I Dont Really Know

i stand an neutral .3. || 20 yrs old 🪦 || [Before you send in an ask: don’t vent to me about your problems. I don’t wanna hear it. Thanks. And don’t send in nsfw asks ya weirdo 🖕.] 💚✨Ship to cope with trauma//recommended by my counselor.✨💚 🌈Art blog; problematic-art-ig🌈 I may not do much but I do help report people who send deaths threats over fictional stuff, and if it’s the other way around ... sooo, yea!

[moopityscoop]

broke: making Alfred and mystery’s already relationship healthy

woke: making it harder for alfred and mystery to understand each other and cope with their problems, leading to aggressive behavior and very bad coping methods

short; watching them struggle to be together

[creepswrites]

Mask of Hate Ch 2 (Michael x Reader)

god I need a better writing schedule BUT with Halloween Ends finally out, I figured no time like the present. I hope this long chapter is worth the wait!! I've got a few WIPs that just don't want to be written yet ;;

Michael Myers x trans!Reader (he/him)

Summary: Your eyes drifted to the knife block, noting the single knife missing. Michael must have it. Swallowing, you followed your father upstairs. He was slamming open every door, pointing his gun at every little movement. First his bedroom down the end of the hall. The hallway closets, your bathroom, and then finally, up to your bedroom door. WARNING: graphic depiction of death/violence, mentions of past deaths, animal injury (no death though), Michael is his own warning

CH 1.

“Has anyone ever shown you kindness?” Your voice had Michael opening his eyes, blinking slowly up at you, your hands tangled in his wet, sudsy hair. He was sprawled out, lounging out in the bathtub while you washed his hair. For the past few weeks, you’d established a routine. Michael would get hurt or get hungry, he’d come visit you. Sometimes he’d watch you sleep but he’d always be gone by the next morning.

Since the incident where you had helped him get away from the cops by making yourself bait, the two of you had an interesting partnership. He’d been upset at the time, rightfully so, but you’d been doing your best to make amends. It wasn’t normal for him to care about another person but you were doing your best to make it easy. So, you’d taken to touching him more, easing him into the idea of affection. Brushing his hands with your own, touching his arm when you wanted attention, small things like that. Michael had always associated touch with pain until you. Though your touch was likely only tolerated because you fixed him up. He’d come to you injured and bloody from fights, sometimes grazed by bullets if the cops caught him, and you’d nurse him back to health.

You’d been in the middle of bathing him when you’d asked him. The bathroom was clean, for a bathroom, and while he was too big for the tub, he had no qualms letting his legs and arms rest upon the rim to have extra room. You’d become accustomed to him, no longer flushing at his nakedness, so washing the blood off his skin didn’t bother you. You’d bought black wash clothes and a black towel so your father wouldn’t get suspicious about bloodstains and you’d gotten clothes for him in his size that he could wear. Sweatpants and a t-shirt folded on the counter beside the sink, his navy blue jumpsuit in a pile on the cool, linoleum floor.

Today he hadn’t come bloody but he had come to you for something. Had showed up at your backdoor and made a beeline for the bathroom and you’d gotten the message. Bathing him had become pretty regular, though you still recalled the first few times where it’d ended with him shaking from how overwhelmed he was.

Now, though, his gaze bore into you like he was staring through you. Your hands stilled, still frothy with the light purple berry shampoo you were scrubbing into his scalp. He needed a haircut, you noted to yourself quietly. “Besides me,” you clarified softly as you scrubbed his scalp in slow circles. “You’re- You don’t-“ You sighed, trying to find the words, “I feel like people didn’t care for you like you needed them to. If that makes sense…”

Were you anyone else, you don’t doubt he’d kill you for saying that. Instead, he just glared at you, blue-green eyes narrowing. In anger or confusion, you couldn’t tell.

That was another development. As you two grew closer, he’d started taking his mask off. The first time he’d done it, it’d been because he’d been frustrated with his mask, pulling it around his face. His hair was too long and sat uncomfortably in his mask so you’d offered to cut it. Michael had thought on it for a few days and you’d reassured him he didn’t have to say yes.

