#like i was feeling like i wanted to avoid her and not speak to her or be cold but i also knew i didnt want to treat her that way
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Whenever you have a second can we PLEASE get some Girl dad curly HCS? I feel like he'd be like Bandit from bluey as a father :)
- 🎺 anon
captain grant curly as your dad.
sfw— lowercase intended ^_^
fem reader—
requests are open and heavily encouraged, i write for every mw character ^.^
notes; reader is quite young here, im assuming no older than 6th grade, but intended for maybe.. a 3rd-4th grader? lmk if you wanna see him as like a dad for a teen/young adult 🎺 anon!
— extra, extra kind to you when he has to leave you for long business trips. knows you absolutely hate it. i mean, he’s missing christmas! new years! maybe even your birthday! (i assume that once he’s a dad, he’ll avoid taking trips longer than a year- only if it’s possible)
— his heart breaks a little when you playfully punch at his chest, crying about how he’s leaving again. part of him wants to quit, but obviously he can’t..
— speaking of birthdays.. he would go through hell and back to make sure you get what you want (as long as it’s reasonably priced, of course) a sold out toy? he’s willing to buy it overpriced on some resale site. there’s no way his girl is going to be disappointed on her own birthday.
— goes all out. and does what you want. if you wanna invite your friends, have a sleepover? that’s fine by him. or if you’re a more introverted, quiet kid, just a small celebration with family is fine. maybe even a weekend trip. whatever it is you want, just say the word. makes up for past birthdays he’s missed!
— reunions are the best.. after a week of rest, he’ll be sure to spend all his time with you. he knows how much you missed him.
— helps you out with homework.. prepares snacks at the kitchen table. like your favorite fruits, some gummy bears. fidget toys to help you concentrate. he tries so hard to just not give you the answers, do your homework for you.. he doesn’t, but he’s tempted!
— takes you to/picks you up from school whenever possible. gets to know your teachers and stuff. very active in your education. his parents were great, but i assume weren’t too present within his school life (being in the wrong crowd, and stuff- jimmy being an example) so he makes sure you’re doing a-okay!
— he doesn’t wanna be the kind of dad that’s just work, work, work. it’s his job to take care of his girl too.. he’d feel a lot of guilt if his spouse was taking care of you more than 70% of the time anyway (if he was home). just because he provides financially, doesn’t excuse him from dad work.
— fights the urges to spoil you.. he’s not the richest, but he does have disposable income. and if it’s just gonna sit there in his bank account, why not spend some to make his girl happy? his spouse hates it, you're already spoiled enough as it is.
— very up to date with all your interests. he’d get sad though watching you move on to something more geared towards older kids, like.. you’re growing up so fast! and what a blessing it is to watch in real time..
— loves taking you on little dad-daughter dates. like a day out at the beach, or just at a park. one on one time is important! and he loves hearing all the gossip you have about your friends, school. he doesn’t wanna fit into the stereotype of dads knowing nothing that goes on in your everyday life.
— bakes with you once a week. usually a sunday. just a little treat for you, along with bonding time. if he’s busy, he’ll get you ice cream or a chocolate bar before he comes home. he tries to sneak in vegetables or some form of protein, but as you get older you call him out on that..
— avoids box mixes, likes to make things from scratch. sometimes shows you how to bake bread, and stuff. it’s a good life skill!
— keeps fit, we know this.. encourages you to run with him. he likes his alone time, but teaching you good habits come first and foremost! tries not to be too overbearing though.
— he used to place you on his chest and cuddle with you as watched tv together. as you got older he stopped as to not embarrass you, but he would shed a few tears if you ask to- or initiated it. seeing you grow up is just so sad for him! you’ll always be his little girl, even when you’re 50 and balding,
#nomnompyon#mouthwashing#mouthwashing fic#mouthwashing x reader#captain curly x reader#curly grant x reader#curly x reader#curly headcanons#grant curly x reader#captain curly
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– the black dog | jessie fleming x reader
Part 2 to So Long, London!
warnings: angst, happy-ish ending?
As you push open the heavy wooden door to your favorite North London pub, the smell of malt beer and greasy chips infiltrates your nose. Leah waves you over, her and Emily having already found a four-top near the bar. Ignoring their choice of specific table, you hug your teammates in greeting. Emily slides a pint toward you, and you smile at her in appreciation. Bringing the glass to your lips, you nod toward the empty seat next to you as you take a sip of your drink. You lick the layer of foam off of your top lip, savoring the sweet, carmelly taste of your favorite beer.
“Beth’s running a few minutes late,” Leah glances at her watch, “but she should be here soon. You settled back home okay?”
You nod, taking another swig of your beer, the cold liquid a stark contrast to the August heat. It was by no means sweltering in London, but the humidity after this morning’s rain and lack of air conditioning in the pub made your legs stick to your barstool. You had a few days off between the end of the Olympics and Arsenal’s preseason tour in the States, so some of the girls wanted to have a casual night out prior to your long travel day this weekend. Despite having only gotten home from Paris the other day and a nagging gut feeling that you should stay in, you missed your club teammates and wanted to catch up with them off the pitch.
Leah fills you in on her prior conversation with Emily, which had been an update of what the two of you had missed while you were at the Olympics. You laugh as the Englishwoman narrowly misses a passerby as she’s flailing her arms while recalling her and Keira’s trip to Ibiza.
“Keira almost fell off of a wha–?” Emily, who’s clutching her stomach laughing, gets cut off by a frantic Beth scurrying toward the table.
“9-1-1, 9-9-9, red alert, red alert!” Beth blurts out with a panicked look on her face. Your eyes follow hers as she nervously scans the crowd behind her. She turns back toward the three of you, looking like she had seen a ghost.
“Red alert? Beth, what’s wrong?” you ask, noticing Emily’s posture straightening and Leah’s face hardening out of the corner of your eye.
“Y/N,” a familiar voice calls your name from behind you. A too familiar voice. A voice you hadn’t heard in months. Your eyes shut closed as heat rises in your chest. You take a deep breath and mentally count to three, fog already threatening to cloud your head. Exhaling, you turn toward the voice and open your eyes to confirm your fears.
“Jessie,” your voice wavers as you take in the sight of her. Though she fundamentally looked the same as she did that night in January, you noticed how her cheeks were dotted with a greater amount of freckles, and how her curls were more defined from her growing her hair out. Her eyes were soft, unsure of how you would react to her showing up unannounced.
Every feeling you had pushed into a corner in the back of your mind came crashing back at you full force. You hadn’t seen Jessie since you left her apartment in a haste – the second half of last season was spent nursing a nagging hamstring injury, so you were left off of the national team roster for the Gold Cup and SheBelieves. The United States and Canada had avoided each other on the Olympic bracket, so you didn’t cross paths in France either. Contact was limited between you, mostly short messages wishing each other “Happy Birthday” or Jessie texting you to congratulate you and the team on winning the Conti Cup.
You open your mouth again to speak, but nothing comes out. For months, you had practiced what you wanted to say to Jessie when this inevitable reunion occurred, but it was no use; you were at a loss for words.
“Hey,” Jessie chews at the corner of her thumb, a nervous tick you’ve seen her do since you’ve known her, “Could we, do you think we could talk? Outside, I mean?”
“Actually, I think you should leave,” Leah snaps, shooting the Canadian an icy glare.
“It’s okay, Lee,” you look at her in reassurement, before turning back toward Jessie, “Um, sure.”
Before you can stop yourself, your brain goes into autopilot, and you hop off of the barstool to follow Jessie outside. She leads the two of you to a bench a few meters away from the door, gesturing for you to sit. She sits down on the other side, making sure to leave a bit of space between the two of you. A beat of silence passes, neither of you knowing how to broach the subject. You sigh, deciding to break the ice.
“You didn’t tell me you were going to be in town.”
Jessie looks at you apologetically, “I didn’t think you wanted to know. Uh, I was hoping I would run into you though, then I saw you sitting at our usual table.”
Not knowing how to respond, you stare down at your feet, kicking away the gravel under your feet. Your mind races, everything you’ve wanted to say to Jessie flooding into your head, but no coherent thoughts sticking long enough to form a full sentence.
“I can hear you thinking,” Jessie frowns, her voice pulling you back into reality. She always knew when there was something bothering you, saying she could see it in your face whenever you were thinking too hard.
“What did you bring me out here for, Jess?” you sigh, cutting straight to the point.
Jessie’s heart tugged at hearing you call her by her nickname. You rarely ever called her Jessie, always joking that it felt too formal. Even though her other friends and teammates used the same nickname, it felt different coming from you. More personal, more intimate. Warm. A warmth she had been missing since January, all from something she could have prevented in the first place.
“I miss you.”
You toss your head back and let out a wry laugh, much to Jessie’s chagrin. “I don’t know what you want me to say to that,” you shake your head, ignoring the twinge in your chest. You, of course, missed your best friend more than anything, but you couldn’t help but keep your guard up.
“Y/N,” Jessie turns her body to face you, “I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am. I should’ve told you about my transfer as soon as I found out.”
“Why didn’t you? I understand that it’s your career, and I wanted to support you in everything, Jess, but you really hurt me,” you admit, tears stinging the back of your eyes. Logically, you knew Jessie owed you nothing when it came to her decision to leave, but finding out through a letter on her counter after spending the night together felt like a stab in the chest. She was your best friend, and you thought you meant more to her than that. You loved her, and you trusted her with a part of you that you couldn’t take back.
“I–, I fucked up, Y/N,” she shakes her head, “I know it’s not an excuse, but I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“With words would have been nice,” you bite, Jessie wincing at your tone. You immediately shoot her an apologetic glance, you didn’t want to make things worse than they already were. “I guess I just assumed you would tell me something as big as moving countries,” you shrug, a tear slipping down your cheek.
“I know, and I wish I could go back and fix everything,” Jessie sighs, “I don’t know why I did it, I was scared, I guess.”
“Scared of what? Jess, you know you could tell me anything, right?”
Jessie squeezes her eyes shut, running a hand through her curls. “I–, I guess telling you meant that the move was real, but I wasn’t sure if I was ready to leave yet.”
“Niamh said you requested the transfer.”
“I did. I knew I wanted to leave Chelsea, but I–,” Jessie stammers, “I wasn’t sure if I was ready to leave you.”
You give Jessie a confused look, furrowing your brows together. You knew she had considered you one of her closest friends, but you couldn’t figure out what she meant by that. You watch the girl take a deep breath before reaching out for your hand resting on the metal bench.
“I didn’t want to leave you,” Jessie starts, glancing up at the sky as she tried to formulate what she wanted to say, before looking back into your eyes, “because I love you, I–I’m in love with you, and I knew leaving meant that I couldn’t be with you.”
Your breath catches in your throat as your brain short circuits. She was joking, right? Or, she was saying I love you in the way you had always said I love you to each other, the same way you said I love you to Leah, or Beth, or Emily. She couldn’t possibly be confessing romantic feelings for you, right? But she said in love?
“You’re thinking out loud again,” Jessie gives your hand a squeeze, “Y/N, I’m so, so sorry for how I handled things back then, and I’m sorry that it took me this long to sit down and apologize. I also should probably apologize for using this to tell you how I feel about you because that’s not fair to you, because I really hurt you, and here I am, hoping that you forgive me, but not just because I told you I love you, which I do, but I don’t want to use that as a bargaining chip for your forgivene–”
“Jess,” you cut her off, knowing she would ramble for hours if you let her, “Do you think we could just, uh? Start fresh?”
A hopeful look falls onto Jessie’s face. “Start fresh?”
“Yeah,” you bite your lip, “I don’t want to say start over because what happened isn’t just something I can forget, but if you are open to it, I would like a fresh start, um, to everything.”
“I would like that too,” you watch the weight lift off Jessie’s shoulders as she gives you a small smile, “Pals, again?”
“Maybe a bit more than just pals if you play your apology cards right, Fleming,” you grin. You still had a ways to go before things would be back to how they were, but you were just happy that you had your Jess back, here with you.
#jessie fleming#arsenal wfc#woso#woso x reader#jessie fleming x reader#jessie fleming imagine#woso one shot#woso imagine#woso fanfics#woso soccer#woso community#jflem#chelsea fcw
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It was a little nerve wracking, the idea of him reading through something she'd notated. Sure, it was a children's book, and the notations were nothing too interesting, but still - it was a look at the inside of her mind, and the idea of him seeing that side of her made her a little nervous. So she simply nodded and let it go.
"Yeah, to China." Maybe he could feel it - the way that Cora relaxed a little more in this moment. She loved it, the process of planning an adventure, going and immersing herself in the culture, losing herself a little in a new place. "I'm working for a few days - general stories about the Great Wall, the Forbidden City." Spending her time trying to find a new angle to old places. "Once work is done, I'll just let myself get a little lost for a couple of weeks." It was a careful balance - wanting to make sure she saw certain tourist hot spots, but also wanting to make sure she was fluid enough to let the experience guide her. "If you've got any suggestions, let me know."
"Ahh, apologies, I thought you meant she wanted to go to London and Orlando. But avoiding Orlando is always a good idea." Shrugging off what felt like an easy mistake, she looked back at him, giving him a small smile. "Hmmm." She didn't point out that it seemed like she and Lily shared some similarities, not wanting to a ruin a good thing. "What day in May? Her birthday, I mean." It could seem like none of her business, and he didn't have to tell her. "I wonder how many days apart we are. Mine is the 14th."
And then the ease was gone for a moment, Cora feeling the tension in him. Okay. A line had been hit. So she took a few beats, letting herself relax, not interested in both of them feeling uncomfortable. She let out a small, silent exhale, that surely he could feel with his arms around her.
"You're you. You're this very important man. You have your business, so you have your employees and that stress." She was speaking slowly, fingertips grazing over one of his arms lightly, trying to ease any tension that may still be in the room with them. "I'm sure there are plenty of people I can't even think about that you're responsible. Then there's your family." And a full circle moment, "And then there's you."
She wanted him to understand she didn't have ulterior motives, that she wasn't trying to angle for more from him. But she also didn't know how to express that the longer they did this thing together, the more she would inevitably care about him. She just didn't know how to untie those parts of herself. "So while you're busy making the world turn." This was not a joke, this was said with sincerity. "Who is making sure that you're getting whatever it is that you need - rest, fun, relaxation, food - who is making sure you're not going to crumble?"
"I'll think about it." His next kiss was just as gentle, a little higher, placed just beneath the lobe of her ear. "Bring it by, and I'll have a look." He wasn't exactly eager for Lily to know about Cora at this point, but he supposed he didn't have to tell his daughter who the book had come from. And if Cora was as smart as he thought she might be, her observations in the book might even be educational to Lily. And that, he would never deny her. So he'd look through it, peruse her annotations, and if he deemed them worthwhile, he actually, surprisingly enough, would let his daughter read Cora's copy.
"To China, you mean?" He smiled a little, imagining Cora's energetic personality among the Chinese. "It's an interesting country to travel, though a few weeks isn't long considering the size of it - how are you prioritising your time there?" He might have come off a little patronising, like the well-travelled older man that he was, but his tone was affected with enough genuine curiosity about her trip to avoid it.
"It's not a theme park," he corrected gently, "there are no rides or anything of that nature. The Harry Potter World you'll find just outside London is more like... a museum. It's a Warner Brothers studio tour of sets, props and costumes from the movies. It's supposed to be quite an interesting experience... if you're a Harry Potter enthusiast." His broad shoulders shrugged lightly. "My PA is planning a trip for us in May next year for her birthday."
Her next question took him by surprise, enough for his back to tense up momentarily. He straightened, automatically taking her with him as his arms were still locked securely around her. "Taking care of me?" He then questioned, his tone calm enough but without the easy energy it had possessed just moments earlier. "Taking care of me how?"
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Cadence [Michael Myers/Reader]
[Ao3 Mirror] Summary: It's been a long time since Michael found his way into your life, beaten and bloody. With Michael's possessiveness and unpredictability, you haven't been able to reach out to you family in a while. A wedding invitation from a distant aunt has presented you with a unique problem- the only way you're attending is if he comes with you. On the bright side, you get to see him in a suit. Rating: Explicit (citrus, implied violence) WC: 18K. Warnings: dubcon, choking, violence, unhealthy relationship, it's Michael Myers come on, y'all know This is a sequel to Rest for the Wicked. It's readable without context, but better with.
