TEETH | Michael Myers
blood fest 〉 week one
You can't say it wasn't, in its own way, thoughtful.
Or: Michael brings you a gift
WARNINGS: mild gore, mild sexual themes, mild violence, Michael being Michael, gender neutral reader (but mild feminine adjacent language used extremely briefly), slight Dom!Michael
KEYWORDS: Wicked. Rain
NOTES: i left the version of Myers (OG, RZ, Peepaw) extremely vague so you can pick your own Michael poison.
this is also my first writing challenge. i hope you enjoy 🖤
He comes to you covered in blood that's rarely ever his own.
The veracity of that statement has become ingrained inside of you to where you have quickly learned to stop worrying, to stop fussing over him, whenever you round the corner, and catch sight of the man in your foyer drenched in ichor, and dripping gore on the carpet.
It's not quite a routine, but it's – something.
Not rare enough to be considered sporadic. Not frequent enough to be anything quotidian in your life. His visits linger somewhere in the unspoken fringes. A truism, yet hardly anything banal.
(A visit from the boogeyman could hardly ever be considered commonplace.)
While the biblical rain this weekend has washed most of the viscera away, he's still soaked in it, covering every inch except his latex mask. It's almost preternatural how it manages to stay free of blood, of carnage.
He shakes his head like a giant, wet dog, splattering pink droplets of diluted townsfolk over your living room. Your mouth knots when it lands on the new cream-coloured Sherpa throw you bought, but you have enough sense to say nothing about it.
It's not like he'll listen, anyway.
He has a remarkable ability to hear everything and yet absolutely nothing at the same time. Cherry-picking. You say, don't get blood on the linoleum, and he hears it as get blood all over the linoleum.
Or maybe he just purposefully ignores you, and does what he wants.
(That one is far more likely than the rest.)
You bite your tongue, saying nothing. He won't care, and it certainly won't stop him the next time he comes.
The pat-pat-pat of something hitting the floor draws your eye to his hands. His bloodied fist is clenched loosely by his side. The awkward, bulging shape of it makes you wonder if he hurt his palm.
"Are you–?"
His hand lifts, a meandering incline until it's pitched in front of you, unwavering. You gawk at the blood soaked knuckles in your face, uncomprehending, and then up to him. He gives nothing away. Bland impassivity colours the crescent outline of his eyes through the tenebrous holes of his mask. Blank. Unbothered.
"Michael, I don't know what you want."
His head tilts, chin dipping in a way that means you've displeased him. He's impatient now. Surely, his wordless, confusing actions are enough for you to interpret.
You huff, rolling your eyes back down to his outstretched hand. Something about his palm. He has something in it. He's trying to give you something –
Ah.
Oh.
You shiver. Michael doesn't often bring gifts with him. It's only ever happened once before. Something you try – very hard – to forget.
He lingered in the doorway one evening, watching you at your vanity. You didn't think he was paying much attention to you; before when Michael watched you, you just thought it was a scare tactic. That he wasn't observant.
A mindless killing machine.
How wrong you were.
His eyes tracked the way you picked up the delicate opal earrings you'd gotten from your parents that year, sliding off the brass back with care before dropping it on a cloth to keep it from running off. His gaze never waved when you tilted your chin, fingers tugging on your lobe to line the post up with the hole. Slipping it in with a small wince when it caught on your tender skin. Reaching for the back to keep it in place.
He watched as you marvelled at the pretty gem in your ear before doing the same to the other one.
It was easy to mistakenly believe he was just there, looming as always. Or maybe it reminded him of something his mum used to do. Whatever it was that ensnared his attention, it didn't matter much to you.
You forgot all about it until he came back with his first gift. A pair of earrings.
(With the ears still attached.)
You shudder. "Oh… um…"
How do you refuse the gift of a serial killer without becoming his next victim?
You don't. You can't.
Swallowing thickly, you try to peer into the eyeholes that fix themselves to your face, catching every glimmer, every expression, that passes. The abstruse abyss reveals nothing. Impatience radiates off of him. If presence alone was a physical thing, Michael Myers' might just suffocate you.
It's a struggle to hide your grimace, the horror at what you might uncover, but it's all for nought. He catches it, anyway. His chin tilts again, lowering so that he can see into your eyes.
You're not an expert at reading his body language, but you managed to pick up on a few of his idiosyncratic behaviours with each visit from the boogeyman. He's curious. You might even go so far as to proclaim him amused. Luridly so.
