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spookychick78 · 2 years ago

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Wanna Be Yours

Peepaw Myers X GN!Reader

Word Count: 6,558

⚠️Warnings: NSFW (18+, MDNI), choking, dubious consent, rough sex Michael himself is a warning, proofread but I'm human⚠️

Figured it was time I take on the old man. There's not nearly enough fanfiction out there for Peepaw. Is it over 6k? Yes. Is it self indulgent? Probably. Is it smut? Eventually.(there's some serious plot leading up) Needlessly romantic? Absolutely.

You stretched your arms out while simultaneously releasing yet another yawn. This was night two of staying up far later than planned, but insomnia had an unrelenting hold on you. Finally, it seemed it was losing its battle. Your eyes were heavy, your body the same as your yawns followed one after the other. A glass of water was all you needed, then you'd call it a night. You enjoyed the soft thud your feet made on the wooden floors, the usual pitter pattering muffled by a pair of fluffy socks you'd dawned. However, you were regretting your decision in not throwing on that pair of sweatpants before you came downstairs, it was rigidly cold, even indoors that night. Your oversized hoodie did little to protect you from the chill in the air.

You opened a cabinet, grabbed the first cup your hand landed on and brought it over to the filter in the sink. A sigh escaped you as you watched the little stream take it's sweet time filling it. Your foot had just begun to tap impatiently, it was so close to being filled, when a loud thump on the side door startled you. You dropped the cup, thankful that it landed in the sink, saving you from any mess. From where you stood, you couldn't see any movement out the little window on the door. You briefly regretted your decision not to turn on any lights as you stared, frozen in place waiting for any indication that someone was there. After a few moment's silence, the tightness in your chest dissipated and you let out the breath you'd been holding. Probably just a cat, you thought to yourself before you turned, foregoing your drink to retreat to the comfort of your room sooner rather than later. You hadn't even made it halfway up the stairs when yet another thud stopped you, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Your breath hitched and without thinking, you turned to scurry back downstairs, completely defenseless. In the shadows, you could just barely make out a figure. The only thing that was clearly visible, due to the faint gleam of moonlight, was his masked face. It was white, or it had been at some point and the eyes were two pitch black voids that seemed to be focused on the floor underneath his boots. As your eyes adjusted, you could make out a few more details, some that explained why he simply just stood there; he was injured. His hand, which was missing a couple of fingers and poorly bandaged, rested on his abdomen, clutching a wound that was still bleeding. His other hand seemed to be in just as bad a state, he'd broke the glass window with it to open the door from inside, rendering it bloodied as well. As he shakily lifted his head, those dark voids refocused their attention on you. You drew an uneasy breath, fearful of what he might do now that he'd discovered your presence. It felt like an eternity under his black gaze with only the sound of his uneven and ragged breath to break the dense silence that had settled in your kitchen, but finally something gave. He collapsed, you however stayed put for a moment more, unsure of what exactly you should do. The fact that he had a mask on wasn't entirely strange, it was Halloween after all, but he did break into your house. Perhaps he needed help? You could only hope that was his intention and he hadn't moved a muscle since he'd fallen, so with immense hesitation, you approached him. 'Intimidating' described him perfectly, even as he lay unconscious and face first on the ground. He wasn't a small man, not in the slightest. He must have been well over six feet tall from what you surmised, which meant he wouldn't be easy to move, but if you wanted to inspect his wounds you'd have to find a way. You tentatively placed a hand on his back, because if you were being honest, you weren't quite sure if he was even alive. He was, the soft whistle of breath through that mask of his and the subtle way his back rose and fell which each weak one he took confirmed that much.

"Fuck," you whispered as you contemplated how exactly you were going to turn him over, "you're not gonna make this easy on me, are you?"

You put all your strength into it and, after dropping him a few times, you managed to flip him over, "Sorry," you muttered after he'd landed on his back harder than expected.

You resisted the urge to study the face hidden behind the mask and focused your attention on his injuries, which were worse than you'd previously thought. Blood had turned the blue cloth he wore blacker than the eyes of his mask. You carefully pulled some of the fabric back to discover it was bullets than had torn through him. You winced at the sight, it wasn't something you'd be able to help much with, but you intended to do your best after at least calling for an ambulance. With that thought in mind, you stood to retrieve the first aid kit you never thought you'd have a use for and your cellphone. You wondered if he'd disappear while you had your back turned, half hoping he was simply a figment of your tired imagination, but when you returned he was still there and real as ever. You quickly dialed the emergency line, deciding to leave out the part that painted him as an intruder. You were still intent on not assuming the worst and he needed help, or so you thought. Once you hung up, you knelt down beside him again and carefully unzipped the coveralls he wore. You cursed yourself for blushing at the sight of his bare chest. He was older, the small patch of gray hair made that clear, but he didn't lack for definition despite his age. He was unreasonably built, something you fought to ignore but ultimately failed, hence the heat that had risen to your face. You gently pressed the rag to his wound and heard his breath falter at the sudden pressure, but he remained still as you cleaned him. You couldn't quite tell if he was awake, it didn't seem to matter how intently you studied those black holes, you couldn't see anything behind them to determine consciousness. But he was conscious and beyond disturbed at the predicament he found himself in, so much so that he hadn't a clue of what to do other than observe.

After you set the rag down, that mask had your full attention. The more you studied it, the more intrigued you became. It looked familiar, but you couldn't quite figure out why. You searched silently for a reason to justify what you were about to do as your hand moved closer to its edge. It would be easier for him to breathe without it on, you thought to yourself as your fingers grazed the rubber, but the moment you started to pull on it, his hand flew up to grab yours. He sat up, but doubled over as soon as he did and his grip on your wrist tightened.

"No- I'm sorry. Don't move, okay? You're hurt," you said, stumbling over your words as he flinched away from your other hand that went to his shoulder to steady him, "I just thought it'd be easier to breathe without it."

Michael's consciousness was an effort to keep, but he was aware enough to have heard what you said and it left him more than confused. The house had been so dark, he assumed it was empty, a safe place for him to rest while he waited for his strength to return. He didn't expect to find you standing there and when he did he had every intention to slaughter you, but the bullets Laurie had put in him had stripped him of that opportunity. His head whipped around for his knife while you watched, assuming he was just confused and unaware of where exactly he'd passed out.

"An ambulance should be here soon. I got you cleaned up, but you're gonna need more help than I can offer," you said, forcing his attention back to you, "you should rest though, until they get here."

Without hesitation, he shot up, entirely ignoring your suggestion and the throbbing pain in his abdomen, "Whoa, hey, what are you doing?"

Your words had little effect on him, which you soon learned as you watched him stride towards the door he'd entered from. You quickly followed behind, baffling him further. Usually, it was him who did the chasing.

