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In the Boogeyman's house

Chapter Text

You stood there, frozen, unable to look away from the Shape. He didn’t move either, staring back at you, can in hand, illuminated by the fridge door light.

Unable to cope with the possible gravity of the situation, your mind broke. You laughed, your sense of self preservation replaced with hysteria. You weren’t hungry anymore.

“Damn it Michael, if you’re gonna drink all the Dr Pepper, at least let me know so I can buy some more.”

You were almost sure he shifted, maybe that was a slight nod.

Regardless, why the fuck were you still alive? There was no way he wouldn’t kill you if this were reality.

That meant this was a dream.

“Well thanks for the scare Krueger, but I’ve had just about enough of this dream.”

Well, this definitely wasn't Freddy's doing, as that stinky pepperoni man was absolutely just a legend, it felt funny to blame another killer for the other's sudden appearance.

Michael cocked his head. You guess even in the dream world, Michael was oblivious to who Krueger was.

“Ha ha, well I’m gonna go back to bed now. Seeya later Michael.”

And with that, you turned around and lumbered back upstairs.






When morning came by, you groaned. You were oh so very hungry, your stomach feeling like a cavern ready to implode. That dream had been right, you were without a doubt, hungry.

So you stretched and yawned and opened up your eyes and screamed.

Michael Myers was standing beside your bed, looming over you.

Oh, you must still be dreaming. Doing your best to remain calm, you pinched yourself, your surprise turning to horror as nothing but pain happened.

This was real, he was real, and he was currently towering over your prone form.

You didn’t scream again though. Instead, you turned to look at him, to stare back at the eyeholes are burrowed into your soul.

“Hi Michael.”

He didn’t move. You were almost not sure if he had even heard you.

“Thanks for not killing me?”

You swore he shifted slightly, but honestly you had no idea if he did or not. All you did know is the kitchen knife he was supposedly known for wielding was not in his hand. Although from what you heard, he didn’t need a blade to be deadly.

The absence of the knife was still comforting though.

“Uh, so I’m gonna get up and get something to eat okay? If you’re not gonna kill me then I need food to stay alive.”

Still no reaction. At least he didn’t seem to be saying no.

Cautiously, you slid out from under the covers, unable to take your eyes away from him. Getting on your feet, you stood before him, heart pounding in your chest.

Wow he was fucking tall.

Carefully, you inched your way away from him, slowly making your way to your bedroom door. Still no reaction thankfully, apart from turning his head to follow your movements.

Once out the door, you resisted the urge to run, knowing it would likely be futile anyways. Would probably make him angry too. And well, you were still alive, so you didn’t really feel like taking your chances.

Heading down the stairs, you turned around, seeing no one behind you. Huh, guess he wasn’t gonna follow you.

Today felt like a cereal day.

So grabbing a box of honey nut cheerios and some milk, you made yourself a big bowl of the goods. After all, your hunger was still knawing And clawing at you, and you needed to take that beast.

You ate much faster than you thought would, finishing the bowl quickly, satiating the monster within. Satisfied, you got up to put away your dishes, only to almost drop them and shriek.

He was standing directly behind you.

“H-holy fucking shit Michael, you nearly gave me a heart attack. Please, don’t do that again.”

He just stood there, menacingly.

Well, just about as much of an answer you expected to get out of him. And by that you meant none.

At least you were still alive.

Laughing nervously, you continued on past him, putting the dishes in the sink and the food away. He continued to watch you, and thankfully, that was all he was doing right now.

You needed to get dressed. After all, you were going to go shopping today, and yaint gonna do that in your pajamas.

So you prompt went upstairs to change.

Michael didn’t seem to follow, or at least, wasn't going to whileyou were looking, if last time taught you anything. You weren’t sure if it was because he liked watching you jump, or some other weird reason. Regardless, it wasn’t fun.

You closed the bedroom behind you just in case. Plus you didn’t really want him to see you naked.

Quickly, you stripped off your sweaty pajamas for something decent and comfortable. You were just going to the supermarket, no need to dress to impress.

Michael probably didn’t give a shit what you were wearing anyways.

As you went to leave your room, you hesitated, hand motionless on the door handle. He was probably standing direct behind it, and you didn’t feel like having a third heart attack today.

So you squatted down, looking under the door for signs of him on the other side. And sure enough, two shadows side by side, close to the door.

You got up, sighed, and slowly opened the door.

Yep, there he was, basically standing right in the doorway. Oh, and blocking you from getting out.

You couldn’t help but check his hands again. Still empty. Your pulse slowed.

“Hi Michael.” Your voice quivered slightly, knowing that if he didn’t move, you were basically trapped.

“Do you mind, ya know, moving to the side?”

No response.

“Could you please move?”

Still nothing.

“You’re blocking the doorway.”

Zilch.

“I can’t get past you.”

Nada.

“Michael, I’d like to leave my room now.”

Nope, looks like he decided you were stuck in there now.

