasies of your death in his mind, over and over and over again.
You hate to admit it, but Michael is right. You’re not going to cut his dick off. Not before you coax those bull-stubborn words from his lips.
“Fine.” You huff, praying that he cannot see the goosebumps rising along your arms. You produce a handful of thick rubber bands from your pocket. Michael doesn’t fight you as you wrap each around his cock, one by one, securing the vibrator in place.
“See you in the morning then.”
What happens next occurs faster than your brain can comprehend. With an explosive jerk, Michael’s statue-still body comes alive again. He throws his weight backwards into the chair and the force of it nearly sends you toppling to the floor. You cry out in surprise. Your fingers dig hard into his shoulders. You hold on to him for dear life.
There is a horrible screech as bolts twist free from the tile, loosened in the minutes prior by the ferocity of Michael’s struggling. The chair hovers precariously for a moment on its hind legs—and horror sprawls across your face—and something that you can only describe as predatory excitement flashes in Michael’s darkened eyes. It is the primal hunger of an animal that lives only to kill. Bloodlust, in its purest form.
Oh, It occurs to you. I’m fucked.
The chair tips, taking both of you down with it.
The breath is knocked from your lungs as your stomach slams against Michael’s chest. The back of the chair shatters against the tile. Michael’s bindings come undone. In a clatter of metal, he shrugs free of his chains.
His hands are around your throat before he even thinks to right himself. You scrabble at his fingers and make ugly hacking sounds. When he stands, he takes you with him, sweeping you off the ground as if you are weightless.
He lifts you into the air until your kicking feet dangle above the ground. Brings you to level with his eyes.
It is not a request. Not a command. It is a fact.
Beg him not to kill you. Or lose your life.
Tears flare up in your eyes. You can hardly manage the word because his powerful fingers are crushing the voice from your throat. You beg him. But once is not enough. His hands begin to wind tighter. The words dribble from your mouth, strangled and desperate, over and over and over again. You beg him even as the encroaching blackness overtakes your vision.
“Please—please, please, please please please—“
Then, abruptly, the words die on your lips. Because you stare into Michael’s cold, dark eyes. And what you see there makes you realize that whatever revenge he has in mind most certainly does not include a quick and easy death.
And no amount of begging is going to change that.
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