==
You bite at your thumb and look between the fancy, pressed and textured paper and the masked shape who sits on your couch. “You don’t have to go, but I do.” Hidden behind the mask, you feel it more than see it: his gaze darkens, grows heavy.
Normally you would wilt, let Michael’s boundaries- restrictive and possessive though they were- guide your activities. Easier for everyone, really. Defying him usually ended with blood loss for someone, sometimes you. Sometimes not. But you haven’t seen your family since you met him, have been avoiding speaking with them about... everything that happened. You avoid speaking with them on principle, but it was nothing short of a miracle they had all somehow missed the cascade of murders (and your role in them) last fall.
If you didn’t show up to a wedding- granted you barely remember the bride, a distant aunt, you suspect you’re invited only because of her want of a large crowd- would only raise their suspicions more. How could you ever explain your way out of a wedding? What possible explanation could you give?
You bite your lip, look askance. “If you came with me you’d have some free time.” The mask’s expression does not change. He’s unreadable and distant. You don’t... love what he does to other people. But you know what he is, know what happens when he disappears on the nights he can’t sleep.
It’s greedy. Not the trade of someone’s life for your ability to attend a wedding (he’d kill no matter how much you could distract and entertain him), but wanting him to come. That occasionally lingering desire for some kind of normalcy, for those rare, genuine moments of intimacy. You wonder if he knows why you try to engineer them, if it even occurs to him. Without in-depth conversation, you’re still usually left out of the machinations of his steel trap mind.
You hesitate to continue. “Nobody would be looking for you out there.” If he did walk out in the night at least you wouldn’t have to worry so much. You thumb at the edge of the postcard, feel the thick, embossed paper resist your touch. “Just... nobody at the wedding.” The hair over the mask slides sideways and he tips his head slowly. You wonder how well he can actually read other people’s emotions when his own range is so stunted. Does he know all that you’d offer him? “Like I said, you don’t have to go with me…. But you might like it.”
He doesn’t acknowledge you more than that. Turns away and resumes watching midday television. You bite your cheek and leave the invitation on the kitchen counter. You have to go.
Two weeks later Michael stumbles into the house covered in blood that is not entirely someone else’s.
A slash cuts deep in his arm and has soaked through the sleeve, pouring blood over your floor. He collapses in the laundry room, red spilling across the white tiles. You hold back tears as you wrap white gauze over his arm, too familiar with the shape of a knife wound. You peel off the latex and find Michael’s face pale, his icy eyes half-lidded and slightly glazed.
Someone had fought back.
You rub his hands, squeeze the fingertips. Stroke your thumb over his prickly beard. His head lolls uncontrolled and he blinks slowly. You whisper to him, voice low and soft and will him to return to consciousness. You press a kiss to the scar over his right cheek, the one you’d sealed with skin glue so long ago. He stirs, bloodied right hand- not his own blood, you’re sure, it’s cool and tacky to the touch- grabs weakly at you.
You curl his left hand between you, raised to minimize the bleeding, and press into his lap. Despite the bloodloss he’s still warm. You press your face into his neck and say over and over, “You’re okay. It’s okay. I love you, you’ll be okay.”
When sunlight peaks through your back windows Michael stirs and pushes you off his lap. You stare at him, watch as he disappears into the hallway. You’re barely up to your feet before Michael reappears. The cream-colored paper is stained under his fingers, but he holds out the invitation.
The plastic cover crinkles as you hang Michael’s suit in the backseat of your car. You had to guess at his size in the end- every time you tried to measure him he’d step away, snatch the tape measure from your hands. Even when you tried plying him with sweets and sex. The latter had nearly worked, managing to get the breadth of his shoulders while he had floated in post-orgasmic bliss. Until he’d knocked your hands away and pinched your clit until he was hard again and could properly punish your wrongdoing.
You don’t ask again. Though you’re moderately sure you’re safe from Michael’s knife, the cold glint in his icy eyes was warning enough to drop it.
You don’t even know if he’s going to the ceremony. You honestly don’t expect him to, he’s never given you a nod when you ask. Perhaps it’s only a hunting trip for him, which you can’t even be upset about when you yourself had pointed out the advantages. And you’d both be doing something fun in your own ways- enjoying a wedding and slitting someone open was the same thing, right?
You bite your lip and straighten out the fabric, only a little disappointed you won’t see actually him in a suit. Way more than a little relieved that you won’t have to explain his existence entirely on your own. Yeah this is my vaguely defined life partner, Michael Myers, serial killer.
Imagine the headlines. You’d definitely show up the bride with that.
The door squeaks, old stairs creaking under Michael’s boots. He wears a black shirt that was a size too large and loose gray sweatpants. His coveralls (freshly laundered) are stuffed into a dark duffel bag along with his mask, the bag hanging lifelessly in his hand. You made sure it also held two changes of clothes and not a single one of your knives. You’d politely suggested some ideas to minimize police attention and with a miracle Michael agreed.
He drops his bag in the trunk and waits, stares at you with empty eyes. It’s strange seeing him unmasked and out in the daylight; sunshine makes his graying hair look positively silver, reflects handsomely in the cornflower blue of his iris. He doesn’t have a clue, stares at you passively- probably only interested in getting on the road as soon as possible. You know what will happen if you kiss him; Michael’s concept of physical affection will only lead to biting and bruising and fucking you here against your car, so you withold the desire. He must see something in your eyes, written on your face because he tips his head slowly- you smile and shake your head, dismiss his unspoken question.
With your suitcase already in the car, Michael’s bag and suit ready, all you had left was the twelve hour drive. You tried not to feel too giddy that Michael had all but jumped at the chance to take the wheel.
You slide into the front seat, Michael wastes no time in adjusting the passenger seat to slide as far back as it can for his long legs. You’ll never get used to seeing him in such a casual setting, stretched out in your little car, wearing such pedestrian clothes. Even if he does stare at you with those same mismatched blue and white eyes that send chills cascading down your spine- even after all this time, his power over you has not faded. You struggle to look away, ignore the Pavlovian tingling between your legs and turn the key.
The car sputters to life, rumbling loudly, the radio clicking on to the last station you had playing- now spitting stuttery soft rock. It’s preferable to the road sounds outside your car so you leave it be- and watch as you back down your driveway, your peaceful cabin shrinking as you reverse to the road. There’s a patch of grass next to the old country highway that’s yellowed and dying where your guests had been parked for weeks, but now fresh, tiny sprouts of green have emerged in the promise of spring rebirth.
You take the back way, opting to follow the highway east out of town instead of cutting straight through; It’s been some time since his face and mask have been plastered on every street corner, sent on alert to every phone registered to the county, but you can’t shake the paranoia. It would only take one alert citizen, one good Samaritan. And with Michael’s refusal to lie down in the back seat and wait for you to hit the city limits, it’s a small sacrifice for the illusion of safety.
Besides, it feels good to look to your side and see him. Michael stares out the windows now, watching cars and passengers as they pass. As much as it spikes the anxiety deep inside, you enjoy being able to see him maskless- even in your house he prefers the anonymity of the white latex. From this side you find only his unseeing eye, the deep, curved scar across his face, the slight droop of his eyelid from decades of muscular atrophy- and you see the masculine, strong shape of his nose, the gray of his recently trimmed beard that you know is more prickly than soft, but still feels nice when you stroke your thumb over it. Michael turns his head ever so slightly, not even enough to compensate for his blind eye, but you know you’ve been noticed.
You still find it in you to blush; Michael’s intensity has not changed and for as many times as you find yourself staring at him, the dark current of your subconscious always speaks up. Cruel and unwanted and flooding you with shame: murderer.
It’s easier to push that little voice down when Michael silences it with his mouth and hands, when he consumes all other intelligent thought through lust or intimidation, which are not mutually exclusive. But your hands are at ten and two, white striped lines blinking past you on the highway. Though you imagine Michael would have no problem distracting you now if you so much as squirmed in the driver’s seat, you’d rather not test your concentration.
Instead you make it nearly an hour outside of town before you feel the pointed, prickling on your skin of someone’s eyes on you. You pull over at the next rest stop- you do not think of of a black truck with peeling paint or the guilt you carry. You stretch as you step out of the car, revelling in the last time you’d get to really extend your legs for at least a few hours. Michael circles the car and you step out of his way so he won’t push you aside. Again he has to adjust the seat to accommodate his height, but the extra room he’s made on the passenger side works well for you.
Michael’s long months without driving make the start a bit bumpy, but he regains control with only mild frustration. You watch him as you’re nearly turned sideways in your chair, find something interesting in the shapes of his knuckles curled around the steering wheel. You want to be able to hold his hand, to touch his face without sparking something primal in him. So rarely are you graced with the softness behind his eyes, but you chase it anyway.
“I’m probably going to fall asleep fast.” You warn him and settle into your seat. You selected your driving attire nigh exclusively on sleepability, with Michael’s stunning conversation skills you’d opted for unconsciousness over trying to read in the car. “Is that okay?”
The highway changes, the car jumping slightly over the new terrain. One blue eye slides to you, his head bobbing, though you can’t be entirely sure if it was the car or him. You shrug, accept that he’d wake you if he wanted you. You lower your seat back and fuss with trying to get comfortable.
You face towards him, settling on using your arms as pillows, and watch how he drives, his little glances to the mirrors- having to turn slightly towards the driver’s side mirror. Every so often his good eye flicks down to you, aware that you’re watching him. You smile and snuggle into your arms. “Wake me if you need anything.”
You wake from a very nice dream to hands pulling at you, sleep dissipating fast- awareness surging forward as you’re nearly dragged over the center console. You land awkward in Michael’s lap- his seat already pushed as far back and down as it can. You blink and your eyes itch, your mouth is dry and Michael’s hands are pushing your pants down your legs until they tangle at your ankles. He doesn’t even bother with your underwear, merely pushing it aside.
“Wait,” You mumble, before you can piece together what’s going on. Michael’s cock pushes at you and, oh- you’re already wet. He slides in and in and you’re so full again, the familiar stretch makes you moan. He hardly waits at all before his hands bite fresh bruises onto your hips and he grinds you down against him. The tip of his cock presses hard against your cervix, makes you gasp and see stars. Even with you on top, Michael dominates; you don’t even get the chance to ride him. He lifts you by your hips until you’re just high enough for Michael to meet you with brutal snaps of his hips, fucking up into you hard enough to make your breath stutter on each impact.
You lean forward, press your cheek against his chest. He’s harsh, even compared to his usual pace and as your thighs begin to quiver, Michael’s brows just starting to draw in, you know he’s not going to be so generous today. You whimper, shift so you can slip one of your hands between yourself and him, seeking out your clit.
Each thrust draws a fresh whimper from your lips as he knocks the air out of your lungs. He reacts as he always does to your little pleading noises: Michael’s grip tightens and he thrusts harder, determined to chase that sound, to force you to cry out everything he makes you feel. With his brutal pace set, your fingers work deftly over your clit- and between the angle and the soft pants that dare to escape Michael’s iron control, you’re tumbling over the edge and clenching hard around him.
Michael growls low in his throat and takes to shoving you down in cruel counterpoint to his hips- all semblance of pace lost as he chases his own ends. Each movement sends another shock of residual pleasure through your body- starting as pleasurable, dragging out your orgasm, and turning sour, painful, every nerve electrified as you dig your nails into Michael’s shirt. You dare peek at him and find his mouth just barely open, a pink flush over his cheeks, sweat dotting over his forehead. He stares, transfixed at where your body meets his, watching as his cock spears into you again and again.
Your broken moans turn to sharp whines, each motion burning inside you until your thighs ache and you plead, “Please, Michael,” Icy blue lifts, pierces straight through your soul. “Cum inside me, please, I-”
It’s all he needs, his eyes snapping closed, head tipping back- and you watch him. He always looks so angry as it begins- his brow pulled down low, his jaw clenched so tight to keep from making any noise. And you feel his cock twitch inside you, the first wave of heat spilling deep inside. The muscles of his face relax- eyelids lifting just enough for you to see the mismatched colors of his irises, barely visible around the wide expanse of his black, empty pupil.
You lean forward again and take advantage- you shove your nose up under his chin and into the scruff of his beard. He pants, breathes hard through his mouth and you already feel the chill of sweat cooling on your back. You listen to the rhythm of his breathing, close your eyes and lose yourself in the warmth between your bodies- until Michael’s tolerance wears thin. His hands tighten around your waist and just as you had been hoisted onto him, he lifts you. You wince, moan softly as his cock slips free, his mess dripping back onto him in thick strands. He drops you unceremoniously into the passenger seat again. Only then do you look around.
It’s a rest stop that is thankfully very empty, at least Michael seems to agree with you on the benefits of privacy. You shimmy your pants back up, at least enough so you can make it out to the trunk to get a change of underwear--
The car stutters and the engine turns over. Michael’s hand is on the keys, his pants already pulled back up. You whine, “Michael, no. I need to change, I can’t just…” You cringe, feel the wetness between your legs.
But Michael has already made up his mind and the cool slide of his gaze onto you-- something just a little too keen in his eyes-- is all it takes for you to sigh and wilt. You’ve put up with worse and in truth the reminder of Michael’s lust for you is not entirely disgusting, but rather brings a fresh warmth to your cheeks.
He manages to get through the rest of the drive without fucking you again. You’d prepared for at least two stops just for that purpose, but the need to get there, the anticipation of murder must’ve kept the appeal of short-term satisfaction at bay. His patience has won out today.
You swap back into the driver’s seat about half an hour out. It crosses your mind to change your underwear while you have the chance, but stripping down on the side of an old country highway with a serial killer in the passenger seat does not seem wise. So you grimace as you sit and navigate out to the venue. You pass the first sign for it, carved wood with lacy lettering, Stone Mountain Manor. There’s nothing visible out here; acres and acres of tall oaks casting shade over the road, only flickers of light scattering over the car.
It isn’t until you crest a hill that you actually see Stone Mountain Manor. Holy shit. It’s stupidly massive, split into two buildings, all covered in a gray stone facade, lined with carefully manicured hedges and bushes and ivy creeping up the sides. The road gives way to a fancy roundabout at the front of the first building- one low and long- with sides leading off to behind the building and one to the other building.
You pull around back just to be safe- and immediately deflate at the dozen or so cars in the parking lot. It’s a long trek back to civilization and there are a lot of people right here. Witnesses. If even one recognized your companion your little idyllic life would be destroyed, all that time spent in quiet isolation, in the comfort of your cabin…
Your hands shake on the wheel as you pull into the spot furthest from the doors. You could go home. Create some excuse, send her money to make up for it. Hell, maybe you could just move. No nosy family members to come harass you, just disappear out into a different county, your dangerous shadow in tow. Would be easy enough to give a believable reason to the cops. He attacked me in that house. That would sell, you think, enough to not have them crawling all over you for weeks and then-
The car door opens. You blink, turn, and watch as Michael steps out of your car, closing the door behind him.
“Michael!” You hiss, scrambling out of your side. “You should stay inside; what if someone sees you?”
Nothing. Michael is already looking far out in the distance. One blue eye scanning the trees, following an ornamental wood fence that peaks between dark trunks. The muscles of his jaw flex, making the scar on his cheek strain. He’s already made up his mind. He’s already hunting, waiting for something.
Shit.
“Stay here.” You say weakly, already preparing for him to vanish before you return. “I’ll go check in…”
Michael makes no noise, either in confirmation or refusal. With complete confidence that he’d make his refusals obvious, you head back towards the building. You pass by at least a half-dozen double doors with little sitting areas outside each, curtains drawn carefully over the glass. It’s so unbearably upscale there’s even little statues along each doorway, cement wolves and foxes watching as you walk by.
You enter the main door, decorated with white draped fabric and little red fake flowers. Inside there’s another decorate sign, a pale gray wood with more cursive text burned into it, Our happily ever after, Janice & Bill. Of course. Someone’s happy day and you bring a murderer. Past the sign is a huge, winding staircase, leaning up to a balcony overlooking the lobby, a little sign labeled Bridal Suite hangs off the railing. She’s probably already up there freaking out.
