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[away-at-dawn]

○☆.-*~.×°

hi! this is a writing blog.

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[away-at-dawn]

crashing the mall

ch. 3 - mall crawl

Summary: After an introspective drive (at least for Michael), the both of you finally make it to the mall. Where will you go? Fluff! But also some more angst mixed in. Word Count: 3532 A/N: finally unveiling the cool idea i had for chapter 3: a more significant focus on michael's POV! besides thinking it would be fun to write i also felt like his characterization was starting to escape me, and maybe writing from his perspective would help me find it again. we'll see!

also sorry that this fic idea is taking a lot longer than i thought it would. hope you still enjoy it though! Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82102421/chapters/231349431

(turn the page...) .+*.🏬×°•

He likes being behind the wheel of a car. Driving down the road, a constant speed. The third-best part is that he can switch the radio whenever he wants (right now it's soft-rock). The second-best part is that he can look out the window and see different things. And the first is that you're just one glance away. It helps that you have this admiring look in your eyes whenever he makes a smooth turn. Especially since you haven't realized you show it yet. And with a car, he could go anywhere.

Well, he could, but where he wants to go is that shopping mall the two of you saw on TV. There's an almost city-like structure to it with multiple floors and walking space for couples to wander around in. Like Dawn of the Dead, but the people are still alive. But unlike Dawn of the Dead, it isn't socially acceptable to take anything off the shelves without paying. Unfortunate.

The gas station at the end of town is in view now. He turns on the blinker.

He's actually never been to an indoor mall before. The closest was a large strip mall, populated with clothing and interior decorating stores. He remembers hiding amongst the clothes once, waiting to see how his family would react when they "lost" him. They almost found him a few times, but he managed to hide right until they went to the front to ask for help. Then he walked up behind them, tugging on Judith's cardigan and looking up at her like nothing happened. And technically, nothing did.

And the arcade... He's never been to an arcade. Or anything similar. Some of the inmates had, especially one he met in his teenage years. What he remembers most is how upset he made them when he stole a toy soldier that they won from that thing called a claw machine. And when he anonymously returned the figure in jumbled, cut-up pieces... Their face was really fascinating to watch then.

Maybe there are toy soldiers at the arcade in heaps in the claw machines. Fistfuls of them. Maybe he could goad you into playing so you could win him one, and he could put it on the dashboard. The little toy soldier, an extension of you. That's the first one he'd keep in one piece.

"Excited?"

Michael blinks quickly before glancing at you. You're laid against the seat, head on the headrest. The map is sprawled comfortably on your lap. Jealous.

"You were tapping your fingers on the wheel," you say. "To the song."

Michael looks back at his fingers, stopping them for a moment before realizing he doesn't have to care. You're innocently observing, and you probably find it endearing anyway.

So they start tapping again, and he nods. That's probably what he's feeling. And to keep up with the conversation, he grunts inquisitively. Are you excited too?

You let out a sigh, grinning as you look down the road. "I am, honestly. It's like a new thing, and we get to experience it together for the first time? Like a shared firsts kind of thing? It's..."

You pause for a bit, worrying that you're being too vulnerable. But when you turn back to Michael, his eyes have that same nonjudgmental (if not genuine) look as before. So you finish: "It's nice."

Michael hums. It is nice. He may not have asked, but he doubts he can share that many firsts with you. But you've been a first for many things for him. Especially for... Putting descriptions to emotions in ways he better understands? Definitely for wanting to reciprocate affection for the first time in over fifteen years... Was it already that long ago? But all that aside. Sharing something with you is much more pleasant than he thought it would be.

It's nice when you're around, too. Sometimes it feels like his heart beats slower when you're there, but sometimes it beats faster. It used to throw him off, but now he looks forward to it. A lot. He takes your hand again, observing his own pulse. A bit slower.

You quietly intertwine your fingers with his and squeeze, giving him a tender look before you turn to look out the window. A bit faster. He gets distracted until you speak up with a "There's the water tower now," and his turn this time is a bit rocky. But you squeeze his hand again. It's okay.

"...And..." You grimace embarrassedly at the painted lines on the road. "Thanks for the bathroom stuff. And the sticky notes. I, uh... I really liked those too."

A breathy chuckle escapes Michael before he can catch it. You didn't need to say you liked them; with how deep you're frowning, he can easily tell. And while he'd never say if he bought or if he stole some of those things... It was so worth it.

He pulls away so he can focus on the road, but not before (very, very gradually) squeezing your hand back.

–

The both of you fished out snacks and oddities from the cooler before walking up to the mall: for you, a bottle of water and the allergy meds you promised to bring, and for Michael... you aren't exactly sure, but something and a candy bar. With how hot it is out here, you're glad for the cooler but also a bit concerned that the candy bar could melt into his jacket pocket. But maybe if it's hot enough, it could get Michael to get out of his jacket (and maybe show off his henley shirt and the... physique underneath it), just because.

The mall entrance is grandiose in a casual way: fancy lettering and colors spell out its simple name. You pause before it and breathe, taking it all in. It's a big mall, and while it looks like a lot of ground to cover, it's definitely going to scratch that mall-visiting itch for a while. And Michael still seems excited.

Next to you, Michael stares and squints, sensitive to the extra sunlight bouncing off the walls (and from swapping his latex mask for the ones on the rearview mirror). It's a wide structure. Lots of stucco. Almost clinical. But there's plenty of glass and doors. He imagines there's also plenty of skylights besides what he saw on TV. That makes it a bit better.

The both of you pass under the awning, Michael trailing behind but staying close when another couple walk past. One is cheerful, one is more reserved and seemingly disinterested. But the latter, Michael notices, holds a private kind of love in their eyes whenever they look at their other half. Michael's eyes dart to their joined hands, then to yours–empty–and he almost childishly tries to grab onto you. But then you surprise the both of you when you catch him halfway, going not for his hand but for his arm. You feel your face grow hot at how you choose to hold him, so bluntly and so romantically, especially when you lean and press further. But the denim of his outfit and the little sigh that falls out of his lips are softer than they should be.

Together you walk past the hiss of the opening glass doors.

The mall is open and fresh. Skylights run across the center of the ceiling, free of dirt and newly-constructed; neon lamps glow from above and bathe the tiled floor gentle shades of pinkish yellow (in the corners where the sunlight can't reach the floor first). Somewhere hidden away a fountain bubbles; tree leaves and bags rustle from the air conditioning; someone's laugh echoes above the sound of pleasant but nondescript music. But best of all, the crowd is sparse enough that you could wander off wherever you–

Michael stops looking at the lobby and immediately turns to the right, bringing you with him. As you walk his head tilts at random angles, studying things like the sign of the jewelery shop and the accent lines on the walls, but his pace is steady and almost guided. Then you start smelling sugar and you let out a little laugh. You should've guessed.

Michael pulls you in with him when he goes to check out the caramel corn shop, excitedly squeezing your hand (a bit too tight) when you come up just in time to watch one of the workers dig a scooper into a vat of popcorn and shake it into a paper bag. The heat lamps warm Michael's face and make his dazzled, dilated eyes a little brighter. So all that to say... You went in line to get him his own bag.

The bag rustles and his ears perk up. The caramel corn you got is warm and actually freshly popped, and Michael feels himself swallow before he realizes he's salivating. He's never actually tried caramel corn before, but when you had spread caramel sauce on top of some pancakes you made for him once, he couldn't stop thinking about it for days. He still remembers how surprised you looked when he grabbed your face the second time you made those pancakes and how you smelled like sugar when he closed the distance between your face and his. And also how he spooned the sauce straight from the container and into his mouth with his goddamn fingers. When you caught him he made a point of scooping out another dollop and eating it without breaking eye contact.

At first you're confused why he hasn't shamelessly stuffed a few pieces into his mouth yet–or maybe do something stupid like kiss you for bringing him slightly overpriced popcorn–but there are still people, and he still has his masks. Michael swallows again. He could live if he took them off... Especially since the tradeoff is for sweets, but... The both of you sigh, Michael out of frustration and you out of sympathy.

Then you see a fairly empty corner of the wall lit in pinkish yellow light.

The sudden lilt in your voice as you guide him–"C'mere, c'mere"–has Michael follow you curiously. You bring him over to the wall, backing up against it before taking him by the arm and sitting him onto the backless wooden bench, turned away from prying eyes. He glances around you but his shoulders stay stooped and his palms lay flat on the wood, and he relaxes even further when his eyes land on you in front of him. There's still a flutter in your chest as you bring your hands up to take the masks down (and as you realize how still he sits as you do so), and you know for sure you're looking forward to seeing how the neon lights will catch his features.

...There he is. But he's still still as stone. Not even a glance at the bag, only a long stare at you.

Then he presses a finger to his lip, opening his mouth. It makes your face screw up, especially when you think you hear a breathy "Ah" as he waits for you.

It's honestly wholly unnecessary, but eventually you come around to the idea of you feeding him caramel corn piece by piece with your hand tilting up his chin. Michael's eyes stare into you lazily. You're absolutely spoiling him, and the way he's exaggeratedly leaned towards you tells you he absolutely loves it.

When you figure that he's done you lift his chin to close his mouth, watching him with a similarly lidded gaze until you cut the tension by letting out a breathy laugh. Michael doesn't reciprocate. Instead, as he sits still and watches you wrap up the bag, he daydreams about how willing you'd be to learn how to make caramel corn at home.

–

Michael chooses to follow you around after his first impulsive stop, content to just drink everything in and analyze his new surroundings. You take the initiative and walk along the main path, snaking around the ground floor before taking the escalator near the central fountains and repeating the process. Sometimes Michael trails behind, but he's more than happy when you slow down and take his arm. Little by little you find that you don't mind, either.

With the both of you at a slower pace, you start to look around like Michael is doing. Signs are everywhere. A sale in time for the start of summer. Black, yellow, red, maybe a bit of white for the text. If the signs aren't banners in the windows they're ovular shock bubble shapes pasted onto the glass. Sharp and jagged edges. Attention-catching, excessive. The announcer they chose for their TV ad fit perfectly. But Michael surprisingly likes it; he's never seen so many sales in such close proximity. His eyes dance along the edges of each sign.

After surveying the major paths the two of you pass through typical mall fare, like the legion of clothing stores, the odd mattress store, some hole-in-the-wall trinket shops, and a floor room for modern tech. Michael has his dead-eyed stare he usually wears, but his curiosity–or maybe just playfulness disguised as curiosity–is on full display.

Most of his browsing is him walking into a store and staring at the inventory, maybe even picking something up from the shelves that are chosen specifically for their hard-to-reachness and fiddling with what he finds and never getting in trouble. Somehow, him messing with the bulb on a bottle of perfume ended up with a pleasant conversation with a sales clerk and a sample for a scent that was too captivating and too affordable to not have you take out your wallet. The people that Michael (now wearing the scent) passed by felt the same.

You've also caught him standing behind the mannequins in the clothing department, waiting for you to notice him and yelp louder than you care to admit. Later on at the bookstore he gravitated towards the comics like an asteroid in Jupiter's orbit, grabbing the titles he seemed to recognize and spending a few minutes squinting down at the text with a furrowed brow. And at the mattress store he even sat on a water bed, testing the bounciness of it and losing his balance when the waves of the water inside sloshed around, only for him to get back up and do it all over again. He finally got up when the worker seemed to think he was actually interested in buying.

But as much as you watch him, Michael watches you. He enjoys it of course, and also how you find something to comment on to him. "I haven't seen this thing in forever!" was for an album of an artist you haven't told him about yet. "That sale's bull," was for a 70%-off sale at a store notorious for overpricing their inventory to make the discounts look better. "Those boots... You'd... look really good in those," was for a pair of handsome cowboy boots that weren't good for sneaking around in but great for accenting his legs. And all he'd have to do is nod or grunt, or maybe give a little smirk that reaches his eyes, and you'd understand him well enough. If he really wanted to add more (to fluster you) he had the sticky notes in his pockets, which he did use to write a pun when you were thinking of buying him a raglan shirt. You groaned then and also a few other times besides. But you softened up real quick when, after leaving the cowboy boots behind, he moved closer to you and pulled the same move that you did earlier: curling up against you as much as possible. If someone was staring he'd stare right back.

Now he's staring into the glass eyes of a teddy bear at the front of a toy store. The fur looks fuzzy and pleasant to the touch. It reminds him of you, and he turns to you and runs a hand on the fabric of your top. Pleasant to the touch. Looking between the bags the both of you have carried, you've already bought a lot for him... It would only be fair to finally get something for you, right?

You lean towards Michael as he pets you, nearing the display and then seeing the most horrendous discounts on the "sale" sign–even worse than that one store from before. You stop yourself from reeling in disgust, but you definitely verbalize it. "Christ, do they think we're made of money?" Michael blinks distractedly. "High quality stuff, sure. But they–Michael–Hey, let's go." Michael eyes the teddy bear again before you continue. "I don't want to end up breaking something just by standing next to it."

The two of you make it out of there, but Michael still stares at the display until it disappears from view.

–

Toy soldiers and teddy bears.

Would those be enough?

Would they even be of any value to you?

He'd probably have to explain why he wants you to have them. He isn't sure if he has the will to do it though, even if you gave him a whole new packet of sticky notes and a full day to write down his thoughts. He was amazed when he went into your room once to steal your spare blankets, because he saw the scrapbook you kept that had all of his sticky notes for you, every single one. But now... Even if he feels that warmth in his chest knowing that his most recent words are safe and tucked away in your pocket, it still feels so foreign that he's used any words at all.

He watches you from a small distance.

You're moving quicker now that it's the afternoon and neither of you have seen hide nor hair of that mystical arcade that's somewhere in this mall, and the map kiosks haven't been updated to list it. You notice he's gone and reverse back to him. The skylights above let the sun shine down onto both of your faces. Pretty.