Each shiver, tremble, wince, and shudder you give is observed with this slight decline of his chin. You can't even begin to understand how he ticks – Michael Myers is an enigma to you – but you know he enjoys your fear. He likes catching you unawares, likes it when you jump at his sudden appearance.
It's a truism, now.
One that often ends with you underneath him, bracketed by his thick, firm biceps, hands perched as close to your temples as possible. Sometimes, if you've greatly entertained him, he'll wrap his hand around your throat, almost purring as he stares down at you, watching your soundless gasp, the way you claw, futility, at his wrist. He likes when you struggle. Likes when you give him the opportunity to chase you. To hunt you down.
It's effortless for him to haul you back where he wants you, slamming the end of the blade into the end table, right where you can see it. Always within your periphery. And then he takes you. Bites your neck, and collarbone. The inside of your wrist. Thighs. All marked with the impression of his teeth, stained in a ring of black, and leaking blood onto the sheets. He'll press your raw thighs to his hips, holding them there so you can feel him grazing the irritated flesh with each controlled, brutal thrust into your body. It makes you yowl, an amalgamation of pain and pleasure wracking through you with such visceral intensity that you often sob into his shoulder, clutching his wrist in a desperate attempt to get some respite. Some reprieve.
It never comes. You're his conquest—a prize for him to take, to claim.
He likes your pain too much to stop. Enjoys the bloodied mess he makes of you. Likes, even more, when he pries your aching thighs apart, head cocking to the side as he watches his release seep out of you, joining the blood that soaks the sheets below.
Michael takes. And takes.
It's very rare that he ever gives.
Another shudder rolls through you, eyes fluttering at the memory of his last gift, and how he sought gratitude from your body after.
(There's a hole in the drywall from where he slammed you, a touch too hard, into the wall with the brutal way he pounded you, bloodied earrings dangling from your ears.)
Michael huffs. The noise is amplified by the mask's acoustics, a ragged exhale. He's waited long enough, it tells you.
You can't stall any longer.
You don't bother trying to hide your grimace when you slide the cup of your palms under his fist, feeling the steady beats of the blood dripping onto your skin. Another steady huff. Amusement. He relishes your disgust.
His gaze never strays from you when his fist unfurls, fingers splaying wide. He watches, dark eyes boring into your own as you feel the first clump of whatever he's given you fall into your palm.
You hold his eyes for a moment longer, unwilling to look down and see what small objects he's brought you. It's better to look into this cerulean abyss, into the gaping maw of a monster, than it is to see what awaits below.
But Michael tires of your avoidance. He's eager for you to see.
It's only when his head leans forward, lids lowering only slightly, do you break the intense stare.
You can't quite make sense of the little clumps in your palm, or the ones that slowly loosen from the congealed blood on his hand, falling into yours. They're small, white.
Pomegranate seeds. He's giving you fruit.
Oh.
You begin to smile, wondering when he had the time to flesh the fruit, and why he kept it clenched in his hand for so long, but it fades quickly when the last one falls from his palm.
The blood has mostly dried, and the object sitting on the top of the pyramid has little covering it. There is no mistaking what his gift is.
Michael lowers his hand, letting it fall to his side. He doesn't clench his fists, he keeps them half furled. Relaxed.
But the look in his eye belies the bland nonchalance of his countenance.
His gaze is unyielding, rapacious. Hungry.
In your palm sits teeth.
Human teeth. Some of them are still attached to the roots, and from the indents on his first knuckles and fingertips, you can easily surmise that he wrenched them out of the jaw with that very hand. You swallow hard, bile rising up your oesophagus. Guilt, terror – both spume in your chest, a dizzying, almost noxious compound that nearly smothers you with its unparalleled rue.
But why? Why teeth?
It clicks, then, when the lightning outside the rain drenched window catches on the flash of gold on one of the incisors.
Michael sees everything. Notices more than you might expect.
He is always watching you. Always. He's there, lurking, hiding in the shadows. At first, you thought he was just terrible at stalking. You could see him, you knew he was there.
It was only when he disappeared from your periphery that you realised all those times when you saw him across the street, standing half hidden behind the door frame, garish mask catching in the black of your television as he lurked behind you, it was intentional. Michael wanted you to see him. To know he was there.
You relaxed when he was gone, thinking he must have gotten bored and wandered off. The tension in your posture dissipated. You greeted the locals, the guilt of having him waiting for you at home was gone. It was easier to breathe without his presence suffocating you.
