#Michael's probably my next victim

[living-in-a-fantasia]

Jeremy

[deakyjoe]

Every Breath You Take

Pairing: Michael Myers x Reader (afab but no pronouns used I don’t think)

Category: stalker romance (??), smut (!!)

Summary: It shouldn’t exhilarate you so much knowing a serial killer was stalking you. But you just can’t help yourself.

Warnings: 18+ only, smut, unprotected p in v sex (wrap it before you tap it), vaginal fingering, dry humping, biting, licking, creampie, overstimulation, motorboating, pain as pleasure, slight voyeurism/exhibitionism, choking, scent kink, multiple orgasms, nipple play, over the clothes handjob, under the clothes handjob, slight dubcon (only because Michael doesn’t talk but I tried to make it as clear as possible that they just want to fuck each other), stalking, mentions of injuries and blood, mentions of murder, breaking and entering, morally questionable reader, mask is on and off, lights stay off during sex, virgin Michael, a little dark I guess (??)

Word count: 6.4k

A/N: For those who love masked men (aka me). For those who want to fuck slashers (aka me). For those who love the quiet type (aka me). For those who love a tall man (aka me). For those who love a strong man (aka me). I wrote this for me basically. I don’t think there’s much of an audience for Michael Myers fics within my followers but hopefully it reaches the right side of Tumblr :)

Consider buying me a coffee :)

It was probably disgusting how much it excited you knowing he watched you every day.

He'd stand in your back yard each night, totally still, and just look through your windows for hours. And then, when he was satisfied you assumed, he'd leave. But he always came right back the next day at the same time.

When you'd first noticed him, you'd been terrified. Naturally. You knew exactly who he was, you watched the news and heard stories. And the white mask and blue coveralls were unmistakable. You'd seen him through your window and locked all of the doors immediately. Then you waited. Patiently.

You didn't know what you were waiting for. Him to kill you... or to defend yourself. Your chances of survival were slim, he was inhumanly strong from what you'd heard. But you clutched a knife in your hand nonetheless, mirroring him in a strange way, in case you did suddenly have to fight him off.

Luckily, it never came down to that dilemma as he left a couple of hours later without even a step closer to your back door. You blinked and he was gone.

He came back the next night and did the same thing. And then the next night. And the next. And the next. Until it became a ritual.

You went about your evening and he watched. You always wondered whether he watched you during the day as well but you'd never noticed him. You also wondered what it was about you that didn't make him murder you straight away.

You were older than his usual victims, sure. And he supposedly liked to commit most of his crimes whilst his victims were in the middle of sexual acts and you didn't tend to have many visitors over. But then what was making him fixate on you?

You just couldn't figure it out.

It got to a point where you were less scared of him and more intrigued. Having him stand and stare was getting boring, you wanted to know why. No. You craved knowing why. But you couldn't ask him. You'd heard he wasn't fond of talking.

So what were you supposed to do? Just let it carry on? That was your only choice.

But things changed one evening.

When he appeared something didn't seem quite right. For one, he was seven minutes later than usual. And his left shoulder slumped forward with all of his weight placed onto his right leg.

He was injured.

And you couldn't help but feel bad for him.

So, like an insane person, you unlocked your door and opened it for him.

As you stood in the doorway staring at him, you noticed him straighten up. As if he were surprised. But you knew the man didn't show emotions, much less any that would display him being caught off guard in any way. So you put it down as your imagination or a trick of the moonlight.

But you left your door open. An invitation. Like he needed one of those.

He didn't move so you left the doorway and went to retrieve your first aid kit from the cabinet above the sink. And by the time you'd found it and turned back around, Michael Myers was standing about a foot into your kitchen.

You stared at him for a second, unsure of the emotions turning in your stomach. "Close the door. It's cold outside."

You really didn't know if you could afford to be giving him orders but considering he hadn't murdered you in the months he'd been watching you, you thought that you were probably safe until you'd at least bandaged up whatever wounds hid beneath the blue jumpsuit.

Not sticking around to see if he did it, you walked to your lounge and put a lamp on. His footsteps were silent so you kept an eye on the archway where he'd emerge from the kitchen. Which he did a few seconds later.

"Sit on the couch."

Surprisingly, he did as he was told. But you thought you might be pushing your luck so you stopped telling him to do things.

As he sat down, not relaxed in the slightest with the best posture you'd ever seen, you realised that getting a wounded man to sit on your nice furniture was probably a bad idea. What if he got blood everywhere? Too late now. You weren't going to ask him to move.

You moved towards him slowly, trying not to spook him. He still had a knife clutched in his hand after all. It was bloodstained. You ignored it.

Michael watched you closely, his head didn't move but you could feel his gaze through the dark eyeholes of the mask. It didn't escape your notice that he was still extremely tall even when sat down.

"What's hurt?"

It was a stupid question, you could see where blood was seeping through his clothes and the slashes in the fabric was clear. But given your very recent history of poor choices, an obvious question seemed like the least of your worries.

He didn't respond anyway. No finger point, no head tilt, no shrug. Not a single inch of his body moved apart from his chest from his breathing. If you couldn't see his inhales and exhales then you'd think he was some sort of dummy or mannequin.

"Have you got a shirt on underneath the jumpsuit?"

Why were you still asking questions?

He still said nothing, which you expected, but he did raise a hand to pop the first couple buttons open to reveal a grey t-shirt under the blue coveralls.

You sighed and nodded. "Um, you're going to need to- to undo a few more buttons. So I can get to your shoulder."

The blood stain was getting bigger and staining his clothes a deep purple.

He tilted his head to the side at you, the most emotion he'd shown so far. But he did as he was told again and then pushed the suit down his arms so it lowered to his waist. You didn't fail to notice how the grey t-shirt clung to him nicely, maybe a size or two too small, and displayed every inch of rippling muscle that covered him. Explained his inhuman strength.

You took a few supplies from the kit and started cleaning up the injury on his shoulder, careful to avoid staring at how his sleeve stretched against his bicep.

When you noticed him staring at you from the corner of your eye, you cleared your throat and pulled away again to distract yourself with looking for other injuries. Which was a fine idea until you realised that blood was dripping from beneath the rubber that adorned his face.

You went to lift the edge of the mask, no intention of taking it off, but his large hands gripped your wrists before you even had the chance. The knife was suddenly forgotten on the cushion of the couch.

You gasped in pain, his hold was tight, but didn't pull away. Trying your hardest to meet his eyes as best you could, you attempted to explain. "I'm not going to take it off but I need to get to your neck. You're bleeding. Lift the mask to your chin and hold it there so I can clean your neck."

There were a few tense moments of heavy breathing from him before he let go and did as you said. He was too agreeable, very out of character from all of the stories you'd heard about him. Were people wrong? Or was he acting differently than usual? How were you supposed to know?

You shook the thoughts from your head and got on with cleaning him up. You couldn't find the source of the blood so assumed it must've been coming from higher up on his face. But you weren't going to ask him to lift the mask anymore. You were a risk taker, if the night was any indication of that, but you didn't have a death wish. Mostly.

"Done." You mumbled and stepped back a few paces, looking down to clean away all of your supplies.

By the time you looked up he was standing again fully clothed.

"You going to kill me now finally?" There was a hint of laughter in your voice. If he did you wouldn't blame him. You probably deserved it after inviting a serial killer into your home and treating him like his own personal nurse.

He didn't respond, just turned and left the room. And by the time you got to the kitchen to follow him out, he was gone and the back door was shut and locked like he'd never even been there.

"See you tomorrow night then." You grumbled to yourself, assuming he'd return as he usually did.

And he did.

Uninjured this time. To your relief and, honestly, slight disappointment. There was really something very wrong with you.

But the routine returned to normal. Michael Myers would appear in your back yard every night at the same time and watch you for hours with no sign of even attempting to enter your house to murder you. And he'd leave when he was done watching whatever he sought out from you.

The initial thrill you'd had knowing he liked watching you had disappeared quickly after you'd realised there was less danger than you'd expected. And the fact that you could get so much closer to him was more exciting than anything else.

The idea of him being inside your house again played on your mind constantly, rolling around in there as regularly as a forbidden fantasy. And maybe it was. But surely you weren't fantasising about Michael Myers... right?

Perhaps the memory of his muscles and his height, just his sheer size even, plagued your brain way more often than was considered normal. The thought that he could probably just snap you in two with his large hands and impossible strength if he chose to, how easy it would be for him to break in and end your life on his will. But he chose not to.

That set your nerves alight.

So you turned your nights into a staring contest.

He'd stand in your back yard and stare into your window. You'd stand in your kitchen and stare out of your window.

And you slowly got more daring. You began to retire to bed earlier, going upstairs to your bedroom and changing right in his direct view. It was one of the few times he moved, tilting his head up slightly to see you better through the mask.

You didn't give him a full show, knowing it probably wasn't what he wanted. He liked to kill "promiscuous" people after all. But it was enough to give him an idea, a way to tease him. It was entertaining for you at least, even if he wasn't bothered.

But then one night when you noticed that he was a few feet closer to your house, you realised it was probably working.

He was tempted.

Whether it was to kill you or to do something else, you weren't sure. But you were exhilarated either way.

When he returned obviously injured again a few nights later, you sighed to yourself in annoyance. Yes, you were excited he'd be in your house again. But out of need, not want. You still unlocked your door and left it open for him as you waited in the lounge nevertheless.

When he emerged from the dark archway between your kitchen and your lounge, you looked him up and down. His stance was better than last time but he was covered in more blood. You deduced that it probably wasn't his.

"Sit." You whispered hoarsely. "Please."

Like manners were going to affect whether he killed you or not.

It went pretty much the same as the time before, cleaning the blood from him as best you could and bandaging up what was easy to access. He didn't flinch or wince, not even at the stuff that made your toes curl just from touching.

It wasn't until you were just finishing off spreading some antibacterial lotion on a gash on his thigh that you noticed he was breathing heavier than usual. You looked up at him and frowned, confused. But when he gave you no indication as to why he was suddenly almost hyperventilating, you shrugged it off and reached for a band-aid. As you glanced towards the wound to get an idea of the size you'd need for it, you realised what was wrong.

"Oh."

He was hard.

"Oh."

The prominent bulge in his crotch wasn't shy in showing you that it was there. He was big, to say at the very least.

Your mouth opened and closed a couple of times before you settled on a reassurance. "It's okay. This happens. Especially when someone is touching you a lot."

You figured this was the most he'd been touched in over a decade.

"I'll just uh..." You stood up to step away from him but he launched his arm forward to grab you by the wrist, not letting you go any further.

"Michael..."

He answered you by tugging your body into his lap, legs straddling either side of his thighs. You made sure not to settle your weight onto him, very conscious of what that could lead to.

But he had other ideas.

He planted both of his large hands on either side of your waist and pushed you to sit fully against him. And there was a lot to sit against.

You bit your tongue to prevent any noise coming out. What now? What did he expect?

His breathing was shaky as he surveyed you through the small eyeholes of his mask, hands hovering over your sides for a second.

You couldn't deny that this position, this close proximity, was turning you on. Especially feeling how hard he was pushed up against you.

He seemed to decide what he wanted to do next as his fists gripped the fabric of your pyjama shirt, suddenly tearing it open so buttons flew everywhere and then ripping it off of you and tossing it to a darkened corner of the room. His hands didn't hesitate it exploring the new uncovered areas of skin, his rough callouses against your soft flesh. He was clearly enjoying this new adventure as he appeared to grow impossibly harder beneath you. Lots of him was impossible.

The clasp he had on your breasts was almost painful but your eyes rolled back in pleasure nevertheless. You liked that he was manhandling you, the strength you'd been fantasising about since day one finally being used on you.

His hands slid down your sides until they met your hips, fingers digging in and pulling them against his. A choked moan escaped your mouth drowning out the sound of his own grunt. When Michael decided that he seemed to like that, he did it again. Rougher this time. And quicker. Then he set a pace doing it over and over again. Your hands flew to his shoulders to give yourself something to hold onto, some grounding. Because this was more than you could handle.

How could something so simple feel so good?

The feeling of his coveralls rubbing against you through the thin material of your sleep shorts was heavenly. That, mixed with his hardness pushing against you in all the right place meant you were in pure ecstasy.

The uncontrollable noises leaving you would've been embarrassing if it weren't for the fact that this was the best you'd ever felt. And you hadn't even had sex. Yet.

Barely a sound left Michael, just the occasional short groan to go along with his heavy breathing.

You couldn't quite tell where he was looking until his head suddenly snapped down and his eyes clearly fixated on where your breasts were bouncing with the rapid movement of the two of you rocking against each other. A slightly louder noise left him then.

There was no rest for you, even if your legs did grow tired and you ran out of breath because he wouldn't let you stop moving. You knew you were probably creating a wet patch on his clothes and that would only grow bigger when he finally came. You were surprised he was lasting this long to be honest. For someone who had been locked up most of his life and hadn't had any sexual experience, he had some stamina in him. But maybe he wasn't a virgin. Was your assumption wrong?

You didn't get time to dwell on it as his arm suddenly locked around your waist and he stopped the two of you. Looking down at him, he was almost the perfect picture of composure. Just some heavy breathing indicated what the two of you had been up to. You couldn't imagine you looked quite as calm.

The arm around you stiffened as he titled the two of you to the side.

"What are you doi- woah." The room was plunged into darkness as he switched the lamp off and then pulled you tight against him again. "Why did you- oh."

Your unfinished question was answered with the sound of rubber hitting the floor penetrating your ears and the feeling of Michael's breath against your skin. You didn't get the chance to question him further as to why he did that as he immediately buried his face in the valley of your breasts and rocked your hips against his to get the friction going again, his free hand rubbing up and down your thigh as the two of you moved.

You bit your bottom lip, extremely happy that he hadn't decided to just stop and leave, that this was still going. The happiness only extended when he licked a drop of sweat off of your skin and you almost screamed. But you couldn't imagine if was the kind of screaming he was used to so you bit your tongue.

Trying to adjust to the sudden absence of light by blinking, but having little success, you looked down to where you imagined Michael's head would be. You saw nothing. Naturally, the only solution to that was to move your hands up his shoulders, up his neck and into his hair. As you curled your fingers into the locks, you were pleasantly surprised to find how soft it was.

You would've smiled or giggled to yourself if he hadn't chosen that exact moment to bite into your collarbone and thrust up underneath you. Your response of tugging on his hair seemed to go down well as he did it again.

"Fuck." You whined against the top of his head, eyes scrunching shut.

That caught Michael's attention, his head pulling back and his free hand abandoning your thigh to wrap around the front of your neck, squeezing slightly when situated there.

You knew what he was doing. Mixing what he usually found pleasurable with this new experience. You wondered whether it was getting him off even more. If the way he was practically throbbing beneath you was any indication, then yes.

This added element of danger sent a shiver down your spine and an intense pulse to your core, making you rock against him without any prompting from him at all. You could still breathe but you knew he could stop that at any second if he chose to.

A breathless moan rumbled from the back of your throat as he squeezed your neck tighter, the arm locked around your waist pushing you against him even harder.

You were so close. So, so close. You chased your high like it was running away from you, rubbing yourself against him as roughly as you could. But there was no need.

Because when Michael leaned forward again to lick a long strip up from your left breast to your neck and then bit you, hard, it was like you saw the pearly gates of heaven. Or the fiery descent to hell.

Your orgasm crashed over you in hot waves as you collapsed against him, forcing his body to hit the back of the couch as your forehead met his and you gasped into his mouth, lips almost grazing but not quite meeting. Your grasp on his hair was tight, tugging on the roots like they were your lifeline. Your naked chest pressed against his clothed one, and that combined with the slight pain of the hair pulling was enough for Michael to come underneath you.

You could feel him twitching against you, only making you shudder against him more, as the wet patch on his jumpsuit grew as you predicted. The quietest extended groan left his mouth as he tensed beneath you, arms locking around you. His hips bucked up against yours a few times weakly before he grew limp.

You rested for a moment, trying to gain some strength back in your shaking legs, before you pushed off of him and stood up. Feeling around in the air for the lamp, you covered your eyes before switching it back on.

"Find your mask and put it back on." You instructed, waiting a moment for him to do so.

He didn't make any noise as he moved, as usual, and the only indication you had that he was done was the looming feeling of his presence in front of you and the sound of his exhales rattling the rubber that adorned him.

You uncovered your eyes and squinted against the sudden light, looking up to find Michael almost chest to chest with you. Well, head to chest. He was very tall after all.

Your gaze flickered down to his left hand which was slightly extended towards you. He was holding your pyjama shirt. The one he'd ruined by ripping all of the buttons off.

"Oh, thanks." You took it from him and put it back on, holding it together at the front by crossing your arms against your chest.

Probably a bad idea considering this position made the top gape open and your breasts push together to create an exaggerated cleavage. Michael didn't seem to mind as he lifted his right hand and traced a finger across the swell of your breasts for a moment before dropping his arm back to his side again.

You dropped your eyes away in embarrassment, and slight arousal, and noticed the mess the two of you had made on his blue jumpsuit.

"You're gonna want to wash that." You said, meekly gesturing towards it. You couldn't deny that seeing the stains that you'd made together was making your skin feel hot again.

He didn't even look to see what you were talking about, just continued to stare at you through his mask.

You tried to come up with something to say but nothing sprung to mind. What were you supposed to say to a serial killer that you'd just dry humped and orgasmed on top of?

It seemed like you didn't need to come up with a one-sided conversation starter though as he suddenly turned on his heel and left the room. You hesitated before following him. Stupid really since you couldn't even keep up with him at the best of times, especially not now on weak legs.

And, as usual, by the time you'd reached the kitchen he was gone and the door was locked.

He continued to return every night as normal but didn't enter your house again. No injuries seemed to be inflicted upon him for a while. You were beginning to get bored. Sighing every time he left with no hint of coming inside again.

Which is why a few days later you were very shocked by his out of character behaviour.

You woke up cold, your blankets stripped from your bed and the feeling of someone watching you sinking a chilling freeze into your bones. It was soon clear why you felt that way.

His silhouette was partially outlined by the moonlight coming through your bedroom window as he stood over you.

You shot up in bed, giving yourself a head rush. "Michael, what the fu-" You were cut off as he grasped the hand that was reaching for your bedside lamp. "No light? Why?"

He answered your question by pressing something rubber into your palm. His mask.

"Oh. Okay..." You frowned to yourself as you dropped the mask on your nightstand. What was he expecting you to do if he was injured but you couldn't see him? "I can't clean your wounds if it's dark."

It was too dark to see his face but the natural light from outside was enough to see him shake his head no. He wasn't injured. What did he need then?

"Then what? Why are you here? At this time?" You were still slightly dazed from just waking up, trying to shake some coherent thought into your head. What was the time? He'd already been and gone earlier that evening. How had he gotten in? You were sure you'd locked the door? Maybe that made no difference?

His breathing was heavy, shoulders moving up and down with his laboured inhales and exhales.

His grip on your wrist hadn't loosened as he pulled your hand towards him, resting it on his abdomen and then slowly dragging down and down and-

"Oh."

He was hard.

Very hard.

"You want me to-"

You'd guessed by this point that he probably hated hearing you talk as he was always cutting you off. This time by pushing on your shoulders so you fell flat on your back and bounced on the mattress. And then he was on top of you in mere fractions of a second.

He was smothering.

His mere presence was enough to stop your breath in your throat and having him be this close, having all of his weight pressed against you this way, practically stole the oxygen from your bloodstream.

His breath was hot on your face, his nose barely grazing against yours before he moved to trace it along your hairline and then down your neck where he inhaled deeply, groaning lowly at your scent.

You reached up to touch him but he was too fast, clasping both of your wrists in one hand and pinning them above your head.

"This doesn't work if I can't touch you." You mumbled frustratedly, more to yourself than to him.

It wasn't strictly true but what did he know? Last time he hadn't used any real technique, just done whatever felt best for him which luckily also felt good for you. He'd used the mere skill brought to him by innate exploration. Maybe this time he'd be more purposeful with you.

Unlikely.

The statement you'd made seemed to have some sort of influence on him though as he slowly let go of your wrists and let you dig one into his hair, where you gently pulled on it, and let the other drift to undo the top buttons of his coveralls. You popped them open cautiously, one by one, until your nails stroked the material of his grey undershirt. You assumed it was grey as usual.

Your fingers wandered to the neckline where you swooped the index to get a feel of his skin. He froze above you but didn't stop you.

"I'm going to undo more. Just stop me if you want. But gently." You clarified, not wanting bruised wrists in the morning which was guaranteed if he grabbed them with his vice-like grip again.

Each button fell open easily, like they were dying to be free from their clasps, and Michael didn't stop you once. And when the last one was undone, he leant back slightly on his knees to let you push the jumpsuit down so it bunched around his waist just like the first time he'd been in your house.

You took the opportunity to let your hands roam the muscles you'd been admiring since the first time you'd seen him up close. They were solid. He was solid.

He crowded over you again, breathing getting more rapid the more you touched him. He let out a soft sound when your hands reached his crotch, palming him over his clothes.

"Take them off and I can touch you more." You offered, attempting to sound sultry but sure you just sounded desperate instead.

He hesitated but did as you said, standing up to push the jumpsuit further down his legs but still not taking it off completely. Then he was on top of you again, pushing your hand against him before you even had the chance to realise he was so close again. You squeezed him through his underwear and he bucked his hips against your palm.

You did that for a while, moving your hand up and down the outline of him through the material and ignoring the ache between your own legs. Getting him riled up was a lot of fun, especially when he let noises slip every now and again. You just wished you could see the reactions on his face. Did he bite his lip? Did he screw his eyes shut? Was his jaw dropped open? You guessed you'd never know.

While those thoughts plagued your mind, it seemed Michael had changed his. And what was happening wasn't good enough for him anymore. So he slapped your hand away suddenly. Before you could even begin to utter a sentence, he ripped your pyjama shirt open.

Great, another one ruined.

His hands shot to your chest, away from where they'd been resting either side of your head previously, and he started to knead the flesh. Your back arched, pushing your chest closer to his and making your nipples rub against the fabric of his t-shirt. Michael must've figured out that the stimulation was good based on the gasp you let out as he moved his attention to your nipples, flicking and tweaking them with his fingers.

He didn't seem hesitant at all in what he was doing but it was also clear he wasn't experienced either. There was no rhythm to his touches, he just did whatever felt right. And that worked for you.

You grew extremely wet when he started grinding himself against your core from instinct alone. You wanted more, craved more, needed more.

Your hands flew to the waistband of his underwear, tugging them down a few inches to pull him free. You knew he was big but having the real thing in your hand, no clothing barriers at all, was a whole other story.

You could hear his teeth clicking shut when you started to stroke him, skin on skin, spreading his pre-cum up and down his length.

"Fuck, Michael. Jesus." You garbled, head wild with lust and nothing else. "Need you inside me."

He stopped moving at that, hands falling away from your chest and hips no longer bucking to pump himself into your palm.

Maybe he really was clueless.

"You know? Inside me?" You reached around to find one of his hands, pushing it down the waistband of your sleep shorts until his fingers met your wetness.

He wasn't even doing anything but the sensation alone of him touching you made you shiver. That was until he seemed to understand what he was feeling. His head tilted to the side, just about visible in the moonlight, as he let his fingers explore. As he grazed your clit, you squeaked quietly. He seemed to like that so he did it a couple more times, just to illicit a reaction out of you. But he got bored quickly and kept on feeling.

When he reached the source of the wetness, he pushed a finger in. You moaned. Loudly. He liked that a lot more, so pulled out the finger and reinserted with a second one joining in. Your eyes rolled back at this. And the sounds you made reached a new decibel. Michael did the same thing again and again, pumping his fingers just to feel you clench around him.

When he eventually pulled his fingers free, you whined in protest before the sounds of him sucking the taste of you off of his skin hit you. And you decided that maybe the loss of contact was okay if that's what he was going to do instead.

When he was satisfied with that, Michael tore your shorts off of you completely and tossed them over his shoulder somewhere. Then his underwear was pushed further down and he was spreading your legs apart, as far as they would go.

Your heart rate picked up further than it was already running, probably entering dangerous territory. But you didn't care. It was finally about to happen.

Michael crawled over you, shadowed face hanging above yours. You just nodded at him, wondering whether he was able to see you do it. Either way, he seemed to get the message that you really really wanted to do this. So, with a hand on one of your thighs to hold you in place, and the other on his cock to guide him, he pushed into you.

At that moment you decided that you were definitely seeing the devil in the afterlife.

But it was worth it for this.

He stretched you open perfectly, gliding in with ease considering how wet you already were. But that was nothing in comparison to how you felt hearing him letting out what could only be described as a mixture between a whimper and a pleasured groan against your ear.

If never hearing him talk meant that the noises he let out during sex made you tingle, then you'd take his silence any day.

