Laurie Strode Ask Blog ((18+ NSFW)) ((dead by daylight)) ((ask me anything, I reply mostly with drawings))
((Laurie on this account is depicted as an adult)) ((1978/2018 laurie-not Michaels sister ))
When Entity is not home…
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Anonymous asked:
slasherholic
Synopsis: Michael toys with his prey both physically and mentally. Knifeplay, biting, dub-con ahead.
His powerful fingers grip your jaw like iron and shove you harder into the floor, the kitchen tile biting into your bare shoulders like a sheet of ice. Your breaths come short and fast and peppered with shallow whimpers. Michael’s ghostly-white mask leers down at you with all the emotional detachment of a shark, deaf to the sounds of your distress. Without a hint of tenderness he seizes your ankle and hoists your leg over his shoulder, baring your sex to him, caging you against his body.
Your mouth falls agape in a shuddering gasp as he buries himself within your walls. His throbbing heat pushes up and up until you are stretched in a way that leaves tears welling in your eyes—but oh, the fullness is intoxicating. You grit your teeth to stifle your whining as Michael sinks in to the hilt.
You wait for him to snap his hips back and fill you up all over again.
He doesn’t. You realize it’s because he’s studying you.
The dark eye-holes of his mask bore into your body with calloused intrigue and you know that you are nothing more to him than prey—a fly caught in a spider’s web.
It is a painful minute before Michael relents. He rocks his hips backwards, eases himself in again. Your whining melts into a shuddering moan. It is dreadfully clear—painfully clear—that Michael is seeking no quick release tonight. As the heat of his member sears into your very core it is slow and it is deep and it is torture.
He settles into his cruel pace and you writhe, your features contorting in a grimace, back arching from the floor like a bow, fingernails scrabbling uselessly at the tile. At this angle he is hitting every nerve-ending, every too-sensitive spot with meticulous, sadistic accuracy.
A hot palm settles on your cool, quivering stomach. He forces you down to the floor again. A warning; be still. The only one he’ll give.
In the very next second, Michael’s hand withdraws. There is a quiet swish as he plucks something up from the tile, an unmistakable sound, one that you know all too well. Your eyes grow wide and panicked. One flash of the gleaming metal in the darkness is all it takes to knock the air from your lungs like a punch to the gut.
The instinct to flee floods your body, to flee or to fight, but you do neither, because you know better; you know that it takes only one straying urge, only one moment of impulsive bloodlust for Michael’s ‘playing’ to turn fatal.
He brings the edge of the carving knife to brush against your collarbone, the frigid metal raising goosebumps where it rests. You shake and shiver. Tears prick at your eyes. Though your limbs are quivering you do your best to obey him, to be still, but it’s hard. Michael is making it hard. His fingers seize your ankle and he uses your leg as leverage to rut deeper into you, rocking your body with every thrust. Your mouth falls agape and you mewl.
Michael’s own grunting is muffled by his mask. He digs the knife deeper into your flesh with a pressure that threatens to break your skin, dragging the dangerous edge down the plane of your heaving chest. It stings. You avert your eyes. Your heart is a runaway train and your breaths come in shallow intakes. It takes every shred of willpower not to fight him, not to struggle in his grip, not to trigger off those murderous impulses brewing now just below the surface.
Momentarily, the knife withdraws. Michael’s hot hands envelop your waist. Your world spins as you are jostled up from the floor, grappled into his lap, seated on his thighs. Impatient fingers secure your wrists behind your back—and now, the sharp kiss of the knife is introduced to your throat.
You are slammed down on Michael’s cock again and again, and any semblance of his former patience flees his body as your whining and panting turns delirious with need. At this new angle you are trapped, skewered on his length, stuffed full of him. It’s too much to handle. Your orgasm wracks your body in feverish waves. You shake and quiver, pulse hammering in your neck beneath the unrelenting pressure of the blade. Michael’s heat throbs within your walls as you clench snug around him and the sound that reverberates up his chest is nothing short of a growl.