"You can wait here, you don't have to-"

Naive, he thought to himself. Naive and completely out of your depth is what he made of you, but perhaps that kindness you'd shown a monster like himself was exactly what had saved your life, for now at least. He had no choice but to leave you, he'd had more than enough run ins with the authorities for one Halloween night and he knew they'd arrive any minute. He found his knife by the door and bent down to retrieve it, which was what stopped any further words from leaving your mouth. Your abrupt silence gave him pause and he turned his head slightly to find the horror of realization painted on your face. Your eyes were focused on the blade in his hand that had been decorated in red. The moonlight allowed its gleam to inform you that it was no prop, it was as real as your own blood that had run cold in your veins. It was your breath that was shaky now.

"Who are you?" You whispered.

He left you without an answer and that was weeks ago. Wondering was exactly what Michael wanted you to do and unbeknownst to you, you played along so nicely. He hadn't gone far, in fact he'd returned several times to catch you immersing yourself in his story. The night he met you, you never slept. You sat in bed with a blanked wrapped tightly around you as you listened to the details of what the man who'd broken into your home had done, of what he was. The answers you received from headlines only raised more confusion within yourself, because your name wasn't on his long list of victims. He spared you and that fact had you torn. Part of you wanted to let it go, be grateful that the shadow of death had so kindly passed over you, but there was another part that desperately wanted to know why. That part of you brought on more questions, but ones about yourself, more specifically, your own self preservation, because you wanted him to return. Sure, maybe it was simply time that was to blame, you'd called the authorities and he was a killer. He had to flee to avoid capture, but they still hadn't gotten him, he was still loose and he hadn't come back to finish you off. From what you'd learned, no one crossed Michael Myers' path and lived to tell the tale, you were alone in that. You were the first he'd left completely unscathed and unattended to, or so you thought. But Michael hadn't left you alone, not at all. He kept quite a close eye on you and with questions of his own, because in leaving you alive to wonder, he'd confused himself. The more he studied you, the worse it got. At first, it was a game, the same one he always played. The kill was always more satisfying when he had a bit of history on the subject at hand, but learning about you had become problematic. He never waited this long to strike, but you had made him hesitate. Somehow, you'd gotten to him and he couldn't seem to rid himself of the memory of you touching him. Perhaps it was because no one had before, not so gently. They'd certainly never apologized for hurting him as you had when you tended to his wounds. You cared about his well-being, it mattered to you that night. Enough so that you went out of your way to save him. He would have survived without your assistance, but it was the thought that counted, you thought about him in a way that no one ever had before. Now, you searched for him, unabashedly. He knew you weren't just gazing out of your window for the sake of it, you wanted to find him. He wondered if you a had a sixth sense, because he was always there, hidden in the shadows your eyes wandered to after the street lights turned on. You'd even begun to leave it open once you'd gone to bed, something that really piqued his curiosity. What would you do if he found his way in, what would you do if he gave you what you wanted and showed himself? Would you run or would he find himself in a situation in which he was the one who was out of his depth? Michael had gone his entire adult life without worrying about such things and he hated that finally, he'd been caught in such a trap. He wanted to hate you for it, but when you appeared in your window again and locked eyes with him in the darkness without even knowing it, he couldn't. He wanted to find one, just one single flaw that he could latch onto, but he couldn't and it ate at him. You were perfect, infuriatingly so. The way you moved haunted him in the most unexpected of ways and you were so young, so full of life that he should have wanted to drain, but death was so far removed from what he wanted to give you. His brow furrowed underneath his tattered mask as he contemplated it, because in truth, he hadn't a clue what exactly it was he wanted from you, he just knew it was you that he wanted and it was driving him to madness, to discomfort he'd never felt in all his life.

You disappeared from his view, retreating into shadows yourself once you decided he wasn't there. That was when he began to move unconsciously towards the door he'd entered through before. His heart pounded within his chest as he drew closer, unsure of what he would do once he was face to face with you again, but he needed to be, there was no question about that any longer. More than that, he needed to know what you would do, if you were different from the rest and if you could give him rest from the turmoil you'd caused within his mind, body and if he had one, soul. The house was dark, just as it had been the first time he arrived, only now, the door was unlocked. An invitation, he thought to himself with further intrigue. You did want him there, you must have, because who in their right mind left their house open for entry with a killer on the loose? He ought to teach you a lesson, but then again, no one was more of a threat than he was and he didn't intend to leave you unattended. If you wanted to leave your doors unlocked, so be it, but he would be your only visitor if he got his way and really, didn't he always?

His hand glided along the kitchen counter as he steadily made his way to the stairs, pausing at the bottom to study the stream of light that bathed the blackened hallway above in an eerie orange glow. His head tilted when it went out, leaving you entrapped in darkness. The sixth sense he suspected you had only became more prominent, he breathed easier without light to touch him and you had turned it off. Further invitation, of course, so he took the first step, then another. The faint creak of the wooden boards didn't seem to alert you to his presence, the light stayed absent and he appeared in your doorway to find you settled in bed. Sleep hadn't found you yet, but he had and you stirred when you felt the unease brought about by an unknown gaze lingering on your body. At first, the shadows all but consumed him, then his figure became clearly visible. Just an outline, tall and broad, but you recognized him.

Slowly, you propped yourself up with eyes that were wide open. You wanted this, but now he was here and you hadn't a clue of what to do, or what he would do. Words escaped you, but you didn't fear his silence this time nor the deafening hum that sat heavily between the two of you. It was energy, an unspoken desire to be near to each other was what it was, you knew that now without a doubt in your mind. He'd come back, just as you hoped he would, but for what purpose and why was it you had wanted him to?

Your legs slid off the side of the bed until your bare toes met the cold wooden floor below. He'd yet to move, so you tested the limits of what he would allow. His eyes, unseen, studied those carefully made movements closely. There was no distance to dull your actions anymore and he soaked each one in as he watched you stand, fascinated. He didn't have to hear it to know your heart was racing within your much smaller frame, you were prey approaching a predator, but it wasn't fear he found in your curious eyes, it was awe. As if he was just as unreal to you as you were him. His head lowered with his gaze, because now you truly were face to face. Your neck in turn craned up as you listened to that familiar whistle of breath through his mask.

"Michael," you whispered up at him.

He rushed forward so abruptly you didn't even have time to scream. He backed you against the wall, but didn't touch you, not right away. He simply stood there, shoulders heaving, head down in front of you. His breath was uneven and his fists were clenched tightly at his sides as if it was an arduous struggle to withhold himself.