You sighed, throwing up your hands in defeat. Great. Fantastic. Not only did you discover Michael McFucking Myers ain't dead, but he decided to trap you in your room by standing in your doorway like a stone wall.

As you turned back to look at him, Michael shifted slightly, before finally, taking a step back and a little off to the side.

Oh. Okay.

You blinked as if you doubted reality, but nope, he had actually decided to move out of the way.

So not wanting to wait around for him to possibly change his mind, you left your room at a mildly brisk pace.

“Thanks.”

As you grabbed your car keys, you suddenly considered never coming back. Well, you might lose your entire house and all your possessions, but you had your car and wallet with you, and didn’t have to wait until Michael decided he was done with you.

Hopefully he wouldn’t track you down to the ends of the earth like that one girl. Being the next Laurie didn’t sound like fun.

You wondered if she was still alive.

Regardless, you wanted to leave now. So without a glance behind you, you reached for your front door.

A hand wrapped around your mouth and face.

You couldn’t scream, you could barely even think to scream, and they would be muffled if you tried. The back of your head collied with what you assumed was his chest, other arm wrapped around your torso, holding you tight against him.

Survival instinct kicking into high gear, you squirmed in his grip, but he held you firm, as easy as a parent holding a temper-tampering toddler. You ciuld do nothing, completely at his mercy.

The hand ‘round ypur mouth came loose from you, and you paused, knowing it wasn’t because you had struggled enough to be free from it. No, instead it reappeared in your vision, with the cold gleam of a blade within it.

You were going to die.

Your knees grew weak as the overdose of fear and adrenaline racked your body, a spell of dizziness falling over you, vision going spotty.

You were going to die.

You hadn’t even considered screaming, now that you were free to speak. Instead, you gave up struggling, growing limp and weak in his embrace, as tears began to spill from your eyes.

You were going to die.

“I’m sorry Michael, I didn’t mean to invade your home.” You sniffled, your nose starting to run. “I don’t want to die.”

The blade drew near and the world went black.

You fainted in his arms.

Chapter Text

You woke up, feeling a little woozy, groaning as you stretched. Your blinked your eyes open, the last thing you remember slowly coming back to you.

Michael Myers had tried to kill you. But you were alive. Which meant that fantastic experience was all but a dream. And what a fucking dream you had, almost as if it was-

A sudden sense of déjà vu washed over, and you slowly turned to look to the side of your bed.

Yep, there he was, just standing there, watching you sleep. Fantastic. You applauded yourself for not screaming this time.

But in the meantime, how and why the fuck were you alive? The last thing you remembered was him pulling your very shiny kitchen knife out and pointing it towards you. So what, did fainting save your life?

Should you pretend to fall asleep right now?

Your gaze trailed down to his hands, and you spotted said knife held lax in his right. And it was covered in blood.

Wait, did he actually stab you?

As you moved to sit up, you suddenly noticed an aching and wetness on your chest. Whipping your covers off, you found the bottom left of your shirt soaked in blood, the clothing sticking to your stomach.

Oh, that’s why you felt lightheaded.

Nervously, you peeled back the clothing, surprised to not find a gaping hole in your gut, but something you hadn’t expected.

Right to the left of your bellybutton, carved into your flesh, was the letters MM.

Did, did he fucking carve his initials into you?

“Hey Michael what the fu-"

As you turned your head to look at him, you realized he was gone. You hadn’t even seen him leave in the corner of your eye. It was as if he had vanished.

You weren’t sure if his disappeance made you feel better or worse.

At least he had the decency to put you back in bed. Even though your sheets were now stained in blood. It looked as if he hadn’t even tried to clean you up.

He probably didn’t know how to treat a wound, but he sure knew how to apply them.

Cautiously, you got to your feet, still feeling loopy from blood loss. Stumbling over to the bathroom, you peeled back the shirt once more to better assess the wound.

It was deeper than you realized, but not deep enough to reach your guts. Definitely was going to scar, which was probably his intent, and you kinda hoped it would. He might try to mark you again if it didn’t, and you weren't sure you’d survive round 2.

Stripping off your stained clothes, you got to work cleaning the wound. You unfortunately hadn’t accounted ever receiving a cut like this, so for now, you slapped some finding nemo bandaids all over it.

Well at least you were going shopping.

Changing into a fresh set of not-bloodstained clothes, you carefully made your way down the stairs, beelining for the kitchen. Barely having an idea for how to make up for blood loss, you said “fuck it”, and proceeded to down the entire carton of apple juice.

Another item added to your shopping list.

Hoping that the apple blood and the entire cast of finding nemo would keep you alive long enough to get you why you needed, you headed once more for the front door, but stopped.

Hand still on the handle, you turned around, expecting to see the Shape looming behind you once more. You couldn’t be more thankful he was nowhere in sight.

