I’m trying to get into writing after more than 5 years of not writing. I mostly write one-shot smuts, but I’m trying to gather a story together to continuously work on, but I don’t have the confidence yet.
If you have a vision you want fulfilled, I’ll be happy to write about it. Make your request here
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.