But from what? You thought as you stood there silently searching for the answer you'd clearly die to retrieve. He didn't have his knife, at least not within his grasp or reach. His hands were his only weapons and he hadn't even used those on you, not in the way you had expected. Your hands remained at your side, unmoving and his gaze dipped to one. His breath evened as he studied it contemplatively, his shoulders stilled and he seemed puzzled, or so you assumed. Hesitantly, he reached for one. His fingers grazed your skin, slowly grappling for more purchase. Finally, he hooked one of them with yours and brought it to the other. He brought it up and you watched, confused as he traced the lines on your palm that were visible to him in the moonlight. The cool glow even allowed you to catch a glimpse of those eyes you'd searched for the last time he was in your home. One was an eerie, milky white, left without sight from one of the many wounds he'd gathered throughout the years. The other was the lightest of blue, icy in color, but there was warmth hidden somewhere inside that fought through as he allowed himself to fall prey to your touch once more. It was his choice this time, he was very aware as he pressed his palm to yours. Delicate and dangerous were the only two words that came to Michael's mind, because though you couldn't overpower him physically, he felt weakened in ways more damning than bodily wounds.

"Why are you here?"

Your whispered words did little to distract him from the dilemma he held in his hands. If anything, he should have been asking you that question. Why were you stillhere, allowing him to dive further into obsession, destroying everything he knew to be true about himself with just the tips of your fingers? It was cruel and unjust that someone like yourself, someone so small and seemingly insignificant held such power over him. It was infuriating, maddening and he wondered if you knew as his eyes met yours only to melt further. You didn't look away, no, instead you matched his intensity with brows that were furrowed in curiosity. That uncomfortable pounding in his chest returned and what he could only assume was rage forced his breath to quicken again, but then you intertwined your fingers with his, which made everything stop all at once.

"Are you going to kill me?"

The answer to that question was what frightened him most. Without warning, he ripped his hand from yours along with his gaze and turned to disappear down the hallway. It was an unforgivable mistake on his part to return to you, that much was certain, because no, he wasn't going to kill you. In fact, the encounter hadn't given him a single answer as to what he wanted with you, it only worsened his confusion and brought about doubt of himself. Perhaps he did have a weakness, a living, breathing one. He needed to escape it, kill whatever it was inside of him that betrayed him so wickedly. Your footsteps behind him made him grit his teeth as he strode through the door he'd left open to leave you to the night, but your hand found his wrist before he could vanish.

"Wait," you demanded.

The sudden and unwelcome contact forced his instinct back to the surface and before you could blink, you were forced back into your kitchen with a hand around your neck. The wind was knocked out of you when your back hit the counter and you squeezed your eyes shut, afraid that perhaps you'd finally crossed that thin line you'd been treading on since the moment you met him, but his grip didn't tighten. He watched you brace yourself and in turn, crumbled at the sight. Prey, he thought to himself, you were supposed to look just as you were with his hand around your throat. You were supposed to be frightened, you were supposed to beg for your life and yet, when your trembling hands met his wrist, it was the last thing he wanted you to do. It wasn't that he didn't want to hear you beg, he did, but he wasn't quite sure what for as he had you pinned with his own body pressed against you. He'd seen this dance before, but it wasn't one he ever bothered to learn. Human touch such as this for Michael only ended death, he'd never been forced to consider any other use for his hands. He thought back to his own worries earlier that night and realized he was indeed out of his depth, just as he was afraid he would be. He had you exactly where he wanted you, but what now? His head canted to the side as he watched your chest rise and fall in quick succession. Your eyes were still glued shut, anticipating death, but death had a different idea. The safety of darkness still surrounded the two of you and with your eyes refusing to open, Michael lifted his mask up. You felt his fingers brush your jaw and inch their way into your hair to hold the back of you head, then you felt something else. A kiss was what he gave you, gentle and inexperienced, but in his softness you received the answer you'd searched so diligently for. He lingered there for a moment, stunned by his own actions and more so when you returned them. You kept your hands on his wrist and kept them still, aware that this was his limit, this was all he could handle for the time being, but you guided him in your wordless response. Your lips pressed firmer against him, you moved slowly, but deepened it with each press. His hand began to tangle in your locks, clenching as his mind screamed for release, for violence. It was an effort to fight off those instincts, but he did so valiantly just for a few more moments of this, of softness, of you. You carefully lifted your hand to place it over his, which still rested at the back of your head, fingers knitted tightly in your hair. He relented, just slightly, but when you let out that soft sigh, it was too much. It was too intimate and just like that, his lips left you as did his hand. When you opened your eyes you were alone, as if his touch had simply been a dream all along. The only evidence of reality was the door, which he'd left ajar to leave you with nothing but the sound of wind to fill his absence.

Questions were what he'd left the first time, but now, it was frustration that consumed you in his wake. You'd gotten an answer, in a sense. He didn't want to kill you, he wanted you and you kept it safely hidden within the walls of your pericardium that he wasn't alone in his desire. He left you wanting, wishing and waiting for a killer to return and finish what he'd started, for him to claim you as his own. The mere thought had you unraveling, because what on earth was wrong with you? Why had you allowed such a thing to happen in the first place? Why did you kiss him? More importantly, why did you love every second of it? His lack of experience hadn't dulled the sensations he forced upon you, if anything it enhanced them. Haddonfield's reaper had chosen you and spared you the scythe for a kiss, one you couldn't seem to stop from popping into your mind at the most inconvenient times. It haunted you and it stripped you of each and every one of the morals you thought you'd had, based on one simple fact; you wanted more. However, this time months passed and you were forced to find ways to pluck him from your mind, which meant when a coworker called you up to ask if you'd like to go to dinner, you said yes. Of course, putting an end to the fantasy of Michael wasn't quite as simple as it sounded. Dinner was spent with your head on a swivel, half paranoid he'd find you and be less than pleased, half hoping he would and save you from the drab conversation you'd allowed yourself to endure for the sake of distraction. You were right to think he'd be watching and safe to say 'less than pleased' was an understatement. Jealousy was something Michael wasn't sure he'd ever felt before. In fact, he was convinced he really was starting to hate you for bringing so many emotions he didn't understand to the surface. Torture was clearly what you intended to put him through, but that was something he was well versed in and as he watched you kiss your date goodnight, he made a decision. You were indeed going to learn your lesson and if it ended in death, well, that would be your price for causing him such agony, because he didn't expect to behave gently after watching someone else's hands, someone else's lips touch what was his.

