Chapter Text
I wake up early in the morning, and the first thing I smell is the familiar scent of his skin and a slight tint of copper. I look to my left and find Michael’s sleeping face, such a peaceful expression, so rare and precious, that it just feels wrong to look at. His brown curls, almost black under the first lights of the morning, scatter around the pillow and partly over his face; his closed eyes are two perfect curves, decorated by dark and long eyelashes, though his left one has a pink scar cutting through it, and his eyebrows seem relaxed, an unusual thing of him. His rosy lips are partly open, so tender and desirable, as if they didn’t evoke some of the most disturbing memories. His naked torso, with a few pink scars splashed around, is covered by the sheets up to his chest, his muscular arm resting right between us, along with the precautious distance of four inches I’m so used to taking. I feel the sudden urge to touch him, move a few hairs from his face, but I hold back.
Instead, I decide to finally get up, put on a robe over my gown and walk through the dining room to the kitchen, to prepare coffee for both of us, just like every morning. The clock on the wall says it’s 5:42am, eight minutes before the alarm on my phone goes off, which I go look for in the bedroom. I notice Michael shifting on the bed, and moving a hand around on my side. I breathe in a shaky breath when I realize he’s looking for me, but decide to remain quiet and not think about the repercussions of me leaving his side without him knowing... or allowing. I exit the bedroom quietly and make it to the kitchen again, the smell of coffee invading my nostrils. I pour two cups, one filled entirely, and the other halfway. I open the fridge and grab the small bottle of creamer, then pour it into the latter cup, just how Myers likes it.
I feel his eyes on my nape, and my hand begins to tremble right after I place down the bottle. I’m relieved when I realize I haven’t spilled anything, but the weight of his eyes on my back is something I can’t stand and fight so hard to ignore. I move on to grab two slices of bread and put them in the toaster, then sip on my coffee. I see through the corner of my eye a tall, looming figure. He grabs his mug and, when I realize he’s getting closer to me, I bite my lip. I feel his slow and steady breath tickle my nape, the short hairs of the back of my head moving along with the air currents from his nose, and I breathe in deeply to calm down.
– Would you like toasts? – I clench my jaw after the question, not looking back at him. – There’s strawberry jam. I bought it yesterday, thought you might like it.
No reply. Not even a groan or a muffled sound, as one would expect with him. Only the sound of him taking a sip of his beverage. I decide to put my mug down and turn my head slowly, then look at him through the corner of my eye. I don’t have a clear enough image, but I’m able to see his eyes, lacking any expression. I turn around fully, trying not to tremble, heart racing inside my chest, and his light blue and his milky white eyes dig deep into mine, examining me, and reading me like a book.
– Or maybe waffles, since you seem to like those. They might take a while though...
Nothing. Not even a glint in his eyes that tells me he likes the idea. Not even death and darkness embedded in his pupils. Just emptiness. Just that cold, analyzing expression of his, which is much more terrifying, because I have no clue what he might do next.
I can’t look away, and my knees begin to tremble. This is a test, I think. He’s looking for a response from my part. He’s meditating on what to do next depending on what I do now. But the shaking of my legs and my unsteady breath compared to his give me away. He likes this. He’s enjoying my uncertainty. My fear is what fuels him, as much as his victims’.
The loud ding of the toaster makes me jump with a loud gasp.
Oh no. Michael puts his mug down next to mine, and makes one step closer to me. I look at the exit of the kitchen behind him for a second, considering my options, then back at him. And of course, he notices. He takes another, much faster step, and places both arms on the counter on either side of me.
The faint sun rays filter through the kitchen window on my left, but I’m too busy staring at Death in the eye. My breath becomes faster and deeper and more irregular just when his body collides with mine, locking me in place and staring right into my soul. His eyes don’t show anger, or not as much as I’m used to. Maybe because he has just woken up, or maybe because he just wants to bother me, but he still has that calm, scrutinizing expression to him, along with something else.
And when it dawns on me, I pale. You weren’t there. I looked for you and you were gone, it reads. Is this because I woke up ten minutes before I should have? Is he making me pay because I didn’t give him the chance to grope me and touch me right as he’s waking up, as he usually does?
Yes. Yes, it is. And I am stupid for believing it wouldn’t have any consequences.
I bite my trembling lip and feel a sting in my eyes, as his show crescent anger and need. He yearns, invaded by that primal instinct that draws him to commit all the atrocities he believes to be so normal and fun. His desire for blood and carnal pleasure are both revealed under his eyelids, and so his hot right hand takes hold of my hair, yanking it back. I end up looking at the ceiling, tears streaming down my cheeks and growing anxiety in my heart, then his left hand traces my neck, placing his thumb and index on either of my carotids. He loves feeling my racing heartbeat through my neck, and what I hate the most is the response he’s conditioned my body to make. I feel heat and a slight throbbing between my legs, which I close tighter under his.