The hand on your thigh moved to curl your leg around his waist, changing the angle so he moved into you deeper. And the other rested against your head to keep him propped up. Yours scraped down his back in ecstasy, probably leaving nail marks along the plains of his skin. You were sure he wouldn't mind, he'd had worse injuries.

He stayed still once he'd entered you, stiff but breathing heavily.

"Move, Michael." You whispered. "Please move."

And when he pulled out and slammed back in again, you were positive you could see the grim reaper knocking at your door ready to whisk you away to the tortuous pits of hell.

All you knew is that you certainly weren't seeing heaven after this.

Michael grunted, head hanging so his soft hair tickled against your skin. But he seemed to get the idea as he pumped in and out of you at a ruthless pace. Skin slapped together, your chests rubbing against one another as you bounced up and down the surface of the bed, which shuffled along the floor with every thrust.

You'd never known sex to be so loud. Maybe you'd just never had sex as good as this. Because the roaring of blood in your ears definitely wasn't helping.

You couldn't help the sounds that were escaping your parted lips, thankful that your neighbours' houses weren't close enough to hear you. Your other leg moved to wrap around Michael's waist, tugging him closer to you and locking him in place. You need him to be as close as possible, to be as deep inside you as possible.

The hand on your thigh dug in deep, certainly leaving bruises, before trailing up the length of your body and wrapping around the front of your neck. He pushed down this time, squeezing slightly to cut off your airway just a little. It excited you more than anything and made you clench around him.

That seemed unexpected to Michael as he faltered slightly before pounding into you harder than before, having absolutely no mercy on your body. You only clenched harder.

His pattern began to fumble, thrusts become more forceful but less regular. He was getting close. And you weren't far off either. You let one of your hands fall from his back and placed it between the two of you, starting to rub your clit. He took notice of this and pushed your hand away to replace it with his own, letting oxygen rush back into your lungs again.

The head rush combined with the pressure on your clit tipped you over the edge into oblivion. You choked out a muffled scream as your orgasm ripped through your body, tears falling from the corners of your eyes.

But Michael didn't let up for a second. This just seemed to give him a new wave of energy as his pace picked up rubbing tight circles on your clit and slamming into you with no forgiveness.

You approached the edge rapidly again, the raw feeling over overstimulation pushing you closer and closer. His sweat dripped onto you, creating a sheen that let your bodies slide against each other in erotic heat. You could feel every inch of him either against you or inside of you. And that thought made you come again. This time the scream was less muffled.

The feeling of you clenching around him again like a vice had Michael finally hitting his peak too, his face buried into the crook of your neck as he pumped you full of his cum. If you weren't so spent already, that would've made for three orgasms.

He bit down on the skin of your shoulder to prevent any noises coming out too loud, but he couldn't mask all of them. He twitched inside of you as he gave a few last lazy bucks of his hips before he pulled out completely, standing up and looking down at you.

You really wondered how good his vision must be in this light for him to be able to see you. Or maybe he couldn't. Maybe he was faking it.

Either way you didn't care, too exhausted suddenly to really think about it. You began to drift to sleep, desperately trying to keep your eyes open to see what he'd do next. You vaguely remembered seeing him get dressed again. But you don't remember him leaving. Or moving you to rest your head back on your pillow. Or him pulling your blankets over you again.

Maybe he didn't do any of that. Maybe you did in your sleepy state.

It didn't matter. He was still gone before you even had the chance to register what happened.

But you were pleased when the next night, you glanced out of your kitchen window and found him stood there as usual, watching you. From now on, you were just going to leave your door unlocked to make it easier for him.

A/N: To celebrate my Halloween, I watched Halloween (1978) home alone whilst my housemates all went to a party. It inspired me to write this.

[riotlain]

Trap Making Reader

offically BACK and congrats youre jigsaw now

also if my writing still gives off like 2021ish then just idk enjoy it idk

no bubba or thomas since i was very unsure of how that would work since they in middle of nowhere

NWLNW BLOG !! WOMEN DNI

Poly Ghostface

Your traps were getting on the news, almost as much as their kills were!

They just had to track you down and maybe kill you- and they ended up in one of your traps

You were gonna kill them but then Stu wasn't gonna have his giant party!

After a deal maybe even a couple dates and kills the big party arrived. You had your traps all nice and set up in Stu's place for people to fall into while they were busy tormenting and killing

Imagine in this world, they actually get away with the party (their plan was very stupid shh you have the brain in this world)

You 3 will now live happily ever after killing people in more elaborate ways

OK NOW TO DYNAMICS

Billy's first impression of you was mainly jealousy and a hint of being impressed but mostly jealousy

After meeting and becoming friends and maybe even gay lovers, he likes giving you cool ideas for traps

Of course they're all bases around horror movies

Stu's first impression of you was he was hella impressed! But getting put in an almost saw trap did freak him out with the possibility of death

When actually dating he also loves giving you trap ideas, albeit very elaborate and probably impossible traps for you to make

You're a killing genius in his eyes

He loves incorporating Ghostface into your traps, whether its just standing there while the person struggles or actually killing them himself

Jason Voorhees

Jason has his traps and he likes them. They're simple and easy to get.

You on the other hand have much more insane things. But Jason can't lie he does love the reverse bear trap

Your traps are reserved for the worst of the worst in your eyes while Jason is just for anyone in the camp

You can't resist his puppy eyes though if he wants to use one of your traps (he stares at you blankly and menacingly until you agree)

Camp Crystal Lake now has much more interesting rumors spreading thanks to you

Michael Myers

He met you after watching you kidnap his victim

He was planning on killing you, he did not care but then he ended up following you and interrupting one of your traps

He doesn't care how expensive it was that was his target you can't share targets

Upon actually dating, he looms over your shoulder whenever you're busy planning

He doesn't take part in your traps he just likes staring its literally his thing

He could help you kidnap your victims but he isn't the kidnapping type he's not interested

No he will not grab you food or drinks while you work do it yourself

Vincent Sinclair

You were supposed to be one of their victims until you ended up making a trap out of nothing but glass, string, and the interworking of your mind

He was impressed he's an artist after all

He helps you sketch out ideas for traps and even helps set it up

He's like a genius, have you seen the town

You two have to keep each other in check don't overwork yourselves

You definitely help make the town somewhat more lively but also more gorey

You have to deal with Bo though but like he doesn't get too much in the way

The only times he doesn't like your traps is when they completely destroy the body like that was supposed to be the next statue😒

Bo Sinclair

Similar situation with Vincent except his was more like a deal offering with you

You two probably started off hating each other but you work together so it doesn't matter

Once you're dating yes he is very affectionate it doesn't matter what you're up to

Busy making a trap? Well he's behind you holding you

You help play into the whole act of the town by being somewhat normal

You're offputting but who isn't in this town

Chromeskull

He fell for you when he saw your traps on the news

Call that parasocial but he needs to know who this mastermind is

He has you tracked down and brought to him so he can yknow shoot his shot

He's rich, mute and a big attractive serial killer like who wouldn't want him

After a couple of maybe or maybe not forced dates you two are a powercouple

He spoils you most definitely. He will pay for your traps and whatever else you need

[calmcoldevening]

Hiii I love your writing could I maybe request some slashers with a s/o who has insomnia

(Add rz Michael and Bubba please

You can add other slashers to)

Oh kitten, thank you for your request ♡︎ I hope it could make you feel better and help to sleep. These boys are all for you

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Slashers with s/o who has insomnia

Characters: Michael Myers (RZ), Bubba Sawyer, Hannibal Lecter, Mark Hoffman

Warnings: mention of cannibalism (just a little, because it's Bubba), insomnia, just problems with sleep, but I tried to make it hurt/comfort

Ps: English is not my native language, so sorry for misspells

Michael Myers

• Expressing emotions towards another person is clearly not Michael's strong point. But when it comes to you... It's something else.

• At first, he didn't pay much attention to your condition, or rather, he just didn't know yet that such apathy and nervousness is something bad. Michael just thought he wasn't used to you yet.

• But still something made him think about it.

• As soon as Michael got used to physical contact, he literally began to feel a hunger for touch. He wanted to touch you, hug you and just feel your tender skin on his rough one. A man slept with you. When he was sure that you were deep asleep and would not notice it, he pressed his huge body against yours like a frightened kitten. He was desperately clutching the fabric of your pajamas, sinking into a restless sleep.

• But that has changed now. You went to bed late, if you went to bed at all, and sometimes you woke up in the middle of the night. Now Michael was falling asleep without your little figure next to him. It was like this.. alien and unpleasant.

• It seemed eerily wrong. You spent less time with him and seemed to be flying in your thoughts all the time, although in fact your body was just trying not to switch off due to lack of sleep. Michael became more aggressive and killed his victims with greater brutality.

• But as soon as the usual veil of anger fell away, and his pitch-black eyes turned soft blue again, Michael noticed in your gaze.. sadness? despair? His heart squeezed a little. Then he really thought about your condition. It probably happened a month after your days became more frequent with insomnia. And he really didn't know what to do.

• But Michael is a smart boy, he found a way out. How easy it was to watch old Loomis for a few days, who, probably because of his work, often experienced insomnia. How to solve this problem? Michael watched the man through the window. Pills? Michael hates pills, and he doesn't want you to become addicted to them in any way. Doctor's visit? Michael wouldn't really want you to have contact with another person, especially if it's a man. Just thinking about it made Michael's heart ache.

• But how does he cope with stress himself? Now he takes out all his accumulated anger and emotions in murders. A knife in his hand and someone else's blood on it cause a man a pleasant wave of trembling. But you can't kill. No, he will never allow you, his fragile flower, to get your soft, tender hands in someone else's vile blood and flesh.

• Although as a child, when he was sad or bad, Michael ate candy... Indeed, sweets. Perhaps it is sweets that will help you cope with stress. It seems that chocolate causes the production of serotonin?

• You were sitting in the bedroom and reading a book, or rather, trying to. Everything was in a fog in my head, and the letters occasionally floated before my eyes, but as soon as your head touched the pillow, drowsiness immediately disappeared, as if it had never existed. Flipping through the next page, you look up and notice the giant figure of your boyfriend in the doorway. Surprisingly, he is wearing his still clean overalls and an orange papier-mache mask. Dirty blonde hair falls gracefully over his broad shoulders. You can't read his stoic expression, but you can see him hiding something behind his back. When you finally pay attention to him, Michael starts walking slowly in your direction. He climbs onto the bed, the mattress will crumple under his weight. Next to your side, he puts a bag with a lot of sweets, and he grabs your legs and climbs between them. The man gently squeezes your hips and puts his head on your lower abdomen, gently rubbing his nose against your skin through your clothes. Like a kitten. Michael was not a fan of soulful conversations, so he preferred actions and touches. You glance briefly at the package and notice inside, in addition to sweets, a small note. Clumsy and a little sloppy, as if written in a child's handwriting: "Hug me if you can't sleep. I'm near."You smile, and your heartbeat quickens. You gently touch Michael's tangled hair with your fingers, starting to slowly stroke them. It's relaxing. I could swear that a long purr is coming from the chest of this giant.

Bubba Sawyer

• Bubba started to worry a lot when he found out about your insomnia. He begins to take care of you and shield you from stress in every possible way.

• When the Sawyers need to deal with uninvited guests, you are usually sent for a short walk with one of the brothers so that you don't worry about strong screams. Or you're just out in the backyard enjoying a warm Texas day.

• Bubba gives you a lot of hugs. Very much. At night, he does not let you out of his arms, fearing that something might happen to you. He is very attentive. A man always makes sure that when you go to bed, the room is cool and dark, and the sheets are soft and pleasant to sleep on.

• Before going to bed, you definitely take a walk in the garden. Even if he is tired, Bubba will still sit with you on the grass, admiring the stars and gently squeezing your little neat hand. He values you very much.

• Bubba will also try to give you lighter food. No hard-to-digest human meat and barbecue, just fruits and vegetables.

• By nature a gentle and simple person, Bubba will give you a mug of warm milk before going to bed. They always gave it to him when he was little, and he fell asleep quickly.

• When the two of you go to bed, Bubba cuddles you to her, making soothing sounds and mumbling like a lost puppy. He clings to you and tries to show you all his love and comfort.

• Bubba has big and strong hands. So in the evenings, about two or three times a week, he gives you a relaxing massage. Trust me, he does it like a real professional. These hardened by long years of hard work can do a lot.

• Bubba will try to talk about your problem with Drayton. Bubba really wants to help you. Even if it means you have to leave him. Bubba will try to persuade Drayton to take you to the city to see a doctor. He loves you so much, his sunshine, the man doesn't want you to suffer.

Hannibal Lecter

• You periodically had trouble sleeping, but you didn't want to bother the Lecturer with this. After all, he has enough problems of his own, besides, he is a psychiatrist and deals with the problems of his patients, he does not need to worry about you once again.

• So you thought when another sleepless night came.

• You were quietly sitting on the windowsill in the bedroom and listening to music. Hannibal, as always, lingered in the office, so you were completely immersed in your thoughts. The light melody somehow reduced the unpleasant heaviness of your head. It seems that you wanted to sleep, but at the same time, your brain did not want to turn off in any way. There was a strange emptiness inside.

• Being in your thoughts, you didn't notice how a big but gentle hand touched your shoulder. Lifting your head up, your eyes instantly met his — bottomless and dark, like thick blood. The man's eyebrows moved slightly to the bridge of his nose, and he gave you a quick glance from the bottom up.

• "Why aren't you sleeping?" His gaze slid to his wristwatch, "It's one o'clock in the morning, dear."

• The answer was only your empty, uncertain look. The man instantly connected the dots, sighing heavily. "Insomnia?" A slight nod. Hannibal gently touches your chin with his fingers, stroking the skin and leaning his forehead against yours. "You should have told me earlier, honey. I'm a psychiatrist."

• After a couple of minutes, your tired body was already peacefully resting in Hannibal's arms. He carried you to the bathroom, sitting you on the edge of the tub and slowly starting to draw hot water. The man added a little lavender oil and a nice soft bubble bath. As soon as your body touched the cherished warmth, a blissful sigh escaped from your chest. A smile touched Hannibal's lips.

• "That's it dear. Close those beautiful eyes of yours," he almost sang in his sweet, slightly hoarse voice as he sat down on the side of the tub. He rolled up his sleeves and took some shampoo, starting to wash your hair. His movements are precise, gentle, soothing. Your eyes slowly close, as if filled with lead, and your heart begins to beat in a calmer rhythm. It was so sweet of him. This man knows exactly what he's doing. A little later, he massages your shoulders and neck, relaxing the muscles tense after long sleepless nights. The subtle scent of lavender and his firm hands created a pleasant duet in your mind, starting to slowly put you to sleep. It's as if in one moment all that stress disappeared from your soul, being replaced by a clear lack of sleep.

• "That's it, honey. Let me take care of my love."

• After a while, Hannibal will help you get out of the bath and put on clean pajamas consisting of your favorite shorts and his loose shirt. He knows that his things make you feel comfortable and safe.

• Under his careful guidance, you will slowly return to bed. Cool sheets on your hot skin after a bath now seem like a real paradise. Sleep begins to slowly take over your mind as Hannibal's arms gently wrap around your smaller body.

• "Sweet dreams, darling."

Mark Hoffman

• Mark knew well what it meant to have trouble sleeping. Because of all his work and the Designer, he was often stressed and could not sleep peacefully.

• So when he noticed you had insomnia, it really started to worry him. Not to say that Mark was a very gentle and kind partner, but he tries. Therefore, first of all, Mark will certainly take you to the doctor and use any possible method of treating your insomnia, no matter if it is a special massage or medications.

• In addition, Mark knows that, first of all, insomnia occurs against a background of great stress and excitement. Therefore, he will try to give you maximum support. A man will try to do most of the housework, not allowing you not to overwork. He will do his best to give you support, both physical and emotional.

• Every evening certainly ends with a warm hug. You know, in his big hands you will really feel loved and safe. You can sit in the living room and watch some quiet movie. Or you will just lie together in the bedroom: there is a subdued light around, the moon shines softly through the window, gently tracing his rough features with a milky white light; you lie wrapped in a soft blanket in his arms, Mark's head rests on top of your head. You can talk about the past day or just be silent, enjoying each other's company. After a while, he will begin to gently hum some kind of lullaby, from which you will wearily close your eyes. In his hands, you have nothing to worry about. He will always be with you, no matter what.

• "I promise you that it's going to be okay, we will get through this together."

• Often your evenings can end with a mug of hot herbal tea. Warm drinks are always soothing, so he can try.

• You may notice one more detail. When you try to fall asleep with him, he deliberately presses you closer to him. His shirt smells like lavender. The delicate scent of the flower pleasantly tickles your nose, causing a smile. Surprisingly, your brain calms down, you begin to feel sleepy. Mark specially bought a new lavender laundry conditioner, knowing that it could help you calm down.

• Every day he will constantly remind you how important you are to him. If he leaves for work before you, he leaves different stickers with inscriptions all over the house. On the refrigerator, on the bathroom mirror, on the bedside table. "It's not your fault you have insomnia, baby. You're important to me. I love you very much. You're doing enough. I'm proud of you." While at work, he often sends you cute messages and pictures. And although he himself is not strong in such things as romance, the fact that he sees your smile encourages him to try even harder.

• Mark buys you big stuffed animals so you have someone to cuddle with while he's at work. There are also lots of milkshakes in the fridge now, and there are different teas in the cupboard to help you relax. And although he tries not to give you a lot of sweets, he buys your favorite fruits and nuts to adjust your nutrition.

• He really cares and cares about you. Mark will try to do everything in his power to help you, dear.

[ohmyeyesmyeyes]

i couldn't stand you - m. bunting

summary: (slow burn enemies to frenemies to friends etc / f!reader x mb) three years: arguments, truces, break-ups, moving houses...michael bunting wasn't nearly as irritating as you'd initially expected.

warnings: swearing, consumption of alcohol, reader is a pens fan, scenes with eating involved, reader is a chef, I PROMISE THE WRITING GETS BETTER THE MORE YOU READ (toronto to carolina sequence my fave <3), sid being an obliviously adorable cockblocker, angst/pining, fluff, the ending is so unfinished and doesn't do the 20k justice at all...(i lost inspiration)(but i might edit it in the future/do an alternate ending)

a/n: i got inspiration from this from that tom welling hug in cheaper by the dozen

In all honesty, you hadn’t really been paying much attention to Ellis, which kind of defeated the entire purpose of even stepping into the bar. Taylor had wanted you to meet her new boyfriend, and it had barely taken all of five minutes of being in his presence to deduce that he was not only a nice guy, but clearly liked her a lot, was funny, the whole works, etc, etc. Only, your attention had been (completely against your will) stolen by the…idiot sitting next to you.

You didn’t really know what else to call him. An impatient dick? That was also fitting. A bad driver? There wasn’t a 100% certainty in that statement, but it felt fitting given the incident from earlier that morning.

Nevertheless, when you’d clocked each other, the only empty space being that on the bench right next to him, there was no doubt he recognised you too. He’d rolled his eyes and scoffed into his beer, and you’d sat down rather aggressively and dropped your bag on the floor, downright refusing to look at him.

Hence, the intervening from Ellis, with his polite smile and countenance, a complete contrast to aforementioned impatient dick sitting on your left. Taylor had raised a brow, a silent question on her face but you’d simply shaken your head and accepted the cocktail she’d already ordered with a grateful smile.

“I’m confused.” Ellis muttered, leaning his head on one hand, eyes darting confusedly between you and Michael Bunting, Maple Leafs player apparently, “Do you two know each other?”

You shook your head, sipping your cocktail. Judging from the silence next to you, Micheal had done the same thing, neither of you too eager to explain anything. It wouldn’t have been a big deal. In fact, if the subject hadn't been poked and prodded further, you’d have probably been fine with it, maybe even accepted the fact that you were going to have to spend however many hours with him for the sake of your friends. 

Who knew? Maybe you’d have eventually gotten past this pre-established dislike for one another, but Taylor was never really one for ignoring gossip when it was sitting in front of her – a trait that you rather found entertaining until you were the victim.

“What, so it’s dislike at first sight, or something?” She asked, eyeing the two of you with more intrigue than you were comfortable with.

In fact, her eyes seemed to shimmer like a greedy shark when you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, briefly glancing at the man on your left.

He was rolling his eyes. And you didn’t care to even guess if it was at you or if it was at Taylor, but with the morning you’d had – because of him – you turned back to her with more conviction this time.

“Pretty much, yeah.” You shrugged.

Taylor scoffed in disbelief, sharing a look with Ellis, “Why?”

“Because she’s a shit driver.” 

You gaped, head snapping to Michael with appal. He was frowning in a way that just exuded arrogance. He actually thought he was right – the nerve.

“I am not–”

“Oh, yes you are.”

“The traffic in front of me was at a complete standstill, what was I supposed to do–”

“They were moving–”

“Oh, please. You were just in a rush because someone clearly forgot to set an alarm this morning–”

“I was not in a rush–”

“Then what was the reason for honking at me?”

“You flipped me a birdie!”

“You honked for no reason – who even does that?”

“You flipped me a fucking birdie!”

“After you honked!”

“You were too slow, you weren’t even looking at the road.”

“Yeah, because God forbid I skip a song in a traffic jam.”

He scowled, but said nothing else, sharing a rather irritated glance with Ellis across from him.

You, however, were a little different: sure, your jaw was ticking, your pulse was higher than usual from his stress-inducing attitude, but the first thing you did was share a wide-eyed glance with Taylor, whose jaw had dropped. You rarely fought with people, let alone in public spaces. In fact, the last time you’d bickered like that was when you and Taylor were little and arguing over who got to marry which celebrity from the magazine in make-believe play – but that was exactly all it had been: make-believe.

This was real life, and when you argue like that in real life, people tend to stare. You could feel strangers’ eyes boring into the side of your face and your cheeks flamed against your will. Add that onto the fact that Ellis – who you’d never met before, and were intent on setting a good first impression – had just witnessed you argue with his best friend? You were nothing short of mortified.

“Right.” Ellis sighed, scratching the back of his head, and all three pairs of remaining eyes sitting at the table zipped to him for some form of guidance as to what to do next, “So, now that everyone’s introduced…another round?”

There were muted expressions of agreements, and even just looking at Taylor, you could tell that she was about to slip out and join Ellis at the bar, even after your pleading.

You watched her go sadly, your hands tucked under your thighs, trying desperately to ignore the other presence. You weren’t sure how you’d feel even looking at him – didn’t know if you could. Not only for the embarrassment, but for the sheer…eugh of having to look at him.

Blue eyes, brown hair – not too dark. Apart from that, your mind was drawing a blank.

He cleared his throat. You ignored it.

“What’re your first thoughts on Ellis for Taylor, then?” He mumbled, half-heartedly trying to engage in conversation, and it was because you knew he was only doing it to try and ease some of the tension for Ellis that you turned to face him.

The flare of irritation that presented itself felt like an allergic reaction to simply looking at him, but you swallowed, trying to paste on a nonchalant expression. You could do this. You just had to stare at the blank spot on the wood just a little bit off from his face.

Only, he seemed to take your lack of expression and interest as something else, because he tilted his head towards you fractionally, a rather condescending look on his face. 

“Your instincts?” 

Instincts? You had instincts – not necessarily about Ellis and what it was Michael was asking about, but you had them. And maybe it was the patronising glare, maybe it was the day’s frustration, maybe you were just tired and needed someone to take it out on, but you ignored his context for the question.

“My instincts?” You repeated, and he nodded, eyes squinting slightly, “That you’re full of shit.”

***

Usually you’d have no issue avoiding Michael when both of your presences were dubbed mandatory to these kinds of things: there was space, there were people – no reason to talk or even look in each other’s directions.

Only, this time, Ellis’s birthday party, somehow the invitation had been extended to you and the get-together was small. Intimate. Maybe seven people in total, not including Ellis himself. And because Ellis was Ellis, a party meant drunk games – and if not drunk, certainly alcohol-induced.

And to your bitter astonishment, the only two people left without split-second partners for a rough game of charades was…you and Michael. In theory, it shouldn’t have been much of a shock: it was inevitable for Ellis and Taylor to pair up together, and you were Taylor’s plus one (even though Ellis had told you himself he wanted you there), and it had become increasingly obvious throughout the evening that Michael didn’t know anyone but Ellis and Taylor; everyone else seemed to have gone to school together and jumped into pairs pretty quickly.

Needless to say, when you’d looked around the room and locked eyes with an equally disgruntled Michael, the two of you hadn’t broken eye contact as you’d downed whatever was remaining in your glasses and immediately reached for a refill.

Yet, for all your displeasure in the pairing, there was an odd satisfaction in knowing that you’d both absolutely thrashed the living daylights out of everyone else. It scratched a competitive itch inside of you, and against your will, you felt yourself softening up to him. His grin had become less irritatingly smug when he was directing it at you after a speedy guess, and his failure to hide his equally competitive edge through the half-smirks directed at his lap when other couples failed were more endearing than grating.