You kept your smile in place as you politely waved goodbye, but once the taillights disappeared you allowed it to fall with a groan and quickly wiped your mouth. Your date's enthusiasm for you was beyond unreciprocated, but you'd play the part well, perhaps too well. Hopefully he wouldn't call, you thought to yourself as you strolled up the walkway to your front door. You let out a sigh when you realized you'd forgotten to leave the porch light on and you had about a million keys to sift through in total darkness, of course. To make an already annoying night worse, you tripped. You managed to catch yourself, but the keys hadn't been so lucky. You bent down to retrieve them, cursing under your breath as you stood back up. You fumbled with them a moment more before finally pushing the key into the lock, but that was about as far as you got. You hadn't even heard footsteps to alert you to his presence, but suddenly, you found yourself pushed face first against the door and before you could let out a scream, a hand covered your mouth. It was familiar, the missing fingers were a dead give away. His other went to yours and forced you to turn the key. Why he'd even bothered unlocking it was a mystery, because he promptly turned you around and threw you over his shoulder before he broke the door open with brute force. Struggling was no use, he had a vice grip on your hips as he strode through the threshold with purposeful steps only to drop you on the counter.

"What the hell is your deal with me?" You spat out before you could stop yourself.

But before you even had time to regret your choice in tone, his hand was around your neck. That gentle grip he once had was lost and replaced with a menacing one that took your breath away. Your hands wrapped around his wrist with rage of your own at this cat and mouse game he was playing with you.

"M-Michael," you stuttered out with a pained expression, "whatever you're gonna do, just do it already."

You worried you'd come to regret that statement when he pushed you back on the cool marble with such force it made your head spin. His hand momentarily abandoned it's hold on you and you pushed yourself up just slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. The blue you'd once seen in his left one had turned dark, his pupil was overblown to erase any color, but it wasn't death you saw in that eerie gleam. Far from it. A different instinct had taken over and he knew exactly what he wanted to do to you. He quickly reached behind you and brandished a knife from the block on your counter. His movement's were hurried, frantic even as he tugged you forward by your hips so his waist rested between your legs. Then, he raised the knife up and you braced yourself. You must have mistaken that darkness in his eyes, it must have been bloodlust, you thought to yourself, but when he plunged it down it wasn't your flesh that tore. He'd taken it to your jeans, cutting them just enough so that when he tossed the knife behind you and grabbed each side of the fabric with his hands, he was able to rip them clean off of you. He didn't need the blade to remove the rest and now you were almost entirely exposed to him, save the top you silently resented him for destroying next. It looked expensive, Michael thought with a smirk behind his mask, but it looked much better torn to pieces. He was almost as unkind to his own clothes, he tugged the zipper of his coveralls down with such force the metal came loose and fell to the floor, leaving him free of any further confinement. You didn't even have time to glance down before he tossed on of your legs over his shoulder, pushed the other one to the side and plunged into you so deeply you feared you'd be ripped in two, just like your jeans. He allowed you no time to adjust, or catch your breath before he set an inhuman pace, one arm wrapped tightly around the leg over his shoulder and the other hand gripping your thigh hard enough to draw blood with his fingernails. He was silent, frighteningly so, while you failed to do the same. In fact, it seemed he was hell bent on making you scream, because once he found one particular spot that made your eyes roll back and your mouth hang open, he never left it. He managed to hit it each and every time he pushed into you and he relished in those gasps that quickly turned to wanton cries. Pain mingled with pleasure in a dizzying manner and you tried desperately to reach for him, to find anything to steady yourself on, but it was useless. He wanted to see you struggle and you were doing it perfectly, but if you wanted stability, he'd allow some. He stopped abruptly, bottoming out and drawing a pitiful whine from your open mouth so he could hook his fingers over your bottom teeth. With his thumb under your chin and his index and middle lodged in your mouth, he pulled you up by your jaw, the pain dulled by the overwhelming pleasure he'd pummeled your nearly limp body with. He brought you close, your half lidded eyes struggled to stay open as he lifted the bottom half of his mask up with his other hand and pressed his lips to your ear.

"Mine," he growled, low and harshly.

His breath fell hot over your bare neck, causing the ache between your legs to peak, begging for him to continue, but instead of giving you what you wanted right away, he pulled back and left you empty to readjust his mask. You whined, reaching for him before he grabbed your shoulders and turned you. He bent you over the counter and forced himself back inside of you while his hand snaked around your throat. He lifted you back up so that your back was pressed hard against his chest and the mouth of his mask was back at your ear.

"Say it," he breathed as he thrusted forward, slow but forceful.

You'd barely registered that he'd spoken the first time and now, with him buried so deeply inside of you, your cognizance was long gone. Each time he moved he seemed to go deeper, fully aware of the torture he was delivering in forcing you to hang on the edge of your orgasm. He could feel your body tensing around him, he knew you were dangerously close. Your head fell back on his shoulder as you struggled to form the response he desired.

"Yours," you whispered, but that didn't seem to satisfy him.

He thrusted harder, driving your body upwards. When your hand went to steady yourself on the counter, he grabbed it and held it tightly behind your back while the other squeezed your neck until you felt light as air. He grit his teeth, fighting off his own orgasm for the sake of punishing you further.

"Say it," he repeated with malice.

You were right there, so close to release that your mouth simply couldn't stay shut, but it wasn't breath you were so desperate for. You held it, brows furrowed in a mix of pain and pleasure so brutal you weren't entirely sure you'd survive another thrust. You felt his teeth at your neck, biting down as he let out a groan. It appeared he was in torment too, desperate in his own right to find release inside of you. His voice had driven you to madness, but those breathy moans he couldn't seem to hold in any longer were what sent you over the edge and that only made his struggle to maintain control harder. Your body pulsed so deliciously around him. You were tight enough to begin with, but now? It was too much and his head dipped lower in the crook of your neck to nip at your shoulder as his hips began to tremble from the exerted effort to keep his pace controlled. Not yet, not until he heard you say it.

"Michael," you gasped with your eyes wide open, though between the lack of oxygen and the intensity of pleasure, all you saw was white, "I'm yours, all yours. I'm yours."

Your whispered promises never stopped, they fell from your lips like little prayers and they had him spiraling. His ragged breath and the way each of his hands gripped you tighter and tighter should have broken you, but you clung to what little air he allowed for more of him. He'd long abandoned that slow, meticulous pace to chase his own high with a vengeance. His hand left your wrist and he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you flush against him when he found release. He bent forward, panting underneath his mask as he pressed you against the marble countertop.

"Yours," he heard you continue whispering and he loosened his grip on your neck.