“Oh, can I help you?” You jump half out of your skin, spinning around to a little counter- where a middle-aged woman blinks back at you. She raises an eyebrow, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you…?”
“It’s okay,” You laugh, approaching the counter. “I’m here for the wedding, my aunt- ah- Janice said my family had a suite reserved.”
“Can I have your information?” She asks, turning towards an ancient-looking computer.
You lean on the counter to tell her- and immediately flinch back as your underwear clings tackily to your ass. This time, she doesn’t notice, too busy looking up the reservations. “Ah, yes you’ll be down at the end, left side. The doors are operational if you want to bring your bags in, I know it’s a bit of a walk.”
“Thanks.” She hands you an electronic door key, the kind with a magnetic strip. You start to step away, to go down the hallway and find your room when a thought occurs to you. “Do you know if the rest of my family has arrived yet? Same last name.”
She blinks then looks back to her screen. “Ah, no, I don’t think so.”
Weird.
“Okay, well, thank you.” You turn the card in your hand. The front has a green-gray decal of the main building, underneath is your room number labeled in a thin, slanted font #19. You suppress a snort, because of course the universe would give you nineteen. What a different place, a fancy hotel for a wedding venue in low Appalachia that you don’t even want to guess the price for, and a run-down hourly motel in the middle of fuck nowhere Illinois that cost you a grand total of sixty dollars.
The door opens on the first try and you have to hold your breath. It’s huge. Half your house could fit into the room, sparsely populated with two queen beds, nightstands, a dresser, wall-mounted TV, and standing closet. Painted all in that same gray-green, it’s… nothing at all like home. One wall has a door to the bathroom, the cheapest looking part of the room- but inside is anything but. The shower alone has room for four people with a fucking rainfall shower head, and a completely separate tub with water jets.
What the actual fuck. Janice doesn’t have money money, how the hell is she paying for all this?
Whatever, you’re not really here to speculate on your distant aunt’s finances. You head over to the double doors and find much to your relief that room nineteen faces the parking lot, not the street and main building. The simple deadbolt lock turns and the doors sweep open, letting that chilled early spring air into the room. From the little porch you can still see him, standing between the cars, the evening sun cutting through the trees. He turns as soon as you find him, meeting your gaze from twenty yards. Your heart races; he looks so normal. Just a regular man at his car- he could almost pull it off if it weren’t for that magnetic presence, that feeling of suffocation that just edges into your throat. A shiver and you’re off towards your car, walking as quickly as you can.
“Hey,” You huff, half out of breath. “The ceremony isn’t until tomorrow night and then we’ll head out the morning after. I’m still set to share a room with my parents, so I can leave the car unlocked if you want to stay there. Otherwise, just try to be back.”
Michael doesn’t respond, just stares down at you with those mismatched eyes. Fine enough, he can usually handle himself.
You unload your bag from the car. Michael’s suit hangs from the coat hanger, mocking you with its pristine plastic covering. He probably won’t stay, no reason for him to actually come to the wedding- he’s here for selfish reasons. For blood. Be honest. He’s here so you won’t have to worry so much while he hunts. So he can have his bloodletting far from home and maybe you’ll find some peace in your cabin for a while. You leave the suit in the car, but as promised leave the car unlocked and head back to the room.
With a second set of bootfalls following behind. You turn and watch as he shadows you, blank gaze betraying nothing. Usually his following meant he wanted something, but Having him follow you into the hotel does not feel like a good idea. “What’s wrong?” Michael does not answer, not even with a nod or intentional look at something- which only makes your fears heighten. With no other good options to usher him into the room.
Like you, he looks around, takes in the very strange scenery. Had he seen anything like this before? You leave the suitcase at the foot of one bed and close the doors behind you, just so no one can immediately see him standing in your room. “What’s up?” You try again. “Just curious about the wedding?”
A wedding.
He’s probably never been to one. He looks at you, expressionless and blank. Maybe when he was a little kid, or perhaps the occasional jailhouse insane asylum marriage… but nothing like this. Fanciful and expensive, a dream wedding. A peculiar feeling settles in your gut- you glance to his left hand.
No place to put a ring even-
knock knock You jump, stare wide-eyed at Michael. He steps back, away from the door, stands over by the armoire, out of sight from the door. You touch the knob with one hand, feel the tremors all the way up your arm. it’s not the cops, you tell yourself. There’s no way, you would’ve seen them, were so cautious to avoid them. You turn the knob.
“Aaah, you made it!!!” Janice’s excited squealing takes you by surprise. She halfway barrels into the room, her half pinned-up hair swaying around her as you meet her at the door frame, guiding her back out into the hallway. “I’m so glad you’re here, it really means a lot to me.”
You grimace through a smile and hug her back. You hardly remember her, had never really been close to begin with, but she must have seen it differently. “I’m glad to be here. Do you know when my parents will get here?”
Janice pulls back and blinks owlishly. “They didn’t text you?”
“No? What’s going on?”
“They managed to get lost and get into an accident- they’re okay!” She’s quick to interject. “But they’re still stuck dealing with insurance and doctors and maybe renting a car. They said they probably won’t be able to make it in time.” Oh. That changes things. “I’m sorry, were you hoping to see them?”
That has you pausing, struggling to find the right answer. It feels rude to say no, I desperately wanted to avoid them. But if you lied about wanting to see them, she might be more inclined to tell them. “Kind of, but it’s alright.” You settle for a vague answer. “I’m sorry they won’t be here, I know it’s only a little important.”
“Only a little,” She grins, then breaks into another squeal, hugging you again. “Oh, I can’t believe I’m getting married, I’m so excited and Bill has just been so wonderful.”
“I’m really happy for you.” And for once, it’s completely honest. Janice is ecstatic, and you’ve no complaints about her mate. Unlike the ones she’d have for yours.
“Okay, okay, I know you just got here so I’ll let you unpack and settle in. Love you, sleep well!” She backs off after one more hug, waving and trotting back down the empty hallway, turning towards that huge staircase.
You step back into the room- and curse. Michael has taken the opportunity to get closer to the door, listening in on your conversation. “I guess that changes things. You could sleep here if you want, I guess. And if you left while it was dark out, I don’t think many people would notice.”
That earns you a head tip. Which makes your brow furrow in turn- the few cues Michael gives you have become crucial to your limited communication. Head tilts are second only to nods, a clear sign of his interest. But there wasn’t much to be intrigued by- would he sleep here or be out the full time? Or was there something else he’s trying to find, staring at you with that electric gaze. Your stomach flips, clenches as he raises his hand, the knife-calloused pads of his fingers settling over your throat. His thumb rests against your pulse point, your heartbeat throbbing under his touch.
Any pleas for him not to leave bruises would only incite more, so you melt into his touch, wait quiet and compliant as he wordlessly searches for something. There’s no sign either way- without even the slightest bit of choking, Michael’s hand falls away. It’s still as gentle as he can be, demanding touches that don’t quite bring blooms of purple with them. It’s not much, but it’s at least practically helpful, no need for extensive makeup or scarves- so you express that affection as carefully as you can. One hand touching his bicep, light and gentle, a single stroke.
You want to touch more. Want to stroke his arms in real appreciation, to touch his face without it being some kind of challenge.
It’s not fair.
You avert your eyes, pointedly look to the floor and make your way back to your suitcase. From it you extract a pair of pajamas. No point in being dressed anymore, you just want to shower and clean that stuck-in-a-car feeling off your skin.
You don’t bother closing the door behind you. In the bathroom, white, fluffy towels are rolled up into logs, stacked in a pyramid on a shelf over the toilet. You drop your sleep clothes onto the lid and begin to turn the shower’s knobs. Overhead, water begins to pour out, a first shock of cold then warming as you fidget the handles into a good temperature.
In the corner of your eye, Michael stands in the doorway. Impassive, unmoved as you peel off your shirt. With a wince you pull your pants and well-stained underwear off. The remnants of Michael’s outburst clings to the fabric and your legs in an unpleasant mess. You hold them under the spray first, rinsing the worst of it off, then hang them over the top of the shower to dry off.
Then, you step in and close the shower’s glass door behind you.
It seems Michael has decided against taking advantage of your nakedness- which is fine, considering the light ache that still lingers between your legs. For now you have the gentle reprieve of only having him spy on you, lurking as though unseen. You still haven’t figured out what he prefers: for you to acknowledge that he’s there or to pretend you don’t know.
Fuck, the water even smells good. Did they put something in the water tank? It’s soft, almost floral. You lean in under the spray, let the warm water soak into your hair, wash over your face. It’s soothing, maybe lavender. You pick up the little squares of soap and inhale- and there’s the culprit. Another inhale- and up close it’s maybe too strong, the smell of soap leaving a tingle in your nose. Hopefully it’s not too strong. Michael has never seemed particularly sensitive to smells, but still… It’s hard not to care about his comfort. Even if he doesn’t tell you, even if he doesn’t know himself.
You lather up your hands, rub the bar across your chest. Does he know? It’s a question that plagues you; how much does Michael Myers know and feel, how much is what the newspapers paint him as- the completely shallow, emotionless murderer. You want to believe- want so badly, desperately, blindly- that the truth is somewhere in between. You move on to your legs, absentmindedly scrubbing his his cum from your thighs, rinsing whatever else remains from between your legs-
A rush of cool air. You halfway turn- “Michael?”
His palm finds the back of your head, smashes your cheek into the ceramic tiles. Pain shoots out from your face, radiating across your nose, down your neck. Even under the pouring water, his breaths come hard and even, interrupted only by your soft whimpering. Michael wastes no time, not in the mood to drag out your terror this time. His free hand drags your hips back- and he’s so damn tall he grinds more on your low back than ass.
Still clothed.
Face pressed to the wall, you strain to look from the corner of your eye to confirm it. Water soaks into the fabric, black shirt clinging to his chest. A boot kicks your legs apart as the hand on the back of your neck retreats- just enough to feel wet cotton rolling down to your thighs. You don’t fight- just squeeze your arms between you and the hard tiles, desperate for any reprieve for your throbbing cheekbone.
The hand at your hip wraps around- circles all the way around you, locking into the dip between your stomach and hips and lifts. One-handed, he pulls you off the ground, legs dangling, hands scrabbling over wet ceramic to keep your balance- and his free hand finds your throat. His cock finds your still sore entrance, prodding there, just the barest hint of pressure. Waiting.
Held up as you are, there’s nothing you can do but whimper. Any twist of your hips is near useless, only teasing your entrance more with the head of his cock, the pleasure all his. The best you can do is gain any stability- hooking your legs backwards, catching the tops of your feet on the back of his clothed knees. Even this earns retaliation; Michael surges forward again, traps your whole body between his now soaked chest and the freezing wall, only your hands keeping your cheek from being bruised even more. The water beats down from overhead and now your hips are truly pinned, caught between his iron forearm and the hard bones of his hips.
The hand at your throat squeezes, just a little pressure to make you whine, to make your pulse race under his palm. He could kill you so easily. He could crush your windpipe, smash your head into the wall- if it was anyone else in his arms he would. For you his fingers twitch, his nostrils flare with each breath, a careful balance of self control.
It’s all you can do to repay him, “Michael…” It comes out hoarse, rough through the hand choking you. It’s all he’s waiting for.
He lowers you down, agonizingly slow. The muscles of his shoulders jump with the effort. He splits you open again, the ring of muscle crying out, already rubbed raw from his earlier assault. Now that’s left is for you to grit your teeth and scrape your nails along the grout.
He doesn’t wait this time. It hurts, stings as he thrusts, taking that too-sharp pace he’s fond of. He knows- you hiss and he chokes you for it, pressure closing in around your throat, stars popping in your eyes- he knows it’s too rough, but the angle is perfect. He drives into you, strokes over that spot that makes your legs wobble, your clit ache with jealousy- and though it burns with soreness, your body quickly catches up to Michael’s pace.
With each thrust you grow slicker, the resistance lessening until pleasure begins to win out over the pain. Darkness edges into your vision, makes your head loll against his grip, but finally your body begins to sing for him. He knows you too well not to, has had enough practice, your body only becoming another tool in his arsenal of self-amusement. Another stroke and he’s deep inside, grinding against something that makes your eyes water in amazement- and in perfect tandem his hand lets go of your throat. Where you would moan out, you’re left gasping in air- and you can’t take it anymore.
One hand leaves its brace position, sliding down the wall and wiggling in between Michael’s arm and the ceramic. You get one mind-numbing circle around your clit- and all Michael’s weight comes down on you. Pain lances up your arm, wrist caught between his forearm and the wall. He leans his entire body against you, squeezes your chest until your ribs creak, and through it all only fucks you harder. You whimper, open your mouth to acquiesce, to submit- he’s in control, he owns you- but his hand is already closing around your throat again. Tight, then tighter still- primal fear floods your veins, the kind that makes your blood run cold. It would only take a moment’s lapse of concentration, a half-second loss of control-- he won’t. There’s no doubt; you’ve done this dance too many times. Heat gathers in your face as blood pools, pounds against the unbreakable seal of his thumb over your carotid. Your unpinned hand grabs at his wrist, weakly squeezing; your mind fuzzes, struggles to keep sight, provides a useless be careful of the scar.
Michael huffs, breath hot over the back of your neck, teeth finding your shoulder as he bites. Hypoxia keeps the pain dulled- until his incisors sink in, a noise muffled into your shoulder. His hips stutter, then slow- and finally he lets go. You suck in huge gulps of air, coughing against his still-lingering hand.
He lowers you to your numb feet. His hand lingers at your throat, fingers tracing down to the dip in your collar bone, prodding at the sore skin- and then he steps back. Without his support you sink down to your knees, then to the floor of the shower, still wheezing. Water cascades over you, the sound even and predictable and ever so slowly the rushing of blood in your ears dies down, the heat between your legs idling out as the water just begins to run cold.
The hinge of the shower door squeaks and another gust of cold air passes over you, cools you even further. There’s nothing in you, no energy left to look behind you, to meet his gaze as he stares down at his handiwork. So you take deep breaths, rub one hand over your aching neck, feel the warmth of forthcoming bruises, and listen to the wet splat of Michael peeling off his now soaked clothes.
He’s long gone when you finally manage to re-rinse yourself, wet footprints on the tiles leading out into the room. You’re more contentious, drying off in the bathroom before changing into the clothes you’d picked out. The watery prints lead right up to the further dresser, where… Michael has set down his duffel bag. You look at it, blink. When had he gotten that? Did he… walk to the car naked? He’s already changed into the coveralls, freshly laundered and free of as many incriminating stains as you could reasonably remove.
You swallow, bite your tongue. That was the purpose of the trip, afterall. Would make sense for him to go tonight, pick out a few people he likes. Or hates. You still haven’t figured out how that works for him, if the people matter at all.
likes, an unhelpful little part of you whispers, he wants to kill you. You smother it down with the simple reminder: he hasn’t killed you yet. He lets you touch him, lets you be near him at all. And when you feel close to him, when you tell him that- there’s something about him that changes. The subtlest tip of his head, like he doesn’t understand.
He probably doesn’t.
Michael sits on the nearest bed and- and Michael’s face is no longer his own. it desperately needs to be washed, grime sunken into the crevices, making it look older than he is. Black eye holes stay trained on you as you take him in. Was it because he felt safe enough to not be seen? Or was he preparing for a fight? Could always ask. Maybe you’ll get a response.
He’s always nicer after he finishes, not immune to the pleasant buzz of oxytocin and dopamine… but as your still-warm neck reminds you, his earlier display was particularly violent. The anniversary is close and that ever-present need of his is rising under the surface, threatening to boil over. You want to sit with him, to find the soothing warmth beneath those coveralls. At best- or perhaps worst- he could still entertain himself with you until his body catches up again- or does he need space now? There’s no good answer. He’s already pursued his usual alternative: fucking you until that itching in his skin eases.
“Anything I can do?” You offer, already aware of the answer- a heavy breath that whistles through the mask’s holes. Not even a tip of the head or nod to guide you. Maybe space would be better, at least until he disappears into the shade of night. Hesitantly, you sit on the bed closer to the double doors. When he doesn’t move, you begin to lay down, reaching over to the nightstand to turn off the light. That, however, must be the wrong move.
