A soft exhale escapes Michael in the space between them, the light catching both eyes-one dark and the other glazed over. He stares at her, as if he can open her up with his eyes instead of his knife. After being on the receiving end of both, it's safe to equate the two sensations as one in the same.
Rough fingers replace the cold metal of his blade on her skin. She shivers under his touch, but doesn't push him away when his fingers push through the blood that's formed on her abdomen, the scars under her shirt as his hand pushes up it to her sternum. This is all of Allyson's nightmares made flesh. No one has touched her as intimately as Michael Myers, no one has gotten so close as he had when he'd laid his head on her chest and fell asleep with his arms wound tight as a noose around her. Is that when he'd decided she was his and his alone? She wants to ask, but she knows that no response awaits.
Those coarse digits find the scars of their last encounter together, the scars that line her abdomen and her chest. She feels herself shudder uncontrollably.
The venn diagram of Allyson Nelson and Michael Myers is now one circle, which also means she has no reason to deny herself the things she's thought of since they were last entwined with one another.
She's seen the skin under the mask plenty; she knows unlike Sartain and the podcasters who'd accosted her grandmother and Michael, that his real face is the one that looks back at her now. A trembling hand pushes up Michael's chest, through the blood from stabbing him, to feel his heart's steady thrum in his chest. Their close proximity emphasizes the sound of his labored breathing.
"There's so much I want to ask you," she admits, "but you'll never answer, ever."
His hand stills its motion at her side, thumb stroking over her skin. She trembles with the effort to remain still as he tickles her.
"But actions speak louder than words, don't they?"
His breathing remains even as he stares at her, awaiting her next move. How long had he been watching her and Cameron? How long has been watching her? The memory of Cameron's demise is still fresh, so fresh she can still smell his blood all over them. It makes her stomach lurch, but she's too far gone to give a shit.
Her hand rises to his shoulder, the juncture that leads to his neck, where the hem of his mask sits. She doesn't try to reach under it, merely cupping his throat, and imagines she can feel the pulse under her fingers. Steady, the same as she remembers.
Her own breath goes labored when he pushes her shirt up with the blade of the knife with his other hand, from fear and something else, a feeling that sits hot and heady in her belly, like nausea.
The shame that'd existed within her like a fifth limb is dissipated. How could she long for the touch and the attention of the man who'd killed her friends, her mother? The same man who'd destroyed her life, and all she wants to do is make herself malleable at his hands again like clay, a piece for him to wear down and create in his own image once more. It'd be easier than the life that awaits her outside of these very doors; the life that's been waiting since he'd first taken her here.
She can't help but wonder if Michael's done anything like this before, but knows her answer before she even gets a word out.
Gently, she pushes Michael away from her. She suspects that it's more so Michael's own curiosity than leniency that makes him take a step back.
She pushes her hands against his chest to push him backward harder, away from her, so she can remove her shirt with steady hands. The black bralette she wears is lacy, and immediately draws Michael's attention. A hand finds her hair, pulling it back to look her in the face as she breathes out shakily.
"Michael."
He breathes out once, as much of a response as he's able to provide as he looks her over.
The knife sits precariously close to her throat, the tip pressing into her clavicle. The air between them is freezing, but it's not what makes her shake. The gun she couldn't bring herself to use on him feels firm and solid in her hand, especially when she presses it square against his temple once more. His head cocks, inadvertently leaning into it even as the safety clicks off.
Is this power, or is this him showing her the power he has over her by choosing not to kill her?
"You want me to be a mess. You want me to be scared. Only problem is now, I'm like you. I'm not afraid of you. I'm not afraid of anything."
She leans in, nearly close enough that her lips are merely a breath away from brushing against the latex lips of the mask. His breathing grows audibly more labored. A smile twinges at the corners of her mouth as he looks back at her, like an artist admiring an elaborate canvas of his own creation.
The gun presses in harder. If he were a normal man, there's no doubt it'd hurt - bruise, even.
"On your knees. Now."
She's pleased at the firmness in her own voice, and isn't sure what to expect.
What she doesn't expect is Michael to obey; at least, he outwardly obeys. Slowly, eyes never leaving her own, he sinks to his knees in a fluid movement that seems almost inhuman in its grace. Three fingers close around the barrel of the gun, and she wonders if he wants her to pull the trigger.