He stayed like that for awhile, still buried deep within you and baffled by the entire ordeal, but you were so warm. No part of him wanted to separate from you or leave those little whispers behind. You felt his thumb absentmindedly brushing circles over your jaw and you supposed that must have been what brought you back to total consciousness, but you stayed still, afraid that if you moved he'd leave. His sudden softness was unexpected given the brutality he'd just displayed, but you found yourself melting into it. Between the exhaustion that had settled into your bones and the delirium that filled your head, those rough, calloused hands of his were exactly what you needed to bring you back down to earth with grace. He too was warm and you couldn't help but press your cheek into his palm, which caused his brow to furrow behind his mask. When his head withdrew from the crook of your neck, you let out a weak moan in protest, but he continued his departure from you in silence.

"Michael," he heard you mutter softly as he struggled through his own haze to gather himself.

He paused to observe your wrecked state. You still hadn't moved a muscle and he wasn't entirely sure you could even if you wanted to. He'd annihilated you, had you for his own and he should leave now. Right?

"Please don't leave me," you whispered.

You didn't expect him to oblige your simple request, you knew he'd already far surpassed his limits. You were killing him, he thought to himself and in such a strange way. It was instinct you'd stolen along with something else he supposed he did have after all, because as he watched you try and fail to push yourself up, it skipped a beat. He was aware he could blame it on age or his usual pent up fury, but he knew that would be a lie. It was you. You were both a curse and a cure to the quietus that possessed him, a plague upon the heart he once thought had lost it's rhythm to violence. It was mercy you'd infected him with when you touched him, when you healed him and mercy was something so foreign to Michael, but for you, he supposed he could try to give you his own version. You hadn't the energy to even feel surprise when he took you into his arms, but you had just enough left to smile as you rested your cheek against his chest. Perhaps he'd be gone when you woke or maybe he'd stay. Either way, you were Michael's. Or was it the other way around?

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spookychick78 · 2 years ago

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OG!Michael Myers X Fem!Vampire

Michael & The Vampire PT 2

Thought I'd bring the vampire back, it is October after all. Thinking about doing a little series with these two, let me know if y'all want some more with Michael and his vampy girl in the comments. Also, I may have gotten a little carried away with this one and it maaaay be like... over 5000 words. Anyway, stay spooky and enjoy. 🧛🏻‍♀️

WARNINGS: 18+, bloody af, rough sex, death, graphic depictions of violence.

Word Count: 5,751

Michael stood silent as ever. His brows furrowed with intrigue behind the pale rubber of his mask. He was observing something he'd contemplated for quite sometime now, he was watching her feed. It started shortly after she'd weaved her way into his daily life, his desire to watch her kill. She fed off of him with such vigor when he allowed her too, as if she had starved a lifetime for his blood, that he couldn't help but wonder what it looked like. It sounded silly, even to him, but one particular time he'd seen the image in the grimy reflection of his childhood home's windows. She was underneath him of course, he hardly ever allowed her to overpower him, but as he watched her nails clutch at the skin around where her teeth had sunk into him, he noticed an urge she was withholding. He hated to admit it, even in the silence of his own mind, but she had great strength. He was well aware he'd met his match and after a brief period of resenting her for it, he'd grown to enjoy it and quite a bit. He could push her well past her limits, bend her, shape her, break her in whichever way he chose. He could kill her, so to speak, bleed her dry and she'd lie there underneath him smiling drunkenly as he did so. She could easily do the same, occasionally she'd remind him of that, just as she did then. He watched her dig into him, that grip of her's turned deadly, he not only saw it, he felt it. It was absentminded for her, a byproduct of the potency of his blood. It brought her a high like no other, perhaps in reality, that was what kept her around. Not so much love, but blood lust for him and only him. Her eyes fluttered open to catch him studying her so intently and she grinned at their reflection. The small dribble of his own blood that ran down the side of her mouth made his breath quicken. He could have watched it for hours, but unlike her, Michael did have his limits as far as blood loss went. If she got ahead of herself, drank too much his eyes would fall shut and unconsciousness would overtake him. He would live of course, but he'd wake to find that image had been torn away from him, stolen by his own weakness. He wanted to see her finish it, he wanted to see her get her fill. More than anything, Michael wanted to see her kill.

It had taken him sometime to find the will to communicate his desire to her in his own silent way. It proved to be more difficult than he thought it would, as she rarely left the house and more rarer than that, she never brought home victims. She had no need to hunt any longer, he was her personal blood bag and she had enough wherewithal to know that when Michael hunted, he went alone. He never brought home trophies either, so she was quite surprised when he burst through the door dragging a man dressed in a poor excuse for a vampire costume by the hair. She had almost forgotten it was Halloween.

She stood from her usual resting spot on the old dusty couch and sauntered over to the front room to lean her wispy figure against the doorframe. With her arms folded, she smirked as she watched him hurl the man into the bottom of the stairs. Before he could regain his footing, one of Michael's boots rested on his back to press him down on the wood. He turned his head to her and waited for her to catch his drift, but she shook her head.

"Michael, what on earth are you doing?"

The man's struggling disgruntled her and she frowned down at him, "Do you mind?"

It was moments like that when Michael was glad his face remained hidden. If she knew she not only had the power to make Michael weak, but the ability to make him smile, her ego would most likely surpass his own. His eyes were hidden in darkness, just as his smirk was, as he watched her glide closer. She leant down and studied the gift he'd brought her.

"I'm surprised he's still alive," she mused as she reached down and brushed some of his auburn strands out of his eyes, "you don't usually keep pets, Michael."

She allowed the man a smile, revealing the sharp points of her exaggerated canines Michael had come to adore as she studied the man's fake ones, amused. That was when the man fell silent, frozen with fear or disbelief, one of the two. She chuckled before she stood straight once more and folded her arms. The usual smirk she wore when she searched him for words pulled at her lips as her pupils dilated and rendered her eyes glassy. That dark shade of orange began to invade them when Michael reached down and yanked the man upwards, putting further emphasis on his bare neck as he strained in the Shape's grasp. She was getting hungry and it seemed Michael wanted to taunt her. He raised his knife to the man's throat and allowed it to graze the fragile skin that hid his jugular ever so slightly, providing her a glimpse of red that trickled over the metal. Behind his mask, his eyes hadn't left her. He watched, captivated as he always was by something he'd seen her do time and time again. Blood lust had a way of making her ever more alluring. Those strangely illuminated orange eyes of her's widened as she watched those little rubies decorate his blade and her brows began to furrow, pained with want. When they cut back up to him, she scowled and a hiss slipped out past her elongated teeth.

"Don't tease me, Michael," she growled before her tongue slid over them with another glance at the red, "you know I hate it when you do that."