“I’m gonna go grocery shopping, I’ll be back.” You paused. Maybe you shouldn't have announced you were trying to leave again to him. Then again, if he wanted to stop you, he probably would’ve done it right now. “Please try to clean up while I'm gone.”

And with that, you turned around and left, thankful no big rough hands grabbed you by the throat before you closed the front door behind you.

Chapter Text

It had been a nightmare trying to calm down the cashier when Dory decided to fail you and another shirt started to get ruined. You had tried tour best to calm the panicking cashier, but hey, at least you got two litres of free orange juice out of it.

So with some proper medical equipment at your disposal, you drove as quickly and as safely as you could back home. You didn’t want to find out if Nemo was gonna bail on you next.

You didn’t even bother to lock the door behind you as you ran in and upstairs with your new supplies in hand.

As you ran upstairs, you decided to glance into your room, only to see disappointment.

Michael hadn’t done shit.

Good thing you’d decided to grab a jug of bleach.

With a more urgent task at hand, you headed into the bathroom and proceed to carefully remove every limited edition bandaid and toss it in the trash. You tried not a feel like your tossed a piece of your childhood as you reassessed the gouged in your midsection.

Yep, they were definitely gonna scar. At least some of it had crusted up and stopped bleeding, but you were starting to feel dangerously woozy.

You hurriedly cleaned the wound, bracing through the sting of alcohol, and wrapping it as securely as you could. Hoping that would hold, you clumsily screwed the cap off your bonus juice and chugged.

You tried your best to ignore the stars that danced before your eyes.

Legs feeling weak, you somehow managed to place the jug upright, as you body went limp and for vision faded. Again.

And hopefully, this wouldn’t be your last.

When you finally came to, you felt relief, the comfort of not being dead causing you to remain unfazed by the figure towering over you prone body.

“Oh. Hey Michael.”

As usual he said fuck all.

“Not sure if you were trying to kill me but congrats, you got close.”

He titled his head down a bit more, as if he was trying to get a better look at said wound.

“Also do you know how to clean sheets cuz I feel like shit and it’s your fault they’re stained.”

You weren’t sure if he huffed or not, but it sounded like there might've been a stutter in his breaths. He probably didn’t.

“Cool.”

You slowly sat up, careful and still a little dizzy. Spotting the half empty jug of now slightly warmer juice, you picked it up and finished it off.

Placing the now empty container down with a sigh, you glanced behind you to find him still there, still watching you. You weren't sure what he wanted, but at least he didn’t seem to be holding the knife this time.

“Also not sure if you noticed, but I bought some more Dr Pepper. It should still be in the grocery by downstairs.”

No reaction. Maybe he’d found that already. I mean, from what you read, this man was a stalker extraordinaire. He'd probably dug through your groceries the moment you were out of sight.

Wobbly, you got up onto your feet, making a lackluster attempt to leave the room. Once again, tall, dark and silent remained where he was, only this time, there was enough space to squeeze past him.

“I’m uh, just gonna squeeze by you, unless you move out of the way.”

No reaction.

“Alrighty then.”

So with a huff, you tired your best to slip past the mass murderer, somewhat pressing yourself against him. And he remained like a statue, only moving his head slightly to keep you in his sights.

You brushed against something vaguely knife shaped on his leg and tried not to panic.

Successfully making it past the immovable object known as Michael Myers, you decided to head back to bed. You didn’t want to strain yourself being up and about so quickly after losing so much blood, and still felt quite tired.

As you headed to bed, you were quickly reminded that it was not an option, and that Michael was not great at taking responsibility. Or he just hated cleaning.

You sighed loudly (to make sure he could hear you), and headed downstairs.

Today would be a lazy day then. Lay on the couch with some popcorn and watch Netflix. Besides, one of your friends had insisted you watch more anime.

As you shoveled the popped kernels into your mouth, you couldn’t help but glance behind you, a chill running down your spine. He was probably watching you. Then again, you didn’t really expected him to do anything else. He seemed like he wasn’t gonna clean up the mess he made anyways.

You just hoped he was satisfied with your new scar.

Chapter Text

“You alright? You seem kinda dead on your feet.”

You almost didn’t hear him speak, tired and feeling like you only had a couple of braincells left. Dwight looked at you with concern, as you kinda stared back at him blankly, you brain trying to process what he had just said.

“Oh, yeah. Just didn’t sleep very well, had to deal with some shit.”

You were probably on some sort of FBI watch list after searching up multiple ways to clean blood out of your sheets and carpet. He had cleaned up your jellybeans, but not your blood?

Then again maybe he had a fucking blood fetish or some shit. Although blood was a lot harder to clean up then some spilled candy.

And he ruined two good shirts.

You were definitely tempted to have a few choice words with him when you got home, but you weren’t quite confident enough in remaining alive afterwards.

“You wanna talk about it.”

Yes. You really wanted to complain about the murder man you shared a home with, but you weren’t in the mood for dripping that bombshell, nor had enough energy to deal with the aftermath.