You doubt it but, "Tired?"

Michael takes a moment to respond before he huffs noncommittally.

Still, you guide the both of you to settle in the shade on a nearby planter, thankfully filled with flowerless aloe vera. The concrete of the planter is feels cool under your palms. Some takeout you snagged at the food court comes out of your bags and you also uncap your water, taking a swig before handing it to Michael and sighing with faux irritation when his eyes wrinkle up, teasing you for offering an indirect kiss. But the expression disappears when he turns to a nearby column before unhooking his masks and unwrapping his food. For a moment he stares blankly at the water bottle.

Would the arcade be good enough?

–

You begin searching a bit more purposefully, even stopping to ask some of the workers if they know where the arcade is. You get a collection of unsure answers until you ask the mattress store worker from before, and they give you very precise directions. "It's why I'm here, actually. I get to hang in the mall and get paid, y'know? And actually... Right now, they still give out way too many tickets." They see your eyes widen in interest and chuckle. "Just sayin'."

When they look behind you and see Michael, they wave. Surprisingly, Michael shrugs at them before breaking eye contact and grabbing your hand, eventually leading you away. Down the escalators you go, and a few turns after that. Michael walks fairly quickly and weaves through a mild amount of traffic, all while carrying bags and leading you. You think about joking that the arcade must have a caramel corn shop next door but before you know it, you're standing at the arcade entrance. Michael's shoulders rise and fall as his chest heaves.

The arcade entryway is like a late-night version of the entry to the mall: its lit-up name sits on top of boldly-painted stripes. Skylights are replaced with the glow of arcade cabinets; neon lights play a bigger role in keeping the floor just bright enough. Somewhere deeper in, machines trill on top of one another; the air conditioning whirrs; someone's laugh is carried past the widened doorway. (But luckily, the crowd isn't too much to handle.) It might have been another regular store before, but the resemblance is hardly there. The patterned multicolor carpet definitely helps, if not for the paintjob.

Michael swallows again. Despite his apparent nerves he can't resist the urge to ask you like you asked him before, and when you turn he has a sticky note perched on the end of his finger. "Excited?"

There's already a big grin on your face. "Stoked." You're pretty sure he feels the same, from what you can tell. It's... close.

From what he can tell, there's a row of claw machines further in. He could go straight there, but looking at your smile... No, you'll go and he'll follow. Shared firsts.

He lets out a sigh, moving his hand so your fingers slot between his, and waits so you'll go first and bring him inside. Hopefully this will be enough.

[away-at-dawn]

crashing the mall

ch. 2 - getting ready

Summary: To make sure you have things ready for the mall date, you and Michael go out the next day for supplies. And on the morning of, to help(?) with your nerves, Michael sets up a few surprises. More Domestic Fluff~! Word Count: 1913 A/N: i originally planned for this to be in 3 parts, but i felt it would be better as 4, so buckle in for a longer fic! i have a fun idea for chapter 3, too. enjoy! Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82102421/chapters/224128791

(turn the page...) 🚗.×*•°

So after confirming last night that yes, you're (finally!) going on a date the day after the next, Michael obediently took his dose of allergy meds with only one exaggerated sigh and fell asleep early: first on your lap and then in your bed. In the morning he shook you until you were a disoriented bobblehead underneath him, eager to get you ready to go out... though not on the date, per se.

His list of groceries was a bit like a doomsday prepper's, having things like a map, a compass, bottled water, and a cooler. He watched you in anticipation as you read, a triumphant glint in his eye as he made a point of tapping the last sentences on bottom of the list: "On the news. Low pollen count today and tomorrow." But for your comfort he pushed a facemask over the bridge of his nose, then tossed some of your going-out clothes into your lap. You found him waiting for you on the couch when you were ready, not even paying attention to the TV.

You spent the day like it was a regular errand-filled date... and as a matter of fact, it was. But getting Michael to do such mundane, everyday things with you–without compromising his own social "quirks," of course–was always a treat in and of itself. And (not so) secretly, Michael basked in the extra heaping of attention that he got from you. Every time you called him your boyfriend (which you had to do often, because there were quite a few concerned folks that asked if you noticed the person standing ominously behind you), that strange feeling, something like a rush of air, would surge through his chest. But it was never unwelcome, and has started even becoming more familiar. It happened enough times that he played nice and held the door for the businesswoman who was in line behind you, one who had a habit of clicking the blue pen in her hand... though maybe she was just lucky she caught the door before Michael let go.

The day ended with the two of you parked at a secluded underpass and sharing takeout at golden hour, quaint and romantic. Michael stood in the gravel with a soda in hand (kept cold by your newly-bought cooler) as you sat in the car, the passenger door left open so you could face outward and catch some sun. Eventually Michael stole his last bit of your food, swiped his thumb across his lip, and circled to the bags in the trunk to pick out the map. He then circled back to unfold it across the hood of the car while you pretended to ignore the way his shirt drooped open as he leaned over.

Michael's head tilted one way as he looked down at the map, then the other way as he pressed his finger on the paper and traced from the mall to home. He let out a little grunt to call you over and have you check it out on your own.

Hmm...

"Wait. Fifty miles?"

A nod.

"Have we ever even driven that far in one go?"

Hm. Well...

Not with you.

He didn't find the details important to the conversation, but in his mind, he could feel the biting cold of autumnal rain. The catheter in his arm was disconnected from its source but stayed stubbornly taped to his arm, and his patient gown clung wetly to his skin. Scattered shards of broken window glass sparkled in the passenger seat whenever lightning struck. But for whatever reason he kept going, driving far past the familiar bends of Smith's Grove's roads and especially past that little courthouse and the town that he only knew from a rear-view window...

Based on that whole experience, maybe he didn't need to buy a map. But more importantly, that drive had to be over fifty miles, right?

Michael saw you still staring, and so he gave you as much of an explanation as he wanted to: he shrugged. Before you could ask further he decided to change the subject and retrieve a newly "acquired" blue pen from his pockets. His shoulders nearly shook with silent laughter as he watched your face go from a confused frown, to a look of recognition, then to confusion again for how he even stole it. You finally landed on a slight grimace of disappointment, accepting that you'd never really know. Michael "innocently" fanned his lashes before turning back to mark the map.

—

After getting home tired from the heat and the length of the day, you slept well. But now with the sun rising and you awake in an empty bed, you realize: today's the date. The gravity of it all, especially since this is perhaps the biggest date you've had with the lovely (controversial) Michael Myers, makes your nerves surge with anxiety.

It grows even stronger as you stumble into Michael... who, unlike you, is already fully dressed. The moment he notices you he sets down his glass of oat milk, pulls down his latex mask, and turns towards you in that one particular way: the profile of the mask peeking over his shoulder before the rest of his body follows suit in one smooth, calculated motion. And if the turn itself wasn't already attractive... it also slowly reveals his outfit for the day.

Whether it was to impress you or to get a rise out of you (or honestly both), Michael's gone out of his way to dress fresh. The denim jacket was a near-requirement to him, but that's not to say it's the only notable part of his outfit. The henley shirt underneath is soft and airy and unbuttoned just enough to accent his chest, and make a natural sort of arrow that... draws the eye downward. Because of course he would do that. But besides, it does help you notice and appreciate the wallet chain (most likely without a wallet) and the way it matches the bell bracelet he usually wears for you. Then there's the denim jeans with just enough scuff on the knees and his regular boots with just a bit of polish. Rugged, yet well-presented. He definitely tapped into his artsy side for today.

"Damn, you're... you look nice."

It's cute that you're staring without really noticing it. And even though you're nowhere near as dressed up as he is, he moves his head from the floor to your face, the light of the morning sun (or is it just the lighting from the kitchen?) highlighting the arcs of his lashes through the mask.

You don't look so bad either.

It makes you laugh–or scoff, really. But even if your reaction was dismissive, Michael insists on having another look (and another, and another) as you maneuver to the fridge to get last night's leftovers. He's hovering now, and while you're sure he's still ogling at you, you aren't sure why.

"What, impatient?" You ask, and your mouth can't help but become a little bantering smirk.

Michael doesn't answer and doesn't even budge until you pause to take a sip of your drink. Then in a flash he pulls off his mask and butts into your personal space, staring into you before pulling back to make room for his hand. The expression on his face becomes intense and almost piercing, and his lips part to let out a breathtaken sigh. You watch the slow, emphasized arc of his fingers turning one by one when he finally signs, blunt as he always is:

"Beautiful."

Without waiting for a reaction or even acknowledgement, he moves to kiss the side of your head deeply enough that it almost pushes you, then he stares into your eyes even more intensely than before, and then... he fully pulls back and walks into the kitchen to close the cooler. Then you watch him step into the bathroom and into your room, like nothing happened. Because of course.

Your heart feels like it's going to give out before you even step foot outside. But it's soon apparent that even though he left the conversation, Michael isn't done torturing you.

Much to your benefit (and his, though it's more because he gets to see your reaction), the bathroom has... changed. The floor looks fresh and recently mopped, and when you walk in you find fresh towels stacked on the counter and a new set of rugs on the floor. To deliver the final blow, there's a little heart traced on the mirror that only appears after you get out of the shower. When you stumble out of the bathroom you find Michael and stare at him, embarrassed, only to see him look over, see your face, and (for once in his life) look away. His shoulders are shaking.

You quickly make your way to your room, but unfortunately, it isn't much better in here. A sticky note pasted near your closet door reads "Cute," and when you sit down on your bed to start putting on your clothes you find another sticky note at your side reading "Even cuter." And since he has such a knack for setting things up, you find him standing at your doorway with the final sticky note in hand. "The cutest." His eyes look focused from behind the mask, meaning all the little things he set up were genuine expressions of his affection for you. Even if he did chuckle a teensy bit.

...God fuckin' dammit.

You stop yourself from swiping the sticky note off his hand, but you do pluck it indignantly. Michael certainly doesn't miss the fact that you put it in your pocket for safekeeping.

"If you wanted to kill me we have an entire drawer of knives," you nearly spit, and the way his mouth becomes a twitchy, crooked smile charms and humiliates you, and even makes you smile despite your nerves... which was one of his unsaid goals.

But he can't just dig through the knife drawer, he's got a date to go on! Out the door and into the station wagon you go...! But not without another kiss on the cheek, which you unexpectedly return with one on the lips of his mask. The faint gasp he makes betrays his surprise, and you have to smirk. You gotta get back at him during your date.

Soon you're buckled up in front with a cooler in the backseat and Michael crouching into the driver's side while handing you the map. There's a clear line for the route, and various circled locations–seem like landmarks–and a sentence for you to read. "Say if you see," with arrows pointing outwards to said landmarks. You give him a nod, which he acknowledges as he hangs up his facemasks on the rearview mirror. Afterwards he sticks the keys into the ignition, coolly listening to the engine rumble throughout the chassis before shifting gears. It all makes your heart flutter, both because of nerves and (after looking over at him again) how good he looks, but he saves you from bathing in the anxiety by quietly taking your hand. That is, after he pops the collar of his jacket.

With the wheel kept still by his free palm, Michael reverses out of parking. The main street comes into view like an unfurled, continuous ribbon. The sun is bright and the air is practically laden with possibility... And, fortunately, not with pollen. Sounds like a good day for a little daytrip.

[away-at-dawn]

crashing the mall

ch. 1 - in the spring

Summary: After being cooped up for several days, Michael needs to go out and wander around, but not just in town. He has other ideas. Chapter 1! Domestic Fluff. Word Count: 1760 Pairing: (non RZ!soft!)Michael Myers × GN!Reader (since Michael drives a lot, but if you can imagine RZ!Michael driving then go for it!) A/N: this fic comes from an anon request! it felt like it would work best as a multi-chapter fic, so here's the first part. should also mention that the setting for this fic is more specified than before, and while i personally imagine it to be haddonfield, it should fit any typical small town in the US. shoutout to anon for the request (ty!) and to the various headcanons that bled into this version of him. hope you enjoy! Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82102421/chapters/216054666

(turn the page...) 🚗_-*★.

When springtime comes around, Michael gets a case of spring fever. Wintertime is a lull period for him, even if he enjoys watching the snowfall and seeing you walk through the door with extra boxes of hot cocoa mix (and a large bag of marshmallows to truly satiate his sweet tooth), because it's all a reminder that Halloween is truly over. But after a few weeks he starts to feel better, and he can rest up 'till the end of the season. And now that it's spring, he has a lot of energy to let out.

Usually, his excitement channels itself into running small errands at your request, or leaving the house through any entry point besides the front door, or taking the station wagon for a spin... or two. Or, at one point, five. If he wants to go out, he makes a show of it, too, sauntering into the doorway of whatever room you're in in a(n honestly stellar) denim jacket, popping the collar so it very handsomely frames his jaw and just a bit of his neck (or those of his mask).

The drives are aimless, the only goal being to enjoy each other's company. Sometimes, you take a trip to the diner for something in a paper to-go box and then go wherever the road takes you. Maybe that small lookout that gives you a view of the town lights at night, or the strip of disconnected parking spots that sit right at the railroad crossing. Other times, he cruises slowly near the small-town shopping district, his free hand running over the knuckles of your own as you lay it halfway across the console. The crackling radio and the faint but warm smell of that old pumpkin freshener are the cherries on top.

But, like on the road, you've hit a bump. Whether or not he knew it would happen, he got an actual case of spring fever, because he is severely allergic to pollen.