Of course he did. Normally, he'd take it further, use her lust against her and make her beg him to give her what she wanted, but this wasn't about what she wanted. It was about what Michael wanted and he growing impatient with her lack of understanding on the matter. He tossed the delicately bloodied blade at her feet and held her gaze through the black holes of his mask. She knelt down, less graceful than usual as she clamored for the handle, careful not to let a single drop escape the metal. She slowly let her knees find the ground below her, sinking in a sense as her tongue glided up the edge to collect her drug of choice. Michael's breath grew ragged and it hadn't gone unnoticed by her. That smirk returned as she took one last swipe of her tongue up the blade.

"You want me to, don't you? That's what this is about," she said in her sultry tone as her palms found the wooden floor and she began to crawl towards his captive, all the while those orange eyes locked on Michael, "well, why didn't you just say so?"

That remark earned some sort of sound from behind the mask. A quick huff, half amused by her subtle dig at him. She longed for conversation, but that was a long game to be played, something to tease her with for eternity, if he could convince her to grant him with it.

Once she was close enough to take hold of the man, Michael released his grip. Before he could fall face first onto the ground, she was on him. She hadn't taken her time in the slightest as she did when she drank from Michael. There was no wooing, no gentle caresses of her nails along his shoulder blades, it was brutal. Animalistic even, he thought to himself as he watched her grip tighten enough to tear his skin through his sleeves and stain them red. When she stood, he went with her. Michael couldn't tell if his was her hands that brought him up or her teeth. She was latched so deeply, feeding so intensely that it looked as though she'd tear through the area completely and render him headless. He had faded by then, gone limp as she clung to him. She held him in such a strange way, her hands like claws strained and struggled with the fabric of his shirt behind his back as he started to slip from her grasp. He wondered how long it would take for her to drain him completely. He was intrigued by how clean the entire ordeal was, she hadn't spilled a drop. She had been meticulous with him, far different than she was with Michael. With him, she liked to be messy, let him see her covered in blood, but then and there, there was no mess. She had drank every last drop. The wet sounds of her gulping started to die down and were replaced instead with contented sighs as she sat on the very edge of her high, just before his heart finally went silent. With no more pulse to steal, she pulled back. Michael marveled at the way her teeth unsheathed themselves from his now withered skin. Blades of her own, drenched in her preferred wine. Her head fell back as she reveled in the lingering taste and Michael's head in turn, tilted. That intrigue had rearranged itself into admiration, she appeared invincible. Her skin, which normally was pale, colorless, much like that of a corpse, had become vibrant. His life's end had renewed her's and she was radiant, empowered by death's gift to her. She turned to him then, her glowing eyes now more illuminated than before bore into him as a different kind of hunger invaded them. Intrigue of her own captivated her as she rested under his blackened gaze, that thus far hadn't left her. With a grin, she let their shared victim slip from her grasp and fall stiff on the ground. Her attention was all Michael's again as she drifted his way. The only movement she earned as she stepped closer was the subtle tilt of his head, it slowly dipped downward as she situated herself in front of his chest. Her palms rested against the blue fabric, warmer than they usually were as she continued her endeavor to understand why he'd brought her dinner. She delved past those black holes of his, curious when she found the glimmer of hazel hidden within all that darkness. He was focused so intently on her teeth, mesmerized more than usual by them and that curiosity of her's deepened, as did the subtle crease between her illuminated eyes. She reached for one of his arms, that hung stiffly at his sides and brought his hand to her mouth to let his rough skin rest on her open lips.

"What is it you want, Michael?"

Her softly spoken words offered the whisper of cold breath against his flesh and he stifled a shudder as he watched her nibble, just hard enough to sting. He pondered that question she'd asked arduously, he wasn't sure he himself even had the answer. Michael only craved two things; power and death. He had thought himself the embodiment of both until she had come careening into his world. Her mere existence had wounded his ego with such brutality. Though at times he enjoyed her unbreakable frame for his own personal use, unbreakable should have been a word used to describe only himself. Death and power were his to claim and yet, he had just watched her claim both for herself. She'd done it time and time again, used him to derive it and he'd let her. In reality, he wasn't sure he could stop her even if he wanted to and that must have been what ate at him most. It had to have been.

"Whatever it is, it's yours," she whispered as she nipped the tips of his middle and index fingers, "it's the least I can do to thank you for such a delicious meal."

Without warning, he ripped his hand from her mouth and replaced it around her throat. She didn't even grant him a flinch and her grin didn't falter. When she began to chuckle, his eyes narrowed. She already knew what he wanted, she was merely teasing him. She had a habit of doing that, just as he did, though he much preferred to be the one who dealt such agitating torment.

"Is it power you want? Death?" She said with ease, unfazed by the deadly tight hold in which he had her, "You're not nearly as mysterious as you imagine yourself to be, not to me at least. I can read you like a book, Michael Myers."

She noticed his hand trembled, not with fear but with rage. He wasn't at all impressed with her words, he rarely was, but she continued nonetheless with a few that would soothe his fury.

"I can give it to you," she said as she leaned into his grasp, invited him to squeeze harder, "just say the word and it's yours."

His head canted to the side again, slowly. She smiled at his signature movement and his brow furrowed. There was admiration of her own that she'd allowed to come to light in her expression. It made him rethink this odd relationship they'd come to form. If she meant what he assumed she did, he would no longer be her's to use, which thus far was what he believed she had stayed there for. He would no longer be her sustenance, he would be an equal. That is, if such a gift was even possible for him to receive. Death wasn't something easily given to Michael, but perhaps immortality. . .

Suddenly, she rushed forward, pinning him to the front door with such infuriating ease. Her slender fingers inched up his shoulders as she gazed hungrily at his covered throat, teeth barred. She drew closer, propped herself upon the tips of her toes to let her lips graze the ear of his mask.

"Come on, Michael. It's Halloween. Die a little."

Michael returned his hand to her throat, but this time he lifted her off the ground. As he glared up at her she beamed with delight, letting the sound of his ragged, fury fueled breath fill her ears and ignite that sense of danger she fed off of. His blood was heaven, sure, but what Michael didn't know was that what she lived for was his innate ability to bring about that feeling of fragility. He offered her a sense of mortality she'd almost forgotten. He reminded her what it was to be human, something she hadn't been in eons and it was something she wanted, needed for eternity. It was why she stayed locked inside that rotting house with him. It was what she truly hungered for.

That adoration began to fill her eyes again and Michael grit his teeth. He hesitated to say it was love he felt for her, but that irritating twisting sensation she brought about in his chest forced him to consider it, that and the simple fact that he wanted to give her what she desired. He wanted to give her himself. Whatever that meant, whatever she was about to do, he would allow it. His justification of such an uncharacteristic thing was his own curiosity. Michael doubted her ability to give him death such as her own, but to see her try would be most entertaining. More so than that, it would ease the worry of age, which was something she had no reason to fear. She would never weaken as he feared he one day would, she would never be stripped of her beauty, her power. Learning such things had confirmed what he had once been terribly uncertain of. He wanted what she had, he wanted to become like her; infinite. Slowly, he let his other hand wander up to the edge of his mask to unveil himself. As he did so, he lowered her enough for her feet to find rest on the wood below. She watched with amusement as he rid himself of the pale white visage she was so accustomed to. She had seen him maskless before, but his uncovered image never failed to bewitch her.