“Maybe later. Right now I wanna make it through my shift while I can still stand on two feet.”

A chuckle. “Thanks fair. You know how to contact me if you wanna complain.”

You smiled at him. Dwight was a usually meek and nervous lad, probably an easy target for assholes. You wondered if he had been bullied back in highschool. He was nice though, and came out of his shell once you two became friends. After all, nothing made two people bond better than complaining about your shitty job together.

You would admit he did kinda look like a loser when you first saw him, but if anything that made you wanna be his friend more.

“Thanks.”

You almost burnt your hands immediately afterwards. Fun.






Life hadn’t quite reached normalcy since you discovered a serial killer was living in your house. Or technically his house. Used to be his house. Whatever, you both lived on the home now.

Your side had stopped aching after a few days, thankfully, but you had picked at the scabs soon after they formed. You read online that doing so would make sure a wound would scar, and you really didn’t want to risk him remaking the cut. You’d almost died from blood loss enough times in your lifetime. Even tho it was only one time.

At least now you knew why things were sometimes misplaced, and why you went through the Dr Pepper so quickly.

You'd see him around the house from time to time, as he probably didn’t feel the need to sneak around as much now that you knew he was there. His footsteps were always silent though.

You weren’t quite sure what he did when you weren’t looking, apart from kill people. Did he even sleep?

You came home early one day to find out the answer was yes.

You found him lying in your bed, snuggled beneath your covers, his back to the door. He was still in his coveralls, the collar poking out from the covers.

Huh, you didn’t remember the mask's hair being that lo-

You bit back a gasp as you realized he wasn’t wearing his mask. With that realization now in mind, it didn’t take long to find the haunting latex face lying deflated on your nightstand.

You weren’t sure if you were thankful or disappointed he was turned away.

Being as quiet as humanly possible, you tiptoed out of your room, closing the door as slow as possible, but taking any risks for making any kind of sound.

Once you finally were a few steps away from your now closed bedroom door, you allowed yourself to breathe.

You felt like you had just dodged a bullet.

So you decided to clean up the guest bedroom for him. If he was gonna live with you, he might as well have his own room. Plus, then you wouldn’t have to worry about him putting his bloody shit everywhere, or him sleeping in your bed again.

At least, you hoped so.

So you used your day off to clean up and setup Michael’s bedroom.

It was, quant. Thankfully there was already an unused bed underneath the boxes and junk, as well as a small desk. It would do well for a start, so you just hoped he would like it.

The hard part was finding him.

He was unpredictable, to say the least, especially when it came to suddenly appearing right behind you, or disappearing the moment you looked away. He'd probably seen the cleaned out room already, likely even while you were cleaning it up. The only question was if he knew what the purpose was.

So you searched around for him, looking high and low, but alas, there as no sign of the big murderous man. You sighed, sprawling out on the couch, and decided to fail on an old technique.

“Michael! Where the hell are you!”

You honestly hadn’t Expect ed that to work, but alas, when you turned to look for him a few moments later, there he was, right behind you. You jumped just a little.

“There you are, been looking all over for you. Come on, I’ve got something to show you.”

He made no acknowledgement to what you said, but as you got up and started to head upstairs, he followed. You hadn’t actually seen him walk around yet, only appearing and disappearing when you weren’t looking (except that one time he stepped away). So you watched him climb the staircase after you, slightly mesmerized.

You quickly broke out of your trance as he now stood beside you expectantly, guiding him the rest of the way to the room. Opening the door, you waited a moment for him to fully catch up, the mass murderer standing just a smidgen too close for your comfort.

You cleared your throat, mentally psyching yourself up for this pitch. You were pretty sure this wouldn’t get you killed, but you couldn’t help but be a little nervous.

“So, you probably noticed me cleaning up this room.” You gestured towards the open doorway.

No response, as usual. You weren’t sure if he was looking at you or the room, and you didn’t really feel like gazing deeply into his eyes to find out which one it was.

“And since you’re living here, I thought, well, you should have your own room.”

Okay he was definitely looking at you.

“So I cleaned the spare one up. It’s your room now.”

He shifted his head slightly in the direction of the room, probably judging it. You hoped he liked it, or at least accepted it. Okay you were just hoping he didn’t hate it and wasn't going to suddenly grab you by the throat and end your life right then and there.

He walked in, analyzing the room, looking around at everything in it. He then turned around, gaze locked on you, and nodded.

You couldn't help but smile with pride and sigh in relief.

At least now, you hoped, you wouldn’t walk into him sleeping on your bed again.

Chapter Text

Michael had settled into his room quite nicely, often being found inside if he wasn't out and about. Conveniently, it gave you a place to find him, instead of screaming his name and having him suddenly be right behind you.

His room was empty at first, nothing in it except what you had put in or left inside. Eventually though, news objects stared to appear, things like cool stones and assorted nicknacks began to collect on his desk and around his room. And sometimes, these items included your belongings.