The one time you decided to walk instead of take the car, the oak trees along the sidewalk decided to dump torrents of golden-green pollen that gathered into clumps on the ground, which the wind decided to kick up into the air. Michael continued on, expecting nothing to come of it. But after a short while of walking under the line of trees, a cough got stuck in Michael's throat. Then another, and another, his shoulders shaking from the force. When you hurriedly made it home Michael was a sputtering, sneezing mess, sniffling and achoo-ing in ways that, in other circumstances, would have been absolutely adorable, and honestly would have taken you aback with how loud it made him. But what took precedence was getting him through the front door and out of his denim jacket and away from the stubborn gold-green pollen dust that clung to it.

For the next few days you holed him up in the house, both because the weather reports predicted what was practically an onslaught of pollen for the rest of the week, and because despite his usual hardiness, his symptoms lasted much longer than you thought, even more than it would for the average Joe, you think. He spent most of his time on antihistamines (that he only took after a lot of convincing and only if he got to have it with soda) and lazing on the couch with a box of tissues and a trash can, and sometimes (hopefully) you for company. The box could stay in the in-between of the frame and the cushions, the garbage bin could stay on the floor, and Michael could stay snuggled against your chest. But despite him getting the excuse to be clingy during the day–at one point, he even whined when you left to make the both of you lunch, and wouldn't stop until you wrapped him up in a throw blanket and brought in a chair from the dining table so he could stay with you in the kitchen–he's getting restless.

Now the fourth day of his allergies, you and Michael decide to switch things up–he drapes himself across your lap in a heap as you sit upright, using his back like a TV tray. The TV itself chatters away as the both of you blankly sit through the ads for local restaurants, a used car dealership, and action figures. You consider the idea of getting the both of you some more crackers to snack on, and are tempted to maneuver Michael off of your thighs and get up... until a final ad plays. It's for a mall that, despite being far away, is the closest of its kind. You feel Michael's head lift off your legs when the section for the newly-attached arcade gets his (and also your) attention, especially with the beeps and whirrs coming from the machines. But eventually the ad ends and the spell breaks, and so you get up, replacing your thighs with a pillow so Michael can settle in for another episode of Scooby-Doo.

Shaggy laughs nervously on the screen as you make it to the pantry, and the crackers shuffle in their box as you fish it out, when you feel a tap on your shoulder. You jolt just a bit, flipping around to see Michael's closed the distance between you. He's silent, but he looks at you expectantly. The wastebasket sits at his side.

"I'll be back soon, you just go and rest," you say reassuringly, and in response Michael presses his hand to your chest, right at the sternum, to stop you. Your head tilts.

...After taking a moment to think it through, Michael brings his hands up to flank his neck, curling them into upward fists and then tilting them forward, rotating them at the wrist. When you don't respond he does it again, this time a bit snappier. It takes a moment to register, but your brain very helpfully reminds you of him always popping the collar of that one denim jacket before taking you out.

And, very unhelpfully, your brain reminds you of how much it makes you focus on his jawline when he does it. But anyway.

"You want to go out?" You ask.

He nods. He hasn't been able to go out in days.

"I mean, maybe we can tomorrow, and I'd like to, but... aren't you sick?"

You hear Michael sigh through his nose, and he shakes his head. To make a point, he shows you the inside of the trash can for you to assess, and... Huh, it's barely been filled at all. Then he sets it back down and brings your hands up to his face, and when you check, there's nothing notable except for the fact that he looks normal. Like, a healthy normal.

Soon you both hear the channel cut to commercial, and Michael nearly drags you (but absolutely drags the bin) back to the TV. The ad for the mall doesn't take much time to appear, and when it does, Michael turns to you, making the same gesture of turning up his collar. With how riled up he's feeling, he's in dire need of an entire daytrip, and a far away (but not too far) mall sounds perfect. The segment for the arcade comes on, and he nods quickly as he turns to you. But surprising the both of you, the commercial doesn't stop where it did before.

The camera zooms out further and pans across a seemingly never-ending row of machines, while a well-paid announcer points out the new games alongside the big-name ones. There's a cut to the prize counter and the ticket eaters, which fade to a small collection of claw machines, and then another dedicated row of games, this time for skeeball. A typical family of four are set loose on the arcade, and the ad ends on a freeze frame of a woman cheering while holding a fistful of tickets. The announcer lets you know that, for the arcade's grand opening, tokens are on "AN OUTRAGEOUS!" discount.

Once the ad fades to black, Michael looks ready to go now, even in his pajamas. He gazes at you with widened eyes, and when he nods, you find yourself nodding back. But as if on cue, he freezes up, sneezes, and nearly snatches at the wipes, huffing annoyedly at his body.

"...You sure you'll be fine?"

Michael takes a moment to collect himself before he gives you a glance. To make another point, he walks to the table near the door, picking up and jingling the keys with one hand and holding up two facemasks in the other, gesturing as if putting on both at once. He's fine in the car, and besides, the mall is indoors, anyway.

But even if Michael is abnormally tough, that pollen did a number on him, didn't it? And the drive'll be long... Long stretches of field. Fields had to have pollen, right? If that's the case, it''d be a miserable drive back home and another several days of recovery. Sounds too risk–

–You take a break from your thoughts and Michael looks like he's on the verge of pleading with the pout he has going on. ...Ah, shit.

"Alright, alright." You catch that little smile on his face, even from here. "But I'm bringing the meds, 'kay?"

Okay.

He's inches away from your face before you realize he even took a step. The kiss is warm and his lips are soft against your cheek... then he promptly takes the box of crackers from your hand and digs out a few pieces: some for him, but noticeably more for you, you're sweet for worrying about him so much. He flops back onto the couch (or as much as Michael Myers can flop, which is technically yes, but stiffly), and crawls onto you when you join him, settling his head onto your stomach. The crackers stay in his hands, and you give up asking for them when he starts feeding you. After another set of commercials, he also gives you an inexplicable scrap of paper with the mall's address written on it, though you never noticed him writing anything down.

Rolling with it, you pluck it from his fingers with a smile and a playful shot at banter. "It's a date."

Oh?

Michael shifts just enough to shoot a disarming smirk back at you. A date?...

Your face heats up, Michael refuses to break eye contact, and just to torment you further, Scooby pipes up from the TV's speakers.

"Reah! Reheeheeheeheehee!"

[away-at-dawn]

big fan of the domesticated michael myers fics especially the one of them going to the store!!! a michael who wears a clean pair of jeans and a hoodie and a face mask out and about….. and he’s still so intimidating……,… probably has loud ass boots when he moves fast but he’s also so quiet.

i love the idea of doing things like going to the mall— i think he’d love the arcade and you’d be playing ski ball and suddenly he’d by your side with like. five hundred tickets.

love your fics babe keep it up ❤️❤️❤️

thank you very much for your message! :D "domesticated" is a very apt word for this version of him sjsjgkgs. definitely makes him even more cat-coded.

the idea of a mall/arcade date is so cute! unsure how long it would take me to write it but i'm definitely going to try it out! (as in, i've actually started it and done some research; "fun" fact, haddonfield is thought to be located between two irl towns named pontiac and dwight, but this means the closest mall, or at least the one i found, is about an hour away by car.)

but ty again! hope you enjoy reading it once i ship it out!

[away-at-dawn]

new contact

Summary: Erwin's Winter Break is… fine. His place is warm, and he's got fresh takeout in the fridge. But after the third day in a row of aimlessly watching niche documentaries and forgetting to buy milk, Erwin decides to reintroduce an old habit to keep him sane: greet Mr. Ackerman, the janitor. - Levi’s Winter Break is quiet and peaceful. Sometimes he wonders what the kids are doing, and he hopes that one of them doesn’t return to class with a broken leg (they weren’t so lucky last year), but other times he keeps himself busy enough to not worry over it. After going for a grocery run, he goes to relax at a local café, when his phone receives a number that he has in his contacts, but without a name… Fluff with some new relationship awkwardness mixed in. Also high school castes!au! Word Count: 2678 Pairing: Levi Ackerman × Erwin Smith; Eruri (pre-relationship) Additional Characters: Isabel Magnolia, (mentioned characters) Farlan Church, Mike Zacharias, Hange Zoë A/N: i swear i'm multifandom! here's something to prove it! /lh i wrote this one originally in 2024 but after christmas, which was enough to stop me from posting it wkhcllhsjgdk i did get to revise it for this year though, and i like how it turned out. happy bday levi and happy holidays! Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76573406

(turn the page...) *.×🎁*.•

Though Winter Break has only been on for a few days, the lack of schedule has thrown Erwin for a loop. The faculty Christmas Party feels like a distant memory; so too does his grasp on order. He likes taking breaks–really, he does, especially after having to grade so many midterm assignments–but sometimes, when you achieve a dream after fighting for so long, you have no clue what to do next. It’s a bit dramatic, but when Erwin wrote it in his leather-bound diary the other night, he felt that no truer words had ever been written.

Today is the third day in a row of documentaries. Erwin finds himself in his living room wearing his sweatpants and sweatshirt combo, unshaved, but quieted by the narrative of his most recent documentary: this one discusses exoplanets. His brain soaks up the trivia, the sounds, the narrator’s voice, storing them all beside his practiced lectures and required readings of the fall semester, and is sated. But Erwin knows that, truly, it isn’t enough. He’s lulled into the same quiet rhythm every Winter Break, and even if he returns to his students all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and with a genuine excitement for the next half of the year, there’s a sense of dissatisfaction.

His eyes dart across the living room, searching for an answer. There are scattered shoes, a stack of DVD cases, and the start of a pile of overcoats that he’s forgotten he’s worn, much less forgotten to return to the closet. Then, looking inward, he sees the absence of a schedule; correlation doesn’t necessarily equal causation, but his sense of tidiness (and purpose) definitely improves when he’s out of the house and in the classroom, teaching the past to the people of the future. Got it, he thinks (and also mutters aloud). He needs some level of order to keep him on his toes. Something simple.

The answer comes to him in small electrical impulses in his brain: Greetings are simple. Familiar people. Say hello?

To who?

A number of faces pass through his head. I ought to call Mike. Hange too. Maybe go out for a drink.

Drink…

…Erwin remembers the last day of the semester. Mr. Ackerman. He isn’t sure if he’s on a first name basis. But even during the semester finals, he was the first one Erwin would see and greet (and get greeted by). And on that last day, Mr. Ackerman was drinking tea from a gray-teal thermos. Later on he flitted around the faculty party, exchanging a few greetings before grabbing a soda, quietly wrapping up some of the cookies and two slices of cake, and leaving. He was out of his janitor’s uniform, and Erwin caught himself ogling at him as Levi looked up with the worst timing imaginable, and Erwin had to save face by pathetically waving at him. Mr. Ackerman gave him an upward nod: cryptic but friendly. Obviously stylish. But even before the party, when Mr. Ackerman leaned against the hallway wall, drinking tea like he owned the place? He looked really… fly.

And it just so happened that earlier in the semester–September, Erwin thinks–he and Mr. Ackerman exchanged numbers. He still has no idea how he managed that. Mr. Ackerman was the one who instigated it. Probably.

Erwin looks around for his phone before he treks into his bedroom and finds it still charging on his desk. He picks it up and unplugs it, absentmindedly running his hand through his hair as he does so. Back in the living room, he dumps himself back onto the couch, and with a few taps, Mr. Ackerman's number is ready to be called. Just one more tap to go.

…

His thumb hovers uneasily over the call button. Maybe this is the wrong number? Or the wrong Mr. Ackerman? That would be embarrassing, right? ...Ah, enough of that. He ought to stop lying to himself, using the excuse of possibly calling the wrong number–calling the right person is what’s making his stomach boil over.

But still, his mind jogs in a circle back to his anxiety. Is it really worth it to call someone just to say hello?...

Erwin sighs at his nervousness. He has to look only at the DVD case stack to remind himself. The signs absolutely point to yes.

Resolutely, his thumb presses down to call Mr. Ackerman.

-

Levi heads to the mirror hanging on the closet door and wraps his plaid scarf around his neck. It's bulky but soft and warm… as per usual, Farlan has good taste. Levi's been itching to wear it out for a few days now, and since the fridge has gotten a bit empty, he has the perfect opportunity to test this muffler's mettle.

On his way out to the living room, he smoothly picks up his canvas bag and a little bottle of hand sanitizer, stuffing the latter in his pants pocket, opposite the one holding his phone. A few steps further and he's standing before his bomber jacket, lifting it off its hook and shrugging it into his shoulders.

“I'm going out,” Levi calls as he fixes his sleeves, the nylon rustling. “Make sure you eat that cake, Isabelly, you keep forgetting. We won’t have room for the birthday one.”

The walls of the living room flash red, and Levi hears Isabel hit the controller against the couch. “Fucking–! Fuck's sake, I–Wait.” Isabel’s attempt at gaslighting falls flat as soon as it takes off. “What birthday cake? Never said anything about that.”

Levi snorts–the “surprise birthday party” idea they’ve had for a few years now is more of a foggy concept than anything, but at least the three of them get to spend some time together, even if Farlan constantly pesters Levi into bringing more people. “Birthday cake or not, I plated the one from the faculty party for you.” He unlatches the locks on the front door, hearing the sound of Isabel's slippers shuffling into the kitchen. “When he gets back, tell Farlan I said bye.”

The sound of the shutting fridge door echoes down to the entryway, and soon after he hears Isabel's muffled but satisfied chuckling in between bites of red velvet cake. “M'kay, bro. Love you!”

“I love you too.”

-

The air is cold enough to be refreshing, and as he breaks out of the grocery store, Levi breathes it in gratefully. After tucking the heavier bags into the sedan, he revs up the engine and cruises down a local road to his favorite café. The interior is full and the patio is empty, but the staff put out enough heaters that it should be warm enough for one. His order comes out quickly, right after he finishes sweeping the snow off his chair.

The shopping bags that didn't fit in the car (but do fit under the table) shudder from the cold, bending and tapping against Levi's jeans until he scoots them closer to his legs, calming them down. But the heaters and the drink he ordered are keeping him nice and warm.

