#this is the tamest shit ive written in so long dkhdsg

[korpuskat]

Summary: It was a tabloid craze for a while. A short-lived fever that brought an uneasy fact to public knowledge: serial killers had soulmarks, too. Rating: Teen (? - Background character death, Michael is Michael, no sexual content) WC: 2,272 Warnings: Violence against Reader (mild), Stalking, background character death, Soulmate AU obviously

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It’s late already. You stretch languidly, resign yourself to bed. Tomorrow, maybe, you’ll get lucky and it’ll happen. Hope still lingers, uninvited, deep inside. You turn to leave your living room- your heart catches in your throat.

There’s a man standing in your hallway, face obscured by a white latex mask. Something glints in his hand- flashes as the TV switches to a commercial. A knife. He stands there, the only noise in the room is the humming of your laptop as it shuts down and his heavy, low breathing. Your eyes flick between the blade and the expressionless white mask, try to decipher what’s going on. You already know deep down.

He steps towards you. You have nowhere to go, he blocks the only exit. He raises the knife, loosens and tightens his bloodstained fingers rhythmically over the black handle. He comes even closer, his long legs crossing your room quicker than you want. You stumble back until you’re pressed against the wall, fingers sliding over paint in hope to find, what? A weapon? An escape?

You find nothing, and are left only with the intruder who dominates your living room, who steps ever closer- 

“You’re that serial killer, aren’t you?” The words slip from your mouth. It’s stupid to ask, even stupider when you almost expect a reply. And yet- he stops. He’s close enough you can feel the heat radiate off his body, close enough you can smell the blood that stains his clothes. Slowly, tortuously slow, the mask skews off to the side as he tips his head to the right. Your heart slams in your chest and you don’t know if piquing his curiosity is a good thing. His hold on the knife loosens and by inches, his arm lowers down to his side once more.

You watch, fight the lightheaded panic that threatens to make you faint. Your intruder comes no closer, just stares down at you through darkened eyeholes. His breathing is even, not even the thrill of scaring you has registered in his chest. The same cannot be said of yours; your chest heaves in frantic gasps- the noise nearly drowning out the man’s inhuman calm.

The mask dips and looks you over; the unexpected scrutiny makes you shiver, but fear keeps you pressed to the wall. He stops when he reaches your wrist. The knife lifts- you whimper, look away- the tip digs into your arm. You turn your arm with the pressure, gasp at stinging pain as it leaves a shallow cut in its wake. You keep your eyes screwed shut, strangle sobs before they can leave your lips. You don’t move, can hardly breathe-

The knifepoint leaves your skin, blood drips down your arm, slides warm and slick over your palm. The floorboards creaks only once, you never hear the bootsteps.

You don’t know how long you wait, but long after the chill has set in over your skin you slide down the wall and sob.

The police came when you called, took down notes on your strange encounter. But in truth, they didn’t seem to believe you. One officer dismisses you, “A copycat. Probably got too scared to go through with it. The guy we’re looking for has no mercy, he’d never just leave.”

You nod, mutely. Sure. Makes sense.

The other one- Is that a dog? curled over the right side of his face- clicks his pen closed and hesitates. His partner rolls his eyes. “Just to be sure, did you say anything to him?”

You stare up at them, consider the weight of his words. You shake your head, dispel the possibility from your mind.

The woman on the television drones on, her voice near monotonous, the inflection not changing as she recounts the tragedy behind her. Ambulances’ and police cars’ lights flash blue and red over her face. In high definition you can make out the beginning of text that trails down the center of her neck, between her clavicles, and below the line of her shirt. You tip your head sideways, struggle to read as she speaks: Quite a fa, “The murder was one of several in a spree last night, the perpetrator still at large…”

Your eyes linger on the black text on her neck. It’s fancy, a serif type, but a little loose; the tail of the q has a curvy bounce to it. You wonder if they’ve met yet.

Your skin is warm under your fingertips, the edges of your soulmark raised softly, the cut from the intruder's knife nearly healed. The text over the inside of your left forearm haunts you. The letters span from nearly the crease of your elbow to your wrist. Everyone’s soulmarks are unique, should be something meaningful and poetic: the first words someone who loves you will say to you.

They aren’t always easy. Some people have multiple, one for all the people who love them, who have some cosmic connection to their soul. They don’t always match up, those are the ones that get lots of attention- people whose love is unrequited, will always be unrequited. But at least they usually have multiple marks. 

You only have one. You don’t mind that. It’s simple, you only have to worry about one person loving you.

But the lines are heavy and bold, huge patches of inky black covering your skin. The font is plain and blocky, sans serif and shaky- like its handwritten, but thick and dark. ”That means they really care for you.” Your babysitter had told you when you were young. She was littered with tiny marks, her hands almost jealous as she touched your arm again. ”You must be very special to them. A love like that will last.”

And yet, you can’t find the elation that other people feel when you touch the letters. You don’t listen attentively each day for the special words, don’t get excited each time you meet a new person.

Because your soulmark is your own name.

No special clue given to you to help you figure out when you’d meet them.

For a few years you tried introducing yourself first, cheerful and excited for the first person to respond with your name. Only your name. Nothing else. But each time you’d see the soft fall of the other person’s face, knowing exactly what you were trying for, and the hesitant smile before “That’s a nice name.”

You’ve lost hope. It would have to be your lover’s mark that’s identifiable. You hope at least your first words to whoever it is are something memorable, something better than their name. You follow the letters with your fingers, wonder for the millionth time why they would already know your name. 

