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He couldn't believe he had lasted this long with his hard-ass remarks and his snarky attitude towards one of the infamous killers on this realm. The white-faced ghoul was a remarkable opponent. His strength was impressive, able to lift survivors up off of the ground like it was nothing. Laurie always spoke poorly of him but characterized his strengths well, to warn everyone of his ungodly acts of malice even though there was nothing that indicated what he was feeling.
But because of the man's incapability to express his emotions, the rugby player took it up as his own mission to try his hardest to make the man speak, howl, or even curse. Every match resulted in the survivor throwing insults left and right-
"Ya can't even pick a fight with somethin' as nasty as you!"
"Well, look which bloke woke up on the bad side of the bed, you look angin'!"
"I bet you don't know how to wipe your own arse!"
On, and on, and on. David took pleasure in tackling the stalker, only to get a knife through the shoulder. Even if he was used to pain, it was still fucking awful when a kitchen knife that your grandmother would've used to split a turkey open was suddenly slicing through a part of you that was already suffering with a huge hook that was clearly meant for meat.
David raised his hands, looking at the blood that coated his palms and wrists like he was trying to finger paint poorly. His head was swimming from blood loss and his heart was up in his throat, pounding away from his constant running. His last bit of energy was used in one dead hard jerk to the side. It had let him last a little longer just before the blade skinned down his spine. It was, as one could put it, broke the camels back as he slid down the muddy hill of the swamp, landing in nothing but semi-dry dirt as he tried to recover.
Heavy footsteps came from above and he looked up, pulling his arms against his stomach and shoulder to protect them. He could go for the head all he wanted but David hated something about knives and all that getting so close to his stomach. Maybe one too many chainsaws.
He could hear the heavy breathing behind the latex mask and shivered unconsciously. It didn't stop his mouth though.
"What? Do I got somethin' on my face?"
Any smirk he had faded as the man tipped his head to one side, the slightest of eye-shine coming through the darkness of the mask that David, once, thought was his actual face. He didn't know which was worse; a man with no face, or a man with the slightest of eyes showcasing themselves.
Another step forward. David's legs twitched, wanting to find strength to push him away from the hill and through the mud. Michael was already standing above him by the time he considered it, one heavy work boot on either side of the other's hips. Being this close always reminded the rugby player just how large these beasts were. Some of the survivors were just as tall, if not taller, but this man had to be 6'8, or even a little more or less in that height. David was a foot smaller, give or take and it showed when Michael Myers stood straight.
Michael kneeled down.
David's heart skipped two beats and he wanted, suddenly, nothing more than to dig his elbows into the muck to push himself away. With how much blood he had lost, he couldn't. His dizzy spells would only hinder him. The only thing he could do was stretch his hands out, pushing against the broad killer by the shoulders as hard as he could.
There was a pause as all motion came to stop for a moment, the knife gleaming like firelight in his right hand, unused for the time being. His focus was only on it for a moment before Michael's knees hit the ground, more weight coming down onto the Manchester survivor that was quickly losing the battle between keeping his distance and getting closer towards a man that scared the wits out of him.
The knife glinted and David closed his eyes. He knew better than to watch a blade run through you. It hurt like hell and seeing the aftermath of it was even worse. It made your brain go nuts and he just simply accepted it with tension in his gut, ready to be done with this trial that had dragged him and his teammates through the dirt.
Cold steel pressed into his throat, ripping a gasp from him. Despite all of the hardened blood on it, the blade wasn't even warm at all. It was so cold it was biting into his skin as much as a needle pinch and he pushed against Michael again, wanting to get it away from him, wanting to breathe right again. His eyes opened as he shoved with whatever might he had left, heels scrambling for any kind of hold in this unforgiving swamp. There was nothing but pieces of debris and rocks as Michael stared at him, his head tipping to the other side like a curious bird.
"Get off'a me," he snarled, his words shaken and wispy.
The knife dug a little deeper into his skin and he cringed, his jaw clenching so tightly he felt his teeth snap together. But there was no pain that came through and Myers wasn't moving a breath as he sat as still as stone on David's hips, watching and waiting as the survivor kept his hands as sturdy as possible on his shoulders.