She almost does consider it, but instead, she simply pulls the gun away, and begins to walk away, sweater bundled in her hand. A display of her own brand of control, of agency.
Michael's good hand finds its way to her wrist, pulling her backward to meet his gaze as the other hand finds her hair to bring her face closer to his own to stare into her. Does Michael even know what he's doing?
She has little time to figure that out for herself. Michael shoves her back into the wall once more and, as her head throbs from the impact, closes a hand around her neck. The other hand finds its way to her front, pushing at her clothes until he's unbuttoning her jeans. Her eyes close as she shivers from the contact, as the coarse digits push into her pants. He pushes in closer to watch her face, the way it changes with each touch against him. She hadn't realized how wet she'd grown in anticipation until he starts opening her up on his fingers. Her hips adjust to get him how she wants him, as his hand starts to squeeze around her neck tighter.
"Michael-" she exhales hotly, turning her chin upward to look over his shoulder, away from him, as her eyes close. Her face burns with the heat of his stare as she grunts in pleasure. She aches in a deep sort of way.
There's two fingers, then three, opening her up, as his other hand finds the swell of her breast. His skin is predictably rough, almost as rough as he is with her.
"Michael," she exhales again at the burn that stretches her open, wet as she is.
He looks at her again, as her eyes meet his. Two of her hands shove him hard enough for him to falter backward. She gets her claws in then, and wonders if the marks she's left on his skin are still embedded there like his own have been left on hers. Wonders, distantly, if he touches them and thinks about her, like she touches her shoulder and her stomach in the bath and thinks of him.
The instant her hand finds the zipper at the top of his mechanics suit, he grabs her wrist to halt her. When she reaches with the other hand, he tightens his grip at her neck, fingers moving quicker inside of her. It hurts where he opens her up like an incision, like he can claw his way inside of her that way and burrow in like he hasn't found his home under her skin already.
It's only when her vision is spotty that she feels herself tipping closer to the precipice, fire licking at her core as it climbs up from her toes. Her gaze, pupils flown, meets Michael's as she starts to tighten over his fingers, free hand shoving futilely at him. Everything is too much and not enough, vision blacking out at the edges as he watches her intently.
It's only when she lets out an animalistic sort of grunt, teetering between a whimper and a cry, that he lets his grip on her throat up. The sudden intake of oxygen combined with the impact of her orgasm causes her to inhale sharply as she simply lets herself go on the unrelenting pace of his fingers in and out of her, in and out of her. Over and over, punishing and unrelenting.
"Ah-" she exhales, Michael's fingers slow and then completely stop once he registers that she's finished, his own breathing labored as he withdraws his fingers from her and simply cocks his head down at her. Her tongue licks at her dry lips. He looks at her expectantly, awaiting her next move in this game they've played for so long now.
She reaches for Michael's hands to take into her own. His dark gaze scans down to her entwined fingers. She's tempted to pin him against the wall as he'd done to her and see just how far her brand of control over the boogeyman could extend.
But she doesn't test her limits. She simply drops his hands, which find their way to her waist as she starts to shove off her own trousers. Though it's obvious Michael's never done anything like this before, he catches on quickly enough, and takes over for her. It's with ease that his weight supports her own against the wall. His cock splits her open more than his fingers had, like a hot brand inside of her.
Still inside of her, he repositions them to the floor. Her leg twists painfully as he nearly bends her in half to get her how he wants–she's not nearly as flexible as she once was, and she has him to thank for it–but she quickly flips them over so she straddles his hips. When his hand comes to cup her neck, she tips back her head as she finds a rhythm as she rides him, knee burning from the movement.
"There," she mutters, breathless, as she smiles down at him through her dark hair.
A soft, almost inaudible exhale escapes Michael as his hand tightens, and Allyson closes her eyes, tips her head back, and simply lets go.
When they're finished, the most she can do is lie her weight on top of him, his hard body warming hers. His fingers in her hair make her head spin, her eyes pricking with tears that she hadn't realized were left to cry. She breathes in and out, steady, as they lie in the impending dark of the room together, before she rolls onto her back beside him. The cold ground against her skin makes her grunt in surprise, palms spreading outward to touch the tips of her fingers against his sleeve, his wrist, before standing to dress once more.