Like your bread knife, which was missing, again. With a long exaggerated sigh, you went up to his room, hoping to either find it, or have him produce the missing item.

You didn’t start calling out to him until you were opening his door.

“Hey Michael did you take the bread kni-"

You froze as you eyes locked with a man you did not recognize. Brunette, maybe dirty blonde hair, long and unkept, with a matching messy beard. A scar ran down his face, crossing over his left eye, with a slight discoloration in said eye. And those eyes, those deep dark eyes, there was something so familiar about them.

The moment it clicked in your head, your stomach dropped and knees grew weak. You had fucked up. You had seen Michael’s face.

“O-oh… shit… ha ha ha…”

You could see the fury in his eyes, burning with betrayal and malice. You knew you were already dead.

So the moment he moved, you bolted.

Your legs moved as fast as they could carry you, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you feet pounded down the hall. You didn’t need to look behind you to know that he was in hot pursuit, and honestly, you were too scared to do so anyways.

Still, you had a head start, so there was a solid chance you could at least put some good distance between you and him, maybe even get out your door, and if you were really feeling lucky, get in your car and drive away.

But in your desperate attempt to escape, a foolish mistake sealed your fate.

You weren’t exactly the fastest at descending stairs, and feared that’s where he would catch up. So in the heat of the moment, you jumped.

For a second, you thought you made the right choice. You were flying down the steps, quite literally, cutting the time it would’ve taken to run down them at least in half.

Then your legs collided with the bottom steps, ramming and likely bruising them as you hit the floor in a crash landing.

“Ah fucking shit, ow ow ow ow fuck, shit shit shit shit…”

Everything ached as your escape came to a crashing halt, legs flaring up with pain as you tried to get up on your feet. Nothing felt broken, but as you stood back up, laboured breaths coming through clenched teeth, the aching and throbbing pain turned your attempt at a sprint into a speedy limp.

“Sh-shit!”

You had effectively crippled yourself.

But you still had to try.

Hobbling to the door as fast as your protesting legs would allow you, you felt tears well up in your eyes, and not from the pain.

“No no no please…”

You were going to die because of your stupid mistake.

Before your outstretched fingers could touch the cool metal of your doorknob, a large strong hand wrapped around your neck, yanking you backwards and slamming you into the hardwood floor.

Your breath as stolen from you before your head collided with the ground, sending another pulse of pain through your body. Your vision grew blurry as your head swam, his hand constricting your breathing. Your bones were still intact, but you wouldn’t be surprised if you got a concussion. Sputtering for air, you finally looked up at the face of your assailant.

Michael towered over you, pinning your small form beneath his body, his grip on your throat tight and unwavering. His eyes burned into yours, the dark brown fuming with unbridled rage.

You hands grasped at his, but you were already too weak, body sore and lungs burning, only able to weakly grip his wrist. Everything was a little blurry and getting blurrier, and the back of your head felt wet. You gave his arm a squeeze, before letting your hold loose and go limp.

You let out a choked sob.

And then, his grip wavered. Not letting go and setting you free, but just enough to allow you to breathe. You sucked in the air greedily, taking in loud laboured breaths before giving into a mild coughing fit.

As you stared up at the serial killer who had you at his mercy, you resisted the primal urge to fight and struggle, knowing if he wished to, he could crush your windpipe easily. There was no point in possibly (accidentally) angering him more.

So you took the moments you had to gaze up at him and catch your breath.

You had no idea how old he was at this point, but despite the kinda hobo vibe he had going on, he looked really good. A sort of rugged charm, which was amplified by his built body.

So nervous and clueless on how you were possibly going to get out of this sitiation, you blurted out your thoughts. Your voice was strained and raspy from the abuse you had just received, but your words were still clear.

“For someone who probably hasn’t shaved in years, you look pretty handsome.”

And then you watched in awe as the mass murderer’s face started to grow red, the flame is his gaze dimming as he looked away. Your dumbass has somehow made Michael Myers blush.

He let go of your throat and covered his face.

You took in another deep breath, this one fuller and much more relieving now that the pressure was completely gone. Still lying on the floor beneath an embarrassed killer, you realized you could now slip away, his legs on either side of you but not on you, the hand on your throat being the only thing that had actually been holding you down.

As you carefully inched your way out from underneath him, you suddenly realized your plan to drive away would've never worked in the first place. You didn’t have your keys on you. Or your wallet. Or anything that didn’t force you to return to the home to retrieve it. Your pockets were empty.

So you had basically risked breaking your legs for nothing.

Now fully out from under him and on your wobbly feet, you didn’t know what to. You couldn't run, your legs in bad shape and and your head feeling woozy. Would he go back to strangling you once he stopped blushing? How long was he going to stay incapacitated?

So you did the one thing that seemed to keep you alive. You talked.

“S-sorry for entering your room without knocking! And for seeing your face!”

Hands still covering his face, he moved a couple of his fingers so he could see you. A single dark eye was now glaring at you.