(You just blamed the alcohol.)

Although, probably just as shocking as that turn of events, Taylor and Ellis were awful at charades. They’d gotten one word right in the allotted time, and although they’d tried to hide it, no one was completely ignorant to their harsh whisperings to each other and pointed gestures. Or the confused glances they seemed to direct straight towards you and Michael, who, unlike everyone else, were sitting side by side on the carpet, a sizable distance between each other and managing to neither look or speak apart from when it was your turn.

It was remarkable, really, that two strangers could guess each other’s frantic motions easier than people who knew each other in arguably the most intimate ways. It felt like a test of compatibility, and Ellis and Taylor knew they were failing – hence, in your head, said compatibility test was clearly false. Michael was living, breathing proof of that.

“And Team We Don’t Care Just Pick Whatever wins.” Taylor announced, glancing direly at the small scrap of paper that she’d been documenting the scores on, “Ten points clear from the runners-up.”

You raised your brows, sighing despondently at your glass because you weren’t quite sure you could look Taylor in the eye without feeling some form of inexplicable guilt. You, however, wanted to savour this moment of triumph.

And what better way to celebrate than to pour yourself another glass?

The kitchen was quiet, dirty dishes stacked near and in the sink, along with a plethora of glasses and bottles from where people had decided to mix their drinks. It was quieter and cooler, too: a place to rest and breathe for a second. Only, as soon as the first sip touched your mouth, you had to stifle a yawn, your eyes suddenly dry and heavy. 

Half past twelve.

“You leavin’?” 

You turned your head to see Michael standing in the doorway, clearly having just come back from the bathroom and with a rather blank look on his face. At your attention, however, he seemed to force his mouth into a slither of a smile, looking mightily uncomfortable under your gaze.

His eyes quickly dropped, momentarily drifting to your glass, a little hesitantly.

“Might do. You?”

You almost wanted to wince at the awkwardness emanating in the atmosphere. It must be the first time you’d ever willingly engaged in a conversation with each other – let alone by yourselves. The silence in the room seemed to intensify that realisation that there was no Taylor or Ellis to act as a buffer, but Michael looked remarkably calm and unbothered by that knowledge. In fact, at your question he raised his brows as though shocked you’d reciprocated the conversation and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

“Yeah, I’m pretty tired.”

There was nothing particularly to say to that, so you just nodded, standing by the counter. He looked as if he wanted to say something: his hands were tapping against his jean-clad thighs and he kept glancing at you and then away, something playing on his features.

“You okay?” You found yourself asking, much to his surprise.

“Yeah, I just…” He stepped closer, throwing a careful glance back towards the open door, “Has Taylor talked to you about me?”

You blinked, tilting your head.

She had, many times on many different occasions and with a variety of different tones. Just off the top of your head you could list that time you’d gone over to hers for a movie night and she’d softly suggested that you try to get along with him; that one time she’d caught you pulling a rather put-off facial expression after he’d said something questionable; that one time she must have been a second away from grabbing you by the shoulders; eventually she’d given up, but that was after the basketball incident when you’d thrown the ball a little too harshly at him and winded him in the park. 

The ignoring each other thing worked – so why did you find yourself beginning to tolerate his presence? After all this time, surely, nothing would change so suddenly?

“Yeah.” You admitted, rather guiltily. In your defence, you’d tried to get along with him, but there was something about your personalities that clashed in the wrongest of ways. Both Taylor and Ellis had openly observed the two of you were pretty similar (you were a little offended by that statement) and would probably get along if you both put your pride aside, “Has Ellis…” You trailed off, watching him carefully.

He nodded, “Oh, yeah. He’s made a few bold statements about it, I’ll say that.” He huffed a bitter laugh, “But I was thinking–”

You pulled a face and he looked about ready to stop talking altogether, until he sighed, “Maybe we should just call a truce, or something? A fresh start, if not for us, for them. They seem pretty stable and if they’re for the long-term, then I think it’d be easier if we just agreed to get along, or at least pretend.”

Maybe it was the alcohol in your system, or maybe it was because tonight you’d found him a lot more tolerable than you usually would, but you nodded. And to that, he just blinked.

“Really?” He asked, almost recoiling in reaction.

“Yeah.” You shrugged, “Under one condition though.”

His face dropped – the almost triumphant smile that he’d nearly allowed himself to display had vanished completely in replacement for something harsher, more annoyed. His jaw had clenched and the hand he’d placed on the counter seemed to tap with more aggravation as he rolled his eyes in resignation, “And what would that be?” He asked, sounding rather like he already had an idea as to what it was.

“Just admit I’m not a bad driver.” You reasoned.

“Oh, I thought you were gonna…Nevermind.” He shook his head, holding his hand out for you to shake, “You’re not a bad driver.”

“Thanks.” Then, “Are you Michael or do you have any nicknames instead?”

There was a brief pause, and he looked at you like you were an alien, “Why?”

“I don’t know, Michael – you don’t look like a ‘Michael’, that’s all.”

“And what does a ‘Michael’ look like?”

“Probably twenty-thirty years older, balding–”

“Wow.”

“Is that a no?”

He seemed to think about it for a moment, “Purely because you don’t like it, no, I don’t have any nicknames. I’d rather you called me Michael.”

“Nice one. But when we’re in a public space and I yell your name, there’s gonna be at least three older, balding guys turning to look at me–”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Well, one of us has to be.”

Neither of you seemed to remember you were still holding hands.

***

One thing you never thought you’d be doing in your near future, was packing all of your makeup and three outfit choices and driving to Ellis’s place to have a conversation with Taylor. To be honest, there was a small part of you that was a little bit aggravated that to talk to your best friend you had to drive twenty minutes and risk missing packing something for the date you needed help with, especially seeing as though said date was in forty-five minutes.

Although, you did have time to reason with yourself in the car, the usual stuff: she could have just said no to helping you when you called her in a frustrated panic; the last-minute pep talk was probably going to make up for any residual irritation; on the bright side, though, at least Ellis’s apartment was closer to the date location than your own. 

You knew you’d feel better once you got there – only…

“You have got to be kidding me.” You breathed a solemn laugh, head lolling backwards and cheeks flaming at the sight before you.

Michael Bunting standing in the doorway with a wicked grin on his face, each pore practically oozing mirth at your current situation, eating an apple. And sure, you’d agreed to get along for the sake of your friends, but you had no idea that would mean him being privy to your moments – nor did it mean you were particularly pleased to see him at such a dire time.

“Hello, sweetheart. Heard you were stuck?” He tilted his head, pouting in your direction, and you didn’t miss the way his attention zipped curiously to the backpack over your shoulder and the garment bags slung over your arm.

“Do you really not have anything better to do on a Friday night other than third-wheel your best friend and his girlfriend?” You asked, smiling flatly and walking through the door when he opened it further.

He shook his head, crunching a bite, and you stood in the hallway, patience ticking away by the second as you waited for him to finish eating to speak. There were voices drifting down the corridor, and you turned your head to see shadows and flickers of light in the other room, Taylor clearly on her way – thank fuck.

“I have a game tomorrow, gotta have a tame night.” He muttered, reaching out a hand to touch the soft plastic covering of your garment bag, “And I’ll tell you one thing, I am so glad I get to witness this.”

You pulled a face, “Ha ha.”

“I can already tell you’re gonna make my fucking night, so I’m gonna just thank you in advance–”

“Hey, stop psyching her out.” Taylor appeared, a crease between her brows that clearly hadn’t materialised at his words alone, and for a split-second, you and Michael shared a worried glance, any previous teasing evaporating along with it.

He nodded easily, holding his hands up in surrender and disappearing into the living room, his footsteps slow and leisurely as though he was hoping to overhear a snippet more, but before you could even spit out a greeting of your own, Taylor had dragged you into Ellis’s bedroom and locked the door – the man himself nowhere to be seen.

“Is everything okay?”

Taylor spun on her heel, flashing you an urgent glance, apparently brushing off your question of concern, “I should be asking you that.”

“Oh, I’m fine–”

She shot you a look of disbelief.

“Just nervous, I guess. And I can’t decide what to wear, so I brought some stuff.”

In the other room, Michael was sitting on the sofa, apple half-eaten and trying to ignore the rather violent knee shaking Ellis was doing by tuning into the faint sound of voices from the bedroom that could still be heard over the TV. He knew he should probably be focused on his best friend – who was anything but subtle in trying to convey the fact that he was clearly irked by something – but he also knew that Ellis would talk when Ellis wanted to talk.

He was also kind of curious as to what had gotten you in such a pickle: he knew you were about to go on a date (first, he assumed), but why the sudden panic? You’d turned up armed with a Hannah Montana-type level of hair, costumes and makeup stuff and he’d just eyed it all a little bit confused. 

He was very aware of the fact that you were pretty – he’d seen you with the barest amount of makeup on (he assumed, he actually had no idea if you did) and in a pair of sweats, and his opinion hadn’t changed, so why all the makeup? Surely, if someone was to like you in that sense you shouldn’t have to dress up and put loads of makeup on?

He wasn’t too sure, really. His extent of first dates was restricted to his high school experience and he’d only been on a few since. 

“Why the panic?” He found himself asking aloud, turning to Ellis like he’d hold the answers in the universe. 

Ellis, however, turned to face him, a scowl already on his face, and it didn’t take a genius to gather that he wasn’t going to get much out of him with the mood he was in.

“What?”

“The girls.”

Ellis shrugged, turning his attention back to the TV, “Why would I know?”

Michael pressed his lips together tightly, trying to ignore the answers popping up in his head. Why wouldn’t Ellis know? He’d been talking to Taylor when you texted so if anything it’d be weird for Ellis to not know what was going on.

In fact, the longer he spent in Ellis’s presence, the more uncomfortable Michael felt. He shifted in his seat, the tense and awkward atmosphere feeling oddly claustrophobic and he felt the sudden desire to get out of the room, even if it was to fake a visit to the kitchen or something. 

He pushed himself off the sofa, the apple core in his hand sticky and by the time he’d stood in there and looked out of the window, washed his hands and decided he was going to leave anyway, there was a voice in the hallway.

“-look stunning, I promise.”

There seemed to be a muttered reply, but before he could make his way towards the door and announce his departure, there was a call of his name.

“Bunting–”

“No, don’t.”

He looked right down the hallway, Taylor leaning against the wall. Taylor wasn’t tall by any means, so he could easily see you behind her. You were clearly uncomfortable with something, unable to look at him or any living thing, your eyes instead fixated on the plants on the table next to the door. 

He had to remind himself to breathe when you rolled your eyes at Taylor and walked around her, your head down and pointedly trying not to make eye contact with him as you walked to the door to put on your shoes.

You were wearing a long black dress, not too long that you could ever trip over the hem, but long enough to accentuate the sheer length of your legs, and now he was close enough he could make out the little clusters of purple flowers embroidered onto the material. 

He couldn’t really get his mind to focus on anything other than ‘wow, that dress fits nicely’; it accentuates your curves perfectly and…he needed to breathe. He cleared his throat awkwardly, wondering when it had suddenly become so dry and ripped his eyes away to blink at Taylor.

He couldn’t read her face, but he didn’t like the look on it.

“Yeah?” He asked, unable to help glancing back at you. 

You looked…wow. 

“Does she look nice?” 

“Taylor–”

“You look really nice.” He blurted, his hands stuck in his pockets. When both of you turned to stare at him, apparently speechless, he felt his cheeks redden and his eyes drifted to the doorframe, a little mortified because you clearly hadn’t wanted him to say anything, but also because he’d said it embarrassingly fast and added a ‘really’ in there. And said it like he had a gun pointed to his head, which was one hell of a contradiction.

“Thanks.” You said, not having moved much. 

He just nodded, wanting nothing more than to melt into a puddle on the floor and soak through the floorboards and pretend this moment never occurred.

He wasn’t supposed to like you, he pretty much swore that from the start. But he had a niggling feeling you were wearing him down somehow. He didn’t know what it was, but lately he’d been finding himself sneaking a smile at some of the stuff you said and did. Like you were actually getting along.

And maybe it was because he wanted to test that unspoken theory out – to see if maybe you could be friends – but as he left he waited in the doorway for Taylor to finish talking. He had a sneaking suspicion, though, that Taylor was only talking for herself. The look on your face: he knew you were grateful for what she was saying, but there was something akin to impatience on your face if he looked hard enough.

And it was that, and the fact that the fake smile you’d plastered on your face was slowly slipping with every second that passed and every glance at the time on your phone, that he found himself stepping a little closer, whipping his keys around on his finger, “Hey, are you okay for a lift?”

Taylor shut up and looked to you for confirmation.

There was a pause and he almost regretted asking it–

“Are you offering?” Your voice was different to how it usually sounded when you were speaking to him; softer, perhaps a little more vulnerable.

And when he looked at you, he wasn’t quite sure what it was but it felt different. His stomach sort of dropped and he…lost his train of thought.

Still, he managed, “Yeah. I can drop y’off on my way home, it’s no problem.”

“You’re leaving already?” Taylor asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, I’m pretty tired.” He didn’t really want to say that he didn’t feel like he was welcome at this particular moment in time, not with Ellis clearly in a mood, but he did feel a stab of guilt when he thought about leaving Taylor to deal with it by herself, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” She brushed it off, taking a step back and glancing between you and him with an odd glint in her eye, “I’ll let you go. Have fun.”

There were a few hushed mutters as he stepped out of the apartment, waiting by the elevator for you to join him, and almost as soon as you shut the door behind you, you sighed.

He still didn’t say anything, and instead turned to watch the numbers tick up to the floor, before an audible ding sounded and the doors shuddered open. He let you go first. And if he thought the tension back with Ellis was bad, this was a whole other level, because he swore he could hear the cogs of your mind working on overdrive – about the date or about his uncharacteristic behaviour, he couldn’t possibly guess, but it was driving him crazy.

“You good?”

“Hmm?” You looked at him, shocked at his words, and he’d never seen you this frazzled before, “Oh, yeah. Just nervous, I guess.”

He swallowed, uncertain. He wanted to say something to make you feel better – heck, he had it lined up in his head to just blurt out, but the only thing stopping him was that it might make it weirder, and you’d already been bombarded by that kind of thing from Taylor. And then he thought of you on your date and–

“If you tell yourself that the nerves are actually just excitement, I find it usually eases some of the, y’know, nerves.” He stuttered, glad the doors opened once more.

“Thanks. Also, thanks for offering to drive me here, you really didn’t have to.” You murmured, and he found himself shaking his head.

“You don’t have to thank me, it really wasn’t any trouble.”

“Do you get nervous before your games?”

The question startled him to such an extent that he almost tripped over the rug in the entryway, but his sneakers squeaked against the floor and he felt his body jolt a little. 

Was he actually losing it or was this considered a civil conversation? You weren’t at his throat with some quick witted jab, and you weren’t looking at him like you wanted to wring his neck.

It was weirdly refreshing.

“Sometimes.” He admitted, holding the door open to the car park, “It’s usually hit and miss though, it depends on who we’re playing. The car’s this way.” He pointed to the other side of the garage at your hesitation.

And it wasn’t until you’d buckled yourself in and he’d turned the engine on that either of you spoke again.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

He breathed a bitter laugh, “I’m usually nice to people, y’know, I’m not a–”

“Dick?”

“Yeah.” He shot you a look, “You test my patience, though. You bring out the worst of me.”

You seemed to ease up a little at his confession, managing a small smile, “Likewise.”

“I just…” he trailed off, pulling a face before momentarily losing his train of thought as he pulled out into traffic, “There’s a time and a place for that kind of thing. And I could tell Taylor was starting to grind your gears, so…”

You hummed, “Yeah. She’s great but sometimes she, like, I don’t think she knows me as well as she thinks she does. Sometimes I just need quiet.”

So, he thought, that’s what he’ll give you.

***

Unknown Number: SOS

Unknown Number: HELP

Unknown Number: PLEASE HURRY

You: Who is this?

Unknown Number: Michael Bunting

You could hear the yelling and the dumping of objects into a hollow box even through the door, and it was both the noise and the frantic messages that were still pinging through your phone that had you instantly pushing it open. If you hadn’t had some semblance of a warning from the messages, you’d have probably assumed the entire place had been ransacked by burglars: drawers had been turned upside down with the contents littered across floors in an attempt to find their individual belongings; there were cardboard boxes piled and stacked, stuff sticking up – and, more importantly you guessed, both co-habitants standing in the middle of the living room, yelling about something or other with a stricken Michael Bunting awkwardly holding a TV remote and waiting by the door like a kid.

It was clear from his face that he had no idea what to do. And despite the situation, you were able to find some amusement in that.

Although…

“What’s Taylor doing here?” You asked, the both of you still loitering in the doorway, watching your friends rip each other up like it was usual Saturday soap.

He shrugged, and you felt the heat of his stare burn the side of your cheek until you couldn’t take the silence. His cheeks were pink and he looked to be stuttering.

“What?” 

He winced, “I kind of walked in this morning and she was in the kitchen.” 

You blinked, your attention switching back to the arguing couple. Ellis had a cushion in his hand and they were both insisting it was theirs, only when you looked closer, you noticed Taylor’s bare feet and the Blue Jays t-shirt she was wearing, and you turned, shocked and disturbed, to Michael.

“When you said this morning…”

“Yeah?” He was refusing to look at you properly now, and that little seed of disbelief that had planted itself in your brain seemed to bloom, and a pebble of stress dropped in your stomach. His cheeks were still a bit pink, but it was hidden by a thicker wad of stubble than when you’d last seen each other.

“What time was that?” You continued, watching the delicate lines near his eyes appear when he pulled another face, almost confirming your thoughts with just a look.

“Nine.”

You nodded, “Right. And was she, y’know, dressed?”

His eyes closed briefly, a whisper of mortification barely heard over the yelling – but with the two of you standing shoulder to shoulder sharing a doorway it wasn’t missed, “Barely.”

You huffed a small laugh at his expense because he clearly hadn’t been prepared for his best friend’s now ex-girlfriend to be in the kitchen wearing next to nothing that early in the morning, and at the sound he sent you an offended glance.

“Sorry.” You apologised, turning to watch the spectacle with a barely-there smile that became increasingly difficult to hide the longer you felt him stare accusingly in your direction – if anything his undying attention only amplified the hilarity of his earlier memory and you had to lean your forehead against the wood of the doorframe and turn your back to him to block the image from your mind entirely.

“Listen, she’s pretty and everything, but…it’s weird for me.” He mumbled, folding his arms.

“Was it your first time seeing a half-naked woman?” 

He rolled his eyes, “You’re hilarious – shut up, don’t even say it. You know why it’s weird. It’d be weird if you walked in and it was Ellis with, like, a bowl of cereal covering his crotch.”

You wrinkled your nose, frowning, “I didn’t need that image, but point taken.”

You turned your attention to the bickering couple in front of you, now waving a fly swatter. In truth, you weren’t really sure why you were here or why Michael was here. Taylor had asked you to come with her when she’d made her so-called ‘appointment’ to pick up her stuff from Ellis’s place, but looking at them now she didn’t really need the help, or moral support. And neither did Ellis.

In fact, they were standing in front of each other arguing, and it was probably the least stressed you’d seen Taylor in weeks. Sure, their voices were raised, but there wasn’t anything malicious being said or anything physical going on. They were simply picking up objects and having a loud debate over whose it was, and it was that arguing combined with the obvious ‘last time together’ thing that made you think maybe this was more for closure for each other than anything else.

Even from Taylor’s point of view, she wasn’t quite sure what had happened, but she’d said it felt like everything between them had just gradually fizzled out for no apparent reason. It was odd, really: they’d seemed like such a good fit at the start and now, even like last week, they’d be in the same room and have more interest in talking to either you or Michael than showing interest in each other.

And it was that that had you turning to the man next to you, something plucking at your heart strings. It felt an awful lot like the dread you’d felt earlier, except it was laced with something heavier. Like knowing you’d never see your childhood pet again.

“Are they still broken up?” You found yourself asking, wanting him to turn his attention away from the scenes in front of you both.

He blinked once more before turning his head to look at you, about to say something on the tip of his tongue but clearly changing his mind at what he saw on your face. He tilted his head, eyes zipping from each of yours – back and forth – before his mouth curved up slightly at the edges, his expression taking an odd turn.

“What?” You asked, paranoid at the way he was looking at you.

His grin broadened, and he tilted his head adorably, “Nothing. But, yeah, they’re still broken up.”

You nodded, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. There was something rising in your chest, a tightness edged with panic, like you were aware time was clearly running out for something but your head wasn’t quite sure what.

“We’re still gonna be friends, right?” 

For a brief moment, you didn’t know what to do. Your pulse seemed to kick against your sternum and that tightness in your chest eased, an inexplicable reaction that you couldn’t quite get ahold of its meaning.

“Us?” You looked at him, and where he previously had a smile on his face, it was now replaced with a kind of cautious curiosity: his mouth was pulled tightly and there was a slight, very slight crease between his brows that deepened when you spoke again.

His eyes briefly skitted to your right before returning to meet yours, “Yeah?” He said, but with the way his voice ticked up at the end it almost sounded like he wasn’t too sure himself.

And you were so shocked at the words falling out of his mouth that you could only blink and stare, “I’m your friend?”

You supposed it wasn’t too shocking: after the initial agreement it had taken a while to warm up to each other, but you’d eventually gotten to the point where you’d managed to unintentionally create some inside jokes, and, sure, you’d still bicker like children from time to time, but the teasing was less malicious and more fond, like you’d known each other for a while.

And it was in that moment that you realised that tightness in your chest was because you just assumed that, like Taylor would lose Ellis, you would lose Michael. 

His eyes narrowed uncomfortably, and you could tell he'd gone a little defensive at your questions, probably assuming his own assumptions weren’t exactly reciprocated, “Yes.” He said, a little forcefully, “Aren’t I your friend?”

You nodded, awkwardly scratching your cheek, “I just assumed you only spent time with me because of Ellis and Taylor–”

“Nah.”

You nodded slowly, a small smile creeping onto your face, “Oh.”

He paused for a beat, watching you carefully, “Is that a no, then?”

“No, it’s a yes.”

“Good.” He grinned.

***

He was next to you one second and the next he’d just disappeared completely. It was the strangest thing. 

It wasn’t like he was particularly easy to lose in a  crowd, either, not with those shoulders and – well, actually, he was quite small so in hindsight, it was pretty easy to lose him in a crowd, especially when he was just another suit-clad man with a fairly recent haircut and shave.

You sighed in defeat, sitting back in your chair at the table surrounded by strangers that weren’t all that interested in your presence. You’d checked your phone at least five times within the past three minutes, expecting a quick text for an explanation and you hadn’t really been able to stop looking at the bar, helplessly expecting his face to materialise in thin air.

It was pretty shitty what he’d done: he’d all but begged you to come with him to one of his friend’s weddings and after you’d had to rearrange plans just so you could agree (he’d been so desperate he’d actually offered you a thousand dollars to go with him), yet the second you both enter the reception location, he dips? 

“Excuse me, hi–”

You snapped your neck towards the unfamiliar voice, heart pounding like a jackhammer in your chest at the unexpected intrusion, and managed a polite, albeit confused, smile as you found yourself faced with a pretty raven-haired woman. You’d never seen her before, but with the way she was looking at you, you were almost forced to second guess yourself.

“Oh, hi.” You replied, brain spinning and throwing out names, but your face clearly contorting into one of utter bewilderment, much to her amusement.

She chuckled, “Sorry, you don’t know me.” She said, slightly oddly, and you tilted your head, connecting the dots from what she hadn’t said.

“But you know me?” You asked, and she shrugged, her cheeks colouring slightly.

“Not exactly, but I saw you come in with Michael–”

“Oh.”

She cringed, “Yeah. I am really sorry for approaching you like this, but I was just wondering if he was okay?”

You just blinked.

“You know,” she continued, clearly sensing your confusion, “because of our breakup?”

Oh fuck.

You tried to hide the shock from your face – as though this wasn’t new news to you – but try as you might, you felt your brows rise a little and your heart rate quicken. He’d never mentioned anything like that to you. In fact, you guys rarely ever talked about relationships, even despite you currently being in one (though it probably wasn’t going to last with the way it had been going recently), so you just assumed he hadn’t been in one.

Nevertheless, you nodded, “He’s fine.”

She eased after that, smiling in relief, but still hung around as though you were supposed to say something else, but in all honesty you weren’t sure what to say. You didn’t know if he was okay, not if he’d seen her and bolted; you didn’t know when it was that they’d broken up, and you didn’t know how much he’d want you to say.

So you sat in the chair, smiling awkwardly – probably appearing pretty rude – and just sighed.

“I’m sorry, I can’t say–”

“It’s fine, I understand.” She replied, smiling tightly, “Enjoy the night.” 