Then you’d come home from work to find him sitting on your bed, scissors in one hand and latex mask clenched tight in his other. Michael didn’t look scared, not in the way you were used to seeing other people look scared. He wasn’t shaking or staring at you with fearful eyes. But his jaw was clenched. His gaze was harder. And he’d been tense having you with something sharp so close to his neck. At least a dozen times during the haircut, he’d gotten up to stand in the corner because of how overwhelming it was. You’d let him.

You’d gotten better at reading him. He’d gotten better at giving you cues.

He sat up, putting his legs under the water, wet hair slowly slipping from between your fingers as he turned to stare at you. Michael was interesting to you, always was. You knew he was curious about you too. He’d stare at you when you watered your plants, washed his clothes, or made food in the kitchen. You felt his eyes on you constantly, be it around the house or at work. “What?” You asked softly, staring at him with your hands hovering over the tub so you didn’t get soap everywhere.

Michael blinked slowly. It reminded you of when Mayhem would blink at you. “Don’t gimme that,” you teased, smirking at him. “I just- I always feel bad for you, thinking about it. You grew up in a fuckin’ asylum, alone. Like-“ Michael reached up and put a wet hand around your throat. Not squeezing, just holding it there. You got the message: let it go. He lay back down and you resumed washing his hair, humming a thoughtless tune to yourself.

He did things like that. Held your throat or your wrist to indicate what he wanted. Words didn’t come to Michael but he could communicate. It’d stopped becoming scary to you when you’d started taking in the context clues. The rest of the bath continued in a comfortable silence, only disturbed by your humming.

Once he was clean and dressed, his jumpsuit in the wash, you went downstairs to make dinner and feed Mayhem. Michael trailed after you, wearing the black sweats and dark grey t-shirt with his wet hair dripping dark spots on his shoulders. “You’re probably due for another haircut, by the way,” you said as you opened the fridge. Mayhem was immediately rubbing up on Michael’s leg, meowing insistently.

Michael stared at her, standing in the doorway of your kitchen. You looked over your shoulder and you felt struck with the knowledge that, if it weren’t for his injured eye breaking the illusion, it almost felt like you just had a boyfriend over. You felt your face heat up at the thought, turning to stare at the fridge but not really seeing anything. “Umm… anything specific you want tonight?” Your voice was quiet and when you looked up, Michael was standing only a foot from you and nearly making you jump with surprise. Sneaky bastard…

He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking from your face to stare at the open fridge. Before you could speak, the sound of the door opening had you both freezing. It felt like icy water was dumped down your back and you felt hot and cold all over. Adrenaline pumped through you as you whispered to Michael to hide upstairs. You quickly shut the fridge and went into the living room.

There were two doorways that led in and out of the kitchen. One that led into the living room and another that led into the hallway. You could walk a circle around the dividing wall that separated the kitchen from the living room. You just needed to pray Michael would slip into the hallway before your dad realized anything.

“H-hey dad! You’re home early…” You called as you headed towards the front door.

Your father seemed exhausted, shrugging off his outer coat and hanging it up. “Yeah, I decided to come home a bit early… It’s been an exhausting few weeks. But Myers seems to be taking a break from killing today. Who knows, maybe he’s dying.” He chuckled. Your stomach tightened but you tried to keep your smile relaxed.

“Cool, cool, I was, uh, just about to make dinner. Was thinking grilled cheese, unless you had something specific you wanted?” You leant in the doorway of the kitchen, hoping to divert your dad’s attention.

Your stomach did flips as your dad made his way past you and into the kitchen. Thankfully, Michael was gone and so was Mayhem. “Grilled cheese sounds good. You want me to-“ Your dad was cut off by the sound of his phone ringing. He sighed and gave you a wistful smile. “I’ll take this outside. You almost sighed a relief when he went back outside.

Michael stepped out from behind the wall, standing in the doorway that led into the hallway. You swallowed when you saw the glint of the knife in his hand, the latex mask on his face. His walls were back up but you didn’t take it personally. “Grilled cheese okay?” He stared at you before giving a slow nod. You tried to smile reassuringly. “Maybe he’ll get called into work.”

You pulled various cheeses out of the fridge before you paused. “He, um, he said you haven’t been killing lately?” You looked over at him, noting Michael’s eerie stillness. “You, um, you have been less bloody than usual. Is everything… okay?” It felt a bit weird, asking when he was going to kill another person again. Like it was just a casual hobby of his. Still, he just stared at you. “Just let me know if you’re starting up again soon, yeah? Dad told me Dr Loomis has been looking for you as well-“

With shocking speed, Michael approached you and held the knife to your throat. But you could see the tension in his shoulders and hand and you didn’t feel scared of him. The knife was another method of expression when he was with you.