The tip of the blade began to drag downwards and David stopped struggling, breath going awry as his heart stuttered. That was all it did, barely biting into his skin as it traveled downward; across his throat, along his collarbones and then coming back up, brushing his jawline and then his cheek. It was so cold and this entire ordeal scared the hell out of him. Michael didn't scheme anything, as far as anyone knew, and this killer suddenly not driving the blade so deep that it severed his spine in one go-
It scared him more than anything else.
A mask of horrifying white was suddenly over his own and there was a horrendous twitch in his right hand, looking to pull back and slug the shit out of the other. A part of him knew better, but the other side no longer cared as that blade dipped downwards again, crossing along his sternum like a happy bridge to the very piece of his body that kept everything working.
"I'm not your playthin', Myers," he hissed, his voice weak as he found it hard to breathe.
"Shh."
His body grew cold, almost to the point where he could ponder if goosebumps rose on his skin. A hand, thicker than his own, wrapped around his right to pin it down hard into the watery dirt. David's instincts began to kick in but the point of the knife at his left eye stopped him.
But Michael talked to him. It was barely a noise, barely audible over the thrumming in his heart and chest, but it was there. It was the softest hush he had ever heard and, for once, it was powerful enough to make him close his mouth and swallow dryly, tasting blood on the back of his tongue.
His eyes closed, trying to relax and no longer look at neither mask nor knife that hung so dangerously over him. It was a threat but, yet, perhaps the most subtle threat he had ever received. His thoughts wildly raced, telling him what to do, telling him to clock the fucker and run. Use the knife and try to turn it on him to stab him in the eye or even rip off the mask with his only good hand-
Rip his mask off.
David re-opened his eyes and slowly moved his hand clutching onto Michael's shoulder. Michael readjusted his weight, the knife no longer above his head nor anywhere near his jaw. He took his chance by snagging his hand out as fast as possible, grasping at the bottom of the mask to suddenly yank it up.
A flurry of motions disrupted the peace. Pale lips were revealed, pulling back into a vicious snarl as Michael yanked back. His hands, however, did not. The knife struck downwards, stabbing deeply through David's hand and pinning it into the dirt with white, hot pain. David didn't hold back in yelling outloud, squirming to try and kick Michael off to no avail. A scarred mouth slowly softened into a very neutral, dead expression but the mask didn't climb back down by Michael's own hand. He kept it up and David didn't like that. Didn't like that at all.
Calculated weight pressed into him and the survivor could smell a peculiar musk and blood. It didn't fit together at all and it was enough to have him nearly retaliate and bite at the other's throat or mouth.
He got partially what he wanted and he had never felt his stomach drop more.
A hard press of the mouth on his got his hisses and growls to shut up, stopping well in his throat.
But it was a fight as growls commenced, showing dominance, showing aggression and expressing more than Michael had ever shown. David felt it all filter through his body and into his chest and pressed upwards into the dense body, biting at his lips hard and receiving the same treatment. He could taste blood on his lips and tongue in seconds, a hand pressing down hard on his chest to keep him pinned against the dirt, with nowhere to go and as defenseless as a bird in a web.
David didn't know why this was happening, but he also supposed it could've been much worse. He could tell Michael wasn't that great at this either and he immediately tried to take the reigns, using his tongue to explore and tease when he could, furthermore adding salt to every insult he had ever spewed from his smartmouth. It was worth it as he felt hungry pressure compiling on top of him. Wounds surged with pain, his breath was beginning to falter in his chest and Michael was ruthless, forcing his jaw open with his own mouth and even pulling his hair, forcing their lips to lock and nothing more to come from it.
They pulled back finally and by that time, his head was spinning. He grappled for air with bleeding, torn lips. As soon as he got a lungful, he wanted answers and he spoke quick.
"So what," he began, swallowing, "ya got a thing for me? I thought Laurie was your obsession?" But he frowned, brows knitting. "Is that why you didn't kill me this match?"
A smirk was his only answer and his questions and single, vague answer was solidified as he was pushed into the ground again, a mouth back on his own.
Oh well. Wasn't the worse thing, and he could still one up the bastard. He knew he could and he was going to win this fight whether Michael wanted him to or not.