You watched her walk away, and as soon as she disappeared through another set of doors, you picked up your phone and started to wind your way through the crowds to at least guess where he could have gone. There were little booths and food carts off around the edge of the room, along with some photo booths and drinks stands – it wasn’t until you reached the photo booth right near the entrance that you stopped for the first time.

There wasn’t a queue to this one, but there was a strip of photos in the hatch and a pair of freshly shined shoes under the curtain. You paused, taking a peak at the photos.

It was him, alright. Four photos: one of him in a ginger wig, one with a pair of huge glasses on, one with a moustache on a stick and the final one with all of them combined. If it had been any other time you supposed you’d have laughed, but all the photos did was fuel your desire to get the curtain open.

All he did was raise his brows at your appearance and shuffle over on the bench, tucking himself in against the wall with a defeated, unsurprised smile. You passed him the photo strip and he breathed a short, mirthless laugh before tucking it in his pocket and turning to you, an almost embarrassed look on his face.

“Sorry for ditching you.” He mumbled, looking genuinely guilty.

You shook your head, a pang of adoration shooting through your system for the man in front of you. You didn’t quite know where it suddenly came from or why it occurred, but you did know that it meant he was precious to you in a way you hadn’t even realised. You guys weren’t exactly close – there were obviously things you didn’t talk about (as evidenced), but you cared about him. Wanted him to be happy. 

Wanted to wipe that forlorn expression off his face because he was clearly beating himself up about leaving you but still a little caught off guard by…

“You don’t have to apologise.” You smiled reassuringly, before asking, “What’s her name?”

His brows raised, and he tutted as he pulled an uncomfortable face. Whether it was because he hadn’t expected the question or because he was stealing himself, you weren’t at liberty to say, “Jess.” He managed, eyes zeroing in on some lint on the floor by his feet.

You just nodded. If he wanted to talk about it, you knew he would – he wasn’t exactly an open book when you prodded him, but you were all ears regardless. 

“We were in a serious relationship for three and a half years before we broke up. That was a week before I met you. I wasn’t really coping well so Ellis dragged me out to that bar. I’m okay now, though. I still get a bit sad about it but I think I’m more sad for the me I was when we were dating than the me now, if that makes sense.” He spoke to his shoes, his arms crossed against his chest, as though to spit the words out and force himself to talk about it, that also meant he couldn’t face you, “I had a feeling she was gonna be here tonight, it was actually why I invited you, but the second I saw her, I don’t know, I just walked away. And the weird thing is that I don’t know why I walked away, because when I saw her I felt nothing. Maybe I walked away because I feel like I should have felt something, like walking away from her was something that was expected of me.” He sighed, swinging his head towards you, his eyes momentarily dropping to the necklace that sat comfortably against your sternum before darting back up to your face, “I’m just a bit confused.” He admitted.

You reciprocated his wry, self-deprecating smile, patting him on the arm fondly, “Me too; I actually thought you wanted to spend time with me–”

“Shut the fuck up.” He breathed a laugh, shaking his head. 

That despondent expression had gone, the tension practically drained from the lines of his face, and you rejoiced at the smile now there – a real one, not one put on for the sake of it.

You took a breath, and whether he could sense that you were about to say something potentially cheesy, or something that neither of you would really say or do, his smile dropped, but only slightly. His eyes were focused on you, and you almost wanted to shrink back under his gaze – you two were sitting pretty tightly together: this photo booth bench was only made for one person, so there was little to no room to even look at each other properly. You’d both had to lean backwards against the walls to not end up touching noses, and for some reason, that hadn’t even occurred to you until that very second.

The breath in your chest shook a little, “I know…Um…” You laughed uneasily, “I know you said you were okay, and I know we don’t usually do this kind of thing, but if you ever feel like it…just for the support – that my hand is here for you to hold if ever you want to.” You inhaled, and this time it was you who was unable to look at him, “And that it’s okay to feel confused about it all. You don’t have to have an explanation for everything, but there’s nothing you can feel that’s wrong in any way. And if you ever want to talk about it…I’m always gonna be here for you.”

When you finally found the courage to turn to him again, he was looking at you in a way that was almost equivalent to the secret adoration you harboured for him, and you fought to keep your cheeks from flushing and your face from smiling like a damn fool. With the way the LED overhead lights were shining on you both – the heat of them warming the box pretty quickly, made worse by the two bodies also in there – your eyes drifted to his nose. You’d never really noticed it before, but the light seemed to hit it just right to enunciate the straight bridge of it. There was a scar just above his lip, darker and also more pronounced from the fresh shave (he’d not got rid of it all, there was still a light bit of scruff left), and although he wasn’t smiling properly, the creases by his eyes seemed to suggest otherwise.

He swallowed once he noticed you’d turned your attention back to him, and he nodded, lips twitching, “That really means a lot, hearing you say that.” He said, rather hoarsely, “It also goes both ways, too.” 

You tilted your head in question.

“The hand thing – you can hold mine…for support.” 

“Ah.”

“I actually do have something to say, now that I’m thinking about it.” 

When did his eyes get so fucking bright? It almost angered you that you’d never noticed it before.

“What?” You asked, mildly curious as to his next words.

Though, nothing – absolutely nothing – could have prepared you for the bombshell of his next words.

“You look really beautiful tonight.”

***

“I know I said to avoid Tim Horton’s today, but I didn’t really mean to avoid–Oh, what the heck?”

His phone was immediately pocketed, and the smile on his face immediately dropped, and he stepped through the door without another word, leaving you both severely confused at his sudden actions and slightly light headed at the speed he’d managed to do all three things in. He simply stood in front of your now shut door, a mildly horrified look on his face and his hands tapping against his short-clad thigh.

“Why are you wearing shorts, it’s freezing outside?��

Your question of appal seemingly went unheard, because the crease between his brows only deepened and he pulled a funny face: his mouth turned down at the corners but he wasn’t angry or upset.

“Um…Okay, so you can tell me to shut the fuck up with what I’m about to ask you…” He trailed off, his eyes never leaving your face – all it did was elicit you to swipe against your cheek, expecting your hand to come away with pen or some dirt or something, because he was looking at you like you were an alien.

It was weird. And creepy.

“But have you been crying?”

You blinked, tilting your head with wide eyes.

He didn’t say anything but he copied your actions, before snapping into a more serious role, “No, but I’m being deadly serious.”

You hesitated, and he took that as your answer, his entire body deflating.

There was no point trying to hide it, clearly not if he’d just taken one solid look at you immediately after walking through the door and managed to figure it out. If anything you were a little impressed he’d recognised it because you’d never cried before or in front of seeing him ever – there hadn’t ever been a situation where he’d have seen your post-cry face to recognise it for what it was, and it wasn’t even as if you actually cried much. Maybe two minutes, tops.

“I broke up with Sam this morning.” You bit the bullet, willing your eyes to not tear up as you spoke the words into existence, but as you did so, the lump rose in your throat so impossibly quickly you physically couldn’t bring yourself to say anything else. Not if you didn’t want to actually start crying.

So you waited, and you watched and you looked as he stuttered, his eyes darting all over your face before going to your living room area. He circled his attention back to you after his forehead had creased and he’d seen what was on the TV, looking suddenly more comfortable than he had mere seconds ago.

“Are you okay?” Was the first thing out of his mouth, his backpack sliding off his shoulders easily to be deposited by the door, and all you could manage was a weak shrug, teeth scraping against your bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

You hated crying, and there was nothing worse than crying in front of someone else – you had no idea how he’d react if the dam did end up breaking, but if the soft, sympathetic gleam in his eye as he took an unsure step towards you was anything to go by, you had an inkling you were in safe hands.

He nodded at your uncertain gesture, “That’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

The crack in your chest seemed to split further, as though someone had thrown an axe straight through it, and all you could do was nod, your arms crossed tightly against your chest as though they’d somehow protect you from the inevitable hurt and grief of the next few minutes, hours, weeks and perhaps months.

But, despite all of that, the fact that he’d shown up out of nowhere sheerly because you hadn’t had the energy to pick up your phone, and because he clearly cared, you felt okay. Better than you had earlier when you hadn’t even spoken the truth to anyone.

He was right, you didn’t want to talk about it – but he was here. And he was pulling a Tim Horton’s box out of his backpack, giving you space and time and he was so heart-achingly patient that it almost sent you into another spiral of tears for a whole different reason. There was something about him that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. His friendship was different from yours with Taylor; you loved the girl to pieces but if you’d have told her like you’d just told him, she’d have corralled you into spilling your guts about everything, and you didn’t need that.

You needed peace and quiet and the familiar security and the unspoken knowledge that, yes, you were upset, but you were going to be okay.

“Thanks.” You mumbled, stomach growling when the smells emanated from the open paper bag.

He nodded wordlessly, but looked up with mild horror at the sounds your stomach made, “Hungry?” He joked lightly, already rooting through your cupboards to gather plates.

“Just a bit.” You replied hoarsely, helping him upturn the various boxes onto the plates, before, wordlessly, you both crashed on the couch, your eyes burning each and every single time you blinked. Your throat was aching with the effort to not succumb to the growing lump that had planted itself there, and you were so exhausted. So, so exhausted. 

“Thanks for the food.” You said, between mouthfuls, the hungry cramps of your stomach easing with each and every bite. You didn’t let him answer before you jumped into your next question: “How was work?”

You watched him out of the corner of his eye, swallow, also looking at you for a brief moment – as though to suss you out and to gather his thoughts – before he shrugged, a small smile on his face, “It was so bad.”

“Really?” You managed a laugh, the muscles in your face feeling tight at the sudden movements. His face was a picture: he was grinning brightly, the corners of his eyes crinkled and his brows had jumped up his forehead, mind clearly playing something on repeat.

“Really. Willy did the bare minimum and just giggled at me the entire time which made me worse at it, and I – fuck, I couldn’t concentrate on the people in front of me when there were people ordering down the line, and then Mo and Auston showed up too–”

“You’re kidding.”

He shook his head morbidly, “Dead serious. Wearing wigs and the most ridiculous clothes I’ve ever seen, and they ripped us apart, man. I can’t even do it justice, you’ll just have to watch it when it comes out, oh God…” He trailed off, breaking into a small fit of giggles that was so infectious you had to put your own food back down and concentrate on now choking on your drink.

“It was bad, but you had fun?” You summarised, grinning as he nodded, practically glowing at the memory of it.

“I think it’s one of the best days I’ve ever had.”

You just laughed, tucking into your food once more as it became clear he didn’t have anything else to say about it–

“Why’re you watching this?”

Your eyes jumped to him across the couch, briefly frowning in confusion before remembering exactly what you’d been watching before the knock on your door. The frame had been paused mid-first period of the game – there wasn’t anything particularly spectacular about it, and you wondered if he recognised it at all.

He tilted his head, a hint of confusion lacing his tone, and you swallowed, nerves picking up and your heart thrumming in your chest. You never really talked about hockey with him, at least not from your perspective. You guys talked about the Leafs and his games and his practices and his teammates, but you’d never really broached your affinity for the sport. And the longer you’d left it, the more awkward you’d felt it would be to just admit it outright.

“It’s my favourite game.” You admitted quietly, fighting the urge to smile fondly.

He hesitated, his head swinging from you to the screen and back again, and he asked, a little breathlessly – as though he was trying to wrap his head around everything bouncing around his mind – “You watch hockey enough to have a favourite game?”

You nodded, “I love hockey.”

“You do?” He asked, voice higher in pitch than it had been. The surprise was painfully evident, and with it, so was the guilt that seemed to make itself known.

“Yeah.”

He nodded slowly, “I thought you didn’t know who I was?” 

“I didn’t. I’d just moved to Toronto, like, a week before you started I think, and the Leafs aren’t exactly my team, y’know?” You explained, watching him carefully for any traces of possible betrayal he might feel, “It was a hectic time to be keeping up with any NHL news.”

He blinked, before shrugging, “Makes sense. Your team’s the Preds?” He raised an inquisitive brow, and for some reason you knew then that you’d both be locked in this amusing back and forth for a while. Of course you would: there’s no greater hockey fan than a hockey player, let alone a hockey player playing for their childhood team. 

You scoffed, barking a short, almost offended laugh, “No. I mean, I have nothing against the Preds, but it’s the Pens for me, all the way.” 

He arched a brow at your reaction, a smirk beginning to play at the corner of his mouth, “I mean you no offence when I say that.” Before, “I want you to win, though–”

“Just me?”

“Micheal Bunting against the NHL, yeah.” You rolled your eyes, “The Leafs are…I want you to win unless it’s against the Pens. It’s a conflict of interest.”

“What do you do when we play with each other?”

You widen your eyes comically, “Lock myself in a dark room and don’t come out until the game’s over.” You shrug, answering honestly, “It depends whose situation is the most dire, I guess. I always want the Pens to do well, but you’ve thrown a spanner in the works. You’ve made hockey complicated.”

“I’m honoured.” He laughed softly, “Why’s this one your favourite?”

“Sixth game of the Stanley Cup Final, 2017. I don’t know why that one specifically, it’s just the last one we won when I was back home, so it reminds me of…well, home, I guess.”

“You miss it?”

You nodded, almost wistfully, “Yeah. I sometimes think about moving back.”

“But?” He encouraged, almost afraid of what you were about to say.

“I don’t know. I have friends here, a job, somewhere to live; I guess I have that back home too, or I would given the time. I think I’m just waiting for the right moment to go back.” You trailed off, your voice becoming nothing more than a mere whisper, but he caught it – with a slow nod and the parting of his mouth.

You’d seen him speechless before, but he always managed to find something to say. The silence that ensued after spoke volumes, mostly just because you didn’t understand any of it. 

He reached over after that, taking the remote, before hesitating and turning to you, shocked when he found your eyes already on him, “What counts as the right moment?”

He pressed play when you shrugged.

***

Even after the conversation you’d both had last year about you leaving, you never would have imagined he’d be the one leaving first. It had always been a possibility, maybe even something you’d thought about since becoming friends, but there hadn’t really been anything to suggest he would leave. At least, not until the last season.

And it hadn’t ever felt realer than this moment: standing in the doorway to an empty house, your clothes sticking to you in the early Summer heat with your hands on your hips and feeling much more emotional about the prospect of a Bunting-less Toronto than you’d initially prepared yourself for.

He was wandering through the empty rooms, double and triple checking everything after you’d done the same, and for those lonely three minutes without him, you got a glimpse of what it’d be like not seeing each other every few days. You couldn’t exactly remember when Toronto had suddenly become him, but the idea of it felt strangely intimidating. It almost felt like you’d just moved in again, not knowing anyone or where anything was.

It was scary.

He came back into view, hand resting on a door frame as he stopped suddenly in the exact spot he’d looked up to you in. You offered a reassuring smile, standing up straight, but you could both tell it was strained.

“Checked everything?” You asked, voice tight, but you didn’t want to ruin this moment for him. He’d been looking forward to settling in Raleigh since he’d signed the contract – at least, once he’d gotten over the initial disappointment and sadness of leaving Ontario.

And you were excited for him, for this new opportunity and this new experience. 

You’d just never really anticipated how you’d feel.

“Yeah.” He nodded, swallowing, looking grave and strange.

“You good?” 

“Yeah.” He breathed a laugh, walking towards you and scratching his beard – he’d started leaving it longer between each shave now – “Just gonna miss this place, I guess.” He swung his hands in front of him, coming to a direct stop in front of you and swivelling on his heel, taking one last, long look at the place he’d called home for years.

You hummed in agreement, “Me too.”

You hadn’t even realised how true that admission was until you’d said it out loud. It sent an uncomfortable zing down your spine, like pulling down a zipper, and you shivered, rubbing your arms just to give yourself something to do. 

He turned to look at you, eyes assessing your every motion, and you froze. You didn’t really know where to go from here. The car was packed, the house was empty: you’d drop by the estate agent’s on the way to drop him at the airport, and from then on he’d be in Raleigh – at least, in every way that mattered to you. Sure, he had his training camps and he had his away games, but you’d very rarely get to see each other.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, unable to say anything.

But where did you go from here? You? 

Well…you’d been toying with the idea for a while, but–

“You ready?” He breathed out, lips pressed together with his hands on his hips.

You nodded, managing a smile, but the lack of effort into pretending like you weren’t in the least bit affected by it was noticeable. 

“Let’s go then.” You whispered, leading the way to the front door, slowing down each time he turned to get another look – never too far ahead, not wanting to let him out of your sight. These moments felt crucial, somehow. It was the last time you’d actually be able to look at him properly; his eyes, hair, smile, arms, legs, clothes. You felt silly soaking it all up.

He followed closely on your heels, taking the keys from you on the porch and turning round to lock the door behind him for the last time. He didn’t say anything, but his mouth twisted and he ran a brief hand across his brow bone, almost as though he was wiping away some sweat or satisfying an itch.

You tried not to make it obvious you were keeping an eye on him, ensuring to stand behind him, a few steps down to give him the space to collect himself if he needed to. And when he turned back around, he tried to keep his head down but you still caught his red-rimmed eyes and his sucked in cheek and his shaky smile as he caught up with you.

It was silent in the car, too, no music playing through the speakers. He was looking out of the window, eyes catching onto everything that swam passed, drinking it all in. 

Each time ‘for the last time’ flew through your mind, you’d have to catch yourself and reign in the prickly eyes and the tightness in your chest as best as you could without drawing too much attention to yourself. It felt pointless, though, because you knew it was inevitable that you’d both end up shedding a few tears at some point.

The only thing that seemed to do it was the knowledge that it wouldn’t even be the last time, because he grew up near here. He’d come back when he could; you’d see each other at the Marner wedding next month, too.

It wasn’t the end of the world, but it felt like a part of it was dying.

“Here.” You mumbled, voice hoarse and wiping at the underneath of your eyes (no tears had fallen, but you could feel them welling up).

He looked up and out of the window, eyes zeroing in on the window of the estate agents. His seatbelt came next, and before you could convince yourself otherwise, you followed him in, ignoring his curious eye but taking the hand he offered anyway. It was something you’d both taken to doing lately, even in mundane moments like this.

Whether it was the knowledge that time was running out or if it was just a comfort thing, you never spoke about it. It just happened. And it seemed today was one of those days you both needed it.

Only, as he made his way towards the desk, you branched away towards the other side of the shop, hands ripping apart. He only threw a confused look behind, but carried on when his own agent walked out from the back of the shop.

You, however, found yourself standing in front of the magazine rack, hands clenching and unclenching at your sides, eyes roving over the words on each, searching for the correct one. Nothing seemed to ease the hollowness under your sternum, though. 

There was some comfort when you found the right one, though, picking it up and feeling the comfortable weight in your hands. It felt like a breath of fresh air, and the twinges eased only slightly at the familiar cityscape on the front.

You swallowed, rolling it up in your fist and making your way back over to where he was chatting to his estate agent, a pen in his hand and some papers in front of him. The key had been stripped of its keychains, and for some reason that little difference brought everything back again.

You wanted to reach for his hand, but you held back for a moment. The estate agent caught your eye and you managed a polite smile, but it dropped the second they looked away.

And before you could blink, Michael was pushing himself off the counter, snatching his keychains and pushing everything else back towards the agent with a final thanks, and then he turned.

He blinked, eyes dropping to the programme in your hand, and you tried to hide it by moving it behind his leg, but he wasn’t having any of it. There was a crease between his brows, and he didn’t look to be on the verge of tears anymore, but there was a specific ticking to his jaw – his entire being was still tinged with a veil of melancholy, but he gently took it from your hand once you’d stepped outside. You let him, your fist unfurling.

Your face seemed to act of its own accord, an odd wince appearing as his lips parted.

“You’re really gonna do it?” He murmured gently, an odd glint in his eye.

“Think it’s time.” You breathed an uncomfortable laugh, somehow not able to look at him or anything else.

He was so magnetic it was honestly a chore trying not to give him all of your attention, least of all when he was looking at you differently. It wasn’t something he’d done a lot before, but you’d noticed it a lot more recently: his eyes would fix themselves on you with an unfamiliar intensity, and even when you’d catch him red handed, he wouldn’t ever let up. If anything, the attention from you seemed to make it worse (or better?) because he’d start to smile and he’d expel a stuttering breath, like he hadn’t previously been breathing.

Each time, though, you never failed to blush slightly. Your cheeks would feel warm and you’d only be able to stand his look for so long before ultimately looking away, trying not to appear too flustered by it.

“Yeah?” He asked, handing you the programme back, “You can’t stand to be in a different country than me, eh?” He joked, but you could sense the underlying seriousness to his question, as though he was fishing for a specific answer.

“You wish.” You managed, scoffing slightly but unable to hide a small smile at the familiar dynamic.

It vanished the second the first wave of homesickness took hold of you though, and he noticed. Just grabbed your hand again.

The drive from the estate agent’s to the airport was even worse. Every time the sign appeared on the side of the road, you’d have to inhale and remind yourself to keep breathing in order to stave off the oncoming bout of tears. The entire time you were fighting against the wetness gathering in your eyes, and your nose had started to run – each sniff meant he’d look at you out of the corner of his eye and if anything, that made it worse, because as time went on and as you pulled into the parking lot, you could hear his sniffles too.

You put off turning the engine off. The second you did, he’d climb out, and you weren’t sure if you were ready for that just yet. Judging from the utter stillness he was exhibiting in the passenger seat, he was the same.

Your hands were still clenched around the steering wheel, the rough plastic doing nothing to cure your cold hands, not even when the sun was shining through the windshield and warming the entire vehicle. Your body was on high alert, blood not really flowing to your extremities.

You’d never been so numb yet so aware of everything in your entire life: the way the hairs on your arms stood up when he turned in his seat to face you was almost drowned out by the pounding of your heart in the sheer effort it took to not show the tears wobbling on your waterline. 

It was a plane taking off and the sheer volume of the engine that snapped you out of the haze, your hands unclipping your seatbelt, but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to even touch the door, flinching when the belt smacked against the inside of the car.

“I feel weird.” He muttered, eyes staring straight through the windshield and into the car parked nose to nose. He sniffed once, before unclipping his own seatbelt, and you watched him in silence as his shaking hands hovered above his lap before eventually settling on top of his cap, a shuddering breath passing his lips.

The sight was such a contrast to how he’d been earlier that morning – he’d gone from bouncing on his toes with giddy excitement to suddenly folding in on himself and the entire world crumbling at its edges.

You pushed open your car door, fully intending to make your way around to his own door and start from there but the second your feet hit the tarmac, he’d also pushed himself out of the car, his door slamming behind him. He’d made it to the trunk before you could even shut yours behind you or ask if he was okay, but it looked as though he’d made the decision to pretend he hadn’t just admitted his inner turmoil.

You helped him lift his luggage out of the car (there wasn’t much: most of his actual things had been packed in a moving van the day before to meet him in Raleigh tomorrow) in silence. The trunk shut.

You swallowed nervously, eyes darting to the entrance of the airport before jumping back to him. He had one fist clenched on the top of a suitcase, his other dropped by his side, gaze focused and unwavering into the glass window of the trunk, blinking every so often.

You cleared your throat and the corners of his mouth twitched before he turned to look at you, feet shuffling against the gravel. 

And he looked so despondent and not really like him at all that you didn’t have any choice whatsoever but to grab his free hand, which, similar to yours, was cold to the touch. You were both watching your fingers intertwine slowly, sliding over each other before finding solace in their places between each other’s knuckles. Three squeezes on your behalf and a small step forward had him pulling his suitcase along, an apprehensive and equally unreadable expression on his face.

“I could have stayed here longer.” He said, the both of you crossing over, a distracted gleam in his eye as he looked up at the entrance, nose scrunching on one side.

“If you stayed longer you’d want to leave less when you have to.” You reasoned, “And it’s better to move into your new place and get everything unpacked and ready for the season before it starts, to really get used to Raleigh, yeah?”

He nodded, swallowing, “Yeah.”

“Still feel weird?” 

He nodded again, looking to the floor as you walked through the entrance.

You frowned, a stab of something really getting you right in the ribs as he only looked up when the airport atmosphere bled into his bubble. It was busy, but it wasn’t the busiest you’d ever seen it: people were milling about, double checking for passports and boarding passes, everything ready at hand, and at the strangers’ checks, Michael’s own hand pulled away from the suitcase, forcing you to stop walking towards the first checkpoint, and patted against the pocket on the outside of his backpack.

He pulled it all out without looking, peering into the plastic wallet you’d given him to keep everything important organised so he wouldn’t have to check it all at this moment, right in the doorway. You reached over, letting him fret, and wheeled his suitcase over by the inside window, dragging him with you.

“What are you doing?” He asked, brows knitted as he continued looking into the wallet, not sparing you much of a glance as you patted imploringly at the straps of his backpack.

“Take it off.” “Only if you ask me out first.”

“Sorry, I just want no strings attached.” 

His eyes slid over to yours, his cheek sucked into his mouth to stop himself from grinning, and he gave you his wallet, shrugging his backpack off easily and dropping it on the floor next to where you’d parked his suitcase.