Maybe you were just projecting onto him, but you got the impression that, deep down, he was scared of losing you.

“Michael,” your voice was soft, barely a whisper, “It’s fine, nothing’s wrong.” You tried to reassure him. Slowly, your lifted your hand to hold his wrist, like he did with you.

His eyes bore holes into you and you swallowed. He wasn’t angry. At least not at you. If he was, he’d be pressing the knife in harder and threatening to break skin. This was just him holding it to your throat, trying to process what he was feeling.

The sound of the door swinging open with a bang had you both freezing. You tore yourself away from Michael to hurry to your dad, feeling sick at the sight of his horrified and furious expression. “W-what’s going-“

“Michael Myers was sighted earlier this evening.” His voice was shaking with restrained anger. “He was coming up this way, standing around our house.” He spun about, starting to close and lock windows. “Have you seen or heard anything?”

You swallowed around your lie. “No, no, nothing like that.” Watching your dad hurry about, you wrapped your arms around yourself. “D-did they say when?”

“About an hour and a half ago. One of our neighbors called it in.” He took his gun out of his holster and looked at you. “You’re sure you haven’t seen or heard anything?”

You just hoped your anxious look was interpreted as fear of a killer in the house and not fear your dad was going to be killed. He started marching around the house, searching for a sign. “Where’s your cat?”

“I- I don’t-“ You started.

“Dead, then.” Your dad said bluntly. “Myers is known for killing the pets first so they don’t sound an alarm of any kind.” He shot you a sympathetic look before resuming his search.

Your eyes drifted to the knife block, noting the single knife missing. Michael must have it. Swallowing, you followed your father upstairs. He was slamming open every door, pointing his gun at every little movement. First his bedroom down the end of the hall. The hallway closets, your bathroom, and then finally, up to your bedroom door.

The room was still, presumably empty. Though your closet door was slightly propped open.

Your dad held a finger to his lips. “Shh,” he said softly before clicking off the safety in his gun and slowly, slowly creeping forward. Everything felt tense and you chewed anxiously on the nail on your thumb.

Out of the corner of your eye, down the hall, you spotted faint movement. The glint of the knife reflecting light from the setting sun leaking in from the bathroom window. You almost let out a sigh. How he was able to move around so quietly, you’d never know.

Your dad swung open the closet door. At the first sight of movement, he fired two shots.

Mayhem yowled, a sharp, piercing sound, and darted past your legs as he took off down the hall. His black fur had obscured him just enough your dad hadn’t gotten a clear enough shot. “MAYHEM!” You shrieked in horror, noting the slight amount of blood trailing behind the cat as he ran. The stuttered apologizing from your dad did nothing to quell your fears and you took off after Mayhem.

The blood trail went down the stairs and out through the little doggy door. Your heart sank and you swung the back door open, crying for Mayhem to come back. In the tall, mud-stained fields it was hard to see the blood or your black cat. When minutes ticked by with no response, you curled up in a ball on one of the lawn chairs, bare feet stained with grass and mud as you sobbed.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know he was there!” Your father explained from where he stood in the doorway of the house. “He’ll- he’ll come back-“

“You SHOT him!” You screamed, throat already sore from calling for Mayhem. “You SHOT him and now he might DIE out there!” You got up and shoved him in the chest, tears obscuring most of your vision.

He seemed taken aback, glaring. “Hey, it was an accident! I didn’t mean to shoot him, don’t blame this all on me. It wasn’t on purpose!” Your dad sighed and you stared at him, glaring daggers. “I’ve been working long hours and I got a call there was a killer in the house! I thought it was Myers!” He yelled, putting his gun back on his holster.

You saw red. “You SHOT my fucking CAT and that’s all you can say?! That it was an ACCIDENT?” You hit at his chest with clenched fists, like you were pounding on a door. “My cat is going to DIE because YOU can’t use your stupid fucking GUN-“

Your voice was cut off when your dad grabbed you by your arms and slammed you into the doorframe, the back door opened wider. You stared at him, blinking back tears as pain shot down your spine when you hit your head on the edge of the frame. “Listen,” he sighed, “I’ll get you a new cat. But I am stressed enough right now as it is. Let. It. Go.” He just seemed tired now, pleading with you to drop it long enough for him to find the Boogeyman.