You worry more about the real nightmare: you’ve already met them and didn’t know it. If you were too young to really understand, too young to start keeping track of who you’d spoken to before.

The news plays on, switches over to a policeman. There’s a curfew in place while the craziness plays out. But that wasn’t anyone you know, something far away and strange. Absolutely foreign in your tiny town.

You don’t need to hear the description of the murderer to know what has happened.

He isn’t here now, or at least you can’t feel him. You’d seen him- a week after he’d broken into your house. From your window he stood at your back fence. He lingers, uninvited, in your neighborhood- you catch glimpses of a white mask pressed close to trees, of the empty black eyes staring at you from your neighbor’s yard.

He hasn’t tried to break in again- as far as you know. But he would soon enough and you needed to know for sure.

It was a tabloid craze for a while. A short-lived fever that brought an uneasy fact to public knowledge: serial killers had soulmarks, too.

Most killers’ marks could be accounted for. Spouses and partners were all identified- so rarely would a mark go unsolved after they were apprehended. 

So rarely did they help keep children incarcerated.

Your hands shake as you click through links, read page after page until you find a clip of an interview. An older man’s voice plays in your headphones, laid over the mug shot pictures from an arrest.

“We’re not quite sure, actually. He was not a true serial killer until 1978, so we don’t believe he could have met them before that. I have a theory an orderly or nurse may be it, but is too ashamed to come forward. He’s been in captivity for such a long time, they may have even taken the secret to their grave. If the meeting has happened, Michael will never tell us, I know that for certain.”

The man in the picture stares blankly at the camera, betrays no emotion- even with a gauze pad taped over his left eye, another taped to his neck. He’s gorgeous. Brown curls fall around his face haphazardly, nearly hiding his pristine icy blue iris. You stare at it, wish to feel something for the face on your screen. The picture changes- and shows a young man’s chest, the photographic evidence of his identifying mark.

He waits for you. You know as your fingers turn on the lock to your front door that you are not alone in the house. It’s already too late.

You turn- and get a glimpse of white latex. You have just enough time to gasp before huge hands wrap around your upper arms. You drop your bag and he spins you, slams you against the wall so hard you see stars. You blink them away, fight to stay focused on the cracked, dirty mask.

He doesn’t move, only holds you there- it gives you enough time to gather your strength. “It’s me, isn’t it?” A cold chill races over your skin. Another stupid question. You know it already- you saw the photo, the reports, the theories.

Michael Myers doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge your question at all. His hands dig bruises into the flesh of your upper arms, but he makes no further move to hurt you. Even unarmed, you know well enough he’s dangerous. He’s bigger than you, stronger- the text on his chest is the only thing preventing him from killing you now.

You hold your chin up, steel yourself and hope you sound impressive. “Let me see it.”

The mask tilts slowly. You want to know what expression hides behind the latex, but the articles had made it clear enough. There’s nothing at all under that mask. This is not a man.

One hand leaves you, raises up to his chest- your breath catches behind your ribcage. You swallow and watch as he pulls the zipper down halfway. He touches the black shirt under the coveralls and begins to lift. Your eyes flick up to the mask and find him watching you, head still tilted as he waits for your reaction.

Your eyes burn, threaten to break into tears as the same text you’d seen before slides into view. They don’t age, soulmarks- don’t fade or stretch like tattoos. It’s perfectly preserved, the same first phrase photographed on his chest back in 1963. You raise your hand to touch it, instinctively- to feel the raised edges of black fate.

It’s broken into three lines, set over his left pectoral. The font is shaky, hand-written, but dark. Not nearly as wide as yours, but its existence alone was traitorous enough.

You’re that serial killer aren’t you?

Undeniable proof, somehow- somehow you loved him. Would love him.

You touch the edge of the question mark- you cry out as your wrist is slammed back to the wall, pain shoots up your arm. His shirt falls back down, obscuring the writing once more. You don’t bother looking to the mask, just close your eyes and let your head hang in defeat. You would love him, you were cosmically destined to-

His thumb slides over the last letter on your arm. You look up and find him staring at your arm again- reading your own name over and over.

He hasn’t spoken to you yet. Alertness returns all at once, a rush of adrenaline makes you inhale sharply. You might love him, but that doesn’t mean- 

“It might not be you.” You say before you can think better of it. The words tumble freely, wetness blurring your eyes. “Please, please, don’t. I could still… It could be someone else, please.”

He keeps your wrist pinned to the wall- his other hand raises to his throat. He hooks his thumb under the mask and pulls.

He’s aged since his mug shot. Gray stubble covers his neck and chin. He lifts further and reveals pink lips and a large, strong nose. Another tug and it finally comes off entirely, Michael drops the mask to the floor- and you can only stare at his eyes. Through tears you can make out the same icy blue as his mug shot, the left one half-lidded and scarred, a faint ring of blue visible under the milk white scar of his cornea.

He’s expressionless, utterly blank as he leans in close.

“Please,” You beg, feel the tears slip past your eyelashes and run hot over your cheeks. Michael does not acknowledge them.

His stubble scratches your cheek, his breathe hot on your ear as he breathes. A knot forms in your belly, you twist your fingers into the loose material of his coveralls, his arms raising to bracket you tightly between them. There’s no escape- he inhales slowly.

His voice is low and hoarse and scratchy as you begin to sob.