"You're a vision with or without that thing," she mused with a softer, more genuine smile, "you should know that."

He stood still, as he always did. His discomfort was evident, but he fought hard against it to look her directly in the eye as she memorized his details. He was so handsome it was irksome, she thought to herself. Even the scar over his left eye and that milky white coloring it had adopted did little to distract from his distinctly pleasant features. Soft, auburn curls rested gently atop his head, just barely grazing his seemingly permanently furrowed brows. He appeared petulant when he looked at her like he was then, a subtle scowl carving lines above his perky nose with his lips pursed, childlike even. His appearance was a stark contrast to what Michael truly was, his innocent looks were simply a facade, she knew that well. He dipped his head, it seemed to be a nod, a signal let her know he was waiting, ready for whatever attempt she desired to make.

"If it's your neck to want me to take, you'll have to lift your head, dear, not lower it," she teased.

He let out a drawn out breath and his eyes narrowed, never leaving her's as he obliged. A silent reminder not to taunt him with the power he allowed her to have over him, not to take it for granted. Perhaps she wasn't easily killed, but Michael's business was pain. He had ways of making her hurt and it would be in her best interest to remember that if she wanted to avoid such punishment.

"You'll enjoy this," she said as she perched herself against his chest once more, "I think."

Her arms snaked over his broad shoulders as she brought herself up. Now that he'd seen her take a victim, he rethought each movement she made. There was preparation to it, a softness in her touch and a distinct appreciation for him and what he offered her. He wasn't her victim, he thought to himself with suspicion, he was something else to her entirely. He caught the eerie glimmer of those teeth before he felt them sink deep into his jugular. Her bite however, was more forceful than usual, and he was glad she couldn't see how he winced when he felt that familiar, but more noticeable pull. What he hadn't been able to hide was the way he tensed under her hands.

"The pain is worth lifetimes of pleasure," she unlatched herself briefly to mumble against him, "just trust me, Michael."

When she returned to continue draining him, a pained grunt escaped his throat and he instinctively clung to her. His bruising grip on her own shoulders made her hum with delight as she herself returned his tight embrace. The pain was almost euphoric, it caused his eyes to widen in an effort to remain conscious for each moment, but they began to flutter shut, betraying his desires. A low hum infiltrated his ears as his heart beat faster in desperation to replace the blood she'd stolen from him. He began to crumble in her grasp, infuriated as that delirium that came with her bite weakened each of his limbs. She guided him to the ground and took the rare opportunity that had presented itself to straddle him as she continued. Her hands balled into fists, clutching the blue fabric of his coveralls to steady herself as she too began to feel the effects of draining him. It wasn't without effort, it was a longer process than most and she found herself struggling to finish what she'd started atop him. Finally, she felt him squeeze her as tight as he could before his hands fell limp from her shoulders and landed with a thud on either side of him. With an exasperated gasp, she ripped herself from his neck and threw her head back. Her grip on his coveralls loosened as she reveled in her own euphoria.

"That is a taste I'll miss dearly," she breathed before she allowed her gaze to drop down to his still body.

She bent down to press one finely tuned ear to his chest. The faint thrum of his heart brought a satisfied smile to her face. She'd succeeded in weakening him enough to complete the task at hand. She sat up again to admire how peaceful he looked. Michael's expression was rarely tranquil as it was then. It added to that false innocence she'd described before. He appeared angelic with his long lashes resting atop his now pale cheeks.

"I'm half tempted to keep you like this," she said as she brushed his cool skin and some of those tousled curls with the back of her hand, "you make quite a cozy seat."

She was certain he was seething behind that pretty face of his, assuming he'd even heard any of what she had just uttered. She resigned herself to refrain from any further teasing. He would wake soon and even she, as invincible as she seemed, was wary of the power she was about to grant him, but that sense of danger was so alluring. It made her wonder if curiosity would indeed kill the cat. Just as he had her, she'd have to trust that he wouldn't use his newfound abilities to erase her from existence, but trusting Michael Myers wasn't something came without risk. Perhaps there was something terribly wrong with her, she thought to herself as she once again questioned her own immortality while observing the one who could take it from her. Perhaps indeed, because that uncertainty, that gnawing sense of fear was why she loved him. He made her feel the threat of death, he made her feel alive.

"Ah, but cozy or not, I do believe it is your turn for a taste, my darling," she said before she brought her wrist to her mouth.

She hissed when she bit down, but persisted until she'd gotten her blood to drip steadily from the two small holes. She bent forward and gently lifted his head with her unwounded hand to guide him to her wrist. He winced, his mind was still spinning and an ache had settled into his neck.

"Shh," she cooed as she placed her skin to his lips, "drink, Michael. Take your fill."

After a moment's hesitation, she felt his mouth open to receive the drink she offered him, followed by the sting of her blood being pulled from her body. His brows unfurled and his expression became wanton, though his eyes were still shut. Slowly, but surely, strength spread to each of his limbs with each gulp he took. She let out a hiss when she felt him drink with more fervor than before.

"Careful, Michael. Don't get ahead of yourself," she cautioned as her brow furrowed.

He could hear her quite clearly now and he deliberately disregarded her warning. He brought his hand up to press hers harder into his teeth and lifted himself up as he did so, earning a pained cry from her. She tried in vain to pull her wrist from him, but it was useless. His strength had returned tenfold and she tasted delicious.

"Michael," she whined as she struggled against him.

She began to think she'd made a grave mistake as he continued to drink greedily, causing her to grow dizzy herself. Just as panic started to set in and her heart began to break for fear that she'd mistrusted him, his eyes shot open and wasted no time in locking with her's. Oh, and he saw it. She was finally afraid and more than that, she was terrified. He'd never seen such an expression on her face before, it was beautiful.