As he pops the cap off of his London Fog, Levi's phone screen lights up, buzzing along the table's iron surface. He smoothly saves the phone from its steady approach to the end of the table, and upon inspection, the number is between familiar and unfamiliar. He forgot to put a name to it… but apparently, it's from his contacts. He couldn’t find a reason for someone (probably) from the school to be calling him… But still, a contact is a contact.

Levi picks up the call.

-

When the call is picked up, Erwin freezes, while Levi, though hesitant, makes the first move.

“Hey. Who's calling? I didn't write your name in my contacts.”

“Er,” Erwin coughs to disguise his voice cracking. “Hello, Mr. Ackerman. It's Erwin Smith!”

“Oh.” His tone of voice fails to convey the amount of surprise that actually hits him, but it definitely softened. “Mr. Smith…” The responses Levi could give swim around in his head. How are you? Haven't heard from you. …Glad to hear your voice.

“...Let me update my contact info.”

Shit.

Levi represses his disappointment as he lowers his phone and writes out Erwin's name, the silence almost ringing in his ears.

Luckily for the both of them, Erwin steers the conversation back, slowly. “I didn't get to say hello to you at the party.” Or for the last two to two-hundred days. However long I've been sitting here. “I hope the break's been treating you well.”

“Well enough.” Levi's mouth moves slowly as his crossed leg kicks idly under the table. “I keep busy. Still cold, though. Enough to freeze shit.”

Erwin blinks in surprise; he even forgot about the cold. The idea reminds Erwin that he's desperately out of touch. “...Has it snowed yet?”

“Yeah. Luckily it's still fresh.” Levi's eyebrows raise, slightly concerned. “You haven't been out? Sick over the break?”

“Oh, er…” As he trails off, Erwin sighs. Trying to label the level of rapport they're at is difficult, and while there's a level of familiarity, he can't be sure about his next words. “Not exactly. I've been in a funk.”

Levi's eyes glance to the side. “Shit.” I don't think he's opened up like this before. “Did something happen?”

Erwin lets go of a sigh he didn't realize he had. “No, nothing serious.” The state of Erwin's room seems to look at him suspiciously. “Breaks do that to me.”

Now more than slightly concerned, Levi leans his elbows on the metal patio table. For a moment, he stays silent, but compensates in case the message doesn't get across. “I'm listening.”

Erwin pets the hair at the nape of his neck before he begins. “I tend to need a routine. Getting a break from teaching class isn't something I take for granted, but I'm…” Erwin picks at the couch. “Not adapting well.”

Levi grits his teeth, weighing whether or not Erwin would appreciate the joke, but it comes out anyway. “Harder to take shits on time when school's out?”

Erwin is taken by surprise, but almost immediately after he laughs–nothing too strong, but much more energetic than he's been for the past few days–before replying.

Levi feels his chest flutter from Erwin's positive reaction. But definitely, definitely not from the deepness of Erwin's laugh.

“No, no, that's going fine,” Erwin says. “It's more of… If I don't have some kind of plan outside of my bowel movements, well…” Erwin blows a raspberry. “There goes my day.”

That's rough. “Oh. I'm sorry.”

“No, that's just how it is. But the good news, though, is that–” Erwin hopes the sentence doesn't betray his growing, possibly non-platonic interest in Levi “–that I'm trying to work on it. Just a bit. So, I thought I'd call you.”

There's a pause. Levi, again, waits for Erwin to continue.

“We always talk. Maybe not much, but enough, I think, and it's something I look forw–get to do with regular frequency. But every morning, on the dot, which is helpful for me. And I appreciate the gesture. And since we exchanged numbers, and since I've got nothing better to do, I thought, ‘Why not say hello?’”

Wait.

“Oh–I'm sorry, I didn't mean that this isn't worth doing, this is, better. Than other… things.” The last few words of Erwin's reply come out short and stilted. Damn it, Erwin.

Luckily, Levi reads him easily. “No need to apologize. It's nice of you, especially if you're talking to someone who sounds like an absolute asshole like me.” Levi looks down at his tea, flustered.

Erwin’s voice comes out small but genuine. “But I don’t mind it.”

“Oh. Good.” The tips of Levi’s ears turn red.

The speaker lets out an awkward, yet familiar, gravelly silence.

“So I might, uh, call you again tomorrow, if that’s okay? Or maybe text?” Erwin glances around him for a notepad, before remembering that he already has Levi's number on his phone.

“I might be busy, so texts are better. Won’t mind shootin’ the shit with you, though.”

Oooh, a conversation topic I can pick up. “What’ll you be busy with?”

“Prep for a birthday party.”

Erwin’s face breaks into a winning smile. Thank goodness, he’s still in-touch with his charm. “Well, happy birthday to the recipient!”

“That’s me.”

“...Oh.” Erwin’s smile stays on, but now he’s painfully aware of the muscles keeping it up. Luckily, his curiosity overrides his embarrassment. “For your own party?”

“Yeah. My family likes to pretend it’s a surprise one every year, but it’s more a formality, at this point. Or, honestly, a joke. It’s worth doing so I can celebrate it with them, though, so I help prep it. I bought the candles a half hour ago.” The wind blows past again, and the bags shake, loud enough for Erwin to hear.

As Erwin listens to the wind, something clicks in Levi’s mind, like the tripwire of a mine. Just like before, when he asked Erwin’s number in September, it comes out before he can consider it. “You can come, if you want.”

Erwin is in the middle of lying sideways on the couch when his heart casually bangs against his ribcage. “What?” It came out louder than he meant.

Fuck. But Levi means what he says. No going back. “Yeah, I don’t mind inviting you. It’s sudden, but it’s not happening tomorrow, or anything like that. We need to make up for the faculty party, anyway.“

Erwin's heartbeat squirms its way up into his ears, and he swallows thickly. You wanted to see me at the faculty party? Are we moving too fast? “...Is it really okay?”

“Frankly, it's more than okay with me. I doubt we won't be able to feed you, or anything, if that's what you mean. And if you go, you have something to do.” And I want to get to know you better.

Erwin drops his head. He takes a step further, hoping to further solidify their relationship. “You can call me Erwin, if you want,” he says, hoping Levi connects the dots despite the apparent non-sequitur.

Levi, of course, does. “Then call me Levi.”

On both ends of the line, Levi and Erwin smile. Erwin scratches along the bridge of his nose, while Levi huffs out an amused sigh.

“I'll text you the details,” Levi says, cutting off the silence. “No need to bring anything, if you can't. Promise.”

Erwin's smile remains on his face, and already, he looks at the scattered errands in the room with a renewed sense of energy. Especially at the coats: he's already planned which one he wants to wear for the occasion. “Levi?” The sound isn't familiar on his tongue, but already, it feels comfortable. “Thank you.”

“Yeah. Erwin.” Levi's response is a bit more choppy, but already, there's a warmth in how Levi says his name. Erwin hopes it stays that way. “Text you later.”

-

Erwin’s hand lingers on the end call button for just a bit longer than necessary before he taps it. He puts his documentary back on, but gets off the couch and begins to gather his scattered clothes, feeling a renewed sense of vigor.

Levi, at the same time, drinks his latté diligently, soon reaching the bottom of the cup. He rises from his chair and picks up the bags, stomping into the snow as the wind starts to pick up. Luckily he reaches shelter in the driver's seat, with the bags riding shotgun, and he texts Erwin what's important: the date and time, his address, and a simple but meaningful set of words: “hope to see you.” His eye catches the salute emoji Erwin texts back, and, remembering how charming Erwin can be, a part of him is sure that Isabel is going to love having him over.

And as Levi dials Farlan's number, another part of him is sure that Farlan will have even more fun finding out as much as he can about Levi's new guest. •

[away-at-dawn]

cuddlebug

Summary: Michael's finally got a decent sleeping schedule! But why don't you have one? The third in a now series of sleepytime Michael fics. Fluff. Word Count: 1228 Pairing: (any!)Michael Myers × GN!Reader A/N: went ahead and just made a tag for these fics, it's under "#on michael's sleeping habits series". i'll figure out of i want a masterlist made, too, but i wanted to get this one out here either way! p.s. to anyone finishing up their finals, gl and congrats!! you might find this one a bit more relatable... Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75576236

-. 💻★•°.*_ (turn the page...)

Michael's started something close to a sleep schedule. He still wakes up at odd hours, sometimes quietly enough that you don’t wake up to catch him and haul him back to bed, but he's managed to be up and about in a more diurnal way. He didn't think of it before, but it pleases him, because now he gets more time with you, or around you, getting to watch you do whatever during your waking hours. Or, at least, ideally.

His slippers tap as he walks down the hall. His pullover sweater is soft and breathable, worn just enough from several washings. His pajama pants, notably black-and-orange checkered, are his favorite pair (partly because he remembers how excited you were when you told him they were on sale). And even better, he has a fresh comforter that he slipped out of the closet shelf and draped over his slumped shoulders. He's the picture of comfort, but for him, he's missing something: you. He has been, in all honesty, because for whatever reason, you haven't been in bed, lately, or at least before he falls asleep. And so he went to search for you, even if it annoyed him that he had to do it in the first place.

It helps that you don't exactly hide in the house like he does.

His eyes say it all, the sharpened stare echoing, Hey. You. Why are you down here? This isn't something he does every day, actually feel tired enough to dress down for bed and invite you to join him. Clearly he needs his object for cuddling?

Maybe he's gotten a bit spoiled, but he can barely sleep in these conditions. It's horrible–well, it's been worse before he came across you–but right now, it's horrible enough that he's come to you shuffling in his pajamas, loud enough for you to hear, instead of skulking around the house, blending into the shadows like usual. This is no laughing matter, even if it is kinda funny because of his dramatic self, but you aren't cuddling him. Him, who you always call handsome and pretty, who you love to dote on, who you buy sour candy for. His upsetness is partly selfish, but it also doesn't make sense for your character. You love when he's a little cuddlebug. What are you even staying up for instead of sharing bedspace with him? He pouts–a small huff–and gets all the more frustrated when you don't really react besides giving him a distracted glance. He paces towards you until he can finally assess your problem and how to get rid of it and how to get you to go to bed.

You're hunched at your computer, doing who knows what, fingers in a flurry over the keyboard, windows opening up and closing every which way. Shoulders stiff, jaw clenched, eyebrows knit: you're stressed. And from Michael's intuition, it doesn't seem like your work is going to let up anytime soon. You're enjoying this no better than he is… maybe even less. Michael breathes out another sigh, one that's near silent but obvious enough for it to break your concentration, before his shadow leaves the doorway.

You assume he's gone to go and huddle somewhere else; probably the kitchen, based on the muffled clinks of plates and bowls from the cupboards. A few moments later, however, his blanket cape quietly swishes against the floorboards again. When you look up he's carrying a snack bowl, filled up decently with some of the chips you had bought yesterday. He snags a chair, drags it over, and sits next to you, digging a hand into the bowl. You think he's trying to annoy you in some roundabout way of getting back at you for not sleeping, but then, he taps the table in your field of vision, and when you again look up, he waggles a chip at you, pressing it against your lip.

It becomes something rhythmic; he gets a bite or two (or three) before passing to you, waiting still until you take a bite of your own. After a bit it honestly gets distracting, whether it's because he's doting on you or because you have to lean over to him just enough to be uncomfortable when you get your chip, but it helps the tension in your shoulders and the clench in your jaw.

Time passes, more time than you hoped, but Michael (besides a couple more trips back to the kitchen) stays by your side. There's a contented look in his eyes when you decisively click somewhere on the screen and lean back, the circular loader scrolling as the computer powers down for the night. “All right,” you breathe out, pulling away from the keyboard. “I'm done.”

Seizing the opportunity, Michael leans and sags onto you, his face gracelessly smushed against your body. He looks up at you before registering your own exhaustion and throwing one side of the comforter over your shoulder in a way that he hopes is nonchalant. In response your lips press into his temple, and he sighs. It felt nice… But still, his gaze is sharp, his eyes wide and expectant. Sleeping now?

“Yep,” you say, reading his thoughts easily. “Time for bed.”

His mouth twitches as he suppresses a grin, and it's so endearing that you chance a boop on his nose, and the startled, breathy chuckle that pushes itself out of his mouth reminds you that he can actually be quite ticklish. He shoots up out of his chair and makes it for the hall, but then (to get back at you) he circles back and almost crushes you in his arms, barely giving you enough time to swipe the bowl off the desk, and barely possessing enough patience to bring you to the sink to dump it (you were squirming too much for him not to do it), and then to the bathroom so you can both brush your teeth. Then he hauls you into the room and dumps you on the bed. You get a second to notice the smell of the sheets–nice and pleasant, and… oh, it's the bodywash you buy him–before he flops on top of you, smothering his face into you. Luckily you only have to lurch over to turn off the light–click!–and make yourself comfortable.

“You wanted me that bad?” You ask. His hand reaches out blindly until it finds yours, then he moves it over so it rests against his scalp. You go ahead and indulge him (and yourself, too) by petting him, and he can't help but let out a little sigh. Cuddlebug.

“Well.” Your voice is warmer. “Thanks for waiting on me, Michael.”

He takes a bit to process your words before he stills and huffs noncommittally into your shoulder. Don't question why he waited on you, or for you, or whatever. He did want to cuddle you, even he could admit that, but it wasn't like he would die if you didn't. He was just uncharacteristically impatient tonight. And it's not like he was missing your cuddles for the past… Four? Days? It was just–

You lean in to give him another kiss on the temple before you wrap him up in your arms, holding him just how he likes it.

“G'night. I love you.”

…

“...Nngh.”

He loves you, too.