Movement in the kitchen caught your attentions. Michael stood there, clenching his knife tight in his fist. His jumpsuit was on, still not fully cleaned and heavy with water. Your dad reached for his gun but Michael was quicker, storming forward and grabbing him by his neck. Your father was yanked away harshly from you and you didn’t even look at him, too stunned at your dad’s words.

“Get- get my gun!” He shouted at you as Michael dragged him into the kitchen, brandishing a knife and holding it to his neck. “C-c’mon get-!” His words were cut off when Michael slammed him to the ground, pressing his knee to your dad’s chest.

Slowly, reality came back to you and you looked over at the two. “Michael,” you said calmly, waiting for the dark pits of the masks’ eyes to focus on you, “I’m- I’m okay, I’m not hurt.” He tilted his head slowly, trying to figure out what you wanted from him. “J-just let him-“

When your dad got a grip on his gun, you acted without thinking. You hurried over and kicked his hand, yanking the handgun out and tossing it to the other side of the room. Michael pressed the tip of the knife to the man’s sternum and you could feel the anger and hatred radiating off of the masked man.

You stood over the two, arms around your middle as you looked between them. None of this felt real to you, not in any substantial way. It felt like a movie almost, a sick movie about a serial killer you felt attached to finally snapping and slaughtering your family because you let him get close.

Sliding to the floor, you curled up on yourself. Head resting on your knees as you silently wept.

Your dad must’ve processed things then: the now-silent washing machine upstairs that had been turned off when Michael got his jumpsuit, the lack of shoes on the Boogeyman’s feet, and his trust of you. “You’ve been hiding him here.” His voice dripped with malice. “You’ve been hiding the man I’ve been hunting. Right. Under my fucking nose!” He roared, struggling to get out from under Michael and wheezing when the other man just pressed his knee harder into his chest.

No point hiding it. “Yeah, yeah.” you sniffed. “I feed him and b-bandage him. H-he protected me…” Michael slowly turned his head and you assumed he was looking at you from over his shoulder. “W-we’re friends.”

Your dad stared at you as best he could from his place on the floor. “Maybe I s-should call Loomis, s-see if I can get you two joint rooms back in that f-fucking asylum!” He spat at you and Michael pressed the tip of the knife down, hot red blood oozing out.

You didn’t even bother entertaining a response.

“Y-you’re gonna- gonna let him KILL me?!” Your dad gasped, realizing you weren’t trying to stop Michael anymore.

You were quiet for a second, looking over and wincing at the sight of the blood. “You shot my cat and slammed me in a door.” You spat bitterly, wiping your teary eyes. Subconsciously, you’d come to terms that your dad was going to die as soon as he came in the door. It wasn’t like you could convince Michael to let him go at this point. He was protecting you from a threat, in his eyes.

So you just shut your eyes when Michael started stabbing.

The stench of bleach burnt your nose and made your eyes water as you cleaned the floor. Thank god the kitchen floor was a white linoleum like the bathroom. Michael was currently out of the house, killing the closest neighbor you had. She’d seen Michael with you and if your dad turned up dead and you lived, she’d be suspicious. You’d opened the windows to air out the kitchen as you stood up, wiping your brow.

The blood hadn’t stained, thankfully. You didn’t ask Michael what he’d done with the body. It would only serve to upset you. So he’d taken the body and left with your dad’s car, presumably to deal with it.

You clutched the handle of the mop and clenched your jaw. Things changed. You were an accomplice to Michael’s crimes now. Your father and Mayhem’s blood was gone, no evidence it had even been there. The knives were disinfected and cleaned, now all resting in the knife block. Michael was moving the body and, once he was done, he’d come home and you’d wash the blood from his hands and clothes.

It should upset you. Your own dad was just killed in front of you. The wet sounds of the knife plunging in and out of his chest still echoed in your mind. But you couldn’t even feel anything beyond anger that he’d shot Mayhem. And now your baby kitty was gone and it was all his fault.

The sounds of the door opening took you from your thoughts. You set the mop down in the now-empty bucket and went about moving it into the closet. You didn’t need to look up to know Michael was staring. He smelt of wet earth and blood and when you turned to look at him, he had his mask clenched in his hands. Blood covered his hands and mask where he gripped it.

