synopsis: You were unique—not in the quirky sense because that was just cringe—but you were unkillable. Ask the boogeyman himself if you don't believe it. After multiple attempts at ending your life, you came back and continued 'haunting' his ass. You found the whole situation amusing and not so secretly flirted with the boogeyman himself.
He’s stabbed you. Shot you. Set you on fire once, just to see if your scream would be real this time. It wasn’t. You just laughed—sprawled in the ashes, face blackened with soot, and gave him a wink through scorched lashes.
“Still no dice, Mikey. Getting warmer, though.”
Michael Myers doesn’t speak. Everyone knows that. But if he did, you’re pretty sure by now, he’d be screaming. You’ve been following him for years—immortal, untouchable, and, according to Laurie Strode, “insane in an entirely new way.” But how could you not be intrigued? The man was death itself.
And you were the one thing he couldn’t end.
That pissed him off. You could tell.
Tonight was no different.
He slammed you against a blood slicked wall in an abandoned farmhouse, the glint of his butcher knife flashing in the broken moonlight. You didn’t resist. You never did. His hand gripped your throat like a vice and you smiled.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
He drove the blade straight into your chest—your sternum cracked like dry wood, lungs collapsing. You coughed, giggled, then licked the corner of your mouth.
“God, you’re strong. That almost felt like something.”
He yanked the knife free. Blood painted your shirt. You kept smiling and reached up, brushing your fingers along his coverall sleeve. He didn’t flinch. He never flinched. But you felt it: a shift in tension, a pause that stretched into something curious.
You leaned closer and pressed a kiss to the cool rubber cheek of his mask. It didn’t feel like much but the act did. “I think you like me.” you whispered into his silence.
The next second, you were on the floor, knife back in your gut, boot pressing on your neck. “Okay, okay, mixed signals. I get it.” You grinned through your teeth. “But you know what’s funny, Michael?”
He didn’t respond. Of course not. “I’m the only one who doesn’t scream when you come near. I don’t run. And no matter what you do, I’m still here.”
Your body convulsed once. He waited. You went limp. And then—pop—your eyes opened. “Boo.” You stood up with a dramatic groan, plucked the knife from your ribs with a squelch, and handed it back hilt-first. “Here. You dropped this.”
His fingers curled around it.
You leaned in again, your lips brushing the edge of the mask near where his ear would be. “You’re obsessed with killing. I’m obsessed with you. That makes us soulmates, right?”
Michael raised the blade and hesitated. You didn’t. You touched his chest this time, palm flat. Right over his heart.
It was beating.
Slow.
Steady.
And just a little too fast.
You smirked. “Admit it, Mikey. You’ve tried to kill me every way you can think of, and I still make it back in time for dessert. Maybe deep down, you like having someone you can’t break.”
No response. Just breathing. Slow, audible. Heavy through the mask. Then his gloved hand snapped out, but it didn’t wrap around your throat this time. It curled behind your neck.
And pulled you forward.
Your lips grazed the cold cheek of his mask again. Almost a kiss.
Almost.
Then he shoved you away, turned, and vanished into the dark like he always did. But you were laughing. You wiped blood off your chin, face split in a grin as wide as a crescent moon.