[away-at-dawn]

the haddonfield handeyman pt. 2

Summary: Some more headcanons on a non-murderous-but-still-notorious (kinda) Michael; read Part 1 here. More slice-of-life AU stuff from me! Characters: Michael Myers, Corey Cunningham, Nancy (Chaos! Comics) Notes: this set of headcanons expands the world much more than the first set. as before, they should still fit any version of michael. enjoy, and happy halloween...!!👻

★*.🍫×.⋆ (turn the page...)

on candy

this year, to the delight of the town's children, candy sections in grocery stores have bulked up a bit to stock more brands (and ultimately feed the sweet tooth of the haddonfield handeyman).

this is actually to michael's dismay, though... it's disheartening seeing the prices of his favorite candies going up. :( (his favorites this year are all of them)

still, there are a few new ones he’s seen. someone put the hi-chews in the regular candy section rather than the asian foods section and boy, does it have him hooked. he's been keeping them in the glove compartment of the station wagon to pop into his mouth and put in his pocket before a commission.

he gets a little chuckle out of the emerging mythos that he chews tobacco while he works, when in actuality, it's the hi-chews.

work for hire halloween

when the holiday rolls around—not "holidays" plural, just halloween, literally just halloween—michael actively increases his workload. it's to the point that his focus shifts to parttime work, rather than only freelancing.

most often, he does work for the halloween pop-up stores in town. stocking shelves and manning the cash register are his preferred tasks... as long as someone else deals with socializing with the customers and keeps them away from what he's doing.

that "someone else" happens to be one of his coworkers he's seen for a few seasons, who accommodates him and does all the small talk for him. michael thinks his name is corey, or something.

michael would describe him as a bit awkward and nervous at first, but if you had to boil it down he's... okay. he's also got a sweet tooth, but for drinks (he was the one to introduce michael to boba).

michael tried chocolate milk tea with cheese foam for his first visit to the café corey likes

(and the second time, he got strawberry black tea)

(and the third time, brown sugar milk tea…)

happily for michael, corey's learned how to stock shelves and how to use the register through nonspeaking instructions, no convo necessary. in some ways, he's admittedly better than michael.

since a lot of townsfolk have recommended him for halloween decorating, he gets to set those up in the store, too! a few years ago he was able to dedicate a part of the store to a forest-themed haunted house; it was very successful! (don't tell the boss but he would dress up and pose as one of the animatronics. he almost laughed at how much he scared the shit out of people. almost.)

this year, the haunted house decorating was split between corey and michael. though it felt like corey got in the way at times, michael did have to agree that the idea he had for posing the zombie animatronic was very clever.

when the season ends, michael gets to buy his stash of goodies he stored behind the counter. the bags upon bags of spooky goodness are worth their weight in gold. and he's actually got a modest mask collection going on now thanks to his strategy! he loves wearing them, but at some point soon, he'll have to figure out how to display them.

michael noticed that corey is starting to do the same thing, stashing his own stuff to buy at the end of the season. as long as he doesn't get in the way of michael's collection, it's okay. but maybe he'll let him know what stuff is really worth the price... maybe.

how he celebrates the day

nancy helps hand out candy for the annual trick or treat trail every halloween, and the candy is actually pretty good (because michael is the one who picks what candy she gives).

she also hands out business cards or even coupons for her hardware store for kids to give to their parents.

this year they've been put near the start of the trail, which gets notoriously crowded. so, for the low price of a standard commission and a decent percentage of the candy, michael is ready and somewhat willing to help hand some out, himself.

last year, though not exactly for the trick or treat trail, he went and dressed up something nice—a sheet ghost! it may be simple, but it’s a classic! and also very cheap.

he may or may not have scared several people in it, too, when he was making his rounds. a bit embarrassingly, an old couple recognized him by his boots, but they were nice enough to give him extra candy as a consolation. that was a good memory, all things considered.

rambling aside, he would dress up as that again this year, but for some reason, he can’t find the sheet anywhere…? it’s thrown him in for a loop, and even if he still has a few days left, he went earlier today to ask nancy for help.

as luck would have it, she actually owns a few masks, kind of—her dad, who ran the hardware store before her, would sell masks near halloween, and some of them never sold. they’ve been in the back ever since. luckily, nancy caught the gleam in michael’s eyes and ushered him to the back of the shop with her own sarcastic eyeroll.

the box was kind of hard to get to, but not hard to distinguish from the rest. after half an hour of lifting and moving other boxes and another quarter of an hour to get Thai tea from the noodle shop as a refresher, nancy quietly broke the tape and opened the box…

inside was a mess of vintage halloween memorabilia, which michael eyed, but really, the prize was a pale, worn mask with matted-down hair. “spooky for sure,” as nancy described it, but magnetic, too. michael nearly snatched it out of the box, his fingers curling into the hair and stretching the latex. then, after a long moment of looking down at it, he put it on.

the first thing he noticed was his breathing, the sound filling the mask. the eyeholes were noticeable, too, but they didn’t bother him at all. it was like a second skin. his head tilted slowly, as he does when he’s lost in thought… and he saw nancy give him a nervous chuckle. “fuck that,” she said, “if you want it, you can keep it.” when michael’s head cocked to the opposite side, she added, “yeah, for free,” and michael felt a surge of excitement in his veins.

neither of them have any clue how the kids will react, but michael’s insistence on wearing it for halloween cannot be swayed.

so now, for the price of a regular commission, some candy, and an enigmatic mask, nancy has hired a helping hand.

[away-at-dawn]

candy corn

Summary: Michael is so eager for sweets, he does something nigh unthinkable–go out to the grocery store to buy candy with you. A bit nerve-wracking/a bit of resulting angst, but ultimately, fluff. Pairing: Michael Myers (any version!) × GN!Reader Word Count: 1863 A/N: this fic started out a bit rough but then my brain went, "i must take michael and put him in (eventually) nice situations" (as per usual) and so... here we go again gskdhkkh happy birthday, michael! Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72572451

×.*🍬.°- (turn the page...)

His shirt is barely buttoned over his chest and his pants are still open while he puts on his boots. 

You were about to leave home with your shopping list in your pocket when Michael shuffled over to you in his jammies, pointing at your list to make sure you put candy. Usually you'd interpret that request easily, but since October is going strong, there are full aisles of different candies to choose from, and even ones you hadn't seen available before. His ears perked up as you listed them off; they put back that brand of candy corn? All hard candies half off? In this economy? And peelable gummies?? What are they even like...?

His eyes bore into you as he stays rooted to the spot–at least at first. You expect him to take the paper and start writing a mile-long list of the different brands of candy he wants, then fold it up, put it into your pocket, and stay home. But instead, he's stomping loudly across the floor, throwing himself into the shower, rushing for his clothes, and bounding back into the living room, basically ready to go out. With his boots laced, he snatches a facemask off the table near the doorway and crushes the keys in his closed fist, staring at you like this isn't the first time you're going out together so early in the day. You respond by pointing at his fly, and, only as a courtesy to you, he zips it up. Then he's out of the house. 

You have to pick up the pace as you lock the front door, because the car engine is already purring, and Michael is annoyedly toying with the pillar locks on the station wagon. When you settle next to him he effortlessly reverses into the street, already knowing where to go. Before he goes into drive, though, he pulls off his mask, just enough to kiss you on the cheek. He elaborates only by looking at the pumpkin air freshener–oh right, you put it up last night–before masking again. 

The Halloween decorations that are slowly cropping up on the neighborhood lawns has him cruising distractedly, his gaze floating away from the road. At first, it's nice, but the more Michael drives, the more people he sees. He sees the drivers in the cars he yields to, he sees the pedestrians, he sees the dogs. Even behind the windshield and behind a mask he feels exposed, and his muscles ache with a strange, irritating tickle. He glances over at you, not sure if for assurance or simply as a distraction. But luckily, it reminds him of why he's here. There will be people. But there will be you. There will be candy.

More resolute, now, Michael revs the engine, the exhaust from the car kicking up the fallen autumn leaves.

–

Of course, Michael is inexplicably good at parking, and chose a spot between two other cars with a decent walking distance from the store. He kills the engine, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding. It's not like he hasn't been here before, or really, most spots in town to some degree, but camping out in an empty lot or store at night is a much different experience than coming to visit it in the late morning, and so spontaneously, at that. Breathing out another sigh, he gives you one more look, stone-faced, before he whips around and basically kicks the car door open, meeting you at your side before you're out of the passenger's seat. When you get up, he shuts your door for you and limply scoops up your hand in his, slowly closing his fingers until you nod when the grip is comfortable. It makes you blush before you partially collect yourself.

"You can get the cart and follow me. I'll take you to the candy aisle first," you tell him as you walk, Michael swinging your linked arms curiously. "But if there's a crowd, we'll just follow the list and circle back later, okay?" A few people walk past and you quickly slip your hand out of Michael’s grasp.

Michael looks conflicted on whether verbalizing your plan made him more or less nervous, but he nods.

–

The cart tends to rattle and one of its wheels spins around loosely, never touching the floor, but it helps Michael distract himself from the stress. His eyes flit between it and your back, making sure he doesn't lose you. Whenever you turn to check on him, his shoulders relax every time.

Unfortunately, the candy sections were busy, filled with parents and a torrent of carts and wheeled baskets. They were fairly preoccupied with all the candy, but even still, Michael quickly spun around and went down to a sparser aisle to avoid their gazes. You had to jog to overtake him and direct him back to where you needed to go. Worried, you tried to comfort him; but after looking down at the floor, his mind racing and his eyes flickering around, Michael shook his head sharply. He pointed at your pocket, at the list. Then he waited for you to unfurl it and start your rounds. He navigates the basket easily, but still feels a chill race across his skin when he passes too many people.

Eventually, you figure out a compromise on how to handle him; now you've got the cart handle in your hands and Michael at your side, buffering him from the center of the aisle. You keep to that formula when you finally circle back to the candy; there are still a few clusters of people, but now there's space big enough for, at minimum, your groceries, you, and a certain someone. That certain someone is looking at you and nodding, the speed of it giving away his excitement.

When you waltz in, Michael looks around like it's the Sistine Chapel–though the walls are much more interesting than the ceiling. And, besides the bat and vampire decorations, much more edible. The bulk packs pull him in, first, but then he practically drags you randomly across the floor, doing it often enough that he simply breaks off to wander around on his own. Sometimes he comes back with a bag or two, dumps them into the cart, leaves, and then comes back to swap them out. Though not necessarily out of intimidation, the other shoppers give him a wider berth, and he's more than happy to take advantage of the fact, swiping bags off of exposed shelves as soon as people pull out of the way. With enough time, you have a decent cache of hand-picked candy packs, and, sweetly, some of them are ones he grabbed just for you (for the most part). The whole process takes a while, and you, admittedly, want to get a move on, but he just needs one more thing: candy corn.

If he had to admit it, he was saving it for last. The candy corn is displayed on a modest shelf, but with them all stacked together, they stand out nicely, maybe even regally. He can't tell whether it's a surprise or not that the candy corn still looks the same so many years later. Even the packaging is oddly timeless. He slightly overthinks which bag to get; from your vantage point, the scene is oddly domestic. Eventually he turns to you, chosen bag in hand–when a cart crashes into the backs of his legs.

Michael stumbles, not very far but way more than he would like, and the candy corn bag drops and breaks open onto the tile floor. Michael manages to recover, but freezes, looming over the mess ominously. When the owner of the cart catches up to his groceries, he looks deeply apologetic; when he makes eye contact with Michael, he looks terrified.

"Oh God! Sorry about that!" He says, his voice wavering a bit more than he intended it to.

Michael tilts his head, and the man's eyes widen, looking like his choices are between flight, or flight.

"I–let me–I'll go get someone who works here for this, okay? My fault entirely. Sorry! Again! Sorry." The man reins in his cart and makes himself small, rushing down the aisle, about to cross you. You see Michael turn to watch him, and you catch the way the overhead lights make it look like he's giving him a dead, soulless stare. A part of your mind reels, thinking about Michael’s growing confidence, gone in an instant. When Michael turns to you, though, he gives a casual shrug.

The man, perhaps even more terrified, rushes out another apology as he quickly passes you.

"I'm sorry about that, I didn't mean to hit your boyfriend like that."

You jolt slightly. Michael, standing back at the shelves but still close enough to hear him, feels his eyes widen.

"Um. Have a good day!"

And then the man is gone. A few moments later, someone on the PA calls for a cleanup in the seasonal section.

You feel a bit dazed when Michael comes back, lightly tossing his second-most-preferred bag of candy corn on top of the grocery pile.

Boyfriend.

You're still distracted when Michael circles around to you, tilting his head again as he studies your expression. His stare is more pointed, searching for something. It catches you off-guard and you turn away slightly, shyly, but it's more than enough for him to catch. He’s already put two and two together.

Any anxiety from before, from being in public, melts. His eyes crinkle up with a sort of teasing glee behind them. Is it this easy to make you look this cute? …Maybe… he doesn't mind that someone actually tripped him… 

You have to deal with him smirking at you–you haven't seen it, yourself, but you know that's what he's doing under the mask–when pushing the cart to the front, checking out, getting the receipt, getting the bags, and finally leaving the store. As you walk in the chilly fall air, Michael playfully bumps into you, and each time you look back at him, flustered, he looks like he could throw his head back and laugh.

Maybe going out with you like this isn't so bad, after all. Not because he'll tease you constantly, but, well… It's not like he won't tease you every now and then. But being called yours, it's… Nice. He felt a sort of thrumming sensation in his chest at that. Maybe it was something like what you felt, even.

He tosses his half of the groceries in the back and manages to get your door open for you before you can do it yourself. Before you step in, though, Michael sweeps his mask off his face and kisses your cheek, then pockets the mask while your face grows irritatingly hot.