“Now what?” He asked, eyes darting back to your hand like he wanted to grab it again, but decided against it.

“I don’t know.” You breathed, “How long do you have left?”

“Two hours-ish until boarding.”

“Oh.” He had to leave now, you supposed, eyeing his luggage like they were the ones taking him away, and that ache in your throat reappeared before you could even blink, and you were rendered speechless. 

You watched him nod, and reach for his bags, but he must have changed his mind because the next thing you knew, your back was pressed up against the window, his arms wrapped around your shoulders and your head resting against his collarbone. 

There was a moment when all you could focus on was the sudden envelope of warmth that circled you, the cacophony of smells: deodorant, fabric softener, a slight twinge of sweat and something else entirely – something very familiar – and before you could even sigh at the ache in your chest, you’d melted into him completely, your own arms hooking around the backs of his. You tucked your forehead down into his chest, pressing at the supple muscle, hands tightening in his shirt.

It wasn’t very comfortable: the ridges of metal edging the glass panes were digging into your back, and–oh.

There was a shuddering against your forehead, and you froze, before tilting your head up to see his eyes screwed shut in an effort to not let anything show. 

“We’ve still got the Marner wedding – it’s gonna be okay.” And despite yourself, despite the watery smile on your face, you laughed a little, “You’re gonna enjoy Raleigh–”

“It’s not that.” He shook his head, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and blinking to get rid of the blurriness before dropping them to his sides again, the both of you still in entirely too-close-for-comfort-quarters. 

“The weird feeling?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, his chin wavering, and he inhaled sharply, “It’s just gonna be so weird not seeing you.”

“FaceTime exists, as do away games to Toronto.”

“I’m not even in that division anymore.”

You sighed, “Pittsburgh is, though.”

Silence.

He was doing it again: “Stop looking at me like that.”

He frowned, “Like what?”

“I don’t know, just–” You rolled your eyes, reaching to tug him back into you like before, only this time your hands slid up his back to rest across the tops of his shoulders, and he sighed into the touch, his own rough palms dragging up your neck to plant a soft kiss against your hairline. 

You stayed like that until he really had to go, but there weren’t any tears.

***

“Do you like him?”

The question hung in the air for a good few seconds, you pulling a face, heart pounding like a jackhammer against your sternum before you could even find the words and the ability to talk, “He’s infuriating.”

“Do you like him?” Taylor’s voice rang out through your phone speaker, her eyebrow raised very matter-of-fact, and you’d never wanted to scream at her before, but you were cutting it pretty close with the way she was looking at you and the tone she was using.

You hesitated, your face falling. The words were caught in your throat, the admission you’d practised like a teleplay in your head, but the only thing stopping you was the way things would change. Sure, it would only be little things to start with, like Taylor nagging you with it, or her insufferably smug ‘I told you so’s. But eventually that meant that you’d have to do something about it, because Taylor could never leave things like that alone, least of all with rock hard evidence.

But…maybe you needed that?

“I…” You looked away from your phone, body trembling with an invisible cold, “Did I tell you what happened at the wedding?”

She frowned, “The Marner one?”

“Yeah.”

“The one that happened, like, Summer last year? Fucking months ago?”

You cringed, “That one.”

THE MARNER WEDDING:

“My God, are you a sight for sore eyes.”

Michael Bunting was never one to care about his appearance, least of all after crawling off a plane, but somehow he’d found himself in the bathroom of the airport, fixing his hair and straightening his clothes. All for it to fly completely out of the window when he strolled towards the exit and the first thing you did was say that. He couldn’t tell if it was the grin on your face or the sheer excitement racking your entire being that caused it, but he’d never felt sillier for feeling nervous about this moment.

“Could say the same thing about you.” He retorted, feeling the tightness in his chest dissolve, “What’s that?” He reached a finger to tap the underside brim of your cap, the sudden intrusion making you blink and jump slightly.

You knew what he was talking about: the black cap on your head, the sticker placed over a hidden logo with your handwritten message scrawled on. He furrowed his brows, eyes tracking over the words, before tilting his head in confusion, reading it aloud, “‘This is indeed my first rodeo’.” He said it slowly, as though he was worried he’d read it wrong, and before he could even ask you what it meant, you felt his fingers pick at the corner, peeling the sticker back.

He smiled sarcastically, patting it back into place with more force than necessary, the pats like small smacks against your forehead, “Shoulda known. What’s with the rodeo thing?”

“Bridal party thing.” You shrugged, “I’m not sure really.” You reached out to take the small suitcase from him, your own hands trying to pry his fingers off the handle, but he only held on tighter, “Let go.”

“No.”

“Yes.” You sighed, looking him dead in the eye hoping he’d get the hint and succumb, but he shook his head, his other hand peeling your fingers off him one by one, more condescendingly than anything else, “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want the dead body to fall out.”

—

“Hey, I forgot to ask earlier,” he called from the bathroom, the door shut as you took turns: he was cleaning his teeth and trimming his beard etc, and you were getting changed – later, you’d swap, “but how’s the property hunt going in Pittsburgh?”

You grinned, slipping the straps of your dress over your shoulders. Even the mere mention of your future plans had you smiling like an absolute idiot; you couldn’t wait to get back there. If you told the you that had just moved to Toronto what you were about to do, you were sure she’d have had a stroke from the shock. For so long, you’d envisioned living your life in Toronto and staying there. Moving back home felt more like a fever dream or something you shouldn’t do, because surely moving back to your home city meant you’d failed at something? At least, that used to be your thought process.

In reality, you just missed your family too much – every time something happened, whether it be a proposal or an illness, something in you just ached to be back there. 

“It’s going okay. I’ve got a few places lined up that my parents have viewings booked for to check out, but there hasn’t been anything that’s stood out so far, but…” you paused, sitting on the edge of the bed to sort out your shoes, “I’ve got an online job interview with a company back there next week and the starting date, if I get it, is on par pretty much with moving in if there’s a place found within the next two weeks or so. But that’s only if everything goes well. Reality is I’ll probably end up moving back in with my parents for a few weeks until I find a place which isn’t exactly ideal.”

There were a few bangs, things getting placed on the counter, before his muffled, “Can I open the door?” Could be heard.

“Yeah, I’m decent.”

He creaked open the door, leaning on the handle as it swung open with a dopey grin, and it took everything in you not to stall at the sight: he was only wearing dress pants and a pair of socks, his hair tousled and damp from the shower. You’d seen photos of hockey players shirtless before, but there was something breathtakingly stunning about seeing Michael without one. He was your friend, and friends kept their shirts on – but…you swallowed, rather wishing you didn’t have to tear your eyes away from his toned figure and the smattering trail of hair, and turned your attention to his face.

The grin on his face had frozen, and despite not even looking further down than his neck you could see his chest rising and falling, eyes narrowed playfully as he stood up straighter, eyeing you with something that screamed trouble in all ways imaginable.

“Were you just checking me out?” He let go of the door handle, one hand pointing at you in an accusatory manner, and you just blinked, frowning.

“No.” You shook your head, pasting an incredulous ‘how could you’ look on your face to try and deny what had, in fact, been absolutely true.

He hesitated, his eyes roving your face for a single speck of a lie, “You were looking.”

You shrugged, “I’ve just never seen someone so…well-built before, that’s all.”

He nodded, pressing his lips together to stifle another grin, “So you were checking me out?”

“No, I was looking. There’s a difference.”

He lifted his hand, thumb and pointer finger closed together, a slither of a gap between them, “Tiny difference. So tiny there might not even be a difference.”

You sent him an unimpressed look, one that you hoped would mean he’d shut up about it because the second you even so much as hinted at him being right, it’d be over. He’d hold it above you for the rest of your lives, and you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of that, not if you could help it, “You’d know if I checked you out.”

He fell for it, his smile dropping in curiosity, “How?”

You shrugged, “You’d just know.” You took a deep breath, “Why’d you open the door?”

“I was gonna ask you about this job interview next week – what’s it for?” He disappeared back into the bathroom, but the mirror in the room still provided you with the perfect angle to watch his focused motions as he ran a towel through his hair and picked up an electric shaver. Each time he moved, his body rippled, and you hated that you couldn’t stop looking.

“It’s a cheffing position at a hotel, but it’s almost like a club. There’s an entire golf course; the restaurant is gorgeous; it’s got a spa, and it’s just…it’s like an old estate house in a period film, it’s just beautiful.” You raved, fiddling with your makeup bag as you waited for him to finish.

“Sounds incredible.” He muttered, nodding at you to join him and shoving his things to one side, “What makes you think you won’t get it?”

You shrugged, placing your bag on the counter, missing the way his eyes dragged right across your figure in the mirror, his hand still shaving his cheek with close concentration. Perhaps if he’d wavered, you’d have caught the action, but you didn’t, carrying on, “They can’t really ‘interview’ me without trying my food. I had to ask if it was okay for an online thing and it was lucky they even agreed, so…I don’t know, it just feels too good to be true.”

“Why?”

You sighed, “It just does. Something has to go wrong somewhere.”

“Not necessarily.”

“I don’t want to get my hopes up, that’s all.” You said it forcefully, throwing something back into your makeup bag and not even looking in his direction. He slowly lowered his hand to the counter, eyes fixated on you for a whole different reason.

You’d gone from being so infectiously excited about the prospect to suddenly…not.

“Everything okay?” He asked softly.

It had been four weeks since you’d last seen each other, and although he’d felt your absence like he’d never expected, he’d never felt it more than he had now. Ironic, considering you were standing right next to him. To have gone from texting each other with updates every day in Toronto to that eventually dwindling, mostly because he didn’t want to bother you too much – he’d assumed the same on your end, too – it was a big adjustment. He’d caught himself reaching for his phone a few times or eyeing it as each notification came through, and the remembrance of ‘oh, shit, we’re in different countries’ or not seeing your name pop up sent a shot of disappointment so deep through his chest that sometimes he’d actually have to massage it away.

It kind of killed him, though, that he didn’t know what was wrong. If he’d have still been back here…

“Yeah,” you clenched and unclenched your jaw, “it’s just stressful. There’s so many decisions that need to be made, and I have a date to move out now but I just want to go back to a job lined up at least. It’d be worth it then.”

His mind whirled, ideas of what to say lining up like there was no tomorrow, but he wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to say. He swallowed, nudging your arm with his elbow to get you to turn your attention back to him, and smiled smally in the mirror when you met his eyes, “I think it’s worth it anyway if it’s something that makes you happy. And it won’t be the end of the world if you don’t have a place to live or a job immediately. It might be ideal, but if it doesn’t work out, you’ll figure things out. Everything will fall into place, it just might take some time, that’s all.”

It was almost magical how quickly the sudden tension dissipated. The dread in your stomach and your racing heart calmed almost instantly – the very second you allowed yourself to believe his words. You knew he wouldn’t say something like that and not mean it, and the fact that he believed in you to that extent – to hear him topple each and every single doubt in your mind to the ground – had you fighting to grab ahold of him. Whether it be his hand or to hug him or to just check to make sure he was really there. It didn’t matter that one half of his beard was neatly trimmed and the other wasn’t; it didn’t matter that his hair was wet or he didn’t have a shirt.

You wanted to tell him you missed him at that very moment. Especially when he looked at you like that again.

Michael blinked, eyeing you. He was aware the entire room had come to a standstill and that all you were doing was simply breathing and looking right at him, and it was the latter that was odd. There was something skewiff about the way you were looking at him, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Your mouth had parted, and there was a faint, dainty crease between your brows, like when you were thinking about something. If it weren’t for the fractional tilt of your head or the softness to your eyes – they kept bouncing across his face like it was the first time you’d actually looked at him – he would’ve thought that’s what you were doing: thinking.

But then you huffed a laugh, almost shocking yourself, and snapped back to reality, that look disappearing as quickly as he’d noticed it, “Yeah.” You placed a hand against your cheek, eyes darting away from him briefly, and when you pulled your palm away, he could see the growing darkness of your cheeks, “Thank you, I really needed to hear that.”

You looked towards the counter, hair falling in a curtain and hiding your face, and not for the first time since he’d come back, a homesick pang seemed to resonate to the tips of his fingers, as though his entire soul had been plucked like the string of a guitar.

—

He kept telling himself that his arm was around your shoulder, his fingers against your skin, because your strap kept falling down – and he could tell it was irritating you. (He’d also made the mistake of actually looking when it had fallen the first time, the sharp motion catching his eye, and he had no intention of replicating that awkward moment again.) It had absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol in his system, lowering his inhibitions, or the way you’d scooted closer to him because of the tight-packed bar, or the fact that he’d realised mid-way through the ceremony that what Mitch was saying about Steph was eerily similar to how he felt for you.

Mo kept shooting him a look over Tessa’s head when you weren’t looking, and Willy had hilariously looked shocked when he’d had to correct him that, no, you were just friends, even after knowing that exact same fact for over two years now.

But you? He didn’t think you were thinking too much about him at that moment. Your eyes were fixed on someone further down the bar – someone that he wasn’t particularly fond of during the season in the first place – and he was having a hard time trying not to let it get to him. 

Sidney Crosby. He wasn’t doing anything in particular, but you kept glancing back at him and he could practically sense you vibrating at the mere knowledge that he was metres away. He was half-expecting you to straight-up ditch him to go talk to the man himself, or he would have if you hadn’t shaken your head at Mitch with a hilariously terrified look on your face when he’d offered to introduce you. Michael had an inkling you did want to meet the guy, but just didn’t want to appear too eager.

And realistically, he knew he had absolutely no reason to even be the slightest bit jealous of the guy. He wasn’t even sure he was jealous, but the thought did make him uncomfortable; though he wasn’t entirely able to think about anything other than the vows from earlier.

“Want me to help you out?” It was Willy talking in his ear. He didn’t even need to look at the blonde to know it was him; the garish chain peeking out between a shirt that was unbuttoned dangerously low down, and the cologne emanating from him. Bunts figured he must douse himself in the stuff before he steps outside, but he’d seen Willy get ready and the only conclusion he’d reached was that guy must just smell that good naturally all the damn time.

He didn’t know why that was the first thing that popped into his mind at that moment. What he did know was that nothing good ever followed Willy when he uttered those words. 

“Absolutely not, no.” He was very aware of his fingers still hooked onto the strap of your dress, keeping it held tightly against your shoulder. And on the way your other shoulder was pressed right against his chest. And the fact that you were chatting to someone he wasn’t quite sure he recognised – but the point was that you weren’t listening.

“What, why?” Willy frowned, pouting and swigging a bottle of something. Michael didn’t like the look on his face.

“Because.”

“Because you’re scared?” 

His silence was enough to answer Willy’s question.

“You need help.” 

Michael frowned, “Like, mental help or–”

“Me help.”

“I just said no.”

“I heard you but I’m electing to ignore that and follow my own instincts.” Willy flashed him a grin and Michael felt his stomach drop, watching and unable to move as his ex-teammate walked to his other side, coming to stand next to you and whisper something in your ear that had you recoiling, your head gently bumping against Michael’s shoulder. He pretended not to notice, but he couldn’t help drinking in your reaction.

He had no clue what Willy had done or said, but he could feel his heart beating in his chest, and he was half-expecting you to turn around and ask if he was okay, but, much to his own intrigue, you shook your head, an awkward apologetic expression on your face.

Willy shrugged, but there was a crease between his brows. And because Michael knew him so well, he could tell something had been proven. 

Willy then reappeared at Michael’s other side, and you returned talking to who you’d been chatting to before, a triumphant smirk on his face.

“What?” 

Willy said nothing.

“Dude.” Michael could feel himself getting agitated, his hand was tapping anxiously against his thigh and because he was so fully intent on focusing on Willy, he was completely ignorant to the way you’d turned around at the sudden shaking, eyes zeroing in on his spare hand with confusion. Willy noticed it, though. He also noticed the way your hand twitched before clearly thinking the better of it and turning back around.

“I just told her one of my friends thinks she’s cute.”

Michael blinked, nervous.

“Point is,” Willy continued, “That that was obviously untrue. I mean, she’s cute, but she never even thought twice about it. Didn’t even turn around. Said she’d rather not and stayed standing with you.”

“That proves nothing.”

“It proves she’s not looking at other people.”

“Barely. You’re clutching at straws.”

Willy rolled his eyes, “Okay. But you better do something about it before someone else comes along and she chooses them, okay? Because it’ll happen.”

—

You were about ninety percent sure that you were one of the only people in the entire cafe who didn’t have a hangover right now. It might have something to do with the fact that you hadn’t had much to drink last night because you wanted to be as sober as possible just to soak in as much of Michael as you could and actually have a chance of remembering it.

You had no idea when you’d see him next. He was leaving for a training camp in a few days and you had a feeling the next time you’d see each other you’d be in Pittsburgh, all being well. You still had to sort out your paperwork and the whole visa situation still had to come through before anything could happen, but other than that, both of your timelines were one giant question mark.

That seemed to weigh on you heavily now you were sitting opposite each other. His hair was slightly scruffy, none of the gel in from earlier, and he had bags under his eyes – a telltale sign of his own hangover.

He’d acted weirdly last night. You couldn’t really put it into words, but since walking into that bar it was like he wasn’t entirely there all the time. Like he was distracted. He kept checking his phone, and before he’d met up with you for breakfast he’d appeared with a gift bag with a book in it and smiled each time he caught sight of it.

You had a horrible feeling that he was seeing someone. It’d make sense, even if it did come as a bit of a shock considering the four week mark, but who could blame him? He was a catch if you did say so yourself. 

You’d tried to put the bubbling anxiety at that idea to the back of your mind, but the more you looked at him, it only felt weirder. 

“How’s Carolina?” 

The touch of his fingers ghosted your shoulder, a blazing reminder from the night before.

You blinked, goosebumps rising on your skin at the mere memory. What the fuck?

He looked up, nodding with a grin, “I love it so far. I’ve met up with some of the guys that stayed in Raleigh and I’m getting along with everyone well so far. It’s really pretty there, too. How’s Toronto treating you without me?”

You flicked your food over on your plate, “As well as it usually does. It’s quieter, though.”

The conversation wasn’t anything you hadn’t already talked about over text or FaceTime; it was something you kept coming back to when you just wanted to hear him talk. You weren’t entirely sure when that had started. You paused. You’d done for months, even back when he was in Toronto.

This time, when he answered, he leaned closer over the table, and for a brief moment you thought he was going to admit a secret or pick something off your face, but when you looked up he was doing It again.

And this time you didn’t shy away from it. In fact, if the spike in heart rate was anything to go by, you revelled in the attention. And the revelation just took your breath away.

“I know this might sound weird…” He trailed off, eyes carefully gliding over features, and although you didn’t know it was possible, your heart rate skyrocketed, the pounding tingling the tips of your fingers and causing a raucous rushing in your ears. Without even realising it, you’d leant closer across the table, too, the only thing separating the two of you being the condiments rack.

He seemed taken aback at your proximity, eyes widening and his mouth stuttering, “I do miss you, y’know.” He whispered, cheeks reddening almost immediately.

You blinked, allowing your mind to digest the gravity of his admission. Something happened: it felt like something in your brain sighed or something in your chest loosened, something you weren’t even sure existed suddenly being clicked to life, and you smiled shyly. You were completely unfamiliar with what it was or what it meant, but you knew there was a point of no return: you’d be chasing whatever this was for the rest of your life, without a doubt.

Where you’d felt jilted moments earlier, something evened out – it felt smooth, there was no ache when you breathed, and your mind cleared, the only thing on repeat…him. 

Oh.

There was a zing straight down your spine, and you shivered at the feeling of it.

“I’m gonna say something even weirder…” Your voice came out shaky, shakier than you’d initially like it to be, and he automatically glanced at your mouth because of it, “I miss you too.”

He blinked, stifling a grin by placing his hand over his mouth, and you took the opportunity to change the subject, not wanting to dwell on anything too long for fear of what it could mean, what it could lead to, “Are you gonna let your hair grow out?”

He pulled a face, his hand moving to his hair self-consciously, “You don’t like it?”

“No, I like it.”

“What about the beard?”

You hesitated, “I…Do you want my opinion?”

He pulled a face, like you were crazy for even asking, “I literally asked to get your opinion.”

“Keep it like that, then.”

“What’s this about my hair, though?”

“Nothing.” You breathed a laugh, wondering how an innocent question led to this entire ordeal, “You look good.”

Silence.

His cutlery clinked against his plate as he looked up, your own hand frozen midair around your cup of coffee, him staring at you incredulously and you staring at a stain on the table, a little too afraid to look at him. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t acted like you’d told him a monumental piece of news that’s changed the entire trajectory of his life. It also shouldn’t be too much of a big deal because he’d told you you looked beautiful before, and that hadn’t been an issue.

You broke first, taking a sip and mustering the courage to look at him once more, raising your eyebrows at the utterly shocked look on his face.

“I look good?” He reiterated, speaking each syllable with his entire body. His breathing was shallow, and for a moment you worried if he was about to pass out.

“Yeah.” This time it was your turn to act like he was crazy for asking, “You always look good.”

He breathed a mirthless laugh that bled easily into one of amusement as he pointed a finger at you, “You were so checking me out last night.”

You blinked, replying blankly, “If you’d have left it five more seconds I’d have lost my mind.”

He grinned mischievously, risking a wink, “Duly noted.”

You rolled your eyes, scratching your eyebrow to try and hide your face with your hand as you stacked your plate on top of his, “You ready to go?”

“Yeah.” 

For some reason you hadn’t pushed yourself up and out of your chair very quickly. By the time Michael had tucked his chair under the table and was standing next to yours, his head turned to the side – distracted – you’d only just finished tidying up the table. And because his attention had been stolen, and because he was standing so close to your chair, when you finally did make a move to stand up…

His head snapped in your direction, the sudden motion making you flinch backwards, legs bumping awkwardly against the table, and his hand shot out, flattening against your back. If you were more honest you’d have said you didn’t need the stability: all you’d done was knock your calves against the wooden legs – but the sudden, unprompted touch on the small of your back had you freezing where you were, breath hitching in your chest against your will. 

You were watching his face before, trying to pick out exactly what had caught his eye, but this time you could see when the realisation of what had happened set in: his mouth parted like he was about to say something, and his eyes were wide – probably slightly alarmed at the almost-stumble he’d seen in his periphery – and was, for lack of better words, practically hugging you to him. You were forced (though there wasn’t a single cell in your body that felt reluctant) to catch yourself in his arms to prevent yourself from being catapulted straight into him. 

He wasn’t wearing a hat. Usually he did, but today he’d left the hotel room without one, and you’d never really thought twice about it or missed its presence more than you did at that moment. A hat would have given you space to think, time to not spend looking straight at him, time to not fantasise about what would happen if either of you happened to lean in at the same time, but–

He’d folded first, his gaze flicking down to your mouth for a brief moment before returning to your eyes, the palm on your back not wavering one bit. He didn’t even take a step back to let you stand up properly, but instead stood there, holding you, waiting. Waiting for some indication from you that, yes, it’s okay to close the gap.

Your heart was thundering in your chest, and you were sure he could feel it against your ribs if he concentrated hard enough, but you couldn't bring yourself to focus on that for too long. Not when the sight of him in front of you was so enticing.

You inhaled quickly, wanting to say something but not quite finding the words, and he waited once more. He only seemed to do something when you chanced a glance at his mouth, not even intending to, but also not doing anything to stop yourself from sneaking a look, and his head dipped–

“Oh, hey guys.”

It happened quickly and a lot less clumsily as to how it had started: Michael blinked at the sudden interruption, seamlessly stepping backwards and pulling you with him, his hand dropping from your back once you were safely on your feet. You were a little slower, only managing to keep your breaths even and to turn your attention away from him in time to see exactly who it was that had just shown up.

Only, your bewilderment and vertigo increased when you set your eyes on the familiar figure taking a seat on the table next to yours, completely and utterly oblivious to what almost transpired. 

Sidney Crosby was sitting grinning in your direction, and your mind went blank for a whole host of different reasons. The main one being Sidney Crosby was grinning at you. You were vaguely aware of Michael’s hurried motions, placing your hat on top of your head after a quick greeting. You heard your name, and you smiled politely. 

Your face didn’t feel like your own, you were aware of moving your cheek muscles, but everything felt strangely foreign.

And then Sid was looking at your cap, and suddenly you were back in your own body.

“Cool hat.” He pointed, leaning sideways on his chair, and your smile broadened.

“Yeah, Pittsburgh Penguins, maybe you’ve heard of them?”

He laughed, feet kicking slightly under the table, and you felt Michael stiffen next to you, “I don’t think I’m familiar, no. They any good?”

You shrugged, “Won a couple of cups, made us locals proud. There’s this guy, Sidney Crosby, he’s pretty cool.”

He pretended to pull a face, “Oh, I know that guy.” He sighed, shaking his head.

“You don’t like him?”

“Hate that guy.” 