You’re too aware of him, of his little mannerism. His fists tighten in the duvet- and he stands. Your stomach drops, immediately beginning to sit up- but Michael is faster. His long legs cross the small space between the beds before you can even form the words to ask what’s wrong. His arms force their way under you and you barely have the presence of mind to half lift your legs, to ease the burden on his damaged left hand.
Michael scoops you off the bed, turns around, drags the blankets of his bed down, and sits onto the sheet. Oh. You don’t even get an opportunity to help; he’s under the blankets before you can do anything. He’s particularly stiff, every joint locked in place, held stiff even flat on the bed. You glance at the mask in question, hoping to find answers- if this is just the building tension of the year- or if it’s something else. The hand anchored to the small of your back makes it awkward to adjust the blankets, but you manage to wiggle into your usual position, straddling one of his thighs, your ear pressed to his chest.
Warmth radiates out, soaks into your skin, chases off the autumn chill. Weakly you rub at his sides, thumbs stroking over his ribcage, smoothing down the thick material of his coveralls. There’s not much you can do, but at least you have this, a tiny offering to give: the even, unhurried brush of your fingers. At least until the furnace of his body lulls you to sleep.
It’s cold when you wake. Early October is not shy, leaves you curling harder into the blankets, burying your face into a pillow. A pillow. You reach across the bed blindly- and find only more disrupted sheets, chilled and empty. You blink awake, squinting into the room; the double doors are still cracked open, curtains fluttering.
You extricate yourself from the mess of blankets, rubbing your arms to fight off the chill. From the pile of brown leaves that have collected along the border to your room, he must’ve left some time ago. Your stomach clenches- you peer out from the door, scan the line of the parking lot and the trees beyond. No white mask waits for you.
It’s as unsettling as it is relieving. He’s out there killing (and you’re alone, no shadow to stalk you through the halls, careful, watchful eyes on you every time you so much as look at a stranger)... but he’s not here, waiting to be found out by the first doesn’t he look familiar…?
Not that he hasn’t proven himself capable of slipping through your town unnoticed.
Until he wants to be, of course.
But he’s gone now, off into the chill of early morning fall. You scrape most of the leaves out and close the door, but leave it unlocked. Instead, you go to the mirror- and wince at what you find. A perfect imprint of Michael’s teeth rings your right shoulder, still red and inflamed, warm to the touch. Of course. Must’ve known you were hoping not to have to cover any marks.
You look to your suitcase, consider your formalwear. The collar should be high enough… maybe you wouldn’t have to use any makeup. A little spark of heat settles in your stomach. Even while he’s out hunting, you’ll still have his mark. Nobody will know you’re the one who has tempered the Boogeyman’s urges. A thrill runs down your spine, makes your shoulders raise and clench. No makeup it is.
A glance at your phone gives you time to plan your pre-ceremony time. It’s only just after nine o’clock, the ceremony doesn’t start until two on paper- probably more like three with a healthy dose of skepticism. Plenty of time for breakfast.
You throw on a more-concealing shirt and skimper down the hall to the hotel’s breakfast station. Two people you don’t recognize sit at a little window table and talk, smiling at you as you pass. Probably someone from Bill’s family, if you had to guess. Maybe one of Janice’s work friends…? They return to their conversation and you are already forgotten. The food has been well picked-over by other guests, two metal trays shining and empty.
But there’s still eggs and hashbrowns and tiny pancakes, which is more than enough. You take a plate, lift one serving spoon- and wonder if Michael’s eaten yet. You don’t really know what he eats when he’s out. Probably nothing as nice as this, if MIchael even pays attention to that kind of thing.
Probably not; he certainly doesn’t complain when you get distracted and your cooking gets a little crispy.
You balance your doled out plate and get a cup of coffee as well, ready to wake up, be nice and alert for what will definitely be the most expensive wedding you’ll ever see. The people pay you no mind as you hand back to your room, thankfully no one’s around to watch you struggle to hold your plate and cup and unlock the door at the same time.
With a bit of alone time you crawl back into bed, find your own warmth still half-preserved under the hotel’s fancy blankets. You click the remote at the TV, novel at the fancy screen- and can’t help but smile at the early morning children’s programming that pops on. It’s comforting, reminiscent of home, and makes a warmth settle in your chest. But you have no personal interest in Sesame Street, so you scroll through the guide looking for something more interesting.
Like the news.
Like if he’s killed already.
You bite your tongue and select it, then take a fortifying sip of coffee (it’s too bitter, should’ve added more sugar). A man in a suit motions at a greenscreen map of the area, mimics a cold front coming in from the west. “No rain!” He declares cheerily, “Just windy and cool this week, and that should hold out until Halloween.”
That’s nice. It cuts back to the main anchors. “Governor Wallace’s new Green Energy Initiative plan will go into effect…” You tune it out, go back to the guide. There must not have been a kill yet, or at least not found. You think of the blood stain on your front porch, of the wet, heaving breaths. Your stomach flips and suddenly breakfast no longer smells good.
You power through it anyway. Maybe he was unlucky, maybe he couldn’t find anyone to satisfy his particular interests. No need to worry too much about… you shiver, shovel down a bite of eggs. Either he did or didn’t, and if he did then he’s safer out here. If he didn’t, that’s a later problem.
Without preamble you switch the channel; a ghostly horror movie plays, an early celebration for the holiday. It’s easy to go on autopilot from there, eating and drinking and staring blankly at the screen as a white-skinned phantasm rips open a man’s chest. Perfect to set that wedding atmosphere.
You end up watching the whole thing. The blood’s all wrong, runs too thin, too scarlet, but it’s a Hollywood mistake you can forgive. Afterall, it does show up on screen better and serves as a nice mental buffer, a pleasant mindless thing to observe, no real thoughts to concern yourself with.
bzzt. You blink and open your phone- a notification from a game. The mascot informs you of a new event, the Halloween Haunt finally starting- they’ve been plagued with technical issues, it’s a little shocking they even managed to get this update out and holy shit how is it already one o’clock?
The ghost pops up on screen just in time for you to escape the bed’s warm blankets. Your clothes flung off as you rush through dressing yourself, almost tripping as you pull on pants and hastily button your shirt. A good ten minutes burn just fighting the buttons on the cuffs which have somehow come undone. You check yourself in the mirror, feel the heat gather in your cheeks again. With the top button undone, a tinge of red is still visible on your shoulder, but as you hook the plastic through the eyelet, the silvery gray of your shirt covers it entirely. No one will know, no one will find out.
With shaking hands, you tie your tie, only having to consult your phone and start over once. Even if it’s a little lopsided, it still cuts a fine shape. You fix your hair last, keep it simple and easy to keep the attention off you. It’s not a bad look, all in all. Not many chances for you to get dressed up and formal- you almost wish Michael was here. He probably wouldn’t have much of a reaction to it, appearances and clothes not meaning much to him, but you do want to show off.
It’s a nice fantasy, being able to get that rare rise out of him just because you look different.
But there’s not much time to spare, so you stuff the room key and your phone into your pants pocket and shuffle out the door.
The main room of the hotel is empty, but as soon as you emerge out into the daylight, there’s buzzing activity. You’re not the last person to head over to the actual ceremony hall; dozens of people you don’t recognize chatter in the parking lot and on the lawn, pleasant voices and laughing echoing across the open field. A man that looks familiar but you can’t place smiles at you, gives a little wave so you awkwardly reciprocate and try to remember him. Probably someone from your extended family, maybe a cousin you haven’t seen since he was little.
In waves, everyone walks to the main building, taller than the hotel and surrounded by rustically manicured hedges. Huge (and probably meticulously placed) boulders dot the vibrantly green grass, leading you towards the main walkway. White garlands wind around the front door, wave lightly in the wind. The double door itself is stupidly massive, easily ten feet tall, propped open by two more of those little animal statues. Here, they’ve managed to find two graceful looking swans to match the wedding.
You step inside; the entryway is mostly empty, a few people idling on a set of stairs to your left. Bridesmaids in dreamy blue dresses, fretting over their hair and if Janice will be ready soon. One holds her shoes, dangling over the garland-wrapped banister, looking terribly bored.
You move into the main room, still staring at all their decorations. The back, southern wall is nothing but wide windows, showing off a balcony, all covered with sheer white curtains. A stone fireplace on the north wall is done up with white and blue flowers and satiny ribbons. In rows in front are little wooden folding chairs, lanterns and tiny pots with ivy cap each row. In the sea of faces, you don’t recognize anyone. It’s for the best, you decide. Just in case.
So you take a seat and wait.
An organ plays over hidden speakers. The entire crowd stands in one motion as Janice enters from the outside balcony. Her dress is beautiful. White and shimmering with soft glitter, huge and round like something from a fairytale. She’s stunning, grinning and blushing, switching between scanning the crowd and looking down to the floor, carefully avoiding knocking over any of the decor with her layered white dress.
Halfway down the aisle her gaze lifts, centers on Bill. Something in your chest clenches; he’s about to cry. Completely glossed over, his eyes crinkle in the corners with how hard he’s smiling- and trying desperately not to. Janice herself covers her mouth with one hand- and when she makes it up to the front she’s desperately trying to preserve her make-up, dabbing at her eyes before the tears can roll.
Love, that genuine bubbling feeling takes the room as Bill stifles an awkward little laugh of shock, his lips curling into a weird and genuine shape, trying so hard to reign himself in. Which, in turns, gets a little laugh from the guests. The officiant starts his monologue and your stomach hurts, a hollowness settles down in your gut. Tears well in your eyes as he goes on, voice sweet and thick, going on about compassion and commitment.
It’s so… normal. They can barely stop from shaking- in joy, in excitement- and as soon as they stumble through their I dos he’s laughing again. She wraps her arms around his neck and the tears do fall this time as she pulls him down for the kiss. His hands cup her cheeks, holding her lips to his as they continue on. It’s long and sweet and when they break apart there’s a long, tortuous moment where all they do is stare at each other, grinning.
A tap to your shoulder makes you turn- an older woman offers you a tissue. She smiles sweetly and whispers, “Weddings always make me cry too.”
“Here, you look like you need this.” A man says, offering you a fluted glass. You take it, offering a tight-lipped smile in return. It’s hard not to take offense, but you probably do look a little miserable. Despite your best efforts, the tears continued on as they moved all the guests into a little side room, rearranging the main room for the reception. You’d excused yourself to the bathroom to clean yourself up and minimize the blotchiness of your crying.
Still, it feels too rude to just leave. So from your secluded little corner you school your face into something more neutral- it’s her wedding, don’t cause a scene- and sip the drink you’d been given. It’s a pink champagne and isn’t awful, just strong enough to take the edge off.
Alright. You take a deep breath, press the cool glass to your cheek, listen to the bubbles pop to the surface. You don’t have to stay long, can make up some excuse about having to leave early in the morning. Just enough to not seem like a complete ass, then you can hide. That’s it- maybe a pleasant little conversation here and-
“Hey!”:
You startle so hard champagne spills over your hand. Janice, now in a much simpler white dress, steps back, stares wide-eyed. “Sorry, are you okay…?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine!” It’s rushed and probably doesn’t sound very honest. You deflect by dabbing at your hand with napkins. “Weddings just- just always make me cry.”
“Aww. I’m the same way,” She smiles, lays a well-moisturized hand on your arm. “Don’t worry, you’ve got plenty of time to find someone.”
It’s from your lips before you have time to think. “I already have.”
Shit. Joy takes over her face as fear lances your heart. “Really? You should’ve invited him! I gave you a plus one just for that.” You’re so fucked.
“I- I know. He just works a lot and I wasn’t sure if he’d be able to make it.” The napkin thins and tears, leaves strands of cheap paper along the back of your hand. It’s not… entirely a lie.
“Do your parents know about him yet?” She leans in, eyebrows high on her face, as though you’ve already divulging your secrets. “Is it serious?”
“Um. Yeah, I think so. I don’t…” Heat returns to your cheeks. A weight slides from your shoulders and your next smile is entirely genuine. Like an exhale on a breath you didn’t know you were holding, it comes out in a rush. “I don’t really see myself without him.”
“Aww,” Janice coos, touches your forearm. “I hope he’s good to you.”
Just as quickly, the relief turns to dread. The socially correct response is he is, not I’m lucky his only bite mark is hidden by a collar. Not he’s pressed a knife to my ribs and fought to desire to drive it in. Not he kills people who look like me.
All the words you should say are gone, left with a tight-lipped smile- a quiet “Thank you,” and- and- your brain misfires. You’re hallucinating. The champagne was spiked, had to have been because- “Michael?” because standing in the doorway is Michael Myers in his suit.
Janice blinks and turns and sees exactly the same thing. It’s… it’s like one of those bad photoshops of celebrity nudes. His face on someone else’s body. He’s not wearing the tie, but it’s no less absurd, no less of a fever dream. The only measurement you got was his shoulders, and it has thoroughly paid off; the suit jacket sits perfectly at his collar, narrowing at his waist, all of it leading down into well-shined, unscuffed dress shoes. Like he hasn’t been out at all. Your eyes scan back up; the buttons on his sleeves are undone, leaving them a little loose around his wrists, in turn they slightly hide his missing fingers, the other various scars along his hands from broken knives and desperate victims. Over his chest the white shirt is a little rumpled, but is buttoned neatly, save for the top two. And his face-
His gaze is... quiet. Simple. Not the predatory beast that threatens to pull you in with his hypnotic stare. He’s… observing, returned to his passive state; he glances around the room, taking in the massive displays of romantic opulence with significantly less wonder and longing than you. He looks at Janice’s reception dress, still white and layered and swaying with glittery specks, completely impassive. His gaze shifts to you- and anyone else would’ve missed it. His face darkens, pupils expandings a hair’s width, eyes dragging obscenely down your form before meeting your gaze.
Heat settles between your legs, makes the bite wound throb at your shoulder-
“Oh! Is this him?” She’s so chipper, so truly excited to meet the beau you had only just confessed to having. Leaning over, her voice drops to a whisper, “He’s a little old for you, isn’t he…?”
What can you say? “Yeah, this is Michael…!” You cross the room quickly, as though proximity alone will defuse whatever is about to happen. He follows you with his eyes, paying no mind as Janice also comes closer. You hand slides along his back, squeezes at his side. Please, please, let your presence stop whatever it is he’s doing.
“It’s very nice to meet you, we were just talking about you.” There’s just an edge of suspicion in her voice, but it has nothing to do what she should be worried about.
She waits- and after a moment her face quirks and. Oh. Right. Most people don’t know. “Michael doesn’t talk. He ah,” You look up to his face, dare to hope to find any kind of support in his eyes. There’s none, of course. He watches on indifferently, just curious as to what your plan is. “He was in a- an accident a long time ago... motorcycle skidded out.” You motion vaguely towards your own left eye, as though being polite and subtle. Michael, however, tips his head at the display, completely missing Janice’s little oh reaction, quieting immediately. Her clamming up presents an opportunity that you don’t pass up. “I need to run to the bathroom before dinner, though. I’ll catch up with you at dinner, okay?”
“Sure!” Something like relief passes over her eyes- and drains back out. “Oh, gosh, I should go make sure the kitchen is all ready…”
She turns back towards the main room while you drag Michael off towards the hallway where you first came in. This part of the building is nearly empty, most everyone concerned with food and the good smell emanating from the kitchen. Up near the doors, it’s quiet, all noise reduced to a low rumble that echoes through the heavy stone walls.
“What are you doing here?” You whisper, his only response is a miniscule cant of his head. Real fear twists at your belly, the possibility settles in harder than ever as you rephrase: “what if someone recognizes you?”
His face does not soften, does not betray a single thought behind those mismatched eyes.
This is what you wanted.
Some semblance of normalcy, a date to a wedding. Michael Myers in a suit, escorting you. And he does look good- sleek black jacket cutting such a nice shape on his shoulders, even if the cuffs aren’t done up right. Even his beard looks as though it’s been trimmed, which has to be impossible- but the impossibility of it does nothing to stop your hand from sliding up his chest to stroke at the stiff, white little hairs along his jaw.