“B-but you really should stop taking my shit. Or at least put it back. I don’t even know why you would need a bread knife over the big blade you usually carry. Trying to carve some human meatloaf?”

You found yourself cringing at your bad joke. It was kinda funny though, but mostly just terrible.

You squeaked as he got up from his crouched position, hands falling away from his face as he stood up straight, towering over you once more. You could do nothing but stare up at him, frozen in fear.

He didn’t need the mask to still be terrifying.

“Please don’t kill me.”

He looked down at you, judging you, your heart racing as you stood trembling in wait for his answer.

Flattery had gotten you this far, maybe it could still save your life. So gathering up what courage you had left, you rolled for charisma.

“Okay but for real, you look good. Could probably use a shave and trim, but you’re still pretty attractive.”

You saw the bloom of a blush start to return to his face, but his gaze remained heated and unwavering.

Why the fuck did you say that, now he was gonna kill you for telling him to sha-

Before you could say anything more, he grabbed and picked you up, and promptly slung your body over his shoulder.

Oh.

You were a bit too stunned to struggle at first, the sudden shift in perspective very disorienting, but quickly realized that attempting to do so would probably end badly for you anyways. This wasn’t some video game where you had to fill up the wiggle bar to escape. Plus, he currently wasn't crushing your throat, so getting carried like a sack of potatoes was a win for you right now.

You lay on his shoulder limply, only tensing up when your wounds were aggravated, as he carried you back up the stairs and into your room. Once inside, you walked up to your bed, took you off his shoulder, and dropped you on it.

“Oof.”

The landing was soft, but still rough in the fact you had just been dropped like a rock onto it. Your body protested the drop, legs aching slightly and head throbbing, as you moved into a comfier position and turned to look up at him.

The fire in his eyes was gone, but he still seemed annoyed.

Your stomach growled, breaking the silence.

“Hey it’s cool and all if you wanna watch me sleep again, but I was making a sandwich before this so I’m still hungry. Did you actually take the bread knife?”

As you tried to get up, he pushed you back onto the bed.

“Michael please I’m hungry.”

He held you down with one hand pressed on your chest, not that you were struggling hard against him anyways.

“I promise I won’t try to leave.”

The pressure lessened, and with a huff, he moved back and allowed you to get back up. You slowly got to your feet, struggling to stay upright, as the world started to spin. Still, you were determined, taking slow, shaky steps towards your bedroom door.

You did your best to ignore the pounding headache, stumbling forwards, trying to ignore the fact the edges of your vision were blurry. You clutched your head as a bad headache started to come on, feeling something wet at the back of your head. Probing the damp spot hurt, and when you looked at your hands, they were red.

“Oh.”

The world suddenly tilted sideways and everything grew black, colliding with something firm but soft before your senses shut down.


You woke up to something damp being pressed against your lips. You blindly pushed it away, repulsed by the sensation, and tried to get up. You felt a dull throbbing pain as you did so, lying back down immediately as you blinked the sleep out of your eyes.

You were lying on your couch downstairs, Michael Myers holding a turkey slice in his crusty blood-caked hand. And seeing your eyes open, he shoved the sandwich meat into your face once more, and without thinking, you opened you mouth and accepted it.

Oh, he was wearing his mask again. You couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.

You chewed the meat mindlessly, trying not to think about the fact he had his gross fingers all over it. At least he had the decency to try to feed you. And you were still alive.

“Thanks for not killing me.” You croaked, grimacing slightly as you swallowed the cold meat. Myers seemed to cock his head slightly in acknowledgement, before shoving another slice of turkey in your face.

“Michael you don’t need to hand feed me the meat, you’re getting your killer cooties all over it.”

He elected to ignore your comment and shove it against your lips, insistent. You sighed through your nose before reluctantly opening up.

At least he wasn't trying to strangle you, unless he was planning to kill you with his germs. Which was very unlikely, as he seemed to prefer giving his victims a violent and gorey death. More of a paint the walls with your blood type than watch you cough and vomit to death over a long period of time.

You hadn’t seen or heard him couch or sneeze yet, so his immune system was probably very strong.

Well, if you ignored the fact he got his hands all over it, he was feeding you. Which meant he wanted you alive. Which probably also meant he forgave you for seeing his face. Looked like you were gonna live for a little longer.

So relaxing on the couch, you allowed him to continue to force feed you, wondering how many more injuries you’d survive until you didn’t. And based on your history so far, the answer was probably many.

You wondered if he’d let you give him a haircut.

Chapter Text

“Michael, I got pizza! Come downstairs if you want some!”

You placed the box on the table, putting your stuff away and grabbing two cans of Dr Pepper, placing one of the cans on one side of the table, taking a seat on seat on the opposite side with a can in hand. You popped open the lid, the delicious aroma tickling your nostrils.

You weren’t sure if he was gonna come and get some, or even if he was home, so you didn’t what for him to show up as you got yourself a slice.

