Rest For the Wicked [Michael Myers x Reader]

Chapter 2

The morning is cool, even for November. You wake to your blankets pulled high around your neck; your warmth trapped under the sheets. Sleep has wiped clean the tension in your shoulders, but had left something else behind.

Your dreams were vague, foggy recollections that faded the more you pursued them. But you recall enough: piercing blue-gray eyes and the white, unreadable mask. It left your heart racing, but it was no nightmare.

Had it really been so long since you'd received any sort of attention that your subconscious had latched onto the first person to... get aroused around you? The memory warmed you, left a tightness between your legs. It felt wrong to think of him like that- he'd trusted you to care for his injuries after he'd been attacked. Besides, you don't even know him...

But some part of him liked you, or at least liked the attention you gave him.

You lick your lips and blink drowsily to your clock. It has only just passed seven— injuries like those should keep him down for a while. He could take care of himself for a few more minutes. It wouldn't take long, not even your shame could deter you now. Your strange dreams already have you primed, your underwear damp as you slip under the hem. You close your eyes and imagine.

He was so fit, strong enough to survive all this- would he be rough? Or would he prefer gentle expertise? The pads of your fingers slip through your wetness, just barely starting to dip between with the thought of those piercing eyes. He could stare you down while he touched you. You open your eyes.

Your door is open. Muffled breathing fills your room. He's here. The scream that escapes from your mouth is short lived; you pull your hand free so fast the elastic waistband snaps sharply against your waist and you cover your face with both hands.

You curse loudly against your palms. Had he seen? You had a lot of blankets on... you peak through your fingers. He doesn't move, hasn't moved, since you realized he was standing at the foot of your bed, staring down at you through the empty eyes of his mask. His coveralls are too loose, you can't quite tell if he'd had any sort of reaction. You clear your throat, dare to meet the eyes of the mask. "You scared the fuck out of me. How long have you been there?"

That gets him to tilt his head, the slow turning that you hoped was curiosity or amusement. It's so endearing you almost forgive the absolute intrusion. You had invited him to get you if he needed anything.

"What is it? Did you need something?" You look to his hands- the padding over the stumps of his fingers had darkened in the night, but the hand with the knife wound seemed alright. He says nothing, as was becoming the usual, and leaves you wondering. You look over the rest of him, but find no new bloodstains on his already filthy coveralls. You grimace; those can't be good for healing.

You don't have any other clothes that would fit his exceptional frame.

"I'm gonna brush my teeth and get dressed if you don't need anything right now." The mask turns to follow you as you slide across your bed and towards the master bath. The way he looks at you... It's slow, intentional- makes the prey instinct in your head go haywire.

You ready your tooth brush and only feel a little guilty you don't have a spare for him. Footsteps. You look up, into the mirror and find the white mask hovering behind you, towering in the doorway to the bathroom. The chill that runs down your spine is unwarranted, you tell yourself. He's creepy, that's all. Not even that- he's traumatized! He can't even speak, he was probably just hungry or scared or lonely!

And you're the one who wanted to jerk off to him, pervert.

Fuck.

You lean over to spit and rinse- and watch in the mirror as his chin dips down, the empty black holes of his eyes following down the long line of your spine, settling at the pajama-covered curve of your rear.