When you both climb into the car, Michael reaches over to the bags. Of course, he has to try some of the candy before the drive back home, as a(n extra) treat for his bravery.

He didn't like the peelable gummies after all, but he loved the candy corn. 

[away-at-dawn]

there, there

Summary: You're overwhelmed with something, and Michael tries to help ground you. Angst/Comfort, with more of the latter; also a super-short ficlet. Pairing: Michael Myers × GN!Reader Word Count: 254 Warnings: Brief mention of panic attack/anxiety symptoms at the start of the fic; Michael also accidentally starts restraining you at first. A/N: for better immersion/flexibility, i wrote it so the reader's reason for stress/anxiety is left to interpretation. also trivia! irl i wrote the phrase "there, there" in this fic before using it (as the reader's dialogue) in sleep well?, but i also h/c that this means michael picks up on your comfort strategies and adopts them as his own. enjoy! Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71474531

-*'.🤍,`°.(turn the page...)

The world felt like it was closing in when he found you. He held on tight–ah, too tight. But to him, the constriction, he hoped, would help. If he tightened his grip, the world was caving in under his control, on his terms. He wanted it to feel like he engulfed you–but if you gave him just a slight tap, he would withdraw.

Tap, tap.

The fabric of his coveralls brushed against your skin as he quickly pulled away. Seeing him drawn back, you caught his sharp gaze calculating your emotions. How heavy are your breaths? Do you need water? Are you cold? Are you shaking? His brows knitted in frustrated concentration under the mask.

Maybe just a lighter touch.

He came forward, again, pressing a plastic kiss against your cheek. "...Shhh," he breathed, so intimately close. You imagined the shape of his mouth, hesitant to form even the semblance of a word, but pushing through, anyway. "Shhh." He patted your back. There, there. His palm grazed along your shoulder blades, adding pressure to hopefully ground you. It looked robotic to the untrained eye, but the pads and warmth of his fingers dipping slightly into your back, the unspoken anxiety of gentling himself all to help you–it read as incredibly sincere.

His posture stayed strong as you dropped your head onto his chest. You haven't calmed down all the way just yet, but that's all right. You're worth the time, and he's nothing if not patient.

Pat, pat.

There, there, now.

[away-at-dawn]

sleep well?

Summary: Concerning Michael's sleeping habits, both the good and the bad. An accidental successor to he likes to watch you sleep; fluff. Word Count: 1250 Pairing: Michael Myers × GN!Reader A/N: i wanted to write something inspired by the art (this specific work) of @enigma-system, and here's what i came up with! :D it rendered out into a sequel fic as i put it together, but it can be a standalone, too! this one is also much fluffier than its predecessor. ty also to my friends for beta reading. pls enjoy! Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70938211

+.▪︎*🌆.°•× (turn the page…)

He hadn't been sleeping well. It was rough. Before, he would shake and even mumble, sometimes, gasping loud enough for you to hear. But what became routine was him staying awake, watching you at night. It was sweet, at first, and seemed (for his standards) normal, even if he accidentally scared you the handful of times you woke up before your alarm. But one time, you woke up to him in front of the window, motionless, eclipsing the first awkward shades of gray-blue of the early, early morning sky. He stayed home the whole day, dragging his feet, nodding off every now and then, stuck in an uncomfortable stupor. It happened again another time, before he stopped visiting entirely when you were awake; the only evidence you found of him were opened candy bags, half-eaten leftovers, and the detergent bottle left empty in the trash. It all left you feeling guilty for not catching his insomnia sooner, but more importantly, it left you feeling worried about it.

One night, it was storming, strong enough to rain hail, and lightning struck so closely that it must have been just outside the window. It woke you up. You shifted in bed, and caught him standing before you, silhouetted by the flashing storm. Surprise and anticipation thrummed in your belly. Seizing your chance, you finally tried to intervene; a simple pat on the bed and an even simpler, but resolute, set of words.

“C'mon. Come sleep."

He moved like he was afraid of something, and maybe he was; when you looked up at him, you could see the widened whites of his eyes through the mask. But luckily, after a moment of consideration came and went, he was soon in bed, and soon in your arms, even if it meant his boots were dragging across the sheets and getting dirt on them. All that mattered was telling him that, whatever it was on his mind, he was all right. 

"There, there," you whispered, maybe mouthed, against the nape of his mask. Dipping lower, you pushed away the collar of his coveralls to kiss softly at his skin. Flashes of light and the rumbling of thunder popped and shook through the windowpanes as you cooed and comforted him. You don't know if he heard you over the storm, but he still melted in your arms, anyway.

When you woke up, he was lying under the covers with you, wearing loungewear and that one shirt that you (almost too obviously) loved seeing him wear. His messed-up hair told you, yes, he did manage to sleep, or he at least did his best. It was more than enough, on his part, and he nuzzled into you softly as you squeezed him in a bear hug. But the thing you remember most vividly is that, after getting out of bed, he followed you all the way into the kitchen. He stared at you, as usual, but it felt like that stare was the most loving one he ever gave you. Maybe the most loving look that he ever gave to anything.

Since then, he's been visiting and staying overnight more often, again, happy to curl up and be the little spoon whenever he finds you in bed. You've been feeling a bit hopeful that he's getting better; even if not for forever, just for now. You have to celebrate the little things, and all that.

But you didn't expect that, right as you opened the door to your bedroom to look for a pen, you’d hear party poppers in your head.

Michael, always one to come and go as he pleases, has returned for the day. However he managed to sneak in isn't the point (but hopefully not by breaking the window; sweeping up glass is getting to be a hassle)–because right now, he's laid out on your bed, sleeping soundly all on his own. He hasn't bothered to cover himself, like a cat sleeping belly-up under the sun; his coveralls are tied casually at the waist, and his mask lays flat on the sheets. It's still at his side, but not out of necessity, you think; he just didn't bother putting it properly away. At the least, as if in compensation, he has his boots set neatly at the foot of the bed, his cartoon-y Halloween socks tucked inside.

You come closer, pulled in by the sight, but keeping quiet for his sake. Your eyes flit about, checking on him subconsciously.

Not only is he comfortable, he's almost limp. His head is lolled to the side, cutely squishing his face and making his hair fan out on the pillow. He whistles faintly as he breathes, soft and even. And there's not a tremor in sight; not even his eyelashes flutter. The most he moves is from the rise and fall of his chest, the languid sinking of his hip into the mattress, and the innocuous movement of his hand scratching an itch from underneath the fabric of his shirt.

You end up getting him another comforter out of the closet, what with the weather starting to grow cold again. The weight of it is objectively cumbersome, but feels easier to carry as you think about who you're bringing it to. You tuck him in with the blanket that sloughed off him before opening up the one from the closet. The little gust of air that the blanket pushes out when it unfurls tickles his cheek, and he stirs, but only enough to shift his head onto the other side. His face presses further into his curls, definitely crushing them into an eventual bedhead, but what makes you smile is hearing him breathe in the freshly-laundered scent still clinging to the blanket. Your neurons light like sparklers in your brain, memorizing the contented little sigh that slips so easily out of Michael's lips. After a beat of silence, you quickly find and pocket your pen and make for the door, pausing for just a moment to look back, and leaving the room after. You felt so happy to see him asleep–and so peacefully, at that–that your heart started aching.

—

It's evening when he wakes up from his nap. He recovers his senses, slowly registering the familiar scratch of his coveralls on his legs and the pleasant heat of his bedhead curls pressed into the back of his neck. Of course, he notices the unexpected and heavier weight of the blankets, but they feel so calming and so right on top of him that he doesn't feel an urge to push them away. He realizes as he slowly sits up that it must've been you who put them there. It makes sense, because… well, because the way they felt reminded him of you.

He gets out of bed, remembering to sweep his boots off the floor and bring them with him to the shoe rack. You finally get to see him, awake, this time, as he passes by the living room doorway. He notices you, perched on the loveseat, just after you notice him. Your smile is so wide your cheeks hurt, and he's so unwound that he doesn't catch himself before he smiles back. It makes the both of you blush.

“Did you sleep well?” You ask simply.

His hair bounces, sticking up at odd angles. It looks like a mess. It makes you want to kiss him. But most importantly, even with his now-schooled expression, you see his eyes crinkle up.

He nods.

[away-at-dawn]

quick announcement: i've finally gotten my fics crossposted onto ao3 with the links provided in each post! i'll continue doing this (both crossposting and providing links) for my fics (not headcanon lists, at least for now). okay, thanks!

[away-at-dawn]

dead air

Summary: After the stock car runs out of fuel, the survivors board up in an abandoned two-story house in an Infected-free area. Nick can't handle sleeping in a stuffy room. Ellis can't really either, but he sure can handle yapping his mouth off to pass the time. A bit of angst, but mainly lighthearted. Pairing: Ellis & Nick (not explicitly as a ship, but it can work if you apply it) Other Characters: Rochelle and Coach (though only appearing at the end). Also a Keith mention! Word Count: 1148 A/N: this was actually my first fic on ao3! it's intended to take place between the passing and the dark carnival campaigns. the title is also a reference to the l4d1 campaign of the same name. enjoy! originally posted 2 aug 2024. Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57852469

🏎️.*-'+. (turn the page...)

“And how the hell am I supposed to sleep without any goddamn air-conditioning, Ellis?”

Ellis grinned as he kicked off his boots, and he let out a grunt as he stretched his legs. “Well, Nick, you could start by getting in the bed. Maybe even closing your eyes, too.” He didn't even hide his snickering.

Nick groaned hard enough for it to echo in the room, and Ellis let out an amused snort. Settling into his corner like it was his nightly routine, Ellis expertly tossed his hat next to the small weapons cache they had by the entrance of their shared room. Remembering his clever little jab at Nick had him erupt into another little laughing fit as he finally lay down on the bundled-up blankets, and Nick subconsciously let out another sigh. The sound of Ellis’ chuckles was grating, yes, but in some type of way, it made the world feel like it wasn't going through some shitshow zombie apocalypse.

If Nick tried, he could almost pretend they were in the middle of a blackout, and everything would be fine in the morning.

“Anything else, overalls? Do I sit up or lie down?” Nick asked dryly.

“Aw, whichever's comfortable,” was Ellis’ honest answer. “Hopefully that bed is still filled out all nice and even. You were complaining about your back for hours in the car.” A part of Ellis’ voice sounded impressed.

Nick let his mind drift to the stock car. To its non-ergonomic seats and gaudy colors, true, but also to its absolutely gorgeous air conditioning. Compared to here… Even if Ellis and Coach wouldn't shut the hell up about Savannah's darling stock car racer sweetheart, it was heaven. “Listen, if we had that car back, I'd be singing a different tune.”

“I'd like to think that,” Ellis twanged.  “So would I.”    A lull in conversation passed. Nick dropped the conversation and turned to look at the opposite wall—sleep was more important than bantering with your friendly neighborhood mechanic-man. But even though he tried his best to doze off (and pretend he was fine and thereby preserve his ego), he eventually had to give in. “It's still hot, though.”   By the way Ellis answered him immediately, he was probably struggling to sleep, too. “...So it's getting to you too, huh? Well.” Grunting, Ellis got up from his blankets and went to the windows, and Nick followed suit. Ellis began to lift up one window before finding and handing over a clean-looking towelette to Nick. Nick quietly took it off his hands before facing the next window.   “So why are you so caught up on the heat, anyway?” As Ellis pulled up the lift, the mugginess of the room slowly started to clear.   “Isn't it obvious?” Struggling, Nick forced as much power as he could on his. It moved about an inch. “The sweat, the stickiness. I don't deal with that bullshit.” I wish I wasn't dealing with it now, he thought.   “Well, I thought since you were a, uh, criminal,” Ellis paused to check Nick's expression before continuing, “you'd be used to it.”   Nick looked at him incredulously. “I'm not scoping people out in the woods, ace.” Not recently. “I'm all white-collar.” Nick went quiet for a moment before adding, “And I like to take care of myself. Crime or no crime.”   Ellis thought about it for a minute, then a flash of inspiration lit up his face. “Hey, you're like that Bateman guy!” Ellis grinned excitedly through Nick's lack of recognition (and unimpressed expression). “All suits and haircuts and stuff? Always talkin’ on and on about his routine and his money, and then all of a sudden he's mowing people down with a chainsaw?”   “Is he… Who?”   “Something Bateman. He's from a movie a few years ago. You'd love it. I saw it with Keith, he loved it too. Did I tell you about how Keith actually tried to get a job at a bank after the movie? He made a business card for himself even though he didn't work there yet, and when they told him no the fifth time, he—”   “Great, maybe we can find a copy during the drive.” A giggle laced itself into Ellis’ voice. “Seriously?! Oh man, I'd be so ready to loot tomorrow for that. Hey, maybe CEDA's got some spare VCRs?”

With one more try, Nick’s window, against all odds, opened with a shrill squeak. Ignoring Ellis’ train of thought, Nick decided to elaborate on his earlier answer, as a treat. “I always get a nice hotel room. Has to have a mini-fridge, be near the ice machine, get complimentary laundry service, the whole shebang. I bust my ass out there, so I get to treat myself. It's only fair.”

“What, you don't camp? I thought that setting up camp was a big thing for people on the run.”

“I work smart, not hard, Ellis.”

Ellis ignored the slight hypocrisy from Nick. “Well, I think it'd be plenty more enjoyable if you could roast some marshmallows. Hear a fire cracklin’.”

“And get bitten by a thousand mosquitoes? Oh yes, Ellis. Very comfortable.” Nick rolled his eyes, forgetting that it was too dark for Ellis to see.

“Well, hey, only in the summer.”

As Nick let out a huff, a cool breeze finally flooded into the room, and Ellis whistled low. “At least me yappin’ on’s been keeping you from the heat.”