The moon shines especially bright out near the Bowles' house - it always had. Allyson remembers the nights it'd been her only source of light in the upstairs bedroom. Michael looks especially like a specter in its glow, and she has to take a moment to take him in and appreciate him the way one would appreciate a tiger in captivity as he regards her in the very same light. The depths of the woods beyond the yard would be tempting if Allyson were trying to run.
But she isn't.
"I brought my car," she offers, holds up her keys. "I don't think you've ever seen me drive, have you?"
Of course, as always, Michael has no answer for her. He merely stands still. Feeling like she's turning her back on a predator in the wild, Allyson starts to walk toward her car, remote starting it.
It's when her fingers brush against the door handle that Michael turns her around, shoves her against the car with his body pressed against her. Though she's tall, almost tall enough for she's always reminded of how much larger than her he is. The quick movement takes the breath right out of her, even considering how they'd cemented their closeness merely moments ago. A cold gust of wind sends her hair into her face as Michael stares down at her, hand cupping her jaw.
"-You didn't get your fix yet?" she asks with a smile like she's asking for it. Michael cocks his head once more, a movement she reflects with a tilt of her own. Her eyes close when he lets up, as the passenger door clicks open. Incredulous, but somehow still unsurprised, she opens the drivers side door as she struggles to catch her own breath to start the car. His gaze burns into hers as she struggles to muster up the will to look back at him, which only happens when she puts the car into drive.
"I always wondered what it is you saw in me," Allyson admits, "when you decided to come after me. Was it my grandmother? Was it just the sight of me running? Was it when your doctor put us together? You looked at me, and there was something there. Wasn't there?"
The steady ebb and flow of Michael's breath continues, joined with the sound of the head. She feels flushed, warm from the heat and from Michael's attention as his fingers find her hair once more.
She has a lot of theories as to what motivates Michael-what motivated him to leave his home to follow her grandmother, what had motivated him to stick onto her and never let go, like a tumor, like a growth inside of her that she can't extract from herself.
She thinks of the trap the generations of her family had spent their lives setting in place, only for Michael to escape it to find his way to her. She thinks of the iron bars of it, the way Michael's gaze had pierced through the bars to meet hers.
Now, no bars will separate them ever again.
She looks at the moon in the distance, at Michael's face beside her, and her own hands, stained with Michael's blood and her own. How does it feel to be courted by the boogeyman? Maggie Bloom had asked. She still doesn't know how to answer that. The moon reflects off the water under the bridge they're taking, far away from Haddonfield. She thinks of his hands on her throat and, with a lurch of her stomach, how he'd felt inside of her, how much she'd enjoyed it. How much she can't live without him, not anymore; but that thought had kept her going for years, the idea that he's still out there.
It's no longer merely an obsession; it's mutually assured destruction. Will he kill her now? Will she kill him?
"You found me, and you have me," she says softly, glancing sideways at Michael with a soft smile. His head cocks at her again. The metal of his knife glints in the moonlight, too, but before it raises–if it even is at all–she jerks the steering wheel harshly. Michael's hand finds her shoulder as the car careens into the depths of the black water, quickly filling it via the open window.
To get it over with, she gulps in a breath full of ice cold water that burns her lungs like liquid fire, gripping onto anything as her body fights on instinct what she craves. She can't live on like this, and neither can Michael.
The world blackens as she welcomes the inevitable, as the world above her and all around her quickly becomes nothing in itself.
Author's Notes: I can't apologize enough for how late this chapter is. Shortly before Halloween of 2021, my father passed away very suddenly and traumatically, then I started the process of moving across states, then I got Covid, all in that order. Now I am moved and settled and recovered, and I think the grieving process has finally allowed me some headspace for this piece again after leaving it in limbo for months. If you've left me any sort of review or personal message, please know I have seen them all but haven't been able to reply. I appreciate you guys so much.
Please let me know what you think! One more chapter forthcoming. :) It's been great sharing this with you all over the course of the past almost two years. After I finish this, I'd like to work on a Kills compliant Michael/Allyson piece - would love to hear your thoughts about that as well!