Surprisingly, he came not long after your second bite. You watched him descend the stairs, his pace the usual methodical one he always seems to take, as he approached the table and took a seat.

You couldn’t help but not keep your eyes on him, as you attempted to avert your gaze whenever he seemed to be looking directly at you. He seemed to be assessing the food laid out before him, his head turning to look at the box and then the can. You hoped he liked Hawaiian.

The few times you’d seen him eat, Michael only ever brought the mask up just below his nose, just enough that he was able to eat. This time however, you found yourself unable to pull your gaze away as he pullrd the entirr mask off his face, and placed it on the table next to his drink.

This was the second time you’d seen him without the mask, only this time you weren’t gonna get choked for seeing it. You hoped.

Nothing seemed to have changed since you’d last seen his face. He was still rocking that hobo astheic, no attempts of brushing in sight, but not absolutely filthy. Did look like there was some flecks of blood in his hair though. Maybe you should make him use the shower next.

Michael was staring back.

You looked away quickly, almost choking on your pizza as you did a terrible job pretending you hadn’t just been staring at his face. Which he had definitely noticed. You stared down at the table, feeling his eyes bore down on you.

But, interestingly enough, he kept the mask off. You weren’t sure if he didn’t care that you had stared or just wanted to eat, but eventually he removed his gaze from you, taking a slice for himself.

The two of you ate in awkward silence, you glancing up at him every now and then, Michael devouring probably two thirds of the pizza, his can quickly empty.

Had he skipped out on breakfast?

As the last slice disappeared into his mouth, you found yourself staring once again, eyes focusing on the stray piece of pineapple caught in his beard. He didn’t seem to notice it. Maybe you should tell him.

As he got up from the table, hand reaching for the mask, you decided to let him know.

“Hey Michael, you got a little chuck of pineapple in your beard.”

You motioned to the spot where it would be on your face, hoping he got the memo. He stared at you for a moment, expression its usual blank, before he grabbed at his beard, plucking the piece of fruit from it hairy prison and popping it in his mouth.

The coldness in his gaze seemed to warm up a little, and silently, you wondered if he was trying to say thanks.

He pulled the mask back over his head, and went back upstairs.

You sighed, before cleaning up after the two of you.






It hasn’t been hard to figure out what shows Michael didn’t like. If he decided to join you by the tv, he would glanced at the screen, before staring at you intensely until you changed it to something he liked.

The hard part was figuring out what he liked.

Seeing as he never spoke a word, you literally had to guess what kind of shit he liked to watch, waiting for him to remove his eyes from you, half tempted to yell at him.

It turned out that, unsurprisingly, he liked horror a lot. True crime and mystery heavy shows seemed to get his eyes off you too.

So as you turned on Sherlock, the couch sank to your left, as Michael took a seat next to you. He didn’t seem to care that there was enough space for the two of you, he seemed to almost want to invade your personal space. Either that or he just didn’t care that you were there.

Whichever one it was, it was definitely annoying. The displacement of the couch cushions caused you to almost lean into him, much closer to usual (if you didn’t include the times he almost killed you.)

As the show began, a pungent odor suddenly hit your name, a famialr smell you could place, once the the homeless often smelled like. But there were not homeless propel, only-

You can’t believe you didn’t notice it until now.

“Michael you stinky!” You roughly shoved him away from you, his eyes still glued to the screen as you tried to get further away from him.

How long had it been since he showered, let alone cleaned his clothes? Whatever the answer Was, you were sure it was way longer than any reasonable human being would take, especially if one had access to those things, which he did.

“Geez Michael, have you ever washed that thing?” You didn’t even wanna touch it anymore, the realization of how many layers of blood and other body fluids were probably on it made you tempted to throw up, but you remained strong.

“You need a shower.”

He elected to ignore your complaints, not even glancing in your direction.

“Michael I’m not joking.”

Still ignored.

“Okay, no more Sherlock until you at yourself cleaned up.”

Well, it seems like Michael had been listening. He stared at you with almost murderous intent, clearly not liking the threat.

“You heard me. Getting cleaned up before more detective time.”

You could tell he was glaring at you.

“Come on big boy, it’s time to get fresh.”

You got up from the couch, and tried to yank on his arm. He didn’t budge, easily resisting your tugs. Your efforts were as good as they would be trying to move a giant statue.

You could feel his urge to kill you getting stronger.

“Michael please you’re disgusting. I bet I could smell you enter a room before I ever see or hear you.”

Thankfully, mentioning that it compromised his stealth seemed to be enough to get him to move. He got up on his feet, gazing down at you with an intense stare, before heading in the direction of the bathroom.

Letting out a sigh of relief, you followed behind him, hoping to grab his clothes once he got in the shower and give them a wash too.

He did know how to wash himself, right?

Just before he entered the bathroom, Michael stopped and turned around, staring at you. It was as if he was asking “are you gonna follow me into the bathroom?”.