“The what?” The wind blew by again. “Oh, damn.”

Ellis swayed back to his corner of the room, sighing and satisfied with his work. “Won't be so hard to sleep now, won't it?”

When Nick went back to the bed he couldn't help but sigh, too. The breeze somehow felt clearer than it did in the major cities up North, and Nick basked in it as much as he could.

“If we find enough gas tomorrow, I swear on my life I will never curse Jimmy Gibbs Jr's name ever again,” Nick said gratefully, though he hid it away in his usual sarcastic deadpan. “Well, I'll be damned.” Ellis snorted. “It's a deal.”

The morning wasn't unbearably hot like Nick thought it would be, and the group went out to search for supplies. In a few blocks they found a gas station with enough fuel to fill a few jerry cans, and with a small bit of work, the car was back in shape before noon. Nick was tight-lipped. Ellis was laughing his ass off. When he told Coach and Rochelle about it, they were laughing, too, and Coach slapped Ellis on the back for a job well done.

A few hours later, as they scavenged for lunch, Ellis found his new (but dusty) copy of American Psycho on the abandoned shelves of a rural video rental. Finally seeing the cover, Nick concluded that the movie looked more interesting than he initially thought it was.

[away-at-dawn]

he likes to watch you sleep

Summary: It's thunderstorming outside. Michael finds it coloring his thoughts as he watches you sleep. Angsty. Pairing: Michael Myers × GN!Reader Word Count: 639 Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death. (both are imagined in-universe but still, they appear in the text) A/N: i got struck (pun intended hehe) with a want to write something! i also wanted to try my hand at writing michael as less fluffy and more in-canon; we'll see how i did with that xksbks. ty for reading! Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69708506

×.-*⛈️.☆°. (turn the page...)

He likes to watch you sleep. There is no pretense, he doesn't try to hide it. He's shameless; he wouldn't be the way he is if he wasn't. And so, he watches you. Sometimes he scares you, looming over you in the dead of night. But then he tilts his head, and you recognize him, and you nod off again, comforted.

He likes to watch you sleep. Tonight it's storming, and it lights up your room, your features, like the flashing strobes that people put out on their lawns for the season. Thunder cracks and echoes throughout the street, strong enough to rattle the windows and shake the glass. Dampened fall leaves hit the panes, as does hail. The contrast between you, cozy and asleep, and the chaos just outside, loud and destructive, fascinates him. But it stirs up his thoughts like unsettled mud in a lake.

...There's a hotness in your blood, seeping across your body through arteries and especially delicate veins, warming your skin. When he lies in bed with you, he can hear your heartbeat. Sometimes he wraps his arms around your waist, just below the ribs. Other times his palms settle onto your stomach, a pleasant heat emanating from them. Blood, ribs, unprotected organs. ...He could bleed you out, a simple affair. He could easily break through your ribcage, and even easier, he could pass right through if he angles a knife just so. And the stomach, well... It would feel almost buttery.

You stir again after another lightning strike, turning to face him. You're the one assessing him, now. He tilts his head, your movements snapping him out of his thoughts. He feels like he might spring out of his own skin, feels like all of his bones creak with pressure. Then, you look right into the eyeholes of his mask.

"C'mon. Come sleep." Then you pat the mattress like he, even now, belongs there.

It feels almost foreign to have you treat him so nice, so gentle, so familiar. His brain, out of habit, assesses how much strength would be needed to break your neck, but he brings himself forward, one foot in front of the other, and, his moves calculated, slowly climbs into bed. Though he's laid on top of the blanket, you tug him into you, spooning him. The sensation shocks him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, but it makes him focus all the more on your touch.

Your skin is warm. Your veins pulsate. Your chest presses into him. There is life in you, and a part of him, one that he discovers to be more apparent each day, is glad for it. The mud in his mind settles. He presses back up against you and keeps still, waiting for you to truly fall asleep before he gets up to change and sneak under the covers, with you. He'll choose the shirt with that texture you like so much, the one that makes your hands scramble all over his chest. The attention would be nice.

He comes back to bed, the whispering sound of the covers moving and that comforting dip of the mattress making you smile unconsciously, drifting away somewhere peaceful in your mind.

He likes to watch you sleep. But he should only watch, because if you were a cooling corpse in your bed, you would never wake up again. And the thought, it… saddens… him.

But you, yourself, like to have him here, right next to you, as you sleep. So quaint, so domestic, so warm. And when you wake up in the morning, and turn over to look at him, and notice he's wearing that shirt you like, and shuffle up to him, and wrap him up in a hug, and make that little sighing noise… Michael will remember that he likes being here, too.

[away-at-dawn]

how's the weather?

Summary: Waking up at 4 A.M. in an empty bed, you decide to look around for Michael. Where is he, now...? Fluff with some outside-of-the-shower shower thoughts that could maybe count as a decent dash of angst. Pairing: Michael Myers x GN!Reader Word Count: 1508 Warnings: N/A A/N: another fic from before creating an account, all the way back in july 2023. finally going to upload it, since it's in-season! also, when i originally wrote it, i was listening to some midwest emo (still do, especially during the summer), and the title is straight from a song with the same name by the band Emo Side Project. i don't listen to that song as much anymore, but if you want to stream it as you read, feel free! and of course, enjoy! Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69710456

*⊹🎇.+.☆ (turn the page)

You wake up gasping.

Your eyes flit around your room, registering your bedroom objects one by one. Bed. Blanket. Clock: 4 AM. You wonder if you really slept all that much to begin with, if you were able to wake up so intensely wide-eyed at this hour.

You groan. Your stomach mumbles, and your mouth is dry. Darkness leaves static in your vision and a drab color to the room that leaves you uncomfortable. But more importantly, the opposite side of the bed is cold. ...Michael is probably up, too.

You think things over, wondering if you can will yourself to get back to bed, but it’s no use with your as-of-now frayed nerves. Maybe some exploring would do you good, you decide, plucking your phone from its cozy little spot. At least you won’t feel as lonely if you find him.

From experience, his usual nighttime haunts are around the house. Your slippers on, the halls and walkways witness your trek, your mindless wandering.

You stop first at the kitchen, noting that the sink is delightfully empty. Michael loves fidgeting with the fridge doors (fridgeting?), finding little things to snack on each time he opens them. You want to chuckle at that little quirk but hey, it sounds like something you’d want to try, too. ...Aw, hell, you’d laugh at the both of you doing endearing, silly little things together. Since you’re already here, you get a sip of water.

Bathroom’s empty, too. The moody light bathes it in an orange glow; nice for sitting and meditating so late at night... if you don’t mind it being on a toilet. You’ve caught Michael here more than once doing just that. Sometimes he showers with just the night light on, too. It doesn’t take long to notice he isn’t there either, though. You wander out.

The curtains in the living room sway ever so slightly when you flick on the ceiling fan. He likes to stay by the windowsill, looking out silently. If he could perch himself there, he would; he’s so much like a cat that it almost isn’t funny. You know he can scare off anyone who’d try and look in, but sometimes you just can’t shake the fear of the unknown like how he can, not with the same level of ease–

You freeze, the dark shadow barely visible among the shadowy grass and distant road. The fuck is that–?

You have now noticed Michael, this time through the window, standing outside.

The squeal jumps out of your mouth before you can even think about catching it. “WhA–?!”

Apparently the sound made its way to his ears. He was actually watching you already–sneaky bastard–but he turns a bit more, enough that you can see the light tracing his face. He’s a shadow among shadows... but clearly, he’s a shadow that’s thoroughly entertained. His shoulders tremble as he huffs out a laugh at you.

But the relief of it being (ironically) just Michael helps flush out the panic. “God–Michael...” you whine, your voice venomless. A grin makes its way onto your face as you playfully mutter, “Fucking... come on, man.” As if he could hear you mutter through the glass, his shoulders shake even harder.

Eager to greet him now, you wiggle into your shoes. Michael turns back to look out as you make your way through the front door.

As the door thumps into its frame, Michael reaches his hand for you to squeeze it as a hello. He wonders to himself if you woke up from a headache, or something like that. But instead of asking, he drops the subject and his hand. You’re already awake, now, anyway.

You look out to the scene before you, feeling, honestly, intimidated. You can’t tell what’s out there; you wonder if Michael can. It probably doesn’t matter to him. “It’s kinda dark out here. ...How’s the weather?” The last sentence is an afterthought, a bit of a cheeky joke. Your voice is carried away by the wind.

Michael nods, his only answer. His silence is pensive, now. In a bid to keep yourself occupied, you meet him at the edge of the porch, copying his posture and looking out, too. He breathes quietly.

That meditative feeling from–of all places–the bathroom, is back, now. The constant blanket of darkness somehow (maybe because of Michael?) comfortably swaddles you. A stretch of black, a new world so foreign from the one you know so well in the daytime that you can’t help but wonder at it. The expanse is grand, fuzzy. Dotted by sparse street lamps that light the air, like fireflies frozen in time. It’s pleasant when you put it that way in your mind.

So this is what people mean when they describe what 4 AM’s like.

Everyone’s away, asleep, except for you. The two of you. The only ones in the world... right now, at least. It’s lonely, melancholic, but it’s comforting, too. Being lonely together could be okay.

All of it compels you to put the feeling into words, but you come up empty. So instead, you choose to let the idea of conversation bleed out among the calls of the crickets. But still, that feeling of discomfort has you make yourself small, and you settle down on the porch steps. They creak, but the sound feels at home with the darkness.

Michael’s body heat warms up your side, and you wonder if it’s a tell that Michael is thinking the same things as you. He’s in his element, so the night must be a comfort to him too, in a way. You still want the silence to last, but you take a chance and lean to the side, your head falling onto Michael’s leg.

His eyes are looking down at you, you can feel it. So you turn to look up at him. You notice the relaxed stoop in his shoulders. There are little expressions on his face that you recognize as his version of calm: his loose lower jaw, his unthinned lips, his half-lidded eyes.

Michael reaches down to touch your head, starting soft, but then pressing down when your head instinctively cranes up to meet his palm. Mirroring your cuddling habits, his hand rubs into your scalp, and the parallels don't go unnoticed. The affection that squeezes your heart has you wish you could capture the moment with something, hold onto it forever. But that edge of melancholy that you felt whispers to you, it’s going to end.

But the phone in your hand suddenly has weight to it. You notice it. ...Maybe you can end this moment with a poetic note.

Patting the porch, you motion for Michael to sit down as you wake up your phone. He eyes it suspiciously, wondering if the camera will go off. But instead, you unravel the earbuds still plugged into the jack, holding one out to him.

“I got something.” You keep your voice light like the night breeze.

Ah. He’s intrigued. Going from unmoving to fluid, he settles onto the wood next to you. The earbud is plucked from your hand.

The glow from your phone screen chases away the shadows, casting all in its radius in a blue-white light. Michael’s features are softer, but you can still see the sharpness of his face. He’s handsome, of course. If you didn’t want to be as quiet as you are now, you’d tell him so, probably for the millionth time, and maybe he would treat you to the sight of him rolling his eyes. But the 4 AM insomnia makes his features different, somehow, in an intangible way. In a nice way. In a way that you have to admire more quietly.

Music leaks from your earbuds with a few taps on your screen, and a slow guitar riff dances to the steady beat of drums and cymbals. As the song kicks up a notch, Michael leans forward, arms propped on his knees.

An anomalous car goes down the road. You wonder if the driver sees you both as it speeds off into the nothingness. But Michael is unfazed. His earbud is secure in his ear, his nods are small but to the beat. You have to smile.

He doesn’t turn to look at you again. Not until you finally get tired, hauling yourself off the porch back to the inside of the house, to the comfortable summer warmness of your bed. But long before that, he brings you closer, the sounds of music and crickets almost overshadowed by his breaths as he now leans onto you, a pleasant sort of weight. You’re grounded, and relaxed. The sadness you felt earlier seems to have faded now. Once you’re back in bed fast asleep, Michael will be there, too. You know it.

Your mind thinks back to the question you asked him, and with the scene you have right now, one that’s fit for an album cover, you come to your own conclusion.

It’s all right, you decide. It’s all all right. The weather, and more.

[away-at-dawn]

Summertime for the Slashers!

Summary: Slashers during the summer, what slice-of-lifey things are they up to? Plus, their favorite thing about the season! (Headcanon List) Characters: Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers, Jason Voorhees, Bubba Sawyer (with a Nubbins cameo), Carrie White, Sadako Yamamura (with a guest cameo!), Pinhead, Erik (The Phantom of the Opera) Warnings: mild references to violence in some sections, some angst in Carrie's and Sadako's sections A/N: been a while! this hc list is more in-tune with their canon selves in comparison to my own previous headcanons; at least, as much as they can be in a slice-of-life list. either way, though, hope you enjoy! it was fun writing it :D

°○🎐*.• * (turn the page)

Freddy: Giving People School-Themed Nightmares

school's out in the waking world, but for freddy, school rules. he doesn't even need to use any blood or guts or body horror–just make them think it's finals week, especially if they just got through it themselves, and it’s smooth sailing from there! bonus points if he convinces them that they'll fail unless they get a 90% (or more).

if freddy's especially itching to show up in the dream, he could probably be the teacher... ooh, and whenever he makes the rounds in the classroom, he can stand next to their desk, staring down at their work with a withering expression. for funsies! maybe a chalkboard that he can run his blades over, too, that would be a nice finishing touch.

honestly, there might be some existential horror he could throw in the mix, like making the exam take hours and hours and hours... well, in the dream world, the world's his oyster! so, why not!

freddy's favorite thing about summertime is people sleeping in.