“You won’t leave, will you? Even if I asked you to?” The hairs are too even, too clean. He must’ve broken into someone else’s room just to use their clippers. He says nothing, only moves with each breath as you waver under the weight of this. Your voice comes out small, almost inaudible. “I don’t want you to get caught.”
That gets a reaction. Michael’s huge hands settle at your hips, keeping you close as you fight to read his eyes. They’re too opaque- but the answer is simple. He’s here because he wants to be. Like one of his scenes left behind, it’s his own entertainment he’s engaging with- even got all dressed up for the part.
“Be careful.” You murmur, with one final stroke to his beard. “Please.”
His hands squeeze at your hips, the pressure familiarly asymmetrical. Glancing back towards the main room, the smell of hot food has only gotten stronger. With a final sniffle you lean away from him, rubbing your eyes with your sleeve and then downing the rest of your champagne. “It’ll be weird if we’re gone for too long.” That earns another head tip. It crosses your mind to explain She’ll think we’re off fucking somewhere, but that will definitely make it happen.
If anyone notices, if there’s even a hint of fear and not well-intentioned suspicion, you’re out. Not that it will matter. No matter how attentive you are, Michael will sense it first. He’ll hone in on it like a hunter- it matters more if his response will be fight or flight. He could slip out unnoticed, you’re absolutely sure, he’s escaped much tighter situations than a wedding in the middle of fucking nowhere… but you won’t swear by his ability to do so without bloodshed.
Your stomach clenches. If he wants to stay he’ll be here, all you can do is keep him to the corners, away from people, minimize conversations. So… you lead him back towards the main room. The previous archway and aisle and rows of chairs are all gone, replaced with long tables with baby blue table cloths. The little pots of ivy and lanterns have been relocated to decorate the tables. Most people are sitting, chatting away as the staff bustle around to bring out plates and glasses and more gold-leafed bottles of champagne.
Nobody notices your entrance. The rational part of your brain is screaming of course. In a real suit, maskless, not a single soul in attendance knows who he really is. He’s just an older man, here to celebrate a wedding. Your plus-one. Nobody knows, you tell yourself as you navigate towards the back wall. Nobody knows. It doesn’t settle your nerves at all, no matter how many times you repeat it.
Other people smile at you as you pass; you hope your face is at least close enough to a smile to not cause alarm. The table closest to the wall of doors is open, so you hastily sit there. Michael stands a moment before taking a chair to your right, his good eye closer to you. While you fidget with the tablecloth and sweat bullets, Michael is entirely still. He looks around the room, the only display of his interest at all. You do the same, albeit with much more fear.
“You missed her dress,” You say quietly, just as something to do. Anything to take your mind off the sea of faces. “It was huge. A big ballroom-style one. Little ribbons trailing off her veil.” He doesn’t care. You know, of course, but still his head turns towards you, a miniscule display of interest. “It was beautiful, but I can’t even imagine how much it cost.”
It’s so mundane, hell, it should be exciting little gossip, murmuring about their finances and how they could afford something so expensive, so beautiful. With Michael Myers next to you, it’s boring, mind-numbing. They could all be in danger, he could be in danger-- you don’t dwell on which of the two you’d prefer-- and nobody has the slightest fucking clue.
A young server in a vest apologizes about the wait, it’ll only be a minute more, and sets down two glasses of pink, bubbling alcohol. He smiles at Michael, who definitely does not return the look, but the server is already off, delivering more glasses to waiting people, not a care at all about the weird older man who didn’t smile back.
No clue.
They don’t know.
You blink and look around. As though a fog clearing, they don’t know. Everyone’s preoccupied with the event, with catching up with relatives, with the sweet gossip at Janice and Bill’s expense. With their hunger and excitement and chit-chat and nobody remembers what Michael Myers’s face looks like, they only ever remember the mask.
You lean back in your chair, feel the weight slide down your spine, out onto the floor. “How do they not know?” It’s more to yourself, but it earns another glance from Michael. You meet his gaze, but find no electricity there this time. He’s still lightly guarded, but it’s so faint you can barely find the tightness around his good eye. No, it’s mostly curiosity now. Like a birdwatcher observing the chittering, the songs and rituals, completely unnoticed in the trees.
You drink the champagne, let your eyes slide over the crowd, settle onto the table up front. Janice and Bill are chatting with someone in a crisp blue suit, maybe their coordinator. They’re somewhere between exhaustion and frustration- held aloft by the occasional glances at one another as their reception slowly takes form around them. You finish the glass, then take the one in front of Michael-- an inebriated Boogeyman is not what their wedding needs.
“Sorry for the wait!” The same server announces, returning a tray of plates. He sets down two plates, not even waiting for you to explain we didn’t order yet. It’s too much of a madhouse to correct him, he’s already skittering off to another table, setting down plates and bowls and sprinting back to the kitchen. Pasta with a light sauce sits before you- and honestly, you’re hungry and tired enough it wouldn’t have mattered what he’d given you.
Michael picks up his fork- and stiffens. A glance to his direction, and he’s scanning the room. A slow exhale- and he begins to eat. Quick as always, not a care at all for table manners, it’s for the best you’re in a far corner. Your own stomach flips unpleasantly, so you take it slow, watch as the dinner comes into being around you.
Eventually Bill stands, dinging his glass obnoxiously long before continuing into his speech. A long, winding monologue comes after, that you can’t quite follow- especially after someone delivers another two glasses of champagne. Michael snatches his before you can stop him- only to purse his lips at the taste and set the flute back down in front of you. Bill’s speech concludes with Janice looking teary-eyed and guests cheering. Someone toasts to the newly weds and you obligingly raise your glass. Michael’s eyes track your raised arm, linger over the crowd- but if he’s actually processing the words, the confessions of love and devotion, none of it reflects on his face.
He says nothing, shows nothing, merely eats and looks and occasionally tips his head at a phrase, at an emotional, happy sob. Things he doesn’t understand. You pick at your food, applauding when others do so, but you end up looking elsewhere. It’s a rare opportunity to see him process the whole scene. Now you are the birdwatcher, taking in each flick of his eyes, the subtle tightening of his lips, how his gaze narrows when Janice stands and shuffles over to a makeshift DJ station. She talks with someone there for a while, presents her phone, then goes back to her table with Bill. Someone at another table breaks out into laughter, Michael’s head turning, compensating for his blind eye, to look towards them. He reacts to each new stimulus with the same near disinterested look, no matter how novel it must be. Not a single hint as to what he’s thinking. Is it murder related, contemplating how he could escape unnoticed? Is it on the strangeness of human emotion? Just plain not understanding what’s happening?
You want to ask, want to know what it is he thinks about.
Any questions will be met with a head tilt, that little glint in his eyes that he knows something you don’t. The tiniest power he holds over you still elicits the same response.
He jerks towards you so violently you jump- first in fear, thoughts racing by- did someone know? But he doesn’t leave, doesn’t make any motion of aggression- and instead you’re left with the tiniest one-sided lift of his lip. They may not have a clue you’re dining with a serial killer, but he just caught you watching him. Your cheeks heat as you turn away, forcefully take a bite of pasta, ignore the weight of Michael’s eyes on the side of your face. Once, your watching of him would’ve warranted his own head tilt, curious on what it was you saw. It’s been long enough that he knows- that same affection that makes you touch him gently and seek his touch in return. Now, it’s just another way for him to make you shyly turn away.
“Can we move these tables back?” Someone asks from the front of the room- the best man, you think. All at once the people at the middle tables are up to their feet, extracting chairs and pushing everything out towards the walls.
Oh. That’ll probably include you. You’re up, joining the crowd and motion for Michael to stand. Thankfully, he’s compliant. Causing a scene now would be… motifying, first, and likely deadly, second. He does not, however, assist with dragging the table even closer to the walls. You manage to only stumble a little, laughing at yourself as your fingers slip off the plastic. It does earn you his attention once more, his hint-of-cockiness turning to air-of-inquisitiveness.
When you sit again, now only a foot from the stone-covered wall, the world continues right on spinning. It’s not awful; bad enough to have you pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes, but nothing unmanageable. Just… just a little tipsy. A few too many flutes too fast on a near-empty stomach. Michael stands for a long moment, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him. He must be burning up in that suit- too inside himself, too curious to voice any displeasure.
Music starts up again- this time it’s slow and melodic, soft piano- and you finally look up from your hands. Janice’s simpler white dress swirls around her as she sways, hand in hand with Bill. Speakers pulse with the lyrics, but the room is otherwise silent, everyone held quiet with each of the couple’s steps. She lays her head on Bill’s chest, tucks her face into his neck, but when she pulls back to look at him, her makeup has just begun to run. This time, Bill doesn’t stop his own tears, joining her in ecstatic sobbing.
A series of awws pour from the room- but your voice is caught in your throat, swollen shut by the same unexpected emotion as during the ceremony. You can say nothing, make no noise at all as they finish their first dance and motion for everyone else to come to the floor. A new song starts, synthy with a quick-beat. Young couples stand quickly, giddily rushing to the center of the room. In the new rush of movement, Michael stands, hard enough for his chair to scoot back and knock into the wall. Not to dance, please, not to dance- but Michael only moves along the wall, pushes the white curtains, and slips out the doors onto the balcony.
With everyone preoccupied with dancing and drinking, you slip off to the bathroom, the pulse of music covering each sniffle.
You don’t really mean to go back to the main room. After several minutes spent blotting your eyes with a damp paper towel, all you want in the world is to go home. Return to your own bed, curl up with your pillow as you do on those nights he’s out. Going back to the hotel room would be good enough- getting lost on the way out of the bathroom took you to the kitchens, first, then spat you back out to the gallery.
In the time you’ve been gone your plates have been cleaned up, replaced by someone else’s half-drunk glasses. The owners must be up dancing, because nobody else is in your little corner of the room. People fill the dance floor, the crowd waving, undulating with the rhythm of the music- now moved on to pop music, half the room singing along. You turn to leave-
A flash of silver and white and black- you raise your hands-
“Oh! Sorry!” The same server backs up, holds up his tray. Without pause, he grabs a plate and pushes it into your hands. “Cake’s here! Does your dad want some?” He looks around, eyebrows furrowing down.
Dad? The gears turn, leaves you puzzling as the server shrugs and continues on with a “There’s a lot more, just tell him to wave at me, okay?” He turns way, leaves you with a handful of sweet-smelling white cake and- oh for fuck’s sake, do they really think Michael is- ugh, nevermind. Another turn and you’re facing the table again. You can just leave the plate there, maybe someone else will eat it- all fancy and probably stupid expensive.
Would be a shame not to try some.
The design is simple, a chic white base with a tight grid of glittery white icing. Tiny silver balls decorate some of the intersections. Probably vanilla from the smell; classic, timeless, worth more money than your phone. You cut a bite off with your fork, turn the sponge in front of you-
Michael would enjoy this.
The thought comes unbidden, utterly intrusive and unhelpful. He’s already left, cut out at the worst possible time- as he always does. That’s a good thing, you angrily remind yourself. He leaves because he needs to kill, if he didn’t it’d be you or… or anyone else here. That’s the trade.
It doesn’t change the fact that now you’re thinking of Michael’s sweet tooth, his unending appetite for anything remotely sugary, devouring down all chocolate and candies and pastries, no matter how well you think you hide them. He’d love this. It’s another… another experience you want to share with him, another little shot at normalcy that comes so close, circling the rim before falling off into disappointing nothingness. You don’t even realize you’re moving until your hand is on the cold knob, turning-
A gust of cold early October air makes you pinch your face, the air cutting right through your nice clothes, not a hint of warmth remaining. It’s a stupid idea- but it feels good to be out here. Not in a physical way; no, you’re immediately freezing, shiveringly miserable, but in some way that makes your chest feel tight. You’re out here- and Michael, too, is out here somewhere. Probably long gone by now.
You walk on, out to the edge of the balcony, gazing out onto rolling waves and lumps of tree tops. The moon has half-risen, casting silvery light from one side, warm yellow leaking out from the main hall’s incandescents. Completely invisible from inside the building, there’s a little set of stairs down on the right side, following along the side of the building, down the hill towards the carefully manicured trees and bushes below. It’ll keep you away from everyone else’s prying eyes, from any other half-drunk wedding goers. Maybe the path winds around, leads back towards the hotel. You can get some sleep,
The wood whines pitifully as you descend, so you keep one hand on the railing, your eyes on your feet and when you lift them-
He’s already turned towards you, nearly fully facing you to compensate for his blind eye. He’s even more ethereal in the moonlight, silvery beams bleaching out his dark suit, casting shadow over half his face, obscuring the scarred half. There’s no sign of shock, but surely he must be. There’s no way for him to think you’d follow him, no way for you to know he was still here. No sign of shock, but there is something else. An extra layer of flatness to his expression, neutrality edging onto… you’re not sure. His presence alone extends outwards, a pressure in the air that surrounds him like a storm.
At the back of your neck your hairs stand on end.
And- and you’re not sure how you feel. You… you feel like you’ve overstepped something. It should be fear, cold and immutable, the very chilling realization that he’s been itching to feel blood all day, only for you to wander back into his sightline. No, no it’s… it’s something else that swirls in your chest, too tipsy to focus on the real terror lurking.
“I’m sorry,” You say quietly, half-slurred. “I thought you left.”
He only stares at you in return. You’ve already surpassed your worst expectation. He stares- and his eyes drop down to your hands.
“Oh, it’s the wedding cake.” You extend your hands before you even ask, “Do you want some?”
There’s a long moment- Michael does not move except for the minute, rhythmic rise of his shoulders on each inhale. The coveralls hid most of the movement, now exposed with much better-fitting clothes. Still, he does not move, eyes locked onto the layers of pale sponge and icing. Fear had only just begun to curl its hands around your heart- when MIchael’s arms finally lift, forcibly unfolding his fingers to take the offered plate.
He holds it, continues staring- he must be contemplating something, weighing the pros and cons of some unspoken decision. By all means, taking the plate alone should’ve answered the question: would he like some? But with that murderous itch under his skin, maybe nothing was that straightforward for him now. Sooner or later he does land on a decision. He takes the little plastic fork- so tiny in his big hands- and takes a bite.
One eyebrow twitches.
He sets the plate onto the wide wood railing and that sugar-chasing sweet tooth takes over whatever urge he’s fighting. Michael has managed to avoid killing you so far, so you’ll push your luck just a little: you edge in closer to him. His eyes slide over towards you, but he does not stop his hurried pace of cake eating. More importantly, he doesn’t move away. So you inch in even closer, close enough your arm bumps his- and he’s such a radiator.
Through at least three layers of clothes, Michael’s heat burns through to your skin, a safe refuge from the brisk wind. You can’t stop yourself now, leaning in ever more until your head rests on his shoulder. The suit is crisp, smells of detergent, the tiniest hint of sweat beneath. Lifting your head up towards his and you find that same floral soap as the shower; he must’ve cleaned up here- was it an empty room or yours?
He stops as he gets to the outer edge of the cake, the white icing like a rind to an orange wedge. He takes no more bites, but instead holds the fork in what must be another silent decision making battle. Much shorter this time around, he lays the fork down- leaving the handle pointed towards you.
You glance to his face- but he’s not looking at you. He’s staring down at the cake itself. It has to be intentional- so you carefully take the fork for yourself, waiting for him to stop you. He doesn’t. There’s no hand to your throat- so you cut a piece with that thick outer layer of icing.
It’s not vanilla. The taste is a shock, so different, so much sweeter than what you’re expecting you almost gag- no, the icing is white chocolate. But once that initial shock wears off… it’s soft, moist; the sponge itself must be some faint vanilla, but how it mixes with the white chocolate it becomes something else entirely, sweet and decadent and not at all the simple cake you’d expected. You take another bite- and Michael’s hand closes over your own.
You surrender the fork, lean up against him, resume leeching his warmth in retribution. “I was going to give it back.”
Blue sparks at the corner of his eye- and even half inebriated, your breath catches. A warning, silent as it is, that his patience is just on the edge of snapping. Words flee from you, wither on your tongue. Proximity has brought his ire yet, so you stay close, bask in his radiating heat as he finishes his (your) cake.