He still stares, not only at my face or my neck, but at my every movement. His steady breath tickles my humid skin, and I tremble, despising that I’m beginning to need him as much as he might need me, or his release through me. The release of that slight pressure I begin to feel on my lower abdomen, as if it were a threat. I gulp, and attempt not to whimper when his hand presses further around my throat, now trying to choke me. His hand on my hair lets go, and descends down my body to the belt of my robe. He unties it, and with his legs he spreads mine, standing between them. He pulls me up through my neck and my hips, and sits me on the counter, making the toaster move back with a thud. His free hand then pulls up my white gown just enough for my slick entrance to be revealed, and though I squirm and try to close my legs, my attempts to avoid what’s next are futile. The only thing left for me is to use my hands, but it’s obvious by now that he wants me to, because the fight and the struggle excite him. He wants me to fight and to hit and to scratch, so he can be more violent with me after.
And as idiotic as it sounds, I do just that. I try to push him with my hands on his bare chest, hitting and slapping his skin. He takes a few seconds to grab both of my wrists with his hands, releasing my neck for a moment. I gasp for air as he tucks my hands behind my back, and holds them tight in his grasp with one. Then, his left hand returns to my neck, but now I have a better view of his eyes through my teary ones. I breathe heavily as the tightness around my neck makes me whimper and plead, and I mentally hit myself when I remind myself that’s what he wants.
– M-Michael... – I grunt. – Please... – ‘Please’ what? I think. ‘Please fuck me’, ‘please get this over with’ or ‘please let me go’? You know begging won’t work in any way. You beg, this will last longer, and be more painful. You already know this.
I bite my lip again and shut my eyes, my legs trembling and my core throbbing in anticipation when his hand behind my lower back pushes my hips towards him. He might have lowered his pants at some point, just enough for his hardening cock to be revealed. I feel the head brush against my inner thigh, and he aligns himself. I brace myself and clench my teeth for the pain of what’s to come.
He will push right into me, I think to myself. As usual, fast and hard, deep enough for me to scream in pain. He will make me feel as if I’m breaking in half, and considering the almost sitting position I’m in, I can feel it’s going to be as painful as a stab through the gut.
But I’d rather take the latter sometimes.
The tip slides through, but, contrary to what I thought it would happen, he makes it slow, letting out a low grunt as he moves forward. My chest trembles when I breathe, and I try not to moan, biting the insides of my cheeks and my lip. His stare is heavy on my skin, my robe and the straps of my gown sliding down my shoulders when he pushes me further back by the neck. He buries himself to the hilt, and my hips jerk up slightly when I feel him throb and reach my depths. I sigh slowly, and open my eyes. Keep looking at the ceiling, keep looking at the ceiling, keep looking at the ceiling, I chant to myself, trying to ignore the call from the eyes of the beast.
But the Devil knows how to tempt the poor souls that fall under his grasp, and as it turns out, he’s grabbing my neck right now. I slowly lower my eyes to look at him, gasping and whining quietly as my body shakes more and more. And once my eyes meet his, I realize that I fell for it. He likes to look at the fear in my stare, let alone if said fear can be replayed over and over, just by staring at me. His eyes glimmer with sadistic pleasure, and the corner of his mouth tugs slightly, in a weird smirk that can’t even be called it.
My stomach makes a full turn and my heart bolts out of my ribcage. You did this to yourself, says my inner voice, now deal with it.
He slides out of me, and suddenly pushes himself into me with great force, making me jump and let out a muffled shout. I shut my eyes again as he thrusts deeply and painfully, but a second later his hand shakes my head through my neck, as if telling me you already decided to look, now don’t you dare draw your eyes away. And so my eyes open again, and I stare back at the Shape.
My throbbing and mistreated walls soon beg for more, clenching and stretching around him with need each time he thrusts and draws back. I attempt to lift one of my legs just enough to have more room within me, at least to be a bit more comfortable. If it weren’t for his hand on the back of my hips, I would probably be moving them, though I bet he would restrain me either way. His movements become faster, agitated, and no matter how hard I try not to moan and sigh, they come out of my clamped throat as if I didn’t have neighbors who I might wake. The smell of coffee, our fluids, sweat and his skin on mine are what reaches my nostrils, but I’m too drunk with pleasure and pain to care about my coffee getting cold. I just want this to end, or at least the rational part of my brain does.