One man, in particular, approached you after your shift finished. You smiled at him. He grinned back, gold tooth gleaming in the ochre sunset.
It started innocuously. An older man stopping you to speak wasn't uncommon. It was nothing that hadn't happened before. You listened, a brush impatient, as he introduced himself, and asked if you wanted to get a drink.
You're cute, he grinned again, leaning against the door of your car. I wanna get to know you.
You didn't think when you responded. It was all routine. A polite, impassive smile, slightly strained around the edges, eyes demuring to show your feigned contrition. Sorry, I have a boyfriend.
Sometimes it works. They raise their hands, a little disappointed, and nod in understanding, respectful of your choices, and comprehending of your unavailability.
Sometimes, however, it doesn't.
He doesn't need to know. A wink. A cloy smile. I don't see him anywhere around here, anyway.
You lost count of all the ways you said no without actually saying the word, too afraid of causing a scene, or of being noticed. You didn't want that kind of attention when your house was a steady crime scene, and a myth lurked in your foyer, eating all your cereal.
Your smile waned. Please, I'm not interested.
You get it now.
He scared you. With the wolfish grin, the firm hand he kept on your car door, the way he invaded your space, intentionally bringing himself closer and closer to you until your bodies were a scant hair away. It forced you from the handle. You kept taking a step back, away from the safety of your car. The gleam in his eye was wicked; his intentions vile, disgusting.
His hand closed around your jaw, squeezing until your mouth opened. When the flash of your teeth was revealed, he smirked. There ya go, smile more for me, hon. His thumb brushed across your bottom lip, making you tremble.
You only escaped when the security guard wandered around the corner, giving you a chance to flee.
Michael is infinitely complex and entirely inscrutable. You can't really understand him, or how he ticks, but you grew accustomed to his peculiarities – and his sense of humour.
He's giving you the man's teeth – the same ones he used to smile at you, to scare you. Something that only Michael is allowed to do.
(You're sure, then, that somewhere in your house you'll find the man's hands. The same ones he used to touch you.)
His chin dips again when you smile, taking in the wobbly edge to it, the tension in your shoulders. Your voice catches in your throat, tremulous, drenched in the coalescence of your fear, your uncertainty, and your gratitude.
However wicked the boogeyman might be, however vile and evil, you can't ignore the thrum in your chest when he's near. You, paradoxically, feel safer under his gaze. Under him.
He holds his palm out to you again, waiting.
When he'd given you the earrings, you'd been shaken. Terrified. Unsure what to do, you kissed his hand.
It's become a thing, an expectation. Whenever he does something for you, he expects a kiss on his palm.
But –
It's covered in blood. Saliva. Gore.
You reach out, fingers curling over the thickness of his wrist – so much larger than your own – and pull his hand close to you. He watches, bland, expectant. His eyes – vacant, stormy – narrow when instead of pressing your lips to his flesh, you pull his hand up to your neck, setting his heartline flush against your thundering pulse.
It's a break in what has, unfortunately, become the norm, but his hand is slimy on your neck, reeking already of rot. You won't put your mouth there, where you can feel the pocks in his flesh from the teeth he ripped out with his bare hand on your skin. You'll show him your appreciation in another way.
(Hopefully, this one doesn't end with another hole in the wall.)
Michael considers this, his head angling to the side as he takes in the contrast of his bloodied hand and your smooth, clean neck. He tips it the other way. A new angle. A new thought.
A huff, then. He finds what he's looking for.
His fingers stretch out, thumb pressing into your jugular as the others curl around the nape of your neck, index finger settling behind your ear. His hand is massive. His grip is tight. Choking. You gasp weakly when the tip of his thumb digs into the small knob on your throat. Phosphenes spume across your vision.
Your hand barely fits around his wrist when you grab his flesh. You'll never get him to stop – you're not strong enough to ever dislodge him from your body; his grip is ironclad. Your bones are fragile in his hold. Holding him like this is to ground yourself. To find a strange, almost anomalous comfort in the steady thud of his heart beating against his pulse point. Touching him like this reminds you Michael is human, despite how much you believe otherwise. Flesh, bone. You find kinship in the warmth of his skin.
"Michael," you croak, head spooling with the thick gossamer of hypoxia. Tears flood your eyes at the pressure, the lack of air. "Thank you."