A soft melody filters down- down from the main hall’s speakers. A slow dance starting above you, couples taking to the floor with blushing cheeks and averted eyes, sweating palms as they sway to the music. At the center of it all must be Bill and Janice, her cheek laid on his shoulder- and the pain in your chest crescendos.
And in a heartbeat, none of it matters. Michael’s tenuous control of his urges, the bite at your shoulder, the scars from when he’d lost the reins- none of it. You lay your hand on his shoulder and when you guide him to turn, he does. His face is blank, impassive, utterly unreactive as your lead him. Your hands shake a little as you take his, big and warm, and murmur a halfhearted, “Come here,” a desperate lick to your lips, “Wanna try something.” You plant his right hand on your hips- a light press to tell him to hold there, and take the other in your hand, turning until you’re palm to palm.
You can’t lace your fingers. His thumb overlaps yours, your first finger between two of his but the rest- the rest curl over gnarled scar tissue, warped and rippled and tougher than the surrounding skin. Pressure builds behind your eyes, but that’s okay. He’s missing a few parts, but that doesn’t matter either. No, when you lay your head on his chest and his heat washes over you, lulls you into closing your eyes, you hear the steady, slow beat of his heart- that’s what’s important. The smell of the suit’s detergent, of his pilfered, floral soap against the crisp autumn air-
You sway- and truth be told, the first time, you’re not entirely sure if it was intentional, matching the flow of the love ballad above or the champagne’s continued vengeance. The second sway, weight shifting carefully to the other side, however, is entirely on purpose.
This time, Michael does not move.
A shred of stolen intimacy, a wisp of a wish that fades as quickly as it happened. The music plays on, a man’s voice lost in the distance, through the glass and wood and stone facade- but the tremor of his voice is the same. Longing and love and joy and against Michael’s chest you sniffle, disengage your hand to wipe at your eyes.
“Sorry,” It doesn’t matter; apologies mean nothing to him. “I know you’re not…”
Pain spreads through your lip as you bite it. Shame and fear and regret all bubble up at once and you need to get away, need space from his suddenly unbearable heat. A push at his chest- and Michael’s hands clamp down at your hips. Terror floods in, blocks out all other emotion until your blood is ice, heart frozen, unable to even look up at him. You know exactly what you’ll find- sharp, cold eyes like daggers, focused on the only living prey he can see.
He lifts- and you squeal, unable to stop yourself- and dig your fingers into his suit jacket, cling desperately to him as he swings you around- shoes not even skimming the wooden boards below. He’ll throw you, or drop you over the side, or slam you into the stonework and that’ll be the end, the epilogue to your romance- and wood scrapes at your legs. The balcony’s railing drags at your pants, pulls them low on your hips, dipped between Micheal’s iron palms- and you can’t not look.
Seated on the aged wood, you’re still not as tall as him. Each breath comes quick and shallow, fingers still locked to his suit, white knuckled and aching and when you look at him… It’s everything you feared and so much worse. His left hand closes around your throat, thumb and middle finger meeting neatly, closing the collar around you, the lightest pressure making your head spin. Then, he squeezes.
You’d cry if you could, but not even a whimper can make it past the solid block of his hand- you grasp at his wrist, squeeze gently. No attempt to pry him off, no futile struggle for your life. If he’s tired of you, of your tenderhearted bullshit, that’s all there is. All you can do is watch, even as your pulse echoes in your ears, as black edges into your vision- his face comes in close, fills your vision.
And then- the pressure releases. You inhale- and lips cover your own. You brace, expect the tide of teeth and rough, grabbing hands- all you get is softness. His lips are dry, lightly chapped, but the kiss is… Your heart aches in your chest, tears finally springing free because your lips slide against his, unhurried and gentle. Fingers at your neck flex and stiffly release, his other hand still digging three bruising points into your flesh, but he’s soft, only his beard prickling as your cheeks and chin. You break off to breathe, broken into a sob- and Michael surges forward again.
His tongue, hot and wet, slides against your lips and you can’t deny him. White chocolate and vanilla coat his tongue, brings the gift of sweetness with each lick over your teeth. EVen restrained as he is, you’re melting under him, tipping your head back into his unflinching palm. He’s warm and sweet and you need more. Fingers scrabble up his chest, curling around to the back of his neck, just to keep him close-
And salt slides into your mouth. Salt? You gasp, take in as much air as you can- and Michael surges forward. No longer kind, he devours you, delves his tongue between teeth and cheek then as far down your throat as he can before sinking his teeth into your lower lip. Tears. It was your own tears you had tasted, tracks drying cool and irritated over your cheeks and now- now copper covers your tongue.
His fingers close again, tight and cruel as he sucks at the wound, draws ever more blood up to the surface until it’s spilling over your chin, dripping onto your chest and lap. It’s not enough, it’s never enough; his teeth sink in again, incisor catching the first bite and dragging along, splitting your lip further. Tears come again and you’re whimpering, arching into him-
Cold air makes your lungs burn. He walks backwards, crosses the little platform in two steps, taking his warmth with him. The wind rustles the trees below, covering music and your weak gasps. In the moonlight, his hands open and close repeatedly, curling into fists so tight he must be cutting his palms with his nails. Every muscle is held stiff, his good pupil is blown wide, lips pink and gently parted as he licks the red that stains his mouth and chin. It’s smeared across the lower half of his face, masking his silvery beard with quickly oxidizing brown.
It’s not far off from when he returns from a kill, stinking of blood and so wound up and on the edge of snapping.
He wants to kill you. Every instinct you have is screaming run; it’s all you can do to sink your nails into the wood railing and hang on. He stepped away from you, you repeat that in your head, he’s backed off. He knows- from the incessant flexing of his hands, over and over, he knows he’s too close to the edge. There’s no point in running; no matter how far you get, all that matters is what’s happening in Michael’s mind.
And finally, the scales tip. He turns, and without any noise at all, he stalks off, following the balcony around the side of the building.
The wind blows, bites cold needles into your skin, and you wait. Numb and freezing and… and you’re in no state to consider your emotions now. Your lip throbs, still leaking blood lazily. You press the sleeve of your shirt to it, already ruined from the dripping streaks.
Should’ve known one way or another you’d end up bloodstained. You sniffle, use the other sleeve to wipe at your cheeks, leave them hot and fuzzy-feeling. You wait; music above you changes, shifts through a playlist, moving back on to high-energy dance songs which only serve to grate on your already frayed nerves, makes your skin prickle more than the icy wind.
Where was he now? Out in the woods, navigating his way to someone else’s cabin, or perhaps he’ll take a car, find a nice neighborhood to terrorize. He’ll have a satisfying night out while you- you-
Your hands shake with more than just the cold. You breathe hot air into them anyway, rub them as though that will solve the same problem that has your stomach twisting.
The music dies down, leaves distant, muted noises- people talking, shoes scraping the floor. They’ll be leaving soon. You should be gone first. It probably can’t be passed off as a simple nosebleed, and the caring cooing of half-drunk wedding goers would not help. So- you leave. Exactly the same way he did. This time, however, you watch ahead of you, stare into the lowlight of late evening for the faintest sign of Michael or his mask.
Another encounter might not leave you so lucky.
But as you round the corner, he’s not there. You can’t even feel his eyes on you, and for once you feel utterly alone. The walkway does wrap around, leads out to the side of the main hall, near a staff entrance. Thankfully, there’s nobody around this door- but at the front, a huge rectangle of yellow floods the night, stretches out into the darkness- and good-natured cheering pierces the air. The twisting in your stomach turns to stone, solid and sickly and only making your legs move faster, to get further away from the crowd. They’ll be kept busy for a while, setting up a nice walk out, getting their cameraman ready.
The walk back seems longer, emptier in the darkness.
You opt for the backdoor, given the circumstances. It’s cracked open, warmth from the air conditioning system leaks out as you approach- but Michael is long gone. His suit is a mess of black and white fabric, puddled on the floor. It’s the best possible outcome, honestly. You don’t even realize you’re picking up each peace and flattening them out, placing them reverently on the other bed. Your clothes, however, do not get the same treatment.
In fact, they get hardly any treatment at all. You truly did plan on stripping down and getting into the shower, washing away the blood that’s streaked on you face- but as you sit on the edge of your bed to toe off your shoes, all you can think about is absolute bone-weary exhaustion. Without shoes, you slump backwards onto the duvet- the last conscious thought spared to glance at the double door, the make sure it was still left unlocked for Michael’s return.
Cold. That’s the first thing you notice. Cold- and droning like white noise. Warmth still clings to your chest, but a chill creeps over-- Your eyes snap open, arms shooting out, searching the dark because fingers touched your side. What you find, of course, is broad shoulders and wobbly latex. Michael. But what you find is also wet.
You recoil first- hands disengaging as he continues what he’s doing: flipping the blankets over, which you must’ve crawled under in your sleep, and pulling harshly at your pants. A seam pops- and you mumble in frustration, undoing the buttons with half-asleep hands. As soon as it’s open, he rips them down your legs. You hiss, the fabric stinging like carpet burn down your thighs. He’s keyed up, too excited from a fresh kill to even care- your underwear is shredded before you can even lift your hips to pull it off.
Fuck, it’s going to be one of those nights.
One massive hand keeps you still, holds you hips in place while the other unzips his coveralls with a zzzzt. Electricity sparks in your belly; he’s going to fuck you. The thought of his cock alone makes your thighs press together, the sweet promise of release so tempting after the last two days. His knees press into the mattress, your whole body shifting as it dips under his weight- and he doesn’t even wait for you to get resettled. The hot head of his cock rubs blindly between your legs; you don’t bother concealing your gasp as he brushes your clit.
In the darkness, it’s only you and him. Time and space fall away, nothing left in existence but his body moving against yours, the raw physical sensation of heat and pressure and each of his exhales echoing in the mask. Your fingers grab at his shoulders, just for an anchor, twist into the coveralls- and it’s wet. You shudder, imagine how he must look, coated head to toe in viscera, tracked blood straight to your suite and-
You don’t smell iron.
His clothes are wet, but they are also cold. The mask is just visible with the low moonlight that sneaks in through the curtains- and it’s clean. Cleaner than you remember ever seeing it, almost starkly white. One flop of synthetic hair hangs darkly, solidly, over his latex forehead. You trace your fingers up over the slightly melted edge, over rubbery ears.
Michael forces himself inside you with one stroke; your cunt burns with the stretch, all limbs closing around him in desperation to keep him still. Tears spring to your eyes once more, teeth scraping open your bitten lip- and all you can do is tell yourself to breathe, to focus on the coming pleasure, because it will, it always does, no matter how cruel Michael chooses to be.
So your snap your thighs closed around his waist, locking him deep inside while you clench and shiver in pain and shock and the first trembling whispers of good because fuck, he’s so big. Your walls flutter around him, body struggling to stretch to accommodate him. Warmth replaces the cool, radiates out from between your legs and- and something isn’t right.
Michael should be drawing back, forcing your legs apart and pounding away until the fuel of his bloodlust has burned off, more animal than man- but he’s not. Rain water drips onto your chest, runs off the shape of his false face, the heavy noise of his breathing masked by the soft rumble of rain and thunder. Bent over you, he’s not quite on you like he normally is- no, he’s leaned away, enough for you to stare into the pitch black holes where his eyes should be. There’s no light to see the gray or white beneath, but they must be fixated on you.
“Michael?” You murmur, too sleepy to mask the concern there. He doesn’t even tip his head. It’s not panic, not yet- if he thought he was in danger he wouldn’t be still like this, if it was some new type of sadism, there’d still be an air of it on him. This is… something new, something you haven’t yet been able to pick up the little signs of.
Your hands unwind from his soaked coveralls, the joints creaking from the effort. The fabric is rough and even more abrasive still soaked with water, but you stroke his arms as best you can and seek out his face in the darkness. Without any reaction you skate higher, one hand dancing up his chest, just past the drooping collar, to the thin strip of skin visible between the rough cotton and smooth latex.
“Michael…?” His name hangs on your lips- and he answers with his hips.
The animal drive has disappeared entirely. It’s a smooth roll, shallow- cautious. Where you had expected force and pain is softness; you gasp, part shock and part pleasure- and Michael must take it as a good sign. He keeps this strange pace and you dig your fingers into the shoulders of his suit, squeezing more rainwater out with each thrust. Your body isn’t sure what to do- so used to producing quick, efficient lubrication, you’re nearly gushing for him now. This sort of kindness from Michael is foreign, saved for when he’s injured or sick or- or particularly cruel. But this isn’t that- it’s new.
You can’t even begin to understand his motives- why he needs this- but you can still give it to him. When you wrap your arms behind his neck and pull him closer, he only resists for a moment. Closer- closer until you can hear his soft pants from behind the mask, feel the heat of his breath with each puff through the nose holes.
When he shifts his weight, he slides deeper- stroking so gently along places that have only known his brutal paces. You gasp, pull his hips closer with your legs- and the tilt of his head towards your mouth is not at all lost on you. Without prompting, he expands upon the motion: sliding nearly all the way back out until you’re whimpering, aching for his return- and pushing in so slow, finding his way so deep within you until tears gather at your eyes.
”Michael,” It’s a prayer, an acknowledgement, a thank you-
His breath catches; if your hands were not on him you wouldn’t have even felt it. He keeps pace, betrays no other hints of his reaction- fucks you deep and slow, rolls his hips with each thrust, grinds against your clit so sweetly- but you felt it, that sharp little inhale.
With his head tipped towards you, it’s hardly a stretch to reach the latex. Cool and as clean as you’ve ever known- you kiss blindly in the dark. It’s too smooth to be the lips, slightly puckered with melting- must be his cheek. It isn’t for long, because Michael turns, meets you halfway. The rubber lips taste like rain water, not at all like the cruel mouth that lies just beyond- the taste of blood on his tongue as sweet as vanilla frosting. You kiss him and all the while tension settles between his shoulders, radiates down his arms.
”Michael,” You repeat, this time with purpose, you scrape your nails against the harsh cotton of his coveralls to emphasize it. This time, it’s his hips- a thrust just too harsh to be completely controlled. It’s a spark to kindling; the kind of treatment your body’s been waiting for- and the “Yes!” that follows is not intentional at all.
And still- in the darkness you feel his resolve, the decision he’s made- whatever game he’s playing. He doesn’t give in, as much as his fingers are threatening to tear the sheets, he slows- keeps his pace even.
There is one thing, however, you’re sure he can’t resist. Delicately- as much as you can be while being fucked- you wrap one hand around his left wrist. He doesn’t react at all, hardly seems to notice- except with you tug at it, urge it away from its death grip on the sheets. This he tips his head at. “Michael,” You whine, tug again for emphasis. The mask tips the other way, his pace slowing with curiosity. He gives in, shifts his weight to his other arm, lets you move his hand-
The seams pop to the left of your head, his grasp shearing through them as you guide his three-fingered hand to your throat. The weight of it alone has your pussy tingling, every nerve woken, waiting for him to deliver. You think, perhaps, you might be crazy to taunt him like this, to get this wet at the thought of him choking you.
It’s not a thought for long.
The muscles in his palm twitch once before he adjusts the grip. His hand rises up, forces you head backwards and squeezes. Not a single moan escapes his grasp, but he must know- because the mask tips again, the empty back eyeholes boring straight into you, watching every reaction. And like that, his interest in being soft has evaporated.
He fucks you- the same fervor you’d expected after a hunt finally manifesting with each thrust, his cock ricocheting inside you, gives no room for hesitation. It doesn’t matter- darkness is buzzing at the corners of your vision, eyes growing heavy and tired, barely able to keep awake if it weren’t for the force of Michael’s hips. You’re fading, head lolling with each impact-
Michael’s grip loosens. Air floods your burning lungs- and you’d been so oxygen deprived you didn’t know how close you were. He doesn’t even let you moan; his hand closes around you again before any noise slips out. Your throat vibrates under his palm and you wonder if he knows you’re screaming his name as you tip over. With no air every feeling is amplified, your adrenaline-fried brain bringing every stimulus up and up until it’s unbearable.