Michael: Enjoying the Wonders of Air-Conditioning

it's hot out. well, more importantly, it's humid out. it makes his coveralls stuffy, his hair frizzy, and his skin at the risk of breaking out in hives. michael can handle a couple gunshots, even a point-blank shotgun shell as a treat, but these are prolonged sensory issues that are just the right amount of uncomfortable to irritate him. like please, this is too much–his favorite season is fall for a reason! besides halloween and candy, of course.

so as much as possible, he's staying indoors or in a car, somewhere, and blasting the ac like he's mr. freeze with a hairline crack in his helmet. maybe eating ice cream, too? perhaps a sonic popsicle that he somehow snuck out of the neighborhood ice cream truck. he likes the blue in it.

but despite all of this, michael will wear his mask, or at least a mask; even if it's counter-intuitive, he'd rather be with one than without. at least his regular mask could keep his hair from exploding everywhere, right...? …right…?

michael's favorite thing about summertime is when it ends. /lh maybe the way ice cream tastes would be a close second.

Jason: Birdwatching... and Cryptid Stuff?

it's summertime! even though there were some critters that visited him during the winter, he's excited to see the seasonal ones, especially the tree swallow and the migratory geese.

of course, he's still doing his perimeter checks around crystal lake, but now he's enjoying the warm summer breeze and keeping a worn sketchbook in one of his pockets... ah, here's a bird now! god forbid someone interrupts him while this woodpecker he's tried so hard to sketch is just a few feet away. and if they scare it off, well... it's just desserts.

besides that, jason still needs to stock up on supplies, and so he'll do some late-night "grocery runs." and unfortunately, since the kids have a lot of free time now, there have been more that find themselves nearby.

they haven't gone onto the property, so jason is technically harmless to them, but... wait, shoot, jason forgot to cover up his footprints. a flashlight beam cuts through the bushes, but jason manages to hide just in time. …hey, did those kids say they "look cool?" that they "kinda look like some cryptid shit?" not to toot his own horn, but do they know where they are? don't they know who he is?

jason's favorite thing about summertime is when the fireflies come out at night.

Bubba: Picking Wildflowers

of course, summer means barbecue parties galore, and bubba loves them so so much, especially working the grill and doing a couple self-taught spatula tricks.

but summer also means a smattering of wildflowers. there are vibrant pockets of bluebonnets that sprout every year on the property, and whenever bubba has to drag some meat back to the house, he tries to take the more scenic route. admittedly, doesn't know the names of the other flowers, but that won't stop him from admiring them as he works.

recently, he's even gotten a new mask prepped and ready. at first, he tried to decorate it with some crushed bluebonnets, but then he learned the hard way about their poisonous properties... and so, for now, he's simply applying some nice eyeshadow in a similar shade. nubbins finds it pretty, and bubba is very proud of it. :]

bubba's favorite thing about summertime is that leather dries faster. that is, if he does it right and makes sure it doesn't get damaged.

Carrie: Going to the Beach!

or, well, a part of the beach. a lot of it is off-limits–her classmate's choice, not hers–so she gets chased off to parts of the beach that people usually avoid.

it is partly to her advantage, though; less people means a more atmospheric ambience to her books, less trash, and sometimes, a nice view all to herself, especially at twilight. 

the beach she usually frequents even has a collection of rocks to skip across the water, and carrie's been practicing it, now with a psychic twist. it's been going well! her best so far is getting one to skip four times in a row before sinking, and she can even pull it out of the water and bring it back to dry land if she concentrates. 

of course and unfortunately, no one else really knows about her record, but carrie herself is impressed, and deep down, she knows that's enough. and when the water ripples outward, and the reflection of the sky refracts just so, and the shore ebbs and flows at the ends of her shoes, the world feels so peaceful.

carrie's favorite part about summertime is how long she can stay out.

Sadako: Cursed-Tape Orientation

it's spooky season now in japan, oooo! lately–if sadako's psychic powers had a say in it–there's been a noticeable correlation between sadako's video's viewcount and the rate of kaidan ghost stories being told. correlation doesn’t equal causation and all, but it makes sense. and more importantly more people have been exposed to the curse. very nice!

there's also been a new(ish) ghost she's heard of with a similar gimmick. very similar, honestly. and even if they're both stuck in wells, they're both psychically powerful enough to at least communicate. sadako has practically taken her under her wing for the summer, mentoring her on curses, videos, video tapes, and cursed video tapes. this uptick, at least in japan, could be helpful for sadako's mentee to spread her word.

samara is a fast learner. parts of her work are a bit loud and have a bit too much shock value, but that's more a matter of taste. she has her own sense of style, and sadako respects that. in fact, samara is kind of like a daughter to her, and, for a yurei, it warms her heart quite a bit. especially since it seems that samara looks up to her, too.

sadako's favorite part about summertime was the breeze and wearing sundresses.

samara's favorite part about summertime was also the breeze, paired with the sunset as it filters through the tree on the hill.

Pinhead: Enjoying The Weather

whether (hehe) good or bad, the weather here on earth is something to experience, especially on the hottest days of the summer. honestly, to pinhead, the temperatures are quite tame, and so they often do a bit of sunbathing if they've been summoned, preferably at the beach (can't forget the simple pleasures).

but the true enjoyment comes from watching others suffer around them. scores upon scores of beachgoers, hopping through the hot sands, sizzling under the sun, stubbing their toes in the crags…! what delicious suffering…!

the rain can be quite enjoyable, too. seeing people enjoy the clear air and suddenly get soaked to the skin makes pinhead smile.

one of their favorite parts about summertime is getting to watch whenever someone spills their ice cream on the ground. the more they paid for it, the better. such palpable anguish... and for free! what a deal!

Erik: Costume Prep!

even if it's only halfway in the year, the next new years’ gala calls for the most amazing costume erik can get his hands on. 20,000 francs a month means you can afford quite a few luxuries in life; but at the same time, erik likes to make things himself. so, just spend on some of the finest silks, gold thread, and maybe some gunpowder and pyrotechnics, and… voila! a creative project that erik can really sink his teeth into when he isn't watching a show from box five. or maybe even while watching a show, hand-stitching the lace trim would be a bit mind-numbing without something to occupy his mind with.

soon after starting his project, the managers went and poked around in box five. erik could tell by the way that his chair had been moved, much to his anger. but it seemed like his sewing project had frightened them; in its silken heap, it did look like a ghost…! how delightful… heheheh…

erik's favorite part about summertime is the sunsets; the summer sun rays bathe the roof of the opera populaire in the most beautiful warm hues, and he likes to go there to revise some of his sheet music, sometimes well into the night (he brings an oil lantern).

and if he may complain, erik's least favorite part about summertime is manually extinguishing almost all the candles in his lair when the weather gets too hot.

[away-at-dawn]

Slasher Holiday Antics!

Summary: There's snow on the ground and a chill in the air, and the holidays are fast approaching. What are the slashers up to, and what's something they want for the holidays? (Headcanon List) Characters: Billy Lenz, Michael Myers, Jason Voorhees, Bubba Sawyer (and Family!), Ghostface, John Kramer and Amanda Young, Patrick Bateman, and Brahms Heelshire Warnings: references/mentions of violence in some sections, mild descriptions in Billy's and Jason's sections A/N: playing fast and loose with the timelines of the slashers for this one (ex. billy doing modern black friday shopping despite his movie being in the 70s)! also very christmas-centric, though i tried to include a more general holiday vibe as well. and a special thank-you to a friend of mine for helping me figure out john and amanda's section! otherwise, they'd be the third entry in here that covers christmas/seasonal shopping (for those curious, they would be out buying lawnmowers during year-end sales) *.-

.○-.⛄️☆°*-_ (turn the page)

Billy Lenz: Holiday Shopping!

why not channel his anxiety into something (possibly) violent?

black christmas, more like black friday! so many deals! so little time! and even fewer reasons as to why billy needs to buy another waffle iron!

you might also see him trying to use the phones inside the store with varying levels of success (he's been banned from 24 stores just this holiday season)

he's the most likely to be filmed fighting someone literally tooth and nail, or with christmas lights, or with ornaments, it's some gruesome stuff. then you find out later that half the time, he doesn't even care about what he was fighting for.

billy wants a new sweater this year.

Michael: HOT CHOCOLATE (　ﾟ皿ﾟ) and TV

getting his hands on hot cocoa will be a bit of a challenge, especially since he's not exactly welcome in a store or a café (or… the entire town…), but like life, michael finds a way.

if smith's grove had done one thing right in michael's eyes, it would be the hot chocolate they gave out around christmastime. it was cooled-down coffee maker hot chocolate, but it hit different.

when he eventually gets his hot chocolate, he can find a house somewhere in the neighborhood that's playing some seasonal movies on TV with a clear view out the window. that suits him just fine.

if we got a domesticated (/lh) Michael on our hands, he loves to zone out in front of the TV while he tries out the different hot chocolates you bring him. he also likes getting extra pampered by you draping a blanket over his legs. you can watch him fall asleep in minutes if you put on a yule log video.

michael wants to get snowboots this year.

Jason: Maintaining Equipment

as the world grows still and the year grows old, jason usually spends his time bundled up and outside, mending his other clothes or preparing hunting equipment.

he has a few places he likes to set up his campfire and sewing kit, and they're often good vantage points over crystal lake… just in case someone thought ice-skating in an abandoned camp was a good idea. to jason's credit, there have actually been a few who thought so.

he managed to get one once with their own ice skates. yikes!

there are some visitors that are welcome, though. a fox and a few cardinal birds seem to visit him each year, or at least seem comfortable enough to walk by his shack. at this point, they don't even startle if he moves, they just go about their way like a neighbor passing by.

jason is hoping to find a nicer tablecloth for his mother in time for new year's.

Bubba: Holiday Road Trip!

the chili they sell out of the food truck gets mighty popular in the winter, and so they get plenty of profits to cover gas and some holiday road tripping!

when they're in a town, bubba can't really leave the food truck since people would freak out, but his brothers involve him in their itinerary as much as they can. often, this is by taking scenic drives, sometimes with snow and always with something interesting in view.

nubbins does his part by taking polaroids inside the gas stations and sharing them with bubba.

when bubba does step out of the truck, nubbins always makes time to have the family pose together, and he just picked up a little santa hat and some candy canes from one of the gas stations to use as props :D

the sawyers plan on returning home at the end of the trip to cook up a delicious christmas dinner.

Ghostface: EXTREME Christmas MOVIE WATCHING

just like the halloween season, there are a ton of movies ghostface can watch, and watch they shall. they are going to either politely enjoy or absolutely suffer through christmas movies and they are going to come out of it a different person (heh) than before they went in!!

falling for christmas? the home alone sequel where they replaced marv and the slapstick is extremely sparse?? the second christmas chronicles?? put it on, they can take it!!

and if it turns out that they can't, it at least gives them background noise while they get up from the living room and pick at the last of the thanksgiving leftovers.

after a while of suffering, they'll watch the ones they like as the day comes near.

if they have you around, they will give you your own personal commentary track throughout the movie. "did you know that alan rickman's expression at the climax of die hard was genuine?" etc, etc.

ghostface wants another slasher bishoujo figurine.

John and Amanda: Installing Lights!

under the guise of a local light-installation duo, john trains amanda on the basic ins and outs of electrical work in the eventuality that amanda will need to do it on her own.

it is fairly simple work in comparison to actually creating the components of a trap, but much of the process should teach amanda useful skills. always measure what you're working with, calculate the necessary materials before starting your project, and make sure you keep your hands free when going up a ladder.

amanda is beginning to get the hang of it, and she's even enjoying the work! :D

the undercover jigsaw training is definitely useful, but there's also the added bonus of happy, grateful customers. for all the people john has to test, there are still those that, without his influence, already know the value of life.

john hopes that his mentees will get along better next year.

Patrick Bateman: Corporate Christmas Gift Exchanges and Christmas Shopping Fights

many of his coworkers bring absolutely pathetic gifts for the end-of-the-year party, but patrick...? he's much more thoughtful... heheh...

patrick is often out buying his coworkers some lovely, but secretly marked-down, clothing. he buys it, removes the tags, and gifts it to his co-workers to keep up appearances (and silently jeer at them for being so stupid to wear something so gauche).

granted, there is the risk that it seems he's buying the clothes for himself, but he makes sure to save face by explaining his intentions to the cashier, but with a positive twist. "i plan on gifting these to my less-fortunate friends. i feel so... jolly, giving to the lower classes!"

he especially loves snatching clothes off the rack just as someone next to him reaches for it, and when they look at him, he gives them a devilish smile (shit-eating grin).

i can see him inexplicably getting into a fight-to-the-death with billy lenz while he's out.

he isn't sure if he'd want to be recognized, but he would prefer to be caught at a more expensive store, at least.

patrick won't say he wants his dorsia reservation for christmas… at least, out loud.

Brahms: Decking the Halls and Maintaining his Doll

sometimes he considers getting the caretaker to take "him" outside so he can vicariously make snow angels, but it's been nothing but freezing-cold rain this year.

luckily, he was able to convince his caretaker to buy some decorative cotton. now, the manor is much more festive.

he also noticed some scented pinecones in his doll's room, and he just had to pick up a few to bring back into the walls; they freshen up the air so nicely.

unfortunately, just this morning, while decorating the tree, the caretaker accidentally bumped into his doll and it fell onto the (thankfully carpeted) floor. this caretaker is gentle, but sometimes accidents just happen.

luckily, brahms has quite the knack for maintaining "his" appearance. brahms spirited away his doll, checked on it, fixed it up, and returned it by morning.

he felt quite warm and fuzzy inside when the caretaker apologized to "him" and promised to be more careful. brahms is now a bit tempted to cause a few more accidents, himself, just to hear his caretaker again...

brahms hopes the insulation he's installed will keep him warm when it (hopefully!) snows.