Your head hits the wall when he shoves you back, the bulk of his body nearly suffocating as he looms over you. His flesh is burning, his hand nearly searing the skin of your thigh when he grabs it, fingers digging into the plush give of your body. His grasp is harsh enough to bruise the bone. Your leg aches already. Throat throbbing from the force of his hold.
You're sure, then, that you won't be able to walk tomorrow much less swallow.
Michael is often mistaken as cold. Indifferent. Despite his vacant gaze, you can feel the heaviness of his desire curling over you; a thick haze of palpable hunger that leaks out of the bruising press of his body flushed against yours.
His other hand falls, fingers curling over your thigh. He lets you breathe for a moment, let's the anticipation simmer in your hazy stare until he's had his fill of it. Then, he squeezes. His fingers burrow into your skin, rupturing the capillaries under blood blooms under your flesh in the perfect replica of his handprint.
Michael hikes your thigh up, locking it around his hip, and drives into you with enough force to rattle the wall, shaking the pictures loose. They fall to the ground, shattering into pieces. The sound is dulled under the harsh, angry pants aerated from the holes of his mask; the cacophony of his want, his wild, untameable desire.
He towers over you. His wide chest expands with each deep, ragged inhale, filling your vision until nothing remains but Michael, and his unfettered hunger.
Desire and anger are one in the same with Michael. His fury reeks of his impatience to be inside of you; his need to cudgel into your body with thrusts that are too similar to the way he hunts, maims, to ever be a mere coincidence. He takes his aggression out in the softness of your flesh, leaving behind the brand of his claim. His ownership.
You'll never escape him. Never run from him.
His want for you is apoplectic. Your fate was sealed the moment you caught the boogeyman's interest.
(they told you, didn't they? don't let the boogeyman see you.)
His thumb moves from your jugular, huffing when you gasp for air, eyes nearly rolling into the back of your head as oxygen fills your lungs in a deluge. He's not gentle when he slides it across your skin, nail catching on the curve of your jaw, but it's as soft as he'll allow, as he's capable of.
Rotting blood is smeared across your skin. His eyes trace the trail, narrowing when the tip of his thumb hits the slope of your pouting lip.
You know what he wants. What he always wants.
And you can never deny him. You should have known better from the start.
Your jaw drops, lips parting for him.
All you get in response is another deep inhale. A bland acknowledgement. But the fever in his gaze nearly consumes you in its fire.
He wanted a kiss. Wanted to see your lips stained red with the fruits of his effort. You didn't allow him that.
So, he takes.
His thumb slips over the bump of your lip, resting the first knuckle on the fleshy bed, and he waits. He knows, now, that you will obey.
Your mouth closes without preamble, puckering around the tip of his thumb, catching the crimson congealing on his flesh where it sits like a macabre lipgloss on your skin.
You can feel his excitement as it bludgeons into your core, jerking at the gentle kiss. The hard thickness of him makes you whimper in response, lashes fluttering shut as a molten want gnaws inside of you.
He tastes of iron when your tongue laps over his flesh, and you find you quite like the taste.
His gifts might be macabre remnants of his unhinged carnage, leftovers from his icy warpath, his insatiable need to tear into flesh until the stench of death permeates in the miasma around him. You might be dragged along to the pits of hell for letting this untameable quietus into your home, your bed, your body, your heart, but when he ruts into you like he's starved for the feel of your flesh, you can't help but to take an ungodly amount of pleasure from the horrible things he gives you.
He takes. And takes. And when he gives –
He makes sure to let the world know it was him, and him alone, who gave it to you.
It's awful. Horrible, even. Vile. Any number of debauched things. But despite the morality of letting a murderer fuck you senseless into a blood soaked mattress until you're screaming hymns in his name, you're already looking forward to the next gift he brings for you.
(You just wish he would give you something that wasn't still attached to a person.)
–its my personal headcanon that Michael Myers absolutely gets off on terrifying people, but no one more so than whoever catches his attention. Mikey likes you? you better prepare yourself because this man is going to psychologically torture you as a form of foreplay and/or courtship. but ONLY Mikey is allowed to scare you. that horror movie you watched that made you jump? you find it destroyed in your living room. better not go to a haunted house or you'll have a massacre on your hands.
–he also gives terrible gifts. tell him you like someone's shirt, well. he gives you the shirt. cute. but it comes with their torso. coo at some birds? you find bloodied feathers all over your porch. he's a menace. and make no mistake – he knows this absolutely terrifies you. he likes that.
Thank you for reading~