“You do know how to shower, right?”

Silence. He blinked. You weren’t sure if that was intentional or just natural.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Also make sure to wash your hair too, it’s probably coated with who knows what, just don’t use all my shampoo please.”

Still silent. He moved his head, just slightly, as if he was considering your words, before he entered the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

You waited outside, patiently. If seeing his face the first time almost got you killed, seeing his naked body was a guaranteed ticket to heaven. It was a risk you weren’t willing to take.

You could hear movement and fabric rustling, until finally the sounds of a shower curtain came to your ears, followed by water running.

Well, sounded like he knew whatcha was doing, hopefully.

You waited a moment before knocking on the door, opening it up a crack.

“Hey,” you called through the small opening, hoping he could hear you over the running shower. “I’m gonna take your clothes and clean them. Knock once for no and twice for okay.”

There was a long moment of silence, leaving you wondering if he acatully heard you, or just elected to ignore you as usual.

After several moments of silence, there was a single knock.

“Oh alright. Just thought you would like to wear some clean clo-"

Then came a second one.

You’d admit, that surprised you. You hadn’t expected him to say yes. You felt honored that he trusted you, immediately followed by the fear of fucking it up.

Michael would kill you while butt naked if he had to, you didn’t doubt it in the slightest.

“A-alright, I’m coming in.”

You walked in slowly, giving the shower a side eye, thankfully to find the curtains were covering it. You gave a thankful prayer he knew how to have some decency before making your way over to the pile of very bloody clothes.

Huh, this was your first time seeing what he wore beneath those coveralls. A dark tee and simple navy pants, nothing super interesting.

Seeing the state of the clothes, you quickly found yourself suddenly afraid of the condition of his underwear. Who knew what unholy substances were coating that thing?

So picking up the rancid clothes (and doing your best to avoid touching his underwear), you made your way out of the bathroom and into the laundry room. You tossed them in quickly, putting in a generous amount of tide, before turning it on.

Now all you could do was wait.

You weren’t really sure how you were gonna kill the time, seeing as chafing the tv to anything but the episode of Sherlock, and moving it from you left it, would probably piss Michael off.

So instead you left to get your phone, sitting on your bed, and started watching kitchen nightmare clips on YouTube. They had popped up in your recommendations recently, and you had to admit, they were strangely addicting.

Michael was done before his clothes were. You heard the water stop, followed by movement in the bathroom.

The last thing you expected however, was a wet hobo with a towel wrapped around his hips, barreling towards you. You almost threw your phone and screamed.

“MICHAEL WHAT THE FUCK!?”

You expected a hand around your throat, but thankfully, he was merciful. Instead, he stopped just in front of you, glaring, a familiar scent emniating from him. Somehow, you’d kinda forgotten he had been using your body wash, until the smell of old spice slapped you in the nose.

Michael stood there and towered over you, dripping wet, most of his body exposed, revealing his well built and toned muscles. You already knew his strength from experience, but this was just a confirmation that he could easily crush you like a pop can if he wanted to.

Also you had to admit he was pretty hot.

“H-hey Michael, what’s up?”

He motioned at his body. You weren’t quite sure what he wanted, but you made your best guess.

“Your clothes aren’t done washing yet, it takes awhile. I’ll bring them to your room when they’re done.”

He seemed annoyed by this answer, but his expression still softened slightly. He didn’t seemed pissed anymore.

“Now go and actually dry yourself off, you’re dripping everywhere.”

He said and made no indication he heard what you said, but nonetheless, he left the room.

With the task of surviving Michael out of the way, it was back to waiting, so you went back to watching Gordon Ramsay call someone a fucking walnut.






Michael’s clothes smelled and felt so much nicer after they’d been washed and dried, it felt like a sucker punch of relief. Most of the stains had come out, although the dark patches of bloodstains still riddled the coveralls, but now they were less obviously blood and could be mistaken for oil and other car fluids.

So bundling up the new clothes, you carried the pile to his room, the door closed and your hands full.

You sighed, before you kicked the door gently, hoping he was inside

“Michael your clothes are done.”

The door opened a little, Michael poking his head out, clearly still naked. His hair looked much nicer now that it was also dried, a fluffiness returning after being cleansed of so mich blood and grime.

He reached an arm out, grabbing the clothes in your hands, before shutting the door immediately after.

You silently prayed he’d find their cleanliness satisfactory, and headed back downstairs, sitting on the couch, awaiting his (hopefully soon) return.

You thankfully didn’t have to wait long, as Michael seemed very eager to keep watching Sherlock, mask still off, a mix of flowers and old spice hitting your nose as he moved to sit right next to you. Once seated, he looked at you expectantly.

You let out a soft sigh, pressing play, his gaze immediately locking onto the screen, the serial killer engrossed in Benedict Cumberpatch's performance.

Well, at least he wasn’t as uncomfortable to sit next to now.