***

“What the fuck.” Taylor all but yelped through the screen once you’d done a quick rehash of events, before falling completely silent, her head in her hands.

You nodded, “I know. I got Sidney Cros–”

“Fuck Sidney Crosby, babe. With all due respect, fuck that guy.”

You swallowed, “Yeah, okay.”

“What are you gonna do about Michael?”

“We haven’t really talked since the wedding.” You mumbled sadly.

***

A meal was all you had. In three months, all you managed to snag of his time was a home cooked meal in your new apartment, and even then he couldn’t stay for more than a few hours. You didn’t just have to worry over the fact that things had clearly changed since the wedding, but you had to worry about cooking him a meal that adhered to his plan of what he could and couldn’t eat, and it had to be edible.

So, it was safe to say you were feeling a lot of pressure. Cooking at work was completely different to cooking at home: not only were you usually too exhausted to even cook something that nice when you got in, but there was something personal about cooking for people you know. It always felt like they were judging what you’d made, trying to decide if you were good at your job or not. Sometimes it felt like a make or break deal. If they didn’t like your food, they wouldn’t like you.

And while that had never been the case for Michael, tonight felt different. For starters, it felt like you’d had to fight tooth and nail to even get him to come over for a few hours, which was new. 

In all honesty, you were even hesitant in the entire…ordeal. Because that’s what it was, really, it wasn’t a quick catch-up, it was an ordeal. The last time you’d felt this nervous was when you were back in school, and gosh you didn’t miss the feeling at all.

He knocked three times and you had to stop stirring the pasta (shocker!) sauce to answer the door.

“Hey.” He sighed, flashing a tired smile, and in that instant all your anxieties seemed to diminish. They hadn’t disappeared completely, but it was as though the volume had been turned down, and you could breathe easily.

“Hi.” You answered almost breathlessly, and his brows jumped up his forehead in amusement, the small crinkle of a smile making an appearance, “I feel bad for pestering you now. You look exhausted.”

He shook his head, “Don’t, I’m glad I came.”

And then he did something he’d never done to you before: he leaned in and he pressed a delicate kiss on your cheek. The exact place he’d touched with his lips seemed to flame before you even registered what he’d done, and in that same moment, you were catapulted back to Toronto. Tucked next to each other under a blanket, an episode of The Mentalist on, both of you utterly immersed in the plot. 

You blinked, not entirely sure where that had come from, and grinned, his scent filling your senses, soon to bleed into your apartment and your couch and your cushions. The one thing you loved about having him around was that you could tell he’d been here even days later: whether it be the faint smell of his cologne when you sat down or the plants that had been purposefully switched around on the windowsill – something you tended to notice when you finally crashed, and it never failed to put a smile on your face. 

“This place is adorable.” He commented, easing himself onto the couch, feet up and reorganising the cushions around him, and all you could do was stand off to the side, simply watching him get settled.

“Adorable wasn’t what I was going for.” 

“What were you going for?”

“Cosy.”

He hummed, tearing his eyes away from you to have another quick glance around, “It’s that too.” And then he rounded back to you, still hanging around in between the living room and the kitchen, not really wanting to leave him alone but much too devoted to the food to even think about asking him to follow you in there, “How are you doing?”

You shrugged, “I’m really happy here.”

He fell asleep straight after he finished eating.

***

His stuff was everywhere: boxes and bags stacked and piled and thrown in the right rooms; zips unzipped and lids open, objects and clothes and cutlery scattered across floors like he’d picked up a handful and left a trail of nuts for you to track his steps. 

It was a mess, but it was a reassuring mess. You hadn’t really believed him until he’d shown up at the airport, and even then it had taken three days for you to actually comprehend the luck of it all. It took you fourteen minutes to walk to his apartment, now. Not over an hour on the plane, not counting the taxis and waiting for your luggage.

Quite frankly, it blew your mind.

It had taken you so long to adjust to even being friends with him, to then adjusting to him moving to Raleigh when you were still in Toronto, to then adjusting to you in Pittsburgh and him still in Raleigh…and now you were both in Pittsburgh and it had taken you approximately three days to get used to it. Not weeks, not months where you’d keep forgetting you couldn’t just show up outside his apartment.

You’d caught yourself laughing at it on more than one occasion.

For now, though, despite the welcome mess (as proof of life), you were looking straight at him. You’d caught yourself doing that a lot lately, but there was a reason this time – not just a genuine wonder at his mere presence. 

He walked back into the room, arms stretched out in front of him, clearly assessing the new jersey, and you swore, right then and there, that you’d never loved him more. For all his shit-talking on the Pens over the years, he was now wearing their jersey, much to your appreciation.

“I like it.” You spoke first from your position on his couch, your arm in the box of merch and kit he’d been given (he’d allowed you to have free reign over some of the items, all you had to do was ask him first), your teeth briefly scraping over your bottom lip. It wasn’t the first time he’d worn a black jersey, but it was the first time he’d worn one with a Penguin on the front and yellow text that spelt his name on the back, “A lot.”

You were grinning, and when he looked up to see you shaking with glee, he shook his head, huffing an amused laugh, “Of course you do.”

“I still don’t think I’ve gotten used to you not wearing blue yet, though.” You muttered, and he nodded, mouth flattening but face somehow still smiling.

“I do miss it, but I think I’m getting used to it.” He shrugged, before grabbing the front of the jersey by the NHL logo and chucking it off his shoulders and throwing it straight at your face, “You can keep that one if you want, I’m not short of any.” You heard him say, his voice slightly muffled by the fabric, and you pulled it from over your eyes, hand wrapped in the material – to see his cheeks flush at your expression. It seemed to worsen when you dropped your eyes to his bare torso.

“Thanks.” You averted your eyes quickly, instead focusing on smoothing the jersey out in your lap, fingers tracing the penguin before flipping it over for his name. Out of the corner of your eye you saw him reach into the box next to you and pull out a few t-shirts before a cap was in his hands and he was brandishing the logo in your face.

“Have you seen one of these before?” He asked, pointing to the circular black and yellow logo: the Pens motif was in the top half of the circle with two crossed-over sticks in the bottom half, and you shook your head.

“I don’t think so.”

He spun it around in his fist, eyes flicking from the hat to your face, “You want it?”

You hesitated, “Are you sure you’re allowed to let me have some of this stuff? I feel like they’re giving you different kits because you’re actually part of the organisation and that normal people aren’t supposed to have them.”

He blinked, jaw clenching as he took in your words. And before you could even say anything else, he placed the hat rather lopsidedly on top of your head and rifled back through the pile of clothes for the sheet of paper before throwing himself down next to you, the piece of paper held out so you could read it too.

You felt a bit pathetic at how quickly you felt your pulse start to pick up at the contact: his entire torso was leant against your shoulder, and although it meant you got an unobstructed view of…everything, and although you appreciated it, at the same time it felt a bit cruel. Like dangling a bone in front of a dog.

“It doesn’t say I can’t give it away.” He mumbled, turning to face you, his forehead bumping the brim of the cap. You blinked in surprise, but didn’t miss the way his eyes just casually flickered down to your lips, or the way his hand dropped down, still clutching the sheet, once he realised you’d not actually been looking at the words.

He’d caught you looking at him.

You cleared your throat, cheeks flaring but not too ashamed considering  you’d just caught him looking at you, and his eyes zipped back to your face, an awkward silence ensuing. Neither of you moved. You didn’t know if you were too scared to ruin the moment or if you were physically frozen by what could have happened – could still happen. Stillness seemed to be key. His breath was fanning softly against your face, and you were sure the same went for you. 

It was eerily similar to the whole Sid-situation. Only this time you were in the privacy of his own home, he was notably shirtless and the risk of getting interrupted was low, but not entirely zero.

You felt your own lips part at the same time his head moved an inch closer as though he was testing the waters, but before you could even think about leaning in, his mouth was moving.

What?

His cheeks reddened, and the blush seemed to travel down his neck and bleed into his collarbones, his attention now flicking between you and something off to the side, clearly too nervous to even look at you and speak.

“I asked if you were free on Thursday?” He whispered, his gaze travelling back down to the piece of paper still in his hand.

He hadn’t moved away from you but the stab of disappointment at the lack of his attention and the realisation that he’d chosen not to kiss you was profoundly disturbing. You didn’t like it, the way you practically yearned for him. The idea that your enjoyment in life was tied to what a random man did or didn’t do was absurd, and if you were being honest with yourself, you did feel a bit pathetic that you’d let it get to that point.

He was your best friend, for fuck’s sake. You weren’t supposed to actually fall in love with him – that was something that only happened in the movies or in novels. 

But…he was kind, he was funny, he was charming, he clearly cared for you. 

Did he feel the same way? It was impossible to tell in your eyes. Sure, it had just looked like he wanted to eat you, and you’d caught him looking at you like you hung the entire galaxy before, but who’s to say he didn’t look at other people like that?

And in all honesty, you’d spent so much time trying to not look at him that you’d given him plenty of opportunities to (if he did) sneak glances at you when you weren’t looking.

You sighed, folding the jersey, acting like his skin on your forearm wasn’t burning. Like you were completely normal being in his presence, “I should be, yeah. How come?”

He raised a brow, shyly turning back to you, “I was wondering if you wanted to go out?”

Something fluttered in your chest – it felt an awful lot like hope, and when you answered, your voice sounded off. You weren’t breathless, so to say, but your voice cracked and sounded ropey to your own ears, “Go out where?”

The question almost felt futile, especially with the wry smile he just sent your way. You had a feeling, but even thinking the feeling out loud in your head felt like you were about to jinx it, so you fought to keep your mind quiet. Everything else though (heart rate, blood rushing, the feel of his fingers tapping rhythmically against the inside of your wrist), that was loud. 

His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek when he looked down at where he was delicately touching your wrist. His motions stopped, but the warmth never left.

“With me, I was hoping.” He didn’t look at you as he spoke, and you held your breath the entire time, a part of you wanting to make sure you’d just heard him correctly and weren’t imagining it, “Like a date.”

“A date.” You echoed, flipping your wrist over completely so your palm was pointing to the ceiling. He didn’t tear his eyes away from your hand, but you could feel his heart thumping through his back from where he’d pressed himself against your shoulder and a smile fell naturally on your face. It wasn’t a big smile, but it was soft. The kind of smile that was only ever really reserved for him.

His hand didn’t falter in its motions as he dragged his fingers down the inside of your wrist to swirl a pattern on your palm, fingers tracing the lines and creases gently. 

It took everything in you not to scream.

He just hummed, and when you tore your gaze away from the side of his face – he wasn’t giving much away – his chest was thumping in time with his pulse. Was it possible for nerves to make him catatonic? You’d never seen him this nervous yet so calm and collected at the same time.

You inhaled, feeding your starved lungs, and tried not to shudder when his fingers slowed only to tangle and interlock with yours. It was like he was testing it out, seeing how you fit together, whether your personalities blended as well as your bodies did–

You felt yourself blush at that insinuation, and squeezed his hand, prompting him to look at you instead of away.

He did so slowly, first peeking at you out of the corner of his eye with a small breath of relief when he saw you weren’t annoyed. Then he turned his entire head towards you, leaning back so he wouldn’t knock into the hat again, and his mouth twisted, still awaiting your reply.

“Have you been wanting to ask that for a while, or…”

His stare went blank, and you could tell her was trying not to roll his eyes at your teasing questions, obviously stalling to get a rise out of him. It was working, “Put me out of my misery first.”

“Okay.”

He blinked, leaning forwards slightly, “Okay I’ll go on a date or okay I’ll put you out of your misery?”

“Both.”

He smiled, using his free hand to swipe at his nose and look away briefly, flustered. His chest was still pink and blotchy and you nudged him playfully with your elbow, “Your turn.”

“Uh…” He hesitated, “maybe, like, since you told me I don’t look like a Michael.”

You stared at him, jaw unhinged and dropped in shock, “But that was–”

“Two-ish years ago, yeah.” He nodded, pulling a face at himself, “What can I say? You charmed me.”

“But I was rude to you..” 

“I wouldn’t say rude–”

“I wanted you to not like me.”

He froze, “You did?”

“Yeah.”

“It had the opposite effect.”

And then you laughed. Right in his face, not very loudly, but you laughed at him altogether, “You liked me when I couldn’t stand you, I would’ve said no.”

He rolled his eyes, flicking the underside brim of the cap he’d given you, “Good job I held out then, isn’t it? At what point would you have said yes?”

“When you left for Raleigh.”

“Wow.”

“You gotta remember, I was in a relationship for a while–”

“Oh, that guy.” He muttered, bitterly, "I think I blocked that out-"

You interrupted him, leaning closer to briefly press your mouth against his, effectively shutting him up. Even at the brief contact, and even as you were pulling away you could feel the relief of it dissipate from your shoulders, like a worn out elastic band had finally snapped. You paused, a breath away from him, and his eyes slowly blinked open having tried to chase your mouth.

Even despite that, he still maintained his grin, "That's a good tactic." He muttered, hand sliding up the side of your neck as his thumb slid gently and delicately across your jawbone. His eyes zeroed in on the motion, clearly enjoying the way your skin reacted to his touch, goosebumps rising to the surface and eliciting a shiver of pleasure from you.

It was barely three second of contact, but it had changed your genetic makeup.

He was addictive, even the smug look on his face as he pressed his forehead against yours, chin bumping towards yours. You held you breath in anticipation, eyes instinctively fluttering shut - it was difficult to ignore the pounding of your heart or the tingling beneath his fingers.

"Noted." You breathed, unable to help smiling at his tone, "You gonna make me wait until Thursday now-"

"It's rude to keep a lady waiting." Was his answer.

[cinnamonroll-anon]

Hello! If its okay to request, Could you do fnaf?

With Springtrap, Scraptrap (and Glitchtrap/Burntrap ) react to Reader as William Afton's daughter. With the reaction of them with ghost of Afton (or Afton's fatherly love or any alike) to his adult daughter, who's working in Fnaf location(s) and also the only living/surviving family member

Lost to Time: Springtrap x Daughter!Reader (Platonic)

A/n: Of course I'd do fnaf! It's literally like my favorite! I know you asked for different versions of Springtrap and to keep things from being confusing I'll spilt them into a timeline order. Sorry if this isn't what you requested have a nice day anon!

Warnings: Platonic Paring, Angst, Gendered Reader but i still used GN pronouns

You were the youngest of the Afton family, being around 3 when the incident at Fredbears Family Diner hospitalized and killed Evan. You were treasured in the family, but you couldn't understand what was happening around you. At first, Evan was gone, then your mother left, soon Elizabeth disappeared and last but not least your father was presumed dead. The remaining family member at the time was Michael, but he was barely a teen, he couldn't take care of you.

He had learned about everything that had happened, from the divorce of his parents, the tragic accident that killed Elizabeth and the eventual madness of his father. Michael was glad that you were left out of all this and felt both happy and heartbroken by how young you were, you wouldn't remember this. He gave you up for adoption and requested that your last name would be changed, hoping to spare you the burden of your real family, and to correct the sins of his father.

You grew up into a normal family, you had never once doubted the legitimacy of your relation, but you had odd dreams. Times of different faces and colorful birthdays, patterned walls and floors. In the end it all drifted away like a fever dream, one that felt so close and real. You eventually came across Fazbear's Fright, a horror attraction based on a long urban legend of the town you recently moved to. You had much fun reading through the documentaries, yet the mystery of the man behind the slaughter was still unsolved. He was presumed dead, and you hoped it stayed that way. You didn't want to end up on the victim list.

You remember the first day you came to work, how the man on the phone was ecstatic to have actually found one of the old animatronics. You flicked the cameras to look at it, or as much as you could in the dimly illuminated space it sat in. It was horrible to look at, it was rotten and was practically on the verge of decay, which made it perfect for the attraction. The room that you were in was stuffy, the constant need to check on the ventilation was tiresome throughout the night. You would check the camera's and look at the rabbit suit, you swore it wasn't looking at the camera when you got here. You brushed it off as a lack of oxygen or the animatronic glitching and moving. Yeah, it probably could do that.

The next night you knew you weren't crazy or delirious, that thing moved on it's own. The most uncanny part of it was it's movement, it was too fluid for a rusting robot. Eventually you figured out a way between handling your hallucinations of paranoia and redirecting the animatronic throughout the attraction. It was a frivolous task, and you weren't sure how long you'd make it, until eventually it was looking at you through the glass in front of you.

He wasn't sure how long he was stuck in that closet but he was sure glad he wasn't trapped again, that was until he realized he was in another building, one that imitated the old locations. It was like this place was taunting him, reminding him of his past, of the horrible choices that had sealed his fate. As he tried roaming around the building at night he realized he wasn't alone, someone was watching through the cameras. A twisted idea came to Springtrap's mind, if he couldn't get out of the building by his own means, he could hunt down the guard here for sport.

He continued with this plan, promising himself that he was only killing whoever was there for their keys, yet he knew that deep inside of him he just wanted to quench a crazed desire. On some night's, when he didn't turn to follow the taunting noises of children's laughter he would make it to the glass that separated you two. He would observe you, quick glances to intense stares. The glass was obviously dirty, it was hard to make out your face, bit something deep down told him you were familiar. Were you one of the old guards? Or perhaps someone he was aquatinted with? No. You looked too familiar, almost as if he could put a name to your face. As these nights continued he not only grew more reckless but also more desperate to figure out who you were. Who were you to remind him of the time he was alive?

One night you were falling behind on your tasks finding yourself, having to decide between running the chance of that thing getting inside of the office or having clean air. You survival instinct kicked in and you chose to run the ventilation, gasping for breath as you hungrily breathed in, trying to get rid of the lightheadedness that fogged your brain. It was his chance, he swiftly moved into the office, acquaintance or not he was done being trapped inside the forsaken place. That was until he got a good look at you.

It was as if his very heart felt a sudden pain, a newfound sense of dread washing over him as he froze in place, looming over you too closely. You were terrified of this thing in front of you and you both entered a long and painful stare down. You couldn't be, but you were. His child, his youngest. What he used to find the most precious in his life. It was complicated, he was used to being this, being Springtrap, but right now he could only feel the presence of William. He couldn't hurt you, old memories flooding his mind as he inspected you. He ended up retreating back into the furthest room and you were panicking at the close call of your certain demise.

He sat and contemplated, he would remember how gently he held you when you first came into the world. How your laughter would light up his heart, he would've done anything to make you smile. You were so young and now you were so much older. He couldn't believe it, how he had practically forgotten you, so driven by his bloodthirst. He wondered what became of you, of Michael. Michael? Where was he? Was he with you? Did you grow up without them? Had you cried when everyone had left? As he sat he could almost cry, he had abandoned you, he had acted so reckless that he had carelessly thrown away all of his life. All of your life. The life of his entire family.

It drove him insane thinking and spiraling in that room. He would dig his hands into the moldy and matted fur of his so called body. He wasn't that man anymore, he was something else. He had made peace with that, but a part of him, this old spirit of William Afton would come to haunt him. It brought a new sense of terror to his situation, a headache to deal with who he was. He was Springtrap not William, but there would always he a sliver of William in him.

The next nights were odd for you, he wasn't moving around much, neither did he appear hostile. He would go up to the window and stare at you before walking away mindlessly. In a sense you were still his beloved daughter, even if you were the last of what remained from the past. Then one night, things became more creepier to you because he'd begin to do something that normal animatronics could do... He began to talk. And not preprogrammed daiolgue, this thing was talking on it's own. You wondered what would've been more unerving, this thing spouting out jumbled speech or showing signs of actual sentience.

It had started once again where the glass separated the two of you, his voice came out pained and raspy, truly worthy of his appearance. "Who are you?"

He already knew the answer in his heart, but he felt this strange need to connect with you. Either that or the sheer isolation of god knows how long, he wanted to get to know you better. That's how you would spend the night, talking to this animatronic. As you got a better look at him you began to notice something alarming, he had organs, decaying organs.

"What about family? Any lost members or accidents?" He wanted to know if you remembered, if there was any hope you knew about him.

"No, just a normal family in the suburbs, well as normal as we can be. I've seen my sibling chug down a whole litter of soda in one sitting, though." He was amused by you, but he was quickly losing hope in you, about you actually knowing who he was.

"Really? No divorce or family issue?" You've had to remember his split with his wife, these things are what children tend to remember... right?

"No, my parents love each other to bits, the only time I've seen them fight was over who ate thier ice cream before movie night." You were beyond weirded out by his specific questions, but that morbid curiosity kept you answering them. Maybe it's because you also would've interrogated this thing, had you not been felt like a cornered animal. You were lucky that the night was coming to an end but you needed to figure out what this thing was before you left.

"What even are you?"

"You could say I'm what little remains of the man I used to be." He answered as he looked over his own body in contemplation.

"And who would that be?"

"I was once known as William, William Afton." You felt the way your fists tightened and the sense of terror that struck you. You were now in very real danger. Stuck in a building with a murder. A child murderer.

"Why? Why haven't you killed me yet then?" Possibly the worst thing to ask a six foot animatronic with a serial killer for a resident.

"You remind me of someone, my youngest child, but I'm afraid they were too young at the time." He mused to himself before leaning closer to the window, making eye contact with you. It was chilling, those glossy and clouded silver eyes, eyes of a decaying corpse.

"What utter nonsense, I'd never be related to a monster like you!"

"Is that so? Then have you ever bothered to ask if you're related to your so called parents?"

"Don't you dare bring them into this!" You practically barked out to the now smug animatronic.

"Upset much? Not that it matters, I know my own when I see them. You look so identical from when you did before." He responded almost fondly as his gaze softened for a fraction of a second. As soon as the clock hit six you bolted out of the building and into your car in disbelief.

He had left you with more questions than answers. He was William Afton, the infamous killer and co-creator of the Fazbear company. That and how much he was digging into your own past, like he knew something was off. You didn't want to believe him, that atrocity, but you had decided to confront your parents that night.

You felt as though your world came crashing down. What do you mean you were adopted?!

"Why didn't you tell me this before? Why did you keep this away from me? I'm old enough to know. It wouldn't have changed how I viewed you, but this has to do with my biological family!" You were beyond distressed, you felt mortified by these new findings.

"Trust us we wouldn't have kept this away from you had it not been by his wishes."

"Who's wishes?" Who else's say in the matter could be more important than you knowing the truth.

"Your brothers wishes. Listen, you came from a... complicated background, he wanted to save you from that burden. He requested to have your name changed so that you'd have a better chance at life than him." You could tell by their look in their eyes that it came from a place of sincerity, this wasn't done to cause you any strife.

"Please, I just want to know the truth... How was my life before the adoption? Please." Eventually they sat you down, before explaining to you your foreign past.

They first explained the death of your two middle siblings, Evan and Elizabeth, how your mother had divorced your father. And lastly that your father had died tragically as well. This story wouldn't have been so disturbing had they not explained why this happened. Because you were an Afton, the daughter of William Afton. They tried to explain to you all the sickening details of your past and how eventually it was just Micheal and you. You felt tears in your eyes as your parents comforted you. You couldn't believe you were related to William Afton, and it felt worse knowing that he was still alive in that bunny suit.

You had understood why your past was considered better buried, it was the connections to a tragic family and evidence to the murders. Your parents told you how Micheal had told them everything, it felt like a secret they needed to hide from you to give you the semblance of a normal life. You wondered if Michael was still out there somewhere. Was he alright? You couldn't really bother asking those what if's, especially because you'd have to return to work tomorrow. Back with him.

It was an awkward meeting but he felt delighted to see you again. You talked with him cautiously, I mean he was now a rotting corpse and a killer. You ended up learning that as much as this was your father he had also changed, like his spirit lived on but not who he used to be. He talked about how he lamented not taking care of you, ignoring everything for his ultimate goal and eventually giving into his sinister desire. But in a bittersweet way he way glad you never got involved, unlike Michael, he still remembers how terrified Micheal was of him. You granted him some grace to get to know you, and deep down in his un-beating heart he was greatful, for a part of him still recognized you as his beloved child. He was not only more gentle towards you, but even caring about your life outside of this attraction. You'd end up telling him that it made sense why this attraction was so distant and familiar to you, it used to remind you of the old diner and birthday parties you had seen. Glimpses of your old life.

He found it odd how he cared for you even going as far as holding you close in his embrace. It brought small tears to his eyes when he did, when was the last time he held you or anyone in the past thirty years. He allowed his parental love for you to shine through and you allowed it to reciprocate, when you felt comfortable enough.

One day this little routine of yours changed, you were swapped with another night guard and given the day shift. It was odd, it's not like you saw him as your father, you knew he couldn't be that to you anymore, not after what he did, but still you wanted to know him. Like the small bit of your past you could talk to, the closest thing to your old family. As semi disappointed as you were you continued the week working, hoping to maybe sneak around to talk to springtrap, but to your horror the attraction was burned down. When you had arrived in the morning, there were police and firefighters. The attraction was burned to the ground only ashes and some old structure remained, charred and on the verge of collapse.