"Michael please," she begged, "if you drink too much you'll-"

Kill her, or so he assumed and much to his surprise, that wasn't at all what he wanted. He just wanted her to beg, after all he'd waited so long to hear her do so and she did. Before she'd finished that sentence, he lunged forward to press his lips to her's with brute force. He took his hands to his coveralls and ripped the fabric with one swift tug. He'd get another pair, he thought to himself, they weren't important at the moment. He had woken with an urge to claim her and it couldn't go unsatisfied for a second longer. He'd had her before, but not like this, not in this body, not as an equal. It was new and he wanted, needed to test its limits, if there even were any at all. Michael had thought he'd been the epitome of strength before, but this, what he felt as her blood filled him, this was ecstasy. It was undeniable, he had become the definition of inevitable, he had become death. He felt invigorated, power unlike any he'd felt before had replaced his blood and it rushed through his veins with a vengeance. He felt it with each movement he made, coursing through him like a drug. His whole body felt as though it was buzzing with static energy and she, she finally felt breakable in his grasp. He had every intention to annihilate her, bring her to the brink of death with that newfound method she'd unwittingly handed him and force her to cling to life for want of pleasure only he could give.

With incredible ease, he stood and her legs remained wrapped around his waist, but not for long. He meant good on his word in testing his limits and hurled her into the wall. Wood broke behind her and the expression on her face was oh so satisfying. Normally, she'd smirk, but then and there her chest heaved up and down and her mouth remained agape. She was still quite uncertain of his intentions and she had every right to be. She'd never seen such a look in his eyes before, it was hungry, but for what was the question. After he removed his tattered coveralls, he lunged forward and pinned her against the bent wood as he gave her clothes the same treatment he'd given his own. He discarded them to the side and his hand flew up to her bare chest to feel her soft, cold flesh under his own. His grip was bruising, rough as he buried his face in the crook of her neck and forced her legs open with his knee. He was frenzied and she had no choice but to follow his lead, which she did with that awestruck expression stuck on her face. He rethought their position and reached down with a frustrated growl to yank her legs back in place around his bare waist. He relished in the gasp she let out at the unexpected intrusion of himself inside of her and smiled wickedly when he felt her nails dig into his shoulders. He watched with amusement as her head fell back against the wall and her face contorted to display each sensation he brought her as he allowed her a moment to adjust. Michael, however wasn't known for his patience in such matters, so it wasn't long before he took her jaw in his hand and roughly forced her gaze back to his. He wanted to watch her try and catch her breath as he pounded into her relentlessly, more than anything, he wanted to watch her fail. It wasn't long before she did with her eyes rolled so far back in her head it rendered that orange glow invisible. He only furthered his efforts when he heard the house break behind her. He quite liked the idea of it simply falling apart around them. An undeniable display of his power, no less, but he became distracted as he watched her head bob back against the wall once more. She too seemed distracted, her moans escaping her permanently agape mouth without pause. She was in ecstasy and so lost in it that he knew she wouldn't dare stop him from doing exactly what he wanted to do. He returned his mouth to the crook of her neck, peppering it with kisses that steadily started to sting as he let his teeth find purchase there. Gentle nips soon turned deadly and he buried himself in her, allowing a satisfied groan to slip out when her blood filled his mouth.

"Michael," he heard her stutter out, but in reality it was more of a sound than a word, she couldn't form any to save her life.

It felt far too good to be able to speak coherently. He felt far too good. Between his endeavor to conquer that spot nestled so deeply in her core and the way he drank from her throat as though it were his last offering, she wasn't quite sure she was even conscious. Her vision blurred further each time he forced her farther up the wall with one brutal thrust after another and she waffled between the right word to describe what she felt as her mouth hung open to welcome another bruising kiss. Drunk, high, she wasn't sure, but it was somewhere along the lines of both. In simpler terms, he had fully succeeded in fucking her silly. He had brought her to the brink, just as he'd set out to do and now, Michael wanted to push her past it. When he pulled back to see that drunken smile pulling at her lips, he returned to her throat. He didn't have to look to know her brows had furrowed again, the sound she released confirmed that her face was contorted with pleasure. He had found a place inside of her she wasn't sure anyone had quite discovered before and she'd lived more than a few lifetimes, but none of them ever yielded such passion. When his fingers trailed up to tangle in her hair and force her head back, it was stars she saw painted on the old wooden ceiling. Her orgasm came careening over her in lofty waves, each higher than the one before and Michael still hadn't ceased his assault. He had found a brink of his own with her body clenched so tightly around him, forcing him to chase his own high more adamantly. It was right there within his reach as his head began to spin with that taste of her blood and the sound of her moaning his name. Her voice had become an echo, a breathy hum lost somewhere in the back of his mind as he felt himself fall head first over the edge. He came to an abrupt halt after he'd driven himself so far into her that she was certain she'd feel the consequences in the coming days, possibly even weeks. His breath, that he no longer had any use for, was uneven in her ear as he rested his hands against the wood in search for stability. He unsheathed his new weapons from her neck and his head, like a weight, pulled him to the side. He stumbled and she shook her own head to find some sort of grip on consciousness as she absentmindedly reached to steady him, but her attempt was quite unsuccessful. They both tumbled to the floor, her fall broken by his chest, which she landed on with a thud. Michael was too worn to care that she was on top and really, it no longer mattered. After all, they were equals now, so he let her rest on his bare skin as he stared blankly at the ceiling and focused on evening his breath.

After a good while of silence filled only by their labored pants, she propped herself up on him. Despite the pale coloring his skin had adopted that nearly matched his mask, she could have sworn he was flushed, just as entranced by their affair as she was. He tried to keep his breath steady through his nose, but faltered and allowed his lips to part ever so slightly and she chuckled, earning the attention of his gaze. It was more admiring than usual, for a brief moment it seemed he'd allowed her to see what had gone unspoken between them. She saw it in the red. His eyes matched the blood that trickled down the side of his mouth, they were sinfully scarlet. It seemed more fitting for him, but she was glad the dark hazel coloring she adored would return when his blood lust faded. Though for Michael, did it ever really?

"Well," she started with a sleepy grin, "that's one way to do it."

He abruptly sat up and for a moment, that fear crept back into her, but it dissipated when one of his hands found her cheek. His thumb brushed absentmindedly over her skin as he took her in with those crimson eyes. They wandered aimlessly over her features, as if he couldn't pick just one to focus on. For once, he was glad to see the trepidation she'd had fade. She noticed his lips twitch subtly at the corners and she wondered if it was his attempt at a genuine smile. Whatever it was, it was endearing, intimate in a way that they hadn't been before. When his brows furrowed, she realized he was trying to find words. She waited a moment, curious as his jaw began to clench and his expression seemed to sadden. Though Michael wanted to say it badly, he had no idea how to word it, it all sounded so silly each way he thought about it, but he felt it. It was only right he shared it, no matter how it made him squirm, but his discomfort hadn't gone unnoticed by her.

When a sound began to escape him, she quickly closed the gap between them to press a kiss to his lips and keep him silent. She felt him relax against her, relieved she'd finished his thought in a sense. She pulled back and flashed that fascinating grin that he now shared.

"I love you, is how you word it, Michael."

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