“Are you okay?” You asked him. No response came but you knew one wouldn’t. He stepped towards you, flecks of dirt falling off his boots as he approached you. You tried not to flinch when he took your wrist but you knew he saw it. “Sorry,” you said quickly, “I should’ve done something to- to make him leave. Or-“

He cut you off with a harsh squeeze and you shut your eyes. A tug on your arm and you had to hold up your other arm to avoid him getting blood all over your clothes. You stared up at him, eyes wide in confusion.

Michael just stared at you. He wasn’t usually expressive with his face. Typically, he just stared at you with a blank face. Now, though, there was a softness to his eyes that wasn’t usually there. If you weren’t so familiar with his expressions, you wouldn’t know. But you were. You could see it.

He was worried about you.

“I’m- I’ll be okay,” you said, trying to reassure him. “It sucks now but… I knew it was inevitable. On some level…” Michael tilted his head slightly. “It was always going to be you or him. I choose you.” You felt your face warm up and you had to look away when you said that. It felt too revealing. Like he’d see your feelings on your face if he stared hard enough.

So you reached for the zipper on his clothes instead and slowly pulled it down. “Let’s- let’s get you into clean clothes-“ You let the bloody jumpsuit fall to the floor, pooling around his feet. You could have sighed at the little flecks of red that fell onto the freshly-cleaned floor. He had the shirt from earlier on with just boxers in place of the sweatpants. Michael didn’t move though, just continued to stare at you.

You blinked in confusion, looking up at him. “Michael?” Your question wasn’t answered when the taller man’s brow furrowed, searching your face for something. “Are you- okay?” The air in the room felt tense when he suddenly held you to his chest, letting go of your arm to put an arm around your waist. He seemed to relax when you blushed, his head tilting curiously.

He raised a bloody hand slowly, dragging one finger down across your cheek, marveling at the way it stained your skin. A red to match the blush on your cheeks.

Without warning, he stepped away and left you flustered in the kitchen. You stared at the empty space he once occupied and you only broke from your trance when you heard the shower running. Swallowing, you picked up his jumpsuit and took it upstairs to throw it back in the washing machine. The blood was still fresh so here’s hoping it wouldn’t stain.

With the floor cleaned up and Michael still upstairs, you felt a bit out of sorts still. Your cat was missing, your father was murdered, and the man responsible was upstairs showering. And you were going to be making him grilled cheese for dinner because that’s all you could emotionally handle.

Swallowing, a thought came to you. You took Mayhem’s food bowl and cracked open a can of tuna and poured the wet substance into the bowl. The sound made you gag but you knew Mayhem loved the stuff. He might come home if he smells food, right?

You set the bowl on the back door and winced when you remembered the kitty had trailed blood all through the house. The sun had set, the sky starting to take on the indigos of night time and you just hoped the raccoons didn’t get to the food before Mayhem did.

The cops came after about two days. When no one on the force had seen or heard your dad in a few days, they came to check. It wasn’t hard to play up the distress you felt. The five stages of grief hit harder than you expected. On the first day, you’d yelled at Michael and had hit your fists against his chest and he’d let you, just tilted his head when you’d sobbed against him. You’d wondered, briefly, how he had felt when his sister died.

“We found him dead. Stabbed in the throat in his car with your neighbor. Do you… know what was up with that?” The officer interviewing you asked.

You nodded through tears. You and Michael had briefly established your alibi and he’d set it up for you. “He- um. He came home and said- said he’d gotten a call from her. S-someone was s-stalking outside her house and s-she wanted a ride into town. T-to go to a hotel. W-when he never came home, I thought he went back to w-work… He’s- he’s been working so much I-“ You wept into your hands.

The officer gave you a sympathetic look. “I’m so sorry, kid.” He sighed. You’d recognized him when he’d come in with a few other officers. Michael had easily been named the killer so you weren’t a suspect. They didn’t know Michael was taking the opportunity to kill again. He’d left in his jumpsuit and mask, likely to return home to you for food again. He hadn’t left you alone at all the day after your dad died. He hovered in the corners of any room you stood in, held your wrist and arm if you were close enough.