You went home with a sense of dread and grief in the pit of your stomach. The man you could've called your father could now be gone forever. You waited restlessly for any news, hoping that he was still alive somehow. You got an email letting you know that you were let off, nothing was salvageable, only small objects and that the original fazbear suit was gone, presumably burnt to nothing. You felt yourself swallow a lump at your throat, it wasn't fair, you had just found out the truth only to have it stripped from you again, your family stripped from you again.

Time would go on until you found another job at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza Place. You were honestly trying to cope with everything, the death of your father, the guilt of what he had done and not being able to find your brother Michael. You were hired as well as another man, he was a bit older than you and looked sickly, but you never commented on it. He would often wear a mask to hide his face, probably to hide whatever condition did that damage to him. You both would scavenge and build up the pizzeria, bringing old animatronics in. The one that caught your eye was a familiar bunny costume, a run down green one you never thought you were going to see again.

When you brought him in at first he wouldn't recognize you. It stung in your heart as he would become another one if the mindless animatronics thirsting for blood and vengeance. You stayed longer after your shift with your coworker, telling him that you just needed a couple of minutes before you left. You'd end up confronting him, or what he calls himself now, Scraptrap. It took some back and forth between you and this version of him.

"You can't just go ahead and ruin their lives, my life, and not possibly remember. Here I thought you actually changed, but you've showed me that the old William Afton didn't give up on his despicable goals!" That voice, he knew it, like a nagging feeling in his gut before he heard that name. William. William Afton. That's who he was. Nobody else knew, unless. He called you out by your name, too apologetically, stunned as he inspected you.

You turned and faced the estranged face of Scraptrap, he looked at you more softly, gently raising his hand before gently cupping your face. How could this be? Could fate really have been this cruel to merge your paths again? You couldn't help the tears, after all he's done he was still your father, and he wasn't dead.

You'd both would spend some time again with each other, making sure your coworker didn't catch the two of you talking. It would've been one really awkward conversation. You lamented Scraptrap, his mind was deteriorating, getting corrupted by his twisted impulses. You feared the little remnant of your father would fade into nothing and you'd be stuck with a deranged killer in his place. Scraptrap could feel that strange sense in his chest again, that desire to protect you, to show you compassion and care. Could he even be capable of that at this point? He felt like he was in too deep to back down now.

It was soon the end of the week, you were so proud of how far you and your coworker were able to get this place up and running. That was until the animatronics, or one of them began to talk, Scrap Baby. She carried an ominous and erie message, almost like the cards were in her favor until the communication cut off and another man began to talk, Henry. He had revealed in the message that Scrap Baby was Elizabeth, you swore you almost entered a breakdown again. Elizabeth? Elizabeth Afton? Your sister?

Both you and your coworker had collected all the possessed animatronics, with Henry wishing to set them free and to end William for once and for all. You could feel the way the building grew more hotter by the second and the escape route was mentioned and you began to panic. You tugged on the sleeve of your coworker, trying to get him to leave with you.

"We need to leave, now! I know this all seems crazy but we can still escape, come on!"

"I'm not going anywhere, I've made my peace with this."

"What are you even talking about?! We need to go now!" You could feel the way the fire was slowly approaching your office, you could hear the terrible noises those creatures made. It was agonizing, especially knowing that Scraptrap was one of them, but you couldn't afford to save him, not when you could barely save yourself.

"I want to stay here and let this whole tragedy end, I'm right where i need to be. There's nothing out there for me."

"You can't just say that!" You could practically taste the smoke, a sheer miracle you haven't started coughing.

"You don't understand! I'm William's son! I'm that monsters family, I've been working to undo the damage he's caused, to right his wrongs. I've been following his trail for all of my life and now... I just want to rest..." He said as he finally drew his face mask off. He looked horrible, his skin an unnatural color, down to his bones.

"Michael?" You felt the smoke begin to prick your eyes, this sudden revelation only adding fuel to your watering eyes. He looked at you in entire disbelief, he had used many different names, leaving this one behind, you couldn't have known.

"How? How do you know my name?" He asked hesitantly, looking you up and down, trying to see if he might recognize you from anywhere. Any hint to know how you knew his name.

"Micheal, I'm your sibling... An Afton." The way his eyes widened and tears began to spill from his eyes made your own cascade down your cheeks.

"No, no, this can't be you're not supposed to be here! You can't be here! You need to leave!" He urged as he looked around in fear, the fire was just outside the doors, illuminating the small room you were in.

"Hey! Wait! You need to get them out please! Show them the way out, please! I'm begging you!" Micheal cried out desperately, hugging you close, as he tried to protect you from the fire himself. There were too many emotions in this hug, from a ruinting hug to a comforting hug. He held you tightly, hand cradling the back of your head protectively. Guess big brother instincts always kick in.

"If you wish to get out... you need to get through the ventilation system, there will be a locked panel at the end of it, use the key in the desk to open it. Hurry, you don't have much time. I'm nearby." Henry's voice came in softly, and Micheal quickly rummage through the desk and handed you the key with shakey hands.

"You heard what he said, now go." He said through his tears, you couldn't help the sob that creeped through your throat.

"No please, Micheal I can't lose you too." He gently held your face in his hands, you could barely make him out through your watering eyes.

"Go now, I'll be okay... you were the only good thing that came out of all of this." He said with a somber smile, before leading you to a nearby vent. The fire had eaten up most of the building stability, you could hear the loud snapping and crashing throughout the building. You said your final goodbye to your brother before beginning to crawl through the tight space. It was too hot in here, the metal had heated up and the air was heavy. You were heaving as you made your way throughout the vents, you were on the verge of a coughing fit, being this high up where all the smoke was.

Your watery sight made it hard to distinguish turns, having to feel the burning metal to know where to go. Soon you were met with a vent that was locked, you could feel the cool night breeze from the outside and you fumbled with the keys and lock. You sighed desperately as you heard the lock click and fall before hastily shoving the damn thing open.

You fell down into some bushes, gasping heavily as clean air filtered through your lungs. Before you could process anything else you felt something pick you up by your arms, guiding you away from the blazing building. Henry walked you carefully until you reached a car and he sat you down inside the passenger seat. He did his best to comfort you through all of this, as you practically sobbed into his shoulder.

After a while sirens could be heard and as police arrived on the scene Henry began to talk to them. You were talked to by the police, looked at by paramedics and interviewed by a local news channel. It was obvious Henry was here only to put up a front that this was an accident and not planned. After a long while the police and emergency crew let you off by Henrys request. Now you were in your apartment looking at the interview that they did with Henry.

"This accident is an unfortunate one, everything in that building was reduced to nothing. I'm happy to say that one of our employees made it out safely and no other critical damage were sustained. Unfortunately, one employee remained stuck in that building. We have suffered a tragic loss at Fazbear Entertainment..." You watched apathetically having already been through your breakdown with Henry. You swore you told him everything yet it wouldn't be enough to calm that guilt and restlessness in your heart. He hopped that with everything gone, you'd eventually find peace and that the past could finally be put to rest.

It had been years, you just about made peace with what had happened. Yet like you always do, you always found yourself looking for things of the past. "Freddy Fazbear's Mega Pizzaplex", your new job. You had worked here for a little over a year, having seen the development of animatronics. You were a security guard, you were quickly introduced to the animatronics, getting to know them. Their ai was convincing, they almost perfectly simulated being alive. This was a much better alternative than the horrible option of possession from the past.

You used to work the night shift, until she got more involved... Vanessa. She was the reason you were swapped from the night shift to the day shift. There were a handful of sketchy findings during the night shift and she had managed to pin the blame on you. Luckily you had the animatronics and fellow staff vouch for you, so instead your shift changed. Better than getting entirely fired, but your boss wanted to revoke your security acess. You had aready gotten a bad feeling about this place. The disapearances and strict security, you had managed to climb your way to the highest security access and you weren't about to let it go to waste. So instead of handing it over you made up an excuse, wether it was that you had accedienly left the card in your uniform as it was washing or having simply lost it, they seemed to have believed it, not prying anymore.

It was helpful to have it at hand, usually if you accidentally left something at work, you could always come back during the night shift to collect it. Vanessa hasn't caught you once, and the animatronics don't seem to question your access or the fact that you're there. You were grateful, until one night you had forgotten your storage keys while on your day shift. You had recently moved from your old apartment to your first house, had you been working the night shift you could easily get work out of the way while also having all day to unpacking. But seeing that this isn't how life was for you, you lost track of those keys to a rented storage unit. You had dressed up in you uniform before taking your security pass and shoving it into your pocket.

You slowly parked your car in the vacant parking lot of the Pizzaplex, god, it was so dark and eerie. The front doors had already been closed for a while, luckily there was always staff entries. You thank the heavens that they didn't confiscate your pass as the locked door unlocked with an audible click before you made your way inside the building. You could take a guess why Vanessa hasn't caught you, first off this place was huge, but you wondered if any staff actually looked over the security footage. You also had quite footsteps, years of experience from moving around your family home at night. What could you say, you needed those midnight snacks. It took a while before you had arrived at your office, sighing in relief as you aquired your keys, that was until you heard a noise approaching the office. You guessed it to be Moon, he'd always got a kick out of scaring you whenever you came in, even before the dayshift change.

"Okay okay, look I heard you from a mile away. So why don't you put your hands in the air mister?" You called out into the hallway seeing a figure... but that didn't look like moon. And correct you were, it was Roxy, but she was torn down. You were in such a state of shock as you saw her, that you almost didn't duck out of the way as she dashed at you. She sounded furious as she chased you, until you were able to baricade one of the doors. Taking in desperate breaths as you jogged away from the door, the sounds of her banging and crying muffleing with the noises of the Pizzaplex. The animatronics weren't supposed to be roaming around at all. What the hell was actually going on tonight?

This is how you'd spend the night, ducking away from the animatronics as you ran into them. They kept calling out for a kid, was there a boy stuck here? You had to get out, but more than anything, you wanted to figure out what was exactly going on. That was until you heard quick footsteps approach you, heavy ones. As you turned to look at the incoming animatronic, you gasped as Freddy came to a hault in front of you. He didn't look any better but he wasn't acting strange like the others.

"Officer! I didn't think I'd run into you tonight!"

"God! You scared me! And trust me when i say this wasn't planned at all. Anyway, can you mind explaining what the hell is going on? No ones supposed to be out of thier rooms, and whats all this I'm hearing about some kid?" You aksed as you looked up at the animatronic, hands on your hips as if you were interrogating a child.

"Officer, I'd love to tell you but... you're not working with Vanessa, are you?" He ased almost nervously before you heard what you believed was tapping in his chest. You brushed it off as something broken or any other logical explanation.

"No Freddy, I'm not. I don't like her, not since she got me booted off of the night shift, that and I'm not exactly supposed to be here either."

He seemed to be relaxed by your words before he had a sense of urgency. "Come with me to parts and service and I'll explain everything", he spoke as he already began to walk away, before starting to run.

You quickly followed after, making your way with him to the stage before descending to part's and service. As you both arrived there you looked over at him while catching your breath.

"So, why did we need to come down here for?"

"Just promise me you won't freak out..." You only blinked up at him before nodding hesitantly before his chest cavity opened, AND WAS THAT A CHILD IN THERE?! You've seen Freddy fit all kinds of cakes in there, but not a full kid. It took some coaching from Freddy for the kid to talk.

"Gregory, it's alright. You can trust this guard, I've known them for quiet some time. They'll help us!"

The kid introduced himself as Gregory, before he explained his situation and everything that's been happening throughout the night. How he was evading Vanessa and some strange white rabbit lady, that and that he's been upgrading Freddy. Oh, that explains the state of the others... and Freddy's purple hands....

You'd end up tagging along with the both of them until finally 6AM. God you were ready to just run out and get Gregory as far as you could from this place until he realized, Freddy couldn't come with. So you both stayed inside the Pizzaplex, trying to solve any other hidden mystery hidden in this place. After giving Freddy his final upgrade and much exploring you were all able to find an old elevator, with only one trip left in it. As you all descended, deeper down, with the music distorting, you couldn't help but feel that similar sense of dread building at the pit of your stomach.

You weren't sure what you'd run into while down there, but you most certainly didn't expect a wastland of inferstucture. As you and Gregory worked around trashed endos, you were finally able to get the generators up and running again, making your way over to what seemed to be a room with tables and a stage. Like a private showroom of shorts. Not only that but there was a gaping whole in the floor, that led to god knows where. Soon Gregory hopped inside of Freddy, a sight you were sure you'd never get used to, and began climbing your way down into this unknown. Freddy soon recalled that this place was familar to him, that she had brought him here, Vanessa. The more you heard of her, the more she left a horrible taste in your mouth.

The worst part was yet to come, you swore you could hear gushes of wind, but as you made your way down to the bottom, it wasn't just a broken vent. It was breathing. Large and monstrous inhales and exhales. Almost like a low rumble, on the verge of a growl. Like that thing was dormant. You weren't even sure what you were looking up at, it was nothing short of an atrocity. A mess of metal and wires, with the occasional Freddy Mask littered over its meshed body. And whatever Freddy was saying was definitely not helping. Soon the wooden planks underneath you began to tremble and crack, giving in to the additional weight as you all tumbled down into a different floor. As you got up from your rough landing, your ears ringing from the sudden noise and adrenaline, you shook yourself up and looked around... Another security office?

As you all apprached the desk, you say something moving throgh the cameras. Something getting out of a recharge station. As you took in its withered shape and remaining organs you gasped in horror at the sight before you. No, it couldn't be... He couldn't have survived. But he did, and the proof of that was his jagged movements on the cameras. William Afton had lived. You weren't wrong with your initial guess of his ever deteriorating mind, slowly slipping into madness. You could barely even recognize him as springtrap, less your father. No, this thing that stood before you wasn't your father, it was the furthest thing from him.

As you were frozen in place, just watching that thing move, Gregory made quick work of the other animatronics, shutting the doors on them or hiding from them. You noticed how Burntrap was rummaging through different rooms and different buttons were near their respective cameras. You preseed the button, and flames soon enveloped the room. You swore it was just out of curiosity the first time, but now you knew what you needed to do. You kept at it for as long as you could, that horrible creature from before slowly making its way into the room. Eventually the fires that were set off didn't go out, instead setting the Pizzaplex on fire. As Freddy and Gregory began to dash out of the Pizzaplex you couldn't help but look back one last time, seeing Burntrap reach out uselessly before getting taken away by that thing.

You could strangely still pitty him, before you turned on your heel and began to catch up to Freddy and Gregory, escaping the collapsing Pizzaplex. You had all made it out safely, albeit dirty. You managed to fit them both in your car, before speeding away from the location. The sky was slowly illuminating, signs that it was clearly morning.

"Hey... is it okay if we can stop to watch the sunrise?" Gregory asked after much of the drive being in silence. You looked over at him, after all you've been through, this was all he wanted? It was simple but endearing, you nodded before driving off to a park, it was huge, so there would be no problem bringing Freddy out woth you. Speaking of Freddy, he was beyond excited to see the world outside the Pizzaplex.

After a while of walking your little group made it to a hill with a single tree. You didn't realize how tired you were until you finally sat down on the grass. You heaved out a tried sigh, letting your hands feel the dewy grass. You looked over next to you, seeing Freddy and Gregory talking happily before they both quickly hushed as the first beams of the sun began to rise from the horizon.

It was breathtaking. It truly had been to long since you've appreciated such a small yet meaningful thing in your life. You finally allowed your mind to process what had happened, and you began to cry... had it been out of relief, happiness or grief was a mystery to you, but you felt odly at peace... maybe this could all finally be put to rest. Maybe this would be the end. You knew you'd still have to take care of Gregory and Freddy, that and look for a new job, but it all felt like it would be alright in the end.

back

[sunshowersanddandelionwine]

Hi regarding your Haunts post. It was so cute! Ghost got immediate brownie points for taking care of Soaps sister, I hope the rest of the group leave needing a change of cloths.

Haunts are usually seasonal right? (Idk I’m not American) So Ghost could be working at it whilst on leave as a favor or it could be one of those community outreach/recruitment things the army sometimes hosts or a family fair/expo they also attend.

What would everyone’s costumes be?

Would there be a competition on who could get the most scares? (Excluding ghost) who would win?

If Soap joined Ghost the next year would they do a couples costume?

Anyway cool post thank you for sharing it.

thank you!!! :D and yeah, ghost might be dressed as a crazed masked killer but hes not gonna just let this kid sit in the middle of a dark maze with a bum ankle lol he might play a monster but hes not actually one. and while its against policy to stalk guests through the whole grounds (something something harrassment something something liability blah blah blah), price lets this one slide because he heard maggie backstage and was very much not impressed. gaz and roach might have joined ghost in the stalking. just a little ^-^

and yeah, most haunts (at least in the US) are seasonal! they typically run from sometime in september through halloween or occasionally early november. there are a few year round houses thought! a local haunt in my city actually runs all year, and its located inside a mall! but youre right, he could just be on leave for a month or so to help out with community outreach! i think id want the rest of the riley family to be alive in that case just so he and tommy could cause a ruckus together XD

as for costumes... i definitely see ghost as a slasher villain type character, sort of in the veins of jason voorhees or michael myers. its probably cliche but i think it fits the vibes! gaz would kill (hee hee) as a vampire, either in just stage makeup or full special effects and prosthetics. price is probably either a werewolf or in a ghillie suit for jumpscaring. nikolai doesnt work as a scare actor himself (he works backstage) but if he was forced to, hed want to be a victim lol. laswell is a mad scientist type, no question. roach pulls of a zombie way too well. once she joins the haunt, maggie would be a slasher too as ghost's protege. (dont tell anyone but he teared up a little when she told him.) if soap joined the team, hed probably work backstage with nik, and like nik he'd want to be a victim XD

oh for sure theres a competition for the most scares, and theres also a competition for the most creative scares! like you said, ghost wins the most scares almost every year, but roach has come very very close many times! hes a sneaky little bug, and he always catches people completely off guard :D the most creative scare the last year went to nikolai, who did some wizardry with the lights and sound effects and nearly gave price a heart attack.

a trophy is waiting for anyone who manages to scare laswell. no one has ever been able to claim it skfjhsdlkfhsdl

OHHHH ABSOLUTELY GHOAP WOULD!! i love that :DDD i think the whole haunt has a costume contest for the end of the season afterparty, and its the most ridiculous thing ever. ghost gets soap to come as his plus one, and its adorable! idk what their costumes would be tho so if anyone has suggestions please let me know!

[a-little-bit-of-ships-in-my-life]

No but like, i'm still so confused by Vanessa being Afton's daughter. At it is, it's a great plot twist and it adds a lot of substance to the story.

Yet, i'm so confused because it really looks like Mike is in fact, William's son. There was a lot of things set for it. Like for example:

• William reading Mike's name and stopping mid sentence and realizing something. You could say that what he realized was that this kid was the brother of one of his victims. Yet, in the next second he starts to set him up to work in the pizzeria. Like, why? He wants him near. Plus, why does he want to kill Abby too? He just decided to fuck this man life *twice* without a reason?

• Why he keeps calling him "Michael", like. Yeah, it's his name as it was stated before in the interview. But, no one else calls him by "Michael", just "Mike". If i'm not mistaking, even Aunt Jane calls him by it. Why is he insisting in calling him Michael.

• In the dream sequence, when Cassidy (¿) makes him give up Abby, his mother and Garrett are the only one speaking. But his father is silence, he doesn't even say anything, react to it. In fact, the "My mother died and my father couldn't deal with it" feels so weird. His father just walked away? Why is his father so minus in this movie.

• Mike having a younger sister and brother just like Michael Afton has Elizabeth and Evan. (And Abby being a nickname for Elizabeth, like, c'mon, that's so obvious, what the fuck.)

I think that there is something more, a lot more. Maybe in the novels based in the movie, or maybe in a new movie it would be explained, because it feels like there was a whole hole dug up ready to be filled for later. So, i have two theories.

• The delulu one: Mike is in fact, an Afton. His mother just divorced William and got custody of him, went away and she married Garret and Abby's dad. In this way, that's why William is so focused on killing his son's step-siblings due to rage and revenge. This too, would somehow explain Vanessa. She is either Afton biological daughter too, or instead, she was kidnapped and raised by him to fill a void left by the divorce, and thus, unable to actually fill that feeling, he blames her and decided to start killing kids.

• The most probably one: Mike isn't an Afton, but he's Emily. He's Henry son and, in that way, William is so focused on making him suffer, just out of pure hate for his father.

• Vanessa is not an Afton. She was kidnapped and/or raised by William from a young age but she's actually an Emily.

Either way, i feel there is something, something because i still can't figure it out, for the life of me, why William reacted that way when he read Mike's full name. It doesn't make sense if he was like "oh, the brother of that one kid". It was more like "oh, *oh*"

Hear me out, maybe i actually figure it out, or maybe i'm in such state of denial that i refuse vehemently to think that Mike Schmidt isn't Michael Afton.

[blobmanwhotries]

SEE, I TOLD YOU I CAN MAKE ART

information below bc trust me y'all probably confused lmao

The character in this drawing is Viktor, a character from the Five Nights at Freddy's Dating Simulator "Five Nights at Flirting." The game is more of the Rebornica style (using Vincent, Chris the Janitor, etc). I highly recommend the game, it's free!

That being said, spoiler warning for that game's content, in case you haven't seen it.

Key:

OG = Original

AU = Alternate Universe

RWQ = RWQFSFASXC, Shadow Bonnie's "Name"

FNaF = Five Nights at Freddy's

FNoF = Five Nights of Flirting

"The Crew" = Day/Nightshift Guards

Viktor is one of the protagonists in the game. Not much information is out there on him, other than him being the father of another more major character, Barbie, and him being dead. He was either a day/nightshift guard or he was the owner of the building, I can't remember.

In FNoF, agony and remnant isn't part of the game. Neither is the OG Afton family. A lot of canon FNAF things is not part of the FNoF universe. If it is, it isn't explicitly said - but in my and my friend's canon, we added a LOT of FNaF lore into it. Doing this gave us the opportunity to build upon the characters and really expand the universe.

In FNoF, I believe Viktor was killed in the Fazbear's establishment. This didn't change.

What did change was the motive and the method. Dave and Jack, the murderers of the children in our canon, killed Viktor by putting him in the spring bonnie suit. Think FNaF 3 Springtrap but on a different guy.

He, alongside the dead children, haunt the building as ghosts. One major thing:

He's not malicious during the nightshift.

(here on out are ideas, headcanons, fanon lore, etc)

Viktor actually just watches. Hangs around. He feels awful for the kids and that he can't do anything to stop their rage - so he usually lingers around the night guard in the office.

I like to think that he kind of has a role on causing the hallucinations in the night guards - more specifically Mike Schmidt (NOT Michael Afton).

Only after the first establishment (FNaF 1) closes down and the crew moves to the next establishment (FNaF 2) can Mike able to see Viktor's ghost properly. He's the first one of the crew to meet him after his death, with the exception of maybe Vincent (who in our original canon, did NOT kill the kids).

Hopefully that makes sense? I might go back and edit this when I'm more coherent but this is what you're getting for now lmao

With that out of the way, let's get into the shadow bonnie thing.

Let's start off with the fact that in the beginning of this, I just wanted to spice things up. I blurted out the idea of Viktor being RWQ to my friend and have been building off of that since.

1) RWQ is never outright malicious. Not in canon games, at least. In FNaF 2, the worst he would do is crash your game. Otherwise he just existed in the office.

Viktor, like RWQ, is not outright malicious. He just watches the security guard in the office. Hoping that they'll make it through the night in peace.

I considered the original "game crash" as maybe the guard passing out from sudden shock - which leads to,

2) In our canon, Viktor slowly becomes a being of agony over time. This is going to be hard to explain.

To sum it up, agony in our canon is the lingering emotions after a major event - emotions that cannot leave and can build up over time.

I think we can agree murder would stir up some very strong emotions from the victims, right?

This explains why the children are so vengeful - because of the agony from their emotions. And, of course, the fact that they're children and aren't able to regulate such powerful emotions, taking it out on any night guard. Blinded by rage, you could say.

Viktor isn't vengeful in comparison only because he can regulate his own emotions better. He knows that the night guards aren't the ones who killed him. He knows who did, but he's trapped at the building since he died there. And because the agony of the dead children latched onto him, making him unable to leave on his own.

Over time, the agony grows more and more potent. Even if he's still passive, the first form you see of him will not be human - it will be the silhouette of what he died in. What he was killed in. A forever reminder of what happened.

I've considered the "fainting" thing because I'd imagine looking to the side and suddenly seeing "bad vibes" personified is going to give someone quite a shock.

3) When coming up with this idea, I didn't make the connection of Viktor being RWQ and the FNaF 3 mini game until way later. When I did, I must say, I pat myself on the back for finding another way to validate and explain my idea. One of the theories for that mini game was that Shadow Bonnie was an employee who got springlocked, probably forcibly. You know who else got springlocked forcibly?