I feel Michael’s stiffness inside of me throb and become hotter and hotter, and that along with his unsteady breathing and the erratic motions of his hips, I can safely say he’s close. But not me. Oh, no, not me. He knows it takes me more than this to cum, and he abuses that extensively and creatively to balance me on the edge for many, many hours. He has made me beg several times, adding another thing to his list of things he finds fun to torture me with.
He clenches his hands around my wrists and throat when he finishes, heat shooting inside of me and oozing out when he pulls back to ride it out. Our eyes never left each other’s, and I’m truly afraid of my willingness to keep staring back at him, at his eyes, devoid of any emotion. He gives a few deep breaths, then calms his breathing, but it takes me a few more attempts, as well as him taking his hand off my throat, which he hasn’t done yet. It’s not until I remember his hand is there that I’m aware of how dizzy I have become. He pulls out, and his eyes finally look away, his seed and my fluids calling his attention. My core clenches around nothing, and I faintly groan, feeling frustrated, used and dirty.
His hands finally let go of me, and I take a deep breath, leaning forward slowly and placing a hand on my neck. I look down at the mess between my legs, dripping on the counter and down my thighs, and sigh, tears creeping under my eyelids. As soon as I look up, Michael and his mug are gone.
I look up at the kitchen clock: it’s 5:58am. My alarm had paused when I didn’t turn it off eight minutes ago, because I was too busy getting fucked. I check my phone and tap the screen to turn it off, then grab a paper towel to clean up everything as much as I can. I decide to go to the bathroom, first looking around to check Michael is nowhere to be found. The bedroom door is closed, so I knock twice.
– Michael? – I notice my broken voice, and so I clear my throat. – Can I use the bathroom?
No reply, but I can feel his energy coming from the other side of the door. It’s threatening, and makes me shudder.
– Please?
Still nothing. I breathe in and take my chances, so I open the door slowly. I find his stare digging through me, as he stands next to the window and sips on his coffee silently. I gulp, looking down as I make my way around the bed and towards the bathroom door. I don’t want to get this close to him as I am currently doing, in fear that he might do something else to me. My cheeks burn from embarrassment, but my hands sweat in fear when I walk past him, his stare heavy on me, so I enter the bathroom and immediately close the door.
Should I lock it? It sounds like a brilliant idea, if only he wasn’t the kind to respond to those things, and not in a nice, understanding way. He will take me again, torture me again, and have his way with me if I do. Again.
And the worst part is that deep down I will enjoy it.
So I don’t lock it. I just strip and start the water from the shower. Once it’s warm enough, I step in and relax, feeling the hot rain fall on my scalp and drench my hair. The droplets travel down my back and my chest, racing each other down my skin and falling down or in between my legs. I sigh, and grab the soap to start cleaning myself up thoroughly, mainly the parts Michael abused just now.
But I cannot relax completely, due to the fear of him swinging the door open, moving the shower curtain away and taking me again, choking me and grabbing my wrists. I look down at them, noticing their redness. My skin is quite sensitive, so anything can leave a mark.
And there’s nothing Myers loves more.
After stepping out of the shower, wrapping myself up with a towel and drying my hair with another one, I look at the fogged up mirror. Upon cleaning it with my hand, I analyze my reflection, noting the reddening dots in my neck. I sigh, thanking myself for buying base cream just yesterday.
I finish drying my hair as I step out of the bathroom, trying my best to ignore Michael, who is now sitting down on the bed, reading. His mug is next to him, almost empty, so I won’t pick it up. I walk to the closet and grab the clothes I’ll wear today after hanging the towel I dried my hair with, and start dressing up. I’m always careful to dress up while still keeping my towel around my body when he’s around, just because he’s taught me to be extra paranoid.
I have plain black panties that match with a black bra, mid-rise jeans and a tight black turtleneck tucked under them. I grab my dark beige coat and bring it into the living room with me, and then go back into the kitchen to reheat my coffee in the microwave and eat my toasts with strawberry jam. I notice Michael hasn’t eaten either, so I decide to prepare two toasts for him, and to avoid him getting fuzzy again.
Once I’ve eaten and his toasts are ready to serve, I leave them on the table and go back into the bathroom to brush my teeth and do my makeup.
– I left you two toasts with jam on the table. – I say, knowing that he won’t reply. I do hear a moment later some movement, meaning that he got up from the bed and exited the bedroom. I slip the toothbrush in my mouth.
My phone says it’s 6:26am. I have plenty of time until I go to class.