Clamping down on him as hard as you can doesn’t deter him at all; he fucks you without pause even as your mind frays. Heat pulses out from your pussy, radiates down your legs, up into your chest- and you arch your back up, press more of your skin to the cold cloth of his suit. Your nails rip at the sheets, at his back, at anything you can reach- you don’t even realize you’d been digging your knees into his sides until he grabs one and forces your legs apart, all his weight held on your femur.
He grunts- hardly more than a thought of a noise in his chest, a hot puff of air through the mask and his hips stutter. He plunges deep, buries himself inside you as he spills.
“Yes, yes…” you murmur, stroke along his arms as he stills, the softest of tremors shaking his shoulders.
And all at once he collapses over you. Heat and solid muscle and damp cloth compress you into the mattress. It should be a cage, should be the inescapable anchor of your life- but his breath slows in your ear, fades from heavy pants to the slow, even noise that whistles through latex. The weight of him is real, a solid mass that anchors you to the world when everything else makes it feel like you should be flung from this spinning rock. Because you shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be wrapping your arms around him to draw him ever closer, shouldn’t be hiding your face into his neck, pressing one cheek to skin and the other to rubber. It’s easy- so, wickedly easy to float here, to bask in his heat, in how he still fills you, even as he softens.
He’s still, motionless save for the rise and fall of his chest.
“I love you,” You whisper, feeling your lips brush cracking latex.
He doesn’t understand the word, you’re sure. You’ve always known. You say it anyway for your own sake, lest the feeling eat through your chest like acid. Because there is relief in saying it, in acknowledging that for all of the shouldn’ts you think of, the fact contradicts them.
He shifts, moves his weight to one arm while the other hand settles over your ribs.
His thumb strokes your skin.
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⸻ SAINT MATTHEW'S ACADEMY II (preview)
- "i haven't quite moved on from who you were before"
SYNOPSIS ⸻ heeseung at the start thought he wouldn't mind if you forgot him. but now with his best friend fighting for that sacred position in your heart, he can't help but try to make you remember.
PAIRING ⸻ lee heeseung x fem!reader x park sunghoon
GENRE ⸻ love triangle, exes to ??, friends to ??, private school au, angst, smut, fluff
TAGS ⸻ tba.
EST. WC ⸻ 20-25k
PREVIEW BELOW CUT ->
No more words, you said no more words after his confession. You stayed silent, and that pain flooded you today. The silence stayed with you.
Every night you’d spend on a phone call with him, laughing because no matter how hard you begged him he wouldn’t hang up first, was now filled with the darkness and tranquility of your room, the only sound being the cars that sped past your window or occasionally drunk people who’d loudly call out to taxi’s.
A tall figure towered over you, casting a dark shadow on your papers. An intense scent radiated off of them and you knew exactly who it was.
“Did Sunghoon come to school today?” Jay asked, just like he has every single day.
There was also Sunghoon. Another person you hadn't spoken to. Another person that just disappeared.
His presence in the situation felt so foggy, confusing. Your growing feelings for the boy also confused you.
Did Heeseung tell him to kiss you like that, touch you in those places?
You tried calling him, once, then twice and you’d call again a third time just in case the other two didn't go through. But he didn’t answer anymore. You didn't know if you wanted to speak to him so badly to find out what happened before the party or because you missed him.
Maybe it was both.
Jay chose to stick by Sunghoon almost immediately, which was appaling considering he knew Heeseung much longer. He claimed that Sunghoon just gave into his manly desires and Heeseung is wrong for punching him over nothing. ‘I’d do the same to her if I were him’- Jake forwarded a couple weeks back.
You were no longer mad at Jay, you’d no longer get annoyed at his snarky, degrading remarks. You just accepted the fact that he’ll never get better.
“No, he didn’t” you replied, turning around to face him “Just like he didn’t yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that one too” you added, a sarcastic smile on your face.
He dyed his hair, the blond locks no longer complimenting his sharp features. He looked much softer with the brown dye.
He sighed “Can I sit?” Jay eyed the seat next to you, and you looked at him amused.
“You want to sit next to a woman? Won’t my female aura disturb your studying?” you scoffed, a hint of sarcasm in your tone.
He rolled his eyes “Very funny” he looked over to Jake who has finally caught a whiff of him “Jakey, what you say?” he tilted his head.
The relationship between them used to be strong, but that’s probably because Jake pretended to be someone different, someone much ‘cooler’. Cooler as in a lame pig who liked to shove alcohol down innocent girls throats.
Oh you’d never let him forget that.
“Do whatever you want, I don’t care honestly” he replied, avoiding eye contact with him.
That’s how it was most day’s at school. Jake and Jay pretended to hate each other, not care, even though deep down, they still had so much left to say. Jay would come down to the study hall with an excuse of looking for Sunghoon, just so he wouldn’t be lonely.
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Helluva Boss Sinsmas Spoilers!!!
So much to talk about. I am absolutely feral right now. Even with a bit of time to process everything, I'm still not okay (in the best way possible).
Blitz, giving Stolas lots of horse plushies to cuddle with, cooking Stolas food, helping him with shopping, laundry, getting food and clothes, hell EVEN FUCKING ROBBING stores for Stolas! He's giving Stolas everything he needs right now!!
Not to mention this!!!!
HE HIRED STOLAS!!!!
I also noticed there were a lot of Season 1 parallels. For example:
There were even parallels to "You Will Be Okay" within Octavia's solo, "I Will Be Okay". (Actually, now that I think about it, it might be the revise version/Octavia version of "You Will Be Okay".
Speaking of Octavia...
I made a theory post some time ago about the possibility of her coming in to save her dad.
I WAS FUCKING RIGHT!!!!
Also, I love this anime/manga effect that they chose to do. I was not expecting that and I LOVED IT!!
It is bittersweet, really. She still saved him (and Blitz), obviously deep down she still cares and loves her dad. She's still hurt and disappointed that, in her eyes, he left her for Blitz. I mean, she's not wrong. That's technically what happened, even though we all knew that Blitz would've died if it weren't for Stolas. But she's disappointed that he broke his promise. She has every right to be upset right now.
I know Stolas did everything he could to protect Octavia, to avoid giving her the similar trauma that he went through as a kid. But even then, I feel like some of this complicated stuff could be avoided if he had just told her the truth. Even though it's a hard pill to swallow, Octavia still needs to know the truth about everything.
And yes, I know that Stolas tried to tell her at the end, but at that point, it was technically too late. Octavia is not gonna hear him out right now or any time soon. And that hurts, for both of them.
Perhaps one day, Octavia will learn what's really going on behind the scenes. Perhaps she'll understand better why Stolas acted the way he did, and why he did all of those things. She doesn't have to forgive him right away (though, she could forgive him much later on if she wants to). But I still have a strong feeling, despite everything, deep down, she still loves her dad, even if everything's complicated right now.
Moving on...
MILLIE'S PREGNAT!!!! AHHHHH!!!!
She even called up Sallie May for advice!!! She's worried about how Moxxie would react!!
Honestly, I'm highly sure Moxxie would still love Millie and support her. I really hope he'd be happy with having a child (or children if they end up being twins or triplets). Maybe he'd also be worried about ending up like his shitty father, in which Millie would reassure him that he is NOTHING like his father and never will be.
And of course, Blitz would try to give them Parenting 101 Lessons on What To Do and What NOT To Do. Maybe Stolas would also try to help them out as well, but I feel like he'd get very emotional, because it'd remind him of his daughter.
One bonus thing I wanna mention real quick: Loona's still calling Blitz "Dad".
Alright this post is way too fucking long. I'm so sorry but there's too much to talk about and point out. And I'm sure there's a lot more to talk about, like Blitz and Stolas acting like an actual couple. But I'm gonna leave it here.
Anyway... how are y'all feeling about the Season 2 Finale?
#Helluva Boss#Helluva boss spoilers#helluva boss rant#helluva boss season 2#helluva boss sinsmas#sinsmas#helluva boss blitz#stolitz#stolas#octavia#helluva millie#helluva moxxie#i am not okay#i am feral#i love this episode so much
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Maybe a good/better ending AU? 🥹
What about a set of headcanon designs of formal/evening attire for the Tulpar Crew? May or may not include Jimmy, and Curly's condition is up to you. :3
OMG YIPPIE YES! I LOVE THIS ASK BC I’VE THOUGHT TO MYSELF SO MANY TIMES “oh man, what would a better ending look like?” BC I SEE SO MANY POSTS AND ART PIECES ON IT! THANK YOU FOR THE ASK I LOVE YOU MWAH MWAH!💕💕
Mouthwashing Better AU+
Formal Attire!
TW: Mentions of R*pe
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
-I like to believe in this better AU, when Anya tells Curly about what Jimmy has done to her, he immediately confronts him and pulls NO punches.
-Curly wants to believe it's some sick joke for his own sanity, but he knows Jimmy and what he's capable of (being somebody's friend for twenty-some-odd years does that.)
~"Hey man, what's up?"
~"Anya told me. Jimmy, man...what the fuck is wrong with you? Are you serious?"
-Doesn't bother contacting cooperate before deciding to put their cryogenic chamber to good use protecting Anya (not without heavy resistance on Jimmy's end, kicking and scratching trying to avoid being confined.)
-The rest of the haul went rather smoothly with maybe a few very minor bumps and scraps here and there.
-There's plenty of team bonding like game nights. Daisuke always wins much to everyone's dismay, but it's fairly funny watching Anya get pissed off and claim he's cheating at an "un-cheatable' game.
-Without Jimmy around, no one feels that they have to walk on eggshells anymore (this especially applies to Anya.)
-When they finally make it back to Earth, they're all so relieved yet saddened.
-Even though they are ecstatic to get back to their regular lives, they had grown to be a family over the past year.
-Lots of hugs and tears (mostly from Daisuke) and promises to meet up as often as all of them can!
-Jimmy is unfrozen and put on trial, being convicted of rape and thrown in prison. He gets counseling and progresses into a much better person but remains in prison for a long time ultimately deciding that when he gets out, he won't contact anyone on the Pony Express team. (He fades from their memories over time and they have no idea what became of him.)
-Daisuke goes home and reconnects with his parents and sister after being gone for a year, blabbering about everything that occurred and about how much fun he had interning for Swansea (who he calls every so often to keep in touch.)
-After a couple months or so, he finally decides to apply to Maryland Institute College of Art and gets accepted! (His parents are just happy he's finally applying himself.)
-Swansea already had a preestablished family prior to joining the Tulpar, a family in which he was so grateful to see again when he got back and vice versa.
-He took a very deserved period of self TLC before going back to work the auto-body shop he and his daughters ran!
-Curly had the most eventful time after leaving the Tulpar as he wasn't sure he wanted to be a captain anymore after that trip.
-He takes some time, job hopping from being a commercial airlines pilot, a line service technician, and finally settling on a less glamourous yet much more significant title, Professor Curly at Purdue University.
-Speaking of college, Anya decides to go back to school in an attempt to get her master's in Nursing and after several setbacks, she manages to graduate with a 3.56 making her the dean's list!
-It's her very graduation that has the crew (minus Jimmy of course) reuniting after several years!
-Graduations are an important event, especially college ones! This is exactly why each member comes dressed in what they view as "formal attire."
-While all of the men dawn suits of various colors, Anya wares a beautiful plum colored ankle length gown fitted with three golden star pins that corset the back under her ceremonial garb. On her feet are tasteful golden, shimmery flats that serves to complement the pins as well as allowing her to move as needed. (AKA she cannot walk in heels for the life of her.) Chooses to steer away from any Jewlery and leaves her hair as is naturally. Usually wearing very minimal makeup, Anya decides to go all out for this special occasion! https://pin.it/aAdHL9ahttps://pin.it/aAdHL9a0H0H
-Daisuke is clade in a salmon-colored suit (the same color as his Hawaiian shirt he wore in his days in the Tulpar) that is adorned by golden fixings on the cuffs. While his hair, now grown slightly longer, is pulled back into a neat ponytail, he decides against a tie or bow, rather leaving the top button undone and open showing off two layered necklaces. One a locket of his family and the other a simplistic, thin chain. He wears red dress shoes that do not compliment his attire at all, but as long as he liked it who cares? He too decides to wear a bit of makeup to enhance his features. Despite his time in college, Daisuke remains as cheerful and free-spirited as he was in the past!
https://pin.it/6BJb0uEGc
-Curly's attire consists of a very plane navy blue suit to compliment his eyes. The suit is similar to Daisuke's in style and cut, but instead of gold fittings his are silver! The only one in the bunch to wear a belt and he makes sure it's black to match his shoes and tie! His curly hair is slicked back with a few left dangling as framing pieces.
-Lastly, Swansea comes in a regular black suit and tie with his favorite sneakers from his collection on. He has a silver tie clip snapped on to ensure it stays on straight (you cannot convince me he does not have one of those) that match his cuff buttons! His greying hair is combed back into that neat style that older gentlemen wear, courtesy of his wife! He originally just wanted to go in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, but his wife scolded him into changing on the condition he could still wear the sneakers.
-The graduation goes flawlessly, and emotions run high as they all crowed into cars heading to the nearest restaurant for good food and even better company.
#mouthwashing#jimmy mouthwashing#anya mouthwashing#grant curly#daisuke mouthwashing#curly mouthwashing#swansea mouthwashing#headcanon#captain curly#better au#alternate universe#jimmy just disappears
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Hopes & Fears
chapter 4 (hopefully I'll get through six by Sunday!) Buck POV
Buck’s phone was going off the moment he got to his Jeep. He glances back at the pharmacy... He pictures Tommy’s face– the way it fell as Buck spoke; the hurt in his eyes, the hitch in his breath– pushes the image aside and climbs in before pulling his phone out of his pocket. He sees Tommy’s name on the screen. Still donning the helicopter emoji, the flame, and a green heart. Tommy’s favorite color is green. He has no idea why he never changed it. Grace glances over the center console of the Jeep and sees his screen. “Wow,” she says. “He really has some nerve.” Buck silences the call and tosses it into a cup holder.
The call ends. Then Tommy is instantly calling again.
Then he calls again.
And again.
“He’s clearly not giving up,” Grace says, her voice tinged with annoyance. “You should just block him.” Buck swallows at the urge to tell her to stay out of it… and instead takes her advice, Blocking Tommy’s number. “There,” she coos, running a hand over his shoulder, and up the nape of his neck. “Now you don’t have to worry about it, or him, anymore.”
“Yeah…” Buck mumbles, turns the Jeep on and pulls out of the lot.
*
It’s three AM, and Buck has a shift in less than five hours… and instead of sleeping, he’s baking.
It’s been months… and he is baking. Again.
The aroma of cinnamon sugar, and vanilla, and lemon, and blueberries mingle and mesh together throughout the loft. Eventually, they become fragrant enough to wake Grace up. She stirs upstairs and Buck glances up at her from the kitchen; he watches her stretch and yawn, running her fingers through her hair to tame any fly-aways. “Well something smells… very sweet,” she says as she comes down to join him. She looks around at the loaf pans and cookie sheets littering the counters, covering the table, and the island, too. “Is there a party coming up you forgot to mention?” She laughs, and sits down on one of the barstools.
“Uh, no– no it’s… this—” What is he supposed to say? I’m in my feelings about seeing my ex, that I’m clearly not as over as I’d like everyone, myself included, to believe… and he’s fucking carrying someone else’s kid. I’m stuck between feeling pissed about it, and feeling bad for feeling pissed… and to avoid running over to his house to apologize for being so harsh… I’m hyper-baking… again . “It’s for Jee,” he lies. “She’s got this bake sale— Maddie hates baking. I volunteered.”
“Well... are you just so sweet,” Grace gives an overly dramatic awed pout and covers her heart. “Why anyone would walk away from you is beyond me…” She gets up, rounds the island and wraps her arms around Buck.
“Uh… y- yeah, thanks,” he hugs her back, trying to avoid getting powdered sugar and flour all over her.
“You know I’m here for you… right?” She says, pulling back to look up at him with those big, brown eyes. “If you need to vent about him, you can.”