Viktor.

Viktor's death is a HUGE deal in our canon. Who killed him, whether he lives or not, the method - we've considered a lot of outcomes. The most common thing of all of them is the fact that Viktor always plays a role in being a reminder of what happened at Freddy's.

Even after FNaF 3 events, he still remains - only now he's attached to Vincent (who may or may not have killed the children depending on the AU).

My friend and I are super proud of this interpretation of FNoF. We've put a lot of thought into it - and we're nowhere near done with it. A lot is subject to change. But for now we're satisfied.

Sorry for such a long ramble. I'm sure this is barely comprehendible. Feel free to comment or send in questions on anything you want to know more about; other characters, more background information - don't be shy, I don't bite :)

[reiwanwan]

How peaky men fart ‼️

So….today we will be discussing the different ways that I personally think these peaky men fart, maybe I will make this a series like “Unhinged peaky blinder headcanons” And if you have your own unhinged headcanons that you want do feel free to ask! my request are very much open

Tommy 🤍

- most people are convinced this man doesn’t fart, but it’s a natural human function so of course even tommy shelby needs to let one out

- Dead serious expression and completely unfazed

- His farts have no sound and they dont even stink so no one even knows if he farted

- He also has pretty privilege and he knows that so he uses it to his full advantage

- Because of that he has the ability to fart loudly and no one would even bother to think it was him because pretty people dont fart

- In the scenario where if he let one out silently and it did stink he would probably just light a cigarette afterwards to cover up the smell

Arthur 🧡

- Loud and unapologetic

- Disrespectful.

- Absolutely no consideration for the people around him

- He would let it rip and laugh and say that it was the “sound of victory”

- He farts the loudest and is very proud of the volume of it

- He wont fart around ladies though

-Buuut if you were a guy, I’m sorry but you are going to be his victim

-He is kind enough though to let you know if he’s going to fart

John 🩵

- Now this one does NOT let you know when he is going to fart

- Always blames it on someone else

- Has the WETTEST farts and you’re always having to ask him to check his boxers because you are so sure he shit himself

- He does the classic “pull my finger” joke with his kids

- If you were laying down next to this man i’m sorry but you are getting dutch ovened and you will suffocate

- After he lets you out he apologises and says “must be the cabbages you made earlier”

Alfie 🤎

- Another loud farter here, second to arthur

- Also lets you know when he’s going to fart

- You guys could be walking together and he will stop you, “Hold on treacle…” and then proceed to rip ass.

- Will continue holding your hand as he farts

-If you seem embarrassed he will turn it into a whole monologue when he’s done and when you guys continue walking

- Gives long-winded explanations about how it is “A normal human bodily function”

- “you see love…holding it in wouldn’t be healthy because you see right…it’s a sign of a proper, working digestive system, its how god meant it to be”

Michael 💙

- Oh boy please don’t ever call him out he will get defensive and his ego will be CRUSHED

- Really feels like farting is emasculating and will insist on holding it in till he gets home to let it out

- Polly can always tell when he needs to fart for some reason and will tell her stubborn son that he is allowed to fart

- But in the case where he desperately needs to fart, he will excuse himself and go outside

- And boy does he let that one go wild because he’s pretty sure that fart cured all his stomach problems

- His farts doesn’t smell too idk why I just feel like he wouldn’t have stinky farts

Finn 💛

- Everyone pushes the blame onto him if they fart

- Especially arthur

-John would blame it on finn if he was sitting next to girl that he fancied. “Ughhh finn you nasty bastard…letting one out next to a lass?”

-Tommy would fart and then blame it on finn if someone smelt his own silent fart and everyone around will he quick to believe him

-Poor Finn

-If he farts he will be very embarrassed

-but understands its normal so he would try not to make a big deal out of it and man it out lol

-If people do start laughing at him though, he will join and laugh along just to save face even if it did actually hurt his feelings just a wee bit

That is all lovely human beings please do let me know what you guys think of this. The reason for writing this purely because I was super bored and my imagination goes wild and also because I thought that it would be completely hilarious lmao xx

[denimbex1986]

'The actor and Baftas host answers your questions about facial hair, Doctor Who, Scrooge McDuck – and growing up as the son of a minister

How do you face the challenge of being this year’s Bafta host? practicalpanic I don’t currently feel particularly challenged because everything’s written down for me and I don’t have to worry about winning – or not winning – an award. If it was the first night of a play, I’d be curled up in a corner in the foetal position. But the fact that it’s not my day job certainly feels liberating. Who knows why they asked me; I must have been pretty far down the list. Expectations are pretty much zero. I don’t have anything to prove. Will I be phoning [previous Bafa hosts] Jonathan Ross and Stephen Fry for advice? I might do. But I’m travelling in blissful ignorance at the moment.

What’s your sideburn policy? They appear to be sized in direct proportion to your characters’ confidence. DrHugbine That’s a very interesting observation, which I don’t think has any truth behind it, but it’s making me wonder …

Here are some examples … Fright Night’s Peter Vincent – long and bushy, confident vampire killer. The Doctor in Doctor Who – long and pointy, charismatic and charming. Broadchurch’s DI Alec Hardy – beard, no sideburns, introverted and suspicious. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire’s Barty Crouch Jr – no beard, no sideburns, complex and a traitor. Good Omens’ Anthony Crowley – ginger, no sideburns, stylish but tempted Eve in the garden of Eden as a snake so a bit of a bad egg generally. TopTramp I don’t think you’re going to write a doctoral thesis based on that evidence. It’s very thin evidence, at most. I grew sideburns for Doctor Who because, back then, I was worried I was a bit young for it and I thought they slightly aged me. Which, of course, I then had to recreate recently when I’m almost certainly too old for it. I guess increasingly I am unshaven, in which case you don’t really have to worry about sideburns because they’re part of something else. Whatever length my sideburns are on the night of the Baftas has no reflection on how I’m treating the Baftas.

As a vicar with young kids, I wondered what influence being a son of the manse has had upon your work? RevdAl It’s hard to know, because you only know the influences you had specifically from your parents because they’re your parents – it’s hard to unpick. It certainly wasn’t a childhood filled with religious dogma or any kind of restrictions. It was more a moral guidebook.

What was it like kissing Michael Sheen [in season two of Good Omens]? And who enjoyed it more? carnies18 Who enjoyed it the most? Presumably Michael was thrilled. How could he not be? But it was another day at work. The most difficult bit was other people’s awkwardness. We thought it was quite fun, so it was fine. He’d brushed his teeth.

Would you accept a knighthood just to fuel an excellent argument with Sheen in the next series of Staged? Shirls Because he sent his OBE back? That predisposes the fact that anything that’s talked about in Staged is based on real life. We are in our own houses, acting opposite people we spend our life with. But that’s pretty much the extent of the reality of Staged.

Which is best – playing a detective, a murderer or a murder victim? JonnyMorris1973 Well, one of them solves the crimes. One of them commits the crimes. And the other one has a crime done to them. It probably depends which character the writer is most fond of and therefore the most fun to play. It’s not really in the gift of the actor, so much as in the gift of the scriptwriter. I think I’ve only played one detective, haven’t I? What’s my favourite way I’ve been murdered? Oh my goodness. I was shot in The Last September. I get murdered on stage every night in Macbeth, although that’s a spoiler. I sort of died in Doctor Who when I got shot by a galvanic beam in a radiation chamber that filled my body with more radiation I could cope with.

Am I as geeky as the Doctor who fans? Yes. As a Doctor Who fan myself of old, I can very much can plug into that. I don’t think I ever got in trouble at school. That is one of those stories that’s ended up on Wikipedia. I wrote an essay on Doctor Who, which some unpleasant newspaper found and printed. But I didn’t get in trouble for it. I think I got quite a good mark for it.

Who would win in a fight between Crowley, The Doctor and Scrooge McDuck? AlistairDionysus Probably Scrooge McDuck. He seems to be able to survive just about everything. He’s far more resilient than Crowley or The Doctor, who seem to end up staring destruction in the face. Scrooge McDuck, nothing seems to trouble him.

You have a lovely singing voice! Would you like to do a musical? Beatrice_Tate, gaityr, laibarra622 and Luigii I make a nice curry, but I’m not going to open a restaurant. Would I do the Masked Singer? I love The Masked Singer. Nothing has excited my eight-year-old daughter more than when everyone thought Ricky Wilson from the Kaiser Chiefs was me, week after week. You can imagine how disappointed she was when it turned out I wasn’t.

If you were a cheese, what kind would you be? BrianBraddock I’ve got very into paneer curries. Paneer is neither hard nor soft, so I’ll say that because it makes me sound like I’ve really thought about it.

What’s the last item you snatched from a set? NataliaBCN I’m just going back through things I might have pocketed. Maybe this is the upbringing we talked of earlier. I’m very bad with nicking things. I’m plagued with guilt. The last time they released a new sonic screwdriver toy, someone gave me one but I gave it away because I’m so full of generosity, but now I slightly regret it.

Your portrayal of serial killer Dennis Nilsen [in ITV’s Des] was truly terrifying. How do you prepare for a role like that? YorkshireExPat With someone such as Dennis Nilsen, there is quite a lot of material that’s been written about him. There’s video evidence of him. So you immerse yourself as much you can, then join a line between that and the version of the character that’s in the script, because, ultimately, that’s the version you have to portray. One thing we were very careful to do on Des was to not make it from his point of view. I don’t think you can ask an audience to sympathise or understand someone like Nilsen. It’s the story of how he got away with all these things, then was caught. Hopefully the audience is left thinking: how can someone who is just another member of the human race be committing these extraordinary acts and the rest of us not notice or understand?

If you could regenerate as anyone else for the day, who would you choose? TopTramp My wife, just to see how annoying I really am so I could be properly objective and understand her pain.'

[silverliing]

🚨WIP dump incoming🚨

st michael and the dragon (still not sure if this should be done in the style of an etching or a fresco)

+ after cut

vampbyler! this was supposed to be a IWTV au but it turned out more WWDITS flavored—will is a former medieval scribe, later became a renaissance painter, and mike is a late 18th century romantic poet. they fall in love of course and take lost of victims 💕

(i made two paintings for this, one not shown)

90’s jane becomes a beanie baby fiend don’t even fight me on this

s5 robin think she’s in a romcom and i support her of course

they go to disney and the party is (mostly) miserable

time travel stuff— mike travels to the UD but arrives at the wrong time yadda ya i don’t even know

this is as much as i was allowed to show in one post. i’m going to be busy through next year finishing a photo series i’ve been working on and trying to find a gallery space for it (i’m a working artist didn’t you know? /s) i’ll probably only work on these sparingly, not sure when they’ll be finished sorry! but you are welcome to message me if there’s a particular wip you’d like to see get done first.

thank you for coming to my wip gallery!

[666writingcafe]

An Unexpected Trip to the Past

Satan

I have no idea what's going on. One second, we were inside the House of Lamentation, and the next we're in some brightly lit forest. It's possible that the door I opened led us outside, but something about this forest seems too...bright. Like, brighter than anything in the human world.

I almost dismiss the idea as me simply overthinking everything when Simeon frowns and remarks that he recognizes where we are.

And then Beel starts walking towards us.

Only, it's not the Beel I know. For starters, this version of him has a goddamn halo circling the top of his head.

"Oh, not this again," MC groans, which raises even more questions. What do they mean by again? I mean, there's no possible way they've been here before, right? They weren't even alive when Beel and the others were angels.

"What are you doing here?" Beel the angel asks, looking rather stern. I suppose his reaction makes sense. We are intruders, after all.

"It's okay, Beelzebub," Simeon replies softly with a smile. "Don't worry. It's me." That seems to relieve Beel a little.

"Simeon, who are these two? Are they with you?" Simeon nods his head.

"They're acquaintances of mine, you see. They're angels, actually. Both of them." What in the world is he thinking?! MC might be able to get away with it, but there is no way in hell I'd make a convincing angel. I open my mouth to protest, but MC squeezes my hand and quietly instructs me to play along.

"We're talking about this later," I whisper. Simeon introduces us to angel Beel, and I thank my lucky stars that he remembered my human world name. I don't even want to imagine the alias he would have come up with if he didn't. It'd probably be something stupid, like Sully.

"So, Beelzebub, what's Lucifer up to?" Simeon asks.

"He's at the Celestial Palace in a meeting with Michael and all the other higher-ups." Beel pauses, narrowing his eyes at Simeon. "Shouldn't you be there, too? I thought all of the seraphim had to attend."

Simeon struggles to come up with a good answer to that question, making me anxious. He's never done well under pressure.

"He was busy rescuing us," MC pipes up.

"Rescuing you?" Beel repeats.

"Daniel and I fell into a pit someone dug as a trap, and we needed someone to help us get out. We sent out a message, and Simeon was the first to respond." Apparently, MC's story is plausible enough, for Beel simply nods his head and tells them that he's glad that we got out safely.

It intrigues me how they're able to come up with lies on the spot like that. Even Diavolo admitted that if he didn't have the ability to tell when people were lying to him, he would have totally believed MC's story of Lucifer trying to recreate Irish coffee with Devildom ingredients back when the two of us swapped bodies and I was saying a bunch of stupid shit in an attempt to embarrass my brother.

I've wondered from time to time what MC would be like as a demon. Not because I want them to lose their humanity or anything; I'm merely intrigued by the possibility. I feel like one of their powers would lie in speechcraft, specifically the ability to make someone believe whatever it was they're saying, even if it had no basis in any reality whatsoever. Perhaps their tongue would literally turn silver as they spoke. How many people would fall victim to it? I imagine quite a few, since MC appears trustworthy. Unlike, say, Mammon or Asmo, who people can tell are trying to sell them something from a mile away.

We're incredibly lucky that we have MC on our side, because if we had to fight them...

"Yo, Beel!" Great. Mammon's joined us. "What're you doing hangin' out here? And who are they?"

"Looks like two real cuties!" And Asmo, too. "So, tell me: what are your names, hm?" His nearly baby-like voice is making my skin crawl. It always does. I may not get along with him sometimes, but at least the Asmo that I know can modulate his voice to sound like a reasonable adult. This version of him, on the other hand, appears to only have one setting.

"Are you friends of Simeon's?" Man, where is everyone coming from? I feel like Levi literally popped out of thin air.

Simeon introduces us to the other angel brothers, and Asmo takes the opportunity to try to flirt with me. In that godawful baby voice. I feel like my glare towards him is justified.

"Beelzebub, you mentioned you were looking for Belphegor, right?" Simeon asks. I must have missed that part of the conversation. "I have an idea where he might be. MC and I will go find him for you. In the meantime, look after Daniel for me, would you?"

That sneaky little angel. Using the opportunity to be alone with MC is one thing, and for the most part I let that sort of thing slide. But Simeon has always lamented the fact that I never got to experience life in the Celestial realm as my own individual, since I was stuck in Lucifer's head until the fall. I keep telling him that I don't really have a desire to know that kind of information, but he doesn't listen. Or care, it seems.

I will get him back for this.

[morlock-holmes]

I've been chewing on this story from New York Magazine, whose financial advice columnist just got scammed out of $50 large by a group of scumbags.

The reactions have been sort of divided between vicious mockery and "Anybody can fall victim to scams on a bad day" and I find myself somewhere ambivalently in the middle.

How can I say this... I think I would need to be having a much worse day than this woman was in order to fall for a scam like this. In particular, it really seems like a financial advice columnist ought to have a much more solid confidence about the fact that enormous personal financial transactions like this don't ever need to happen in the span of a single phone call over a few hours.

But I don't agree with the attitude of "Come on, this is what happens when you're gullible" because, honestly I think that when people start believing that on a big scale that scams like this become easier to pull, rather than harder.

This particular scam is, I think, much easier to pull on people who are paranoid about the trustworthiness of institutions and feel that we live in a world where gullible people are rapidly and harshly punished.

One thing you'll see throughout the article is that the scammers will say something authoritative, and Cowles won't really know if it's true or not:

“I completely understand,” he said calmly. He told me to go to the FTC home page and look up the main phone number. “Now hang up the phone, and I will call you from that number right now.” I did as he said. The FTC number flashed on my screen, and I picked up. “How do I know you’re not just spoofing this?” I asked. “It’s a government number,” he said, almost indignant. “It cannot be spoofed.” I wasn’t sure if this was true and tried Googling it, but Michael was already onto his next point.

Or

My head swam. I Googled my name along with “warrant” and “money laundering,” but nothing came up. Were arrest warrants public? I wasn’t sure.

Or

 I was embarrassed, like I’d left my fly unzipped. How could I have been so thoughtless? But also — didn’t everyone use the airport Wi-Fi?

or

I knew I should probably talk to a lawyer or maybe call the police, though I was doubtful that they would help. What was I going to say — “My identity was stolen, and I think I’m somehow in danger”? I had no proof.

Here's the core of the scam, where you're hooked or not:

“If you talk to an attorney, I cannot help you anymore,” Michael said sternly. “You will be considered noncooperative. Your home will be raided, and your assets will be seized. You may be arrested. It’s your choice.” This seemed ludicrous. I pictured officers tramping in, taking my laptop, going through our bookshelves, questioning our neighbors, scaring my son. It was a nonstarter. “Can I just come to your office and sort this out in person?” I said. “It’s getting late, and I need to take my son trick-or-treating soon.” “My office is in Langley,” he said. “We don’t have enough time. We need to act immediately. I’m going to talk you through the process. It’s going to sound crazy, but we must follow protocol if we’re going to catch the people behind this.”

The scammer in this script is trying to get you to have two feelings, the first is "I don't understand what's going on" and the second is, "If I act without understanding what's going on something really terrible will happen to me."

The person who thinks, "Gullible and ignorant people get in lots of trouble because of their own ignorance, I can't let that happen, even though I'm confused" is far more likely to buy into the scammer's threats of dire consequences and actually get scammed.

This scam script actually relies on the mark believing that it's very dangerous to be gullible or ignorant, that doing so will get them into trouble. But since they are also convinced that they don't have the information that would allow them to make a good decision, they cede decision-making power to the scammer.

Instead, it's the person who thinks, "This feels like a scam. I could be totally wrong about that, but that's okay, being wrong this way and acting on it can't do me any harm" who hangs up on the scammer, calls an official government number, and finds out that they're being scammed.

When people live in a state where they reflexively mistrust institutions, and feel that acting from a place of ignorance or confusion is likely to get them into really big trouble that they can't get out of, I really think it becomes easier to scam people this way, not harder.

[yanderes-galore]

Hello! I'd like a Michael Myers (DBD) romantic concept, please!

He acts the same in DBD or not so I will focus on him in trials for this.

Yandere! DBD! Michael Myers Concept

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Violence, Murder mention, Blood, Manipulation, Dubious/Forced relationship.

Michael Myers in any setting is a yandere hard to predict.

He's a yandere who focuses more on stalking during his obsession than physical contact.

He stands back... watches... and waits to pounce.

Myers doesn't really change when he's brought into the trials of The Entity.

He still gets to inflict his desire to kill, plus Laurie's here too.

Myers is a force of nature, it's both plausible yet hard to see him so attached to someone.

Although it would make sense for him to have an obsession one way or another, similar to how he is with Laurie in the movies.

His obsession with you doesn't start romantic.

If you can even call it that.

It starts like a typical obsession during a trial.

A favorite victim.

Dying in a loop to Myers seems like a horrible fate...

But in this realm it's quite normal to experience such pain.

It just means you begin to adapt to the stalking killer.

Myers primarily likes to watch you.

Doing generators, unhooking survivors, just running across the environment...

Myers isn't far from you.

Through watching you he may develop some sort of attraction.

It's intense like romantic attraction but when it comes to Myers... it's hard to tell?

All you know is he either saves you for last or leaves you alone completely.

Sometimes he likes to corner you, other times he lets you leave.

He's... strange.

It's really hard to tell what he's thinking.

Michael Myers is known as evil itself to some people.

Even you believe that.

Which only makes it more baffling when you see him go easy on you at times.

You certainly are his favorite victim, his obsession, yet you can't tell in what sense.

Michael Myers isn't usually very affectionate.

The most you get is him holding you, his breath muffled by the mask.

That or a rough and bruising grip as he studies you, touching your hair an observing you.

Kissing isn't really something I can see him doing unless he just... presses the mask to your skin? A mock kiss, essentially.

He finds you appealing but can't quite show it?

It's hard to say if he's jealous or just killing survivors around you because he can.

He's a wildcard, even if you grow used to his behavior you still don't know his exact feelings.

The thought makes you uneasy.

No one, not even Laurie, knows what he's thinking.

All you can do is feel relieved when he leaves you be while also playing your cards right when he corners you.

If you tried to give physical affection as a way to get away, he'd react to it.

It's unnatural to him yet he doesn't mind it if you cling to him.

Is this why he likes you so much?

Even in this Realm you probably will never get used to the bloodied masked man who stalks you.

He may show favoritism towards you but that does not mean you trust him in the slightest.

In my eyes, Michael Myers is a yandere who just likes to watch his darling for the most part.

Physical affection is rare and is usually rough with a hint of possession.

Overall, Michael Myers is a yandere who is unpredictable and quiet in nature.

One moment he'll spare you, holding you like you're the most precious thing in the world...

The next he'll cut you just to see how you bleed onto him.

[wrengrif]

Are we ready? It's Time...

For more GOOD OMENS WILD META.

I have been chewing on this one for awhile. Like, really ruminating on it. Probably because it's so far-reaching. For me, for others. It's a matter of the Journey From The Final Fifteen.

I will openly admit it, when I first came off the Final Fifteen, sometime in August/September (yeah, I was so worried about Season 2 I didn't watch it for a month after it came out and I realized I was right to do so.). I was, and still am, heartbroken. I was angry, despairing and wondering what the point of an ending like that was. I was angry at Neil Gaiman, I was angry at all the creators behind Good Omens. I was angry at Aziraphale, first, and then after about five minutes, I was angry at Crowley too.

Note, I was never mad at David Tennant or Michael Sheen. I respected their acting choices so much in the Final Fifteen. It was beautiful. It ripped my soul out through my chest. They are both brilliant. I know everyone has their favorite GO counterparts - they are mine.

Then a funny thing happened. A few weeks passed. I started fumbling around Good Omens Tumblr again. I'd been a big contributor during Detroit: Become Human (of which I am still a HUGE FAN, god I love that game.), and until Good Omens 2 came out, I was on the side of Good Omens fandom. Reading, mostly, but at the time I was very deep into my Wangxian fixation (haaaaah, I say, like I have ever left it. My dream AU is Aziraphale and Crowley in the Sunshot Campaign, causing trouble with Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian.). That changed after Final Fifteen. Now I was hurt, I was looking for comfort. I was looking for my fellow fans.

Clearly, I found you, you gorgeous bastards (saying nothing about your moms, unless you want me to). I started to read more meta, started having my own thoughts and carefully posting them. Reading fanfiction, and ... becoming less angry. Stepping back, to really look at the story. I was swallowing content like Aziraphale swallowed ox ribs. In the midst of this, I realized this wasn't The End of Good Omens, but merely the second part of a Trilogy. I'm a writer, I know what the second part of a trilogy is. It's where your heart breaks, it's the cliffhanger episode. I stopped being mad, and started loving the craft. I started to actually look at the scenes instead of just watching.

With that, I started to realize I had been missing so much. I realized I had been wrong, about a lot of things. My perspectives, and thoughts changed. Aziraphale wasn't at fault, he was a victim of the situation as much as Crowley was. Crowley left the bookshop, but he never left Aziraphale. He waited. He's still waiting. As more time passed, the more my thoughts evolved. Changed, formed anew, and I felt better for it. I decided to be hopeful about the whole thing. Yes, it was bad now, but there were enough signs and easter eggs to say this wasn't the ending we were going to get.

I healed, in short. I forgave. I'm waiting for our next chapter, because I know this story isn't done, not by a long shot. I'm waiting to see how our heroes will cope.

Rather like, I think, Aziraphale and Crowley will. The initial pain is going to fade, the anger, the feeling of rejection (whereas they will some day realize neither one of them were in fact, rejected.). The longing is going to kick in. They're going to miss one another more than they will ever be angry. There's going to be moments of grace, of forgiveness, partnered with sadness. What I think we forget, sometimes, is that Aziraphale and Crowley are 6000 years old. They've fought before. They'll fight again. With the fullness of time though, they'll come back to one another. They'll talk again.

Right now though, they've had time. Time to hopefully process (I really, really hope Aziraphale has had SOME time to process), time let the anger fade a little. Maybe not enough time - some of us here still need time - but enough to let them wonder ... is it really over? Maybe to realize, no. No it's not.

Time doesn't heal all wounds, but time does allow you to find equilibrium. I hope time will do the same for our angel and our demon. I know time helped me. I hope time will help us all.