Shapes on his skin (Michael Myers x reader)

Shapes on his skin

Michael's new life after his escape from Smith's Grove found a rhythm. Stalk and hunt and... come home. He thought of it often, how lucky he was to have a place to consider home. Someone to lick his wounds with. That night he hunted and killed. As he sat among the corpses of two unfortunate lovebirds, his mind was already wandering. He anticipated your welcome, how you would fuss over each minor injury, help him bathe and dress the cut on his wrist he just received. He looked at the wound, extending his arm in front of him, knife glittering in the light. He barely felt it. When one of the women fought him, armed with a tomato knife, he didn't move away – instead he imagined you worrying over him as you always did. Touching him with such careful fingers, hissing when cleaning the cut as if it was your skin that was hurt.

Michael's feet carried him to your back door. Now that his bloodlust was sated, a thrumming grew beneath the skin. The door was unlocked, as it often was, for him. He locked it behind him. With a smirk, he pushed up the sleeve of the wounded arm. You were washing up in the kitchen and turned around when you heard the door close. And that was the moment he looked forward to all day: seeing the smile spread over your face as you saw it was him, tea towel strung over your shoulder and plate in hand. The thrumming in his chest grew as he approached. Michael opened his arms as you stepped forward into him, plate put down on the table next to him. Enveloped you in his arms.

"Hey, you're back," you murmured. "Had a good time?"

He put the knife in the soapy water, then motioned upstairs. Shower. You nodded. "Do you need any help?"

And that broke his pleasant haze. Of course he didn't need help, but he damned sure wanted it. He motioned to the stairs again, then to you.

"Want me to join? Go ahead, I'll come up when I've finished."

Where was the worry, where were the gentle words and the bandages? He was covered in blood for god's sake, and it could as well have been partly his! He stood still and waited for you to finish. It was only two more plates, before you freed yourself from the apron and tea towel. You pressed a hand to your neck and sighed deeply, staring at the ceiling. Then turned around, planning to go up the stairs, instead bumped into Michael.

"Oh, god, I thought you went up already. Sorry," you voice was soft and you avoided his eyes. Only then did you spot the red gash on his wrist. "Michael, you're hurt! Why didn't you say anything? I'll get the alcohol, go shower."

It wasn't long before you joined him in the bathroom. Michael was slow on purpose, still wearing his coveralls. You washed your hands by the sink, before turning to Michael.

"You're still dressed," you said, frowning. He didn't move a muscle. You reached out to him and unbuttoned his coveralls. Almost there, almost his favourite part, and yes, you pushed the stiff fabric down his shoulders, unintentionally touching his hands as you pulled it from his wrists. "Ah, sorry, the wound. Does it hurt a lot?"

He nodded just slightly, holding it out for you to clean. You gathered the small cotton ball with alcohol and dabbed it on the length of the cut.

"What did they even cut you with? It looks so messy," you frowned. "Not that deep, thank heavens. Are you hurt anywhere else?"

No answer. You inspected his torso, lightly touching him with cold fingertips, turning him around to see his back. Some splatters of dried blood that had seeped through the fabric mixed with the freckle constellations on his shoulders. Thankfully, no other injuries.

You undressed yourself, as Michael finished pushing down the coveralls and stood in front of you nude. He reached over to put the shower on.

"I need to talk to you," you spoke, loud enough over the sound of the rushing water. Michael refused to step in the shower until you did. Sharing the warm water was always a struggle, but he'd not stand to lose an opportunity like this. And so he pulled you into his chest, to keep you warm in the chilly bathroom, if the water was not enough. You rubbed circles over his back, to loosen the first bits of blood and dirt. There was this specific muscle in his upper arm that you often rested your head on, and you relaxed, slowly exhaled. Then tensed again.

"Today two police officers came to ask me some questions," Michael stiffened against you. The thought of them didn't usually bother him, but now that they could do something to you, unacceptable. "Dr. Loomis was with them. They said that a neighbour noticed someone fitting your description had been seen around and wanted to ask some questions."

You took the shower gel and a washcloth. The scent grounded him. Slowly, you rubbed circles on his chest and shoulders, turning the soap a diluted pink from the blood that washed off. Michael relished in the sensations; there was warmth and the soap was soft, and it was you who paid such close attention to each area of his body. Normally you would smile, and he could strangle the police officers for taking that smile. He poked you in the shoulder to continue talking.

"Loomis asked me all sorts of questions, and then explained who you were and why they're looking for you. I didn't say anything, of course. I was very friendly, and I tried my best to be convincing... But I think it's best you lay low for a while," your frown deepened. He took the washcloth from you and soaped you up. He preferred using his hands, so he squeezed soap from the cloth and spread it around with his hand. The curve of the shoulder, down the back, back up via the stomach. The brush over your nipples wasn't an accident.

Michael pressed his lips together as he noticed you weren't paying attention to him and his sensual movements.

"I really think Loomis knows. He said all these things, that you weren't a friend, that I was just 'convenient' and so on... He must have suspected something. Perhaps a neighbour looked inside at the wrong time, I just- perhaps you need to find another hiding place. I know I can't ask you to stop killing, so that is the only option..."

He roughly shook his head, and you looked up at him, for the first time that night really seeing him. His hand rested atop your head, pressing you back into his massive form. He'd keep you safe, he thought.

Clean and dried, he took you to your bedroom. Even tighter than normal, he wrapped you into him, a leg in between yours, fingers tangled together underneath the duvet. He looked around the dark room. It was a shared room more than anything, although his personal touch was lacking. He liked it that way, he liked living in spaces that were so clearly inhabited by you. That night he didn't let go of you once. He even followed you to the bathroom when you got up to refill your glass of water. He thought of his ex-psychiatrist too, and what he would do if he saw him again. Then you rubbed your thumb on his hand and he breathed a little easier. The decision was surprisingly easy. Barely even a sacrifice.

So, in the morning, with a bleak sun streaming through the window, he asked you to buy thin curtains to prevent the neighbours from looking in.

"Michael, but it's safer if you-" He cut you off by grabbing your wrist. He shook his head. "But then..." You protested, starting to connect the dots. He nodded, smiling underneath his mask. A similar grin broke out on your face, and the thrumming in his chest blossomed.