After I’m done brushing my teeth, I start with my makeup. Luckily, this turtleneck covers most of the marks on my neck, so I just apply base cream where they’re visible, along of course with the rest of my face. Once I’m finished with every step, I spray some perfume, exit the bathroom upon turning off the lights, then the bedroom, and make it into the dining room again, noticing Michael has sat right on the chair where my coat is, which he’s leaning against. Fantastic. I huff, and take his empty mug and plate into the kitchen, wash them along with mine, and prepare my backpack with my books for the day, as well as my notes, my pencil case, and the case with my glasses inside it. It’s 6:36am when I make it next to Michael for the last time this morning.
– Could you please move so I can take my coat? – As expected, he ignores me, and keeps reading. I breathe in and sigh, avoiding the shaking of my body, then lean to the side to try to make him look at me. – Michael? – I bite my lip, knowing that what I’m about to do is just as stupid as getting up today, but hoping that what happened half an hour ago doesn’t repeat. I slowly draw my trembling hand towards his shoulder, clenching my jaw, and as fast as I blink, his hand grabs hold of my bruising wrist, making me jump in place and attempt to take a step back. His eyes are cold, bothered even, as if I’ve just interrupted a crucial moment of the story. Maybe I did, but I need to go. – Please, I need my coat. – I insist, which tells me it’s a bad call when his eyes don’t change. My heart begins to race again, and I swallow hard.
After a few seconds, which seemed like an eternity, he slowly lifts his back up, not drawing his eyes away from mine. I take my coat slowly, but not slow enough to allow him to lean on it again, and stand up straight again. – Thank you. – I smile lightly, and tug softly to signal him to let me go. But he doesn’t give up. He still stares at me, eyes cold and calculating. – What is it? Is there something else you need? – He tugs on my arm a bit less softly than one would expect, and tilts his head slightly upward. His eyes look down to my mouth for a moment, then back at mine, and I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. He wants a kiss...? Out of all the things he could want from me, now he wants a kiss?
It’s a trick. He’s playing. He has something else in mind. Run. RUN.
But if I run it will only get worse. So I gulp and slowly lean forward. Once I feel the hypnotic smell of his skin, always mixed with copper, I start closing my eyes, noting how his are still open when I’m inches away. My lips softly make it against his, and my heart flutters as my hands shake, a battle within me between my need for him and my instinct, telling me to escape. I pucker my lips against his, and he moves them to open slightly, locking mine. It does seem like he’s trying to kiss me back, and though I feel the strong urge to pull away, I try not to, savoring this moment before it comes crashing down.
It becomes deeper when I take his upper lip into mine, then he grabs my lower, and a few pops can be heard. It’s getting hotter around me, and his warm skin against mine isn’t helping. I can’t breathe properly, and I hear my heartbeat inside my head.
I feel his mouth open more, and his teeth trap my lower lip. They bite down on the flesh and tug on it, making me let out a small whimper and move forward. He bites down hard... and harder, and harder. I wince in pain and place my free hand on his chest, dropping the coat. He grabs my wrist with his other hand and stands up, still biting down on my lip.
You can’t trust a predator not to bite.
He backs me up against the wall next to the door to the kitchen, and places my hands next to my face as he sucks and nibbles my lower lip. I open my eyes wide to see his scrutinizing stare once again, right on mine, and he bites down again. I jerk up and a sound of pain emerges from my vocal chords. I taste the familiar flavor of my exposed flesh, the taste of copper and regret, and when his tongue slips between my lips and my teeth, seeking for mine, I know I lost. I might arrive late to class, or not make it at all. I try my best not to cry in hopes that I don’t ruin my makeup, but soon that hope will be for nothing. I taste the coffee with cream he had, along with the toasts with strawberry jam, and I wonder if he can taste my mint toothpaste as well. His body is pressed against mine, and I grunt, closing my eyes again.
– M-Mich... – His tongue interrupts me one more time, and the heat and my racing heart make me feel as if I were about to pass out. But he keeps going, now down my jaw and to the back of it. He begins to suck and nibble right above the marks covered in makeup and my turtleneck, probably tasting the disgusting flavor of the base cream. I’m sure he knows, but he cares very little about it.
And I realize: he’s marking me. He wants my marks to be visible, even if I wear a turtleneck. That’s why he bit my lip and that’s why he’s now leaving hickeys above the line my garment covers.
Fucking bastard...
I struggle to breathe normally, and open my eyes to avoid crying. He draws away after a while, staring at the forming bruise, and then into my bloodshot eyes. I try not to bite my already bitten lower lip as his cold stare stabs me, and he finally lets go of my wrists. He takes a few steps back, sitting down on his chair, staring, then grabs his book and continues as if nothing ever happened. My arms dangle on my sides, and I lower my head as I breathe normally again. I grab my coat, put it on, take my backpack and binder, and get my keys to the apartment.
– Have a nice fucking day... – I say to him, before slamming the door shut.