The blade at your throat digs in deep as he unloads himself. His release fills you up in hot and heavy spurts until the mess is dribbling down your thighs. Though you no longer have the strength to squirm, you wouldn’t risk fighting him at this point anyway—if his hand slips you’re going to get slit ear-to-ear.
You whimper and gasp as Michael gives his final sluggish ruts, taking care to unload every last drop deep inside you. His cock never leaves your body as his fingers adjust their grip your wrists, clamping down harder—this time with bruising force.
Perhaps his wordless way of saying, “We’re not done yet.”
The sound of Michael’s muffled breathing fills the air, quicker than it had been, but only barely. You feel the tension easing from his thighs. He is relaxing beneath your body, settling in to observe your reactions as he basks in the glow of his release, just to see what you might do. His dangerous blade remains pressed firmly against your vitals and you don’t dare to struggle against him. You clamp your mouth shut tight to stifle the last of your frenzied whimpers.
You wonder if he’ll grow bored by your lack of response. You wonder if he’ll leave you be and go find something—or someone else—to toy with. You aren’t left wondering for long.
Michael releases your wrists, leaving you to grimace as the stifled blood flow returns to your hands in sharp pin pricks. He shifts his weight behind you and you tense at his every movement. When next he draws breath it is crisp and clear and unstifled—he’s taken off his mask.
Your breath catches when Michael nestles his face into the side of your neck. The moment his mouth brushes with your skin you recoil, as if from an electric shock; but you don’t make it very far. His hand is a vice on your hip and keeps you seated in firmly in place, snug against his chest. His lips make contact with your skin and they burn. A horrible tremble sweeps your body at the conflicting sensations, the frigidity of the blade beneath your jaw contrasted by the tender warmth of Michael’s mouth pressed against your pulsing neck, his featherlight presence there disturbingly delicate—and oh, now he’s just being cruel—he’s kissing you.
You whine as the slow torture continues, helpless to stop it. It sends your head spinning and makes you sick to the pit of your stomach. He sucks at one spot until it is tender and aching and then moves along down the length of your neck, his hot tongue exploring you, probing your flesh with a tenderness that only heightens your nausea.
Your neck is aching by the time Michael begins to nip. His wet teeth graze your skin, and each and every time you draw a sharp intake, your body seizing up with tension, steeling for pain.
The pain never arrives. Instead, Michael’s love bites leave you mewling.
This is so wrong, screams your frantic inner voice. It’s an obvious trap to tear down your walls, to lull you into false security so that he can break you all over again.
It doesn’t matter, protests your body. Because trap or not—if only just for the moment, Michael seems hell-bent on reducing you to a puddle of shivering, whimpering bliss.
Moans ooze freely past your lips like honey. Your body is as heavy as wet cement. You let your limbs go slack and allow Michael to crumble the last of your half-hearted resistance as you melt into his strong chest in total surrender.
You almost forget about the knife pressed to your throat. Almost.
The next second, your sharp cry pierces the air. You jerk forward—away from Michael’s mouth.
You realize your mistake in doing so a split-second too late.
The sting of the blade is cold and biting and slices you just below your chin. Your pulse leaps into your throat. Blood begins to trickle from the wound in a thin rivulet, tickling your neck as it goes. Your chest heaves. It doesn’t feel life-threatening—but that fact doesn’t ease the dizziness which hits you like a wave, your body spiralling into panic by the mere possibility of damage to such a vital region.
You had only jerked because Michael bit you. He bit you hard.
You are offered not a moment’s respite from the torture. Michael’s hand on your hip pulls you back into his lap. When his mouth meets your neck again you flinch away like you’ve been burned, spurred on by fear, momentarily thrashing in his grip; an effort that is swiftly ended as he returns the knife to its former resting place against your neck. There is no escaping him. His breath curls against your skin and your body quivers with dread and anticipation. You shut your eyes and hope that it will be over soon. You know that it won’t.
Michael’s cock throbs within your walls, rock-hard again; unfortunately, he is not even remotely close to being bored of you.