He takes a deep breath. He should just drop it. He should just let it go… it’s none of his business anyway it’s just— “I just can’t— can’t believe it, you know? He— he fled at the mere thought of living with me… a- after six months and then in less time apart he’s already starting a family?” He is speaking before he can stop himself and Grace is staring up at him, listening intently— she never listens to his rambling. It fuels him to continue. “It’s— it’s annoying, you know? It hurts! A- And maybe it shouldn’t— hell… it definitely shouldn’t. It’s not like he cheated… but— but still.” Why didn't he want that with me… He keeps that thought to himself.
read from Ch One on AO3
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@ofgirlfromthestreets
Come on, man, she was just trying to help me. I busted up my knee and knew I couldn't walk that far to get to work. Missing work isn't an option for a nobody loser like me. I know full well that if I didn't get to work, they'd fire me without blinking. I can't afford to be out of a job. I'll end up on the streets if I can't pay my rent, so desperate times and all of that. [I tried to explain. Not that the whole work conversation mattered though since I knew I was out of a job already given that I was sitting in a cell as we speak instead of being at work. That's my luck though, so I shouldn't be surprise. I briefly thought with a hushed scoff before I continued to try and reason with the grumpy cop] This is on me, not her. The last thing she'd want to do was piss you or Lucy off... She saw me in a bind and after trying to talk me out of trying to borrow the car, I ultimately convinced her to help me out. For the record, after I got dropped off at work, we planned to return the car to where we found it. [Not sure if I was helping either one of our cases, but I was trying here. Truthfully, my gut told me to just keep my mouth shut and avoid getting my ass in more trouble than I was already in, but regardless, I could see that cop, Tim I think I heard Tamara or someone call him, getting madder at Tamara by the second, which didn't feel right. This whole shit show was on me, not her, so if anyone should be taking the fall for it, it's me. Besides, I'll end up homeless any day now anyway, so at least in jail, I'll have a bed. You know, small upside and all of that, I guess]
@istealtosurvive
Starter; we all feel trapped, we have no turning back moments.
Reckless behavior is what landed me in the best position I never saw coming.
Smart wit, the way I bounced around it prepared Tamara for the moves she made. A safety of a car was the only object she felt smart enough to lean on. Tamara was smart gifted even but it wasn’t until that day; the day she stole Lucy Chen’s car that she felt seen. She was scared of having to turn to another shelter, scared of her cousins not allowing her to bunk around. And that trashy ass car saved her life. Tamara remembered how Lucy treated her; the safe place to land. Tamara had never leaned on another person; she had school she grades to keep her afloat. She aimed to go to a good college; of course for right now community college was where she was at.
Lucy inspired her; believed in her, to be worthy of more. She never wanted to be a burden she never wanted to overstay the welcome. Four walls; her own bedroom it felt like luxury to her. The brunette never took it for granted. She went home to a few take out meals; to the gormany pasta dishes which was Lucy’s speciality. She looked forward to their movie nights once a week every Wednesday it was the one day Lucy fit in for her; between her work schedule, and her avoidance of feelings for a officer; it was the teasing I liked to egg on for Tim Bradford. I had to laugh to myself now. Tamara was in good hands, today was like any other. It was A thursday the female had her small backpack over her shoulders; a black skirt and a loose light blue top with her jacket keeping her warm. It was the streets she walked like the back of her hand. Tamara was minding her own business now when she noted a car theft if you could even call it thought.
The male was her age if not a year older. Short brown hair, he was on his knees as he attempted to break into a car; carthaft? A smirk rose to her lips; she recalled seeing him around the campus and she edged herself forward. A skip in her step now. Tamara was coy as she leaned herself against the dark blue car; a small one if you asked me. And she extended out a hand out with a air wedge, that she kept on handy she had to be carefully. “ You know you should be careful on who sees you, cops don’t play around in this area of town..” Not to mention she had Lucy on speed dial, she could call Lucy to give her the notice; but Tamara could handle it on her own. But if this guy was Shady as shit; she had her ins; her calls and Lucy would have her back.
A kid her age; stealing a car; now that’s a case the brunette was capable of handing dirty hands and all.
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As much as I love playing embrace Dark Urge runs (discussion in therapy pending), there's something so narratively satisfying about how a Resist Durge playthrough can go once you get to the Bhaal Temple. Your character steps into the ring with Orin, it's intended to be a duel, but odds are you're getting eviscerated pretty quickly. You then switch to one of your other characters in your party and throw an attack, effectively breaking the duel and setting the whole temple upon you.
(Adding a cut because this ended up being longer than I thought)
But, I think it's a very satisfying way to play. Your party members have grown fond of your Durge, seeing them as a friend, a family member, even a lover. They've watched you and your pain over your Urge and what it makes you do or want to do. Maybe you've slipped up once or twice, but you've been trying so hard to be the hero they know you can be, that Faerûn needs. So, when it comes time to finally face your demons and you're getting so horribly hurt in the process, they can't help but rush to your defense. It'll put all of them in danger, but it doesn't matter because they want and need to help you, their ally and companion.
Bonus points if you select your character's romanced companion as the savior/duel interruptor to make it extra delicious. They've fallen in love with you, stayed with you when your Urge craved their blood the most, maybe by this point in the game you've helped put their demons down as well. They see you in pain, a final valiant effort to overcome your Urge against the power of Orin, a whole cult, a god of murder himself. They want to protect you, save you as you saved them.
I'm also fond of the extra beauty of Astarion being your Resist Durge romance since it puts the two of you in very similar situations. Fighting against the will of your masters, finally defeating your demons with your newfound companions' help and being offered the greatest power you could ever fathom... only to deny it, ignore power in favor of your party and your love.
This isn't even mentioning just how goddamn good the Withers resurrecting you cutscene is. This skeleton in your camp with unknown and unfathomable power (also apparently supposed to be Jergal himself if I've done my research properly?) is able to bring you back to life, free of your Urge. The line along the lines of "Bhaal could only destroy what of you that he knew, but because you've grown past your Urge and become your own person, he couldn't destroy that new growth" is just so weirdly powerful narratively. Tav may be a default character for you to create upon making a new save file, but Durge is the canon protagonist and I think that entire scene shows it the best. It's a beautiful secondary climax of the narrative (primary being battling the Netherbrain of course).
And, perhaps it's just an oversight on Larian's part or something that'd be a bit difficult to work into the cutscenes mechanically, but I think that it could only get more impactful if your companions could comfort each other during these moments. Everyone and their mother wishes you could hug Astarion after he kills Cazador, but also imagine your romanced companion cradling your body after Bhaal kills you. It seems just a little odd that they all (meaning your party) kinda just stand around staring at your corpse, especially with how close y'all have gotten.
Idk, I have a lot of thoughts about this section of the game in this particular type of playthrough and some of them are hard to articulate into words. It's just such a damn good narrative peak and can really make you feel things.
I've completed I think two resist Durge runs and just hit this point on my third and it really stuck out to me this time (then again my new antidepressants are kinda fucking with me so that might be playing a role). I left it as my last mission before dealing with the Netherbrain and I think it helped build the anticipation of that moment. Everyone else has been helped by you, and now it's your turn to come into your own. I really felt so connected to my character walking into the temple, feeling like everything has been building to this, that regardless of what happens our suffering will finally end. And you have your party there to help you in your time of greatest need as you've done for them.
There's a reason this game was Game of the Year, the narrative is just so powerful and the replay-ability is just insane. I've beaten this game ten times, heading for my eleventh and it truly just never gets old and never fails to make me feel so many things so strongly.
#we're gonna bypass how i have the withers big naturals mod installed#because it kinda undercuts the moment when withers comes in to resurrect you and he has these massive honkers#i'm a big fan of embrace durges since it's a great way for me to let loose without real world consequence#(my anticipation for patch 7 grows daily of course)#and it's also just fun to be your worst self and create the fucking legion of doom with your party#you'll never beat the sheer power of an evil durge/ascended astarion/dark justiciar shadowheart/minthara team up#I AM FULLY AWARE I AM SINNING WHEN I ASCEND ASTARION AND IT PAINS ME EVERY TIME BUT I LIKE EVIL NARRATIVES SUE ME#but a resist durge run makes me feel so many more things#helping shadowheart with her family helping astarion learn to be his best self free from cazador lifting the shadow curse among other things#plus everything I mentioned in the main post#and then the final crescendo of the score at the end of the epilogue party cutscene is a HUGE chills moment#although i will always be mad that in order to keep gale from ascending you have to make him seek forgiveness from mystra#she should be apologizing to him wtf no wonder i accidentally ascended him so many times him#gale telling her to shove it just MAKES MORE SENSE and is the healthier thing to do but it gets you his fucking bad ending wth#okay i suppose him blowing himself up is his bad ending but whatever#apparently him exploding the netherbrain can get you the win for honor mode and as someone who can't even get through balanced mode#you bet your sweeeeeet ass i'm not above sending gale to blow himself up to avoid a run ending fight if i got that far#honor mode is not about getting the ending you want it's just about completeing it and dude there's no way in hell i'll get close otherwise#i'll shut up now#fishgills speaks#fishgills plays bg3#bg3#baldur's gate 3#the dark urge#bg3 durge
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working with children really will make you examine your thought processes and emotional reactions like nothing else. I've found myself being so much more thoughtful in my daily life about how I respond to my emotions and environment, as well as the reasoning behind why others behave the way they do
#yesterday i got really frustrated and overwhelmed at one point because this one little girl keeps getting really upset when she cant help me#like shell ask to help and i wont have a task (or ive run out bc shes already helped) shes capable of so i tell her that#and thank her for being thoughtful and helpful. admittedly the first time this happened i was really frustrated w her already#bc she had made a huge mess doing something i told her not to do and then didnt want to clean it up and she only came back#and asked to help because her friend had been helping me. so i was like girl. you didnt even clean up the last mess#but i also had nothing for her to do. anyway she started screaming and hid under a table so then her friend did it sith her just. because.#idk kids will see their friend freaking out and they do it too. and i understand it but my god. i dont deal well with really loud noise#and she did it again yesterday. i let her help me and then i ran out of tasks and she started crying and saying i never let her help#and for some reason there were like 6 other kids in there all wanting to help so then several of them started freaking out#and i could not handle it. i literally told my coworker like im about to cry right now lmao#and later the little girl was like wanting to hug me and talk to me and acting like nothing happened and i found myself wanting to withdraw#like i was feeling like i wanted to avoid her and not speak to her or be cold but i also knew i didnt want to treat her that way#and i took a couple minutes by myself and thought about why i felt that way‚ what the effects of that would be‚ and how the kid felt#and i really just had to remind myself that she was feeling just as many emotions as i was but that shes only had 6 years#to learn how to manage them and deal with them in a productive way. she wasnt trying to upset me. she wasnt trying to make me mad#she was just dealing with her emotions in the only way she knew how. and im an adult and if she can get over it i really need to get over it#long ass tag story sorry
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I want a new weighted blanket that's a little cooler, and my very specific sensory stipulations would rather have a feel before buying ANYTHING.
We were shopping the other day and my own mother needed to feel blankets/pillows to understand what I meant by Too Much Texture.
My niece (who we believe is also on the spectrum), had no problems understanding Texture differences. Then she found this hypersoft blanket and it was the only one left. [Koolaburra Ellowyn by Ugg].
Anyway...I want to touch all the available weighted blankets before choosing and that's not possible.
#autsim#actually autistic#actually audhd#my neice is a mess AND she's at the pre-teen stage#her behavior is very reminiscent of my own when i was younger#my symptoms being called ✨️quirks✨️#shes sleeping ON her stuffed animals#which isnt great in the long run#i think its because its softer#im like that too#but her mother asks me: why doesnt she communicate/express her feelings on it#i think shes at that stage too of not realizing she CAN ask that without being called weird/strange#im hoping that our shopping day will help her speak up#right now she's lying (wine cooler/food/not sleeping)#and her mother's choice is to take away her stuffed animals since she sleeping on them#shes insomniac but they dont have money right now#so i gave them a list of alternatives to try#and they're like shes not going to try them#the only thing that goes to my head for that is demand avoidance#im trying to help my neice by advocating for her and maybe through example of myself to show her better options#she wants white bedding
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nothing really sucks more than feeling like a selfish person because trying to get comfort simply feels like a selfish act .
#log#like theres not really any winning here#i think specifically i feel emotionally selfish because its difficult for me to care about things & i often end up wanting for people to#like. just care about me . whether or not i fulfill things for them. 'closing an emotional gap for me' so to speak#on one hand its like haha emotional pillow princess but on the other it simply feels soooo selfish#i like trying to be kind & there for the people who i CAN care about but i hate feeling terrible when i feel like i dont care enough#low empathy & terrible avoidant-obsessive patterns leads to crazy shit idk . what do you mean im not naturally reciprocant#well at least i try my best to be because i genuinely want to. thats good . in the end thats how i know probably not inately evil#one time a youtuber i watched talked about thinking she was a sociopath and then her frontal lobe developed . Manifesting.
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Viri has always been a sort of silly-billy OC and her role is mostly to cause chaos, but then I have to sit down and think: ok, if we are looking at her genuine personality, what is she like?
She's easy going and charismatic and gets along with people - her biggest strength is that she reads people well and uses that to mediate arguments and conflicts. Her more playful and empathetic nature also makes her good with dealing with kids.
Her bad habit, however, is that she is too eager to save people who don't want to save themselves. She will exhaust all options to assist someone who won't even say "thank you", or worse, actively reject her.
This stems from the fact that, despite all the love her father had for her, Viri was raised with the expectations that one day she would become an Archimedean, which meant loyalty to the Empire and being under the scrutinizing eye of the Orokin. From a young age her father spent his hard earned money to get her the best tutors - Viri was by no means a prodigy, but Amadeus believed that she had the potential (going against all the academic assessment of her daughters possible future? a tinge of anti-Empire sentiment?). Did Viri believe herself? She didn't have to - she had to do what she was told. She just had to believe.
Her charisma is an extension of people-pleasing: if you spend your entire childhood impressing the elites, it ends up being your most valuable skill. This is why she charms the Corpus so much - wannabe Orokin with an easily bruised ego, who both hate and revere the Tenno and what they stand for.
Now that she is her own person, Viri realizes that she never wanted to be an Archimedean. She feels like she wasted her childhood assisting her father in his lab when she could be out playing. This is why the Drifter is so childish - she clings to the charades of Duviri because she wants to reclaim the childhood she lost.
#wf oc lore#wf virgo#i guess her character is 'she should have been at the club'#also being childish is a way of avoiding adult responsibility#she wants to be an adult and her own person#but she was never allowed autonomy as a child#so now that shes an adult she doesnt really feel like shes ready for the role#she was tossed out of the boat so to speak
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Ok becoming an adult is understanding why it's rude to be a housemate who hides from their other housemates and never speaks to them
#idk if she has social anxiety or some other reason why she hides from us. and like i DO get it bc my social anxiety is severe as well#but it's so awkward living with someone who wont speak to u and avoids u and lives in a room directly off the communal room / kitchen 😑#we dont chill in the communal room anymore bc we're worried itll stop her if she wants to leave / use the toilet or something#which has made us less social with each other 😑😑#like we DON'T have to be friends just smile and say hello... dont make me feel terrible bc ive been cooking for ages#and when i finally finish eating and go up to my room you creep out to piss omfg 😭
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captain stacy: "leave. gwen. out of it."
me: WAILS OF PAIN
#i speak#literally gwen could've lived !!! if her dad !!! let her be involved!!#he should've KNOWN she wouldn't stop because she loves him!#i know cap st wanted to protect her!!#BUT KEEPING HER AWAY WHEN PETER AND GWEN HAVE A MAGNETIC PULL LIKE THAT#IDIOTIC!#INSANE#peter x gwen#peter parker#gwen stacy#the amazing spider man#LIKE WE COULD'VE AVOIDED THIS#THE ANGST HURTS ME BUT FFS I BELIEVE!#THEY WOULD'VE HAD A FUTURE!!#and i know its canon that they spent the rest of high school getting together and breaking up and getting back together etc#a cycle they could not break until gwen did BECAUSE THEY LOVE EACH OTHER SO MUCH#ugh oh god i just#i have feelings
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