Michael didn’t feel bad about it. You knew that wasn’t why he was touching you so much. He was scared of losing you, even if he wouldn’t let you see that.

You’d given your statement and the police left. With everything that had happened, you also wanted to get out of the house. You had work tomorrow and you wanted a moment without Michael’s eyes on you, if such a thing existed. So you’d gotten dressed into proper clothes, put some shoes on, and went into town. Maybe on another day you’d put in more effort but you knew the whole town would be looking at you. News reports of your dad’s crime scene would be all over the news, on the televisions and newspapers, and the officers who knew your father would be sharing stories in bars over drinks.

The thought of looking at the pet stores occurred to you. Maybe if Mayhem was gone for over a month, you’d consider it. You took your keys and got in your car to drive to town. No use walking. Plus, you didn’t want to find your feet leading you to the crime scene. The one you helped Michael commit. You should have told your dad he was there, should have gotten Michael to leave the house, should have knocked your dad unconscious and dragged him out to his car and called an ambulance… anything to have prevented the fate he’d been doomed to.

But you chose Michael. You didn’t regret your choice so much as feel guilty for how your choice had been made. A part of you knew that if Michael needed to skip town, you’d go with him. If he went back to the asylum, you’d go with him. The two of you were in this together now. A pact made in your father’s blood.

It shouldn’t give you butterflies the way it did.

You climbed out of your car when you parked outside a department store. Everything felt heavy as you stood up and made your way inside. The bright white lights illuminated aisles filled with clothes, toys, books, and food. A jack-of-all-trades kind of store. You walked the aisles without a goal in mind. Buying food would probably be a good idea if you had remembered to look at the fridge before you’d left. Maybe you’ll just wing it…

“Hey,” a soft voice interrupted your train of thought and you looked over your shoulder. Laurie Strode. She was only a year or two older than you. She still lived with her parents as she worked though you knew the paranoia of Michael stalking her never really went away.

“Oh, um, hi.” You stuttered inelegantly. “What- um-“

“I’m sorry,” she gave you a sympathetic look. “I heard about your dad… Michael is ruthless.”

You swallowed once. “Y-yeah. Thanks. I hope, um, you’re doing okay too.” You tried to give her a reassuring smile but you weren’t sure if it came out like a grimace.

Laurie just laughed, no joy behind her tight smile. “I’ll survive. Always do.”

The two of you said polite goodbyes and it left you feeling uneasy. It was easy for you to slip into a world where Michael was interested in you, a little bubble with just the two of you. Sure, you knew of his victims. Your own father had been made one right before your eyes. But it was jarring to be reminded that life existed outside your little house in the forest, that his actions had consequences that spread beyond just you.

It made you wonder if Michael’s intentions were what you thought they were. He’d never leave Haddonfield. Not willingly. He’d continue killing with or without you in his life.

And that knowledge made you feel sick.

Your dad’s funeral was mostly uneventful. A few of his work friends came to console you, some townspeople who definitely weren’t invited still showed up to give condolences. At some point, you even thought Laurie Strode left an apple pie for you before escaping without a word. Your dad had asked to be cremated when he died and have his ashes mixed with water. He wanted to be water used to help grow flowers on your late mother’s grave. It was a… unique way of wanting to be buried but you felt it was the least you could do.

Guilt still ate at you. He’d probably haunt you if he didn’t get to be united with your mom in some way. So you bought some daisies - her favorite - and brought them with his ashes and a water bottle to her grave. Haddonfield’s graveyard was nothing spectacular, just rows and rows of headstones. Some newer, some older and covered in moss and dirt. Your heart always ached seeing the forgotten ones.

You pointedly kept your head down when you passed Judith Myers’ grave. Her parents had a joint headstone beside hers, a spot they reserved for themselves about a year after she had died. Michael, they had insisted, deserved nothing less than no tombstone nor funeral.

It had been a horrible story. Even after their son was sent to Smith’s Grove, his parents had still received harsh criticism for some time. Even though the horrors of Michael’s crimes were the highlight, there was an underlying belief that the parents had some hand in it. That the neglect of their youngest drove him to acting out or that his mental illnesses going unchecked and unmedicated caused him to kill Judith. Their harsh criticisms of their own son made many skeptical.

When they’d died in a car crash two years after Judith had died, few turned up for the funeral. At the time, the town didn’t know what to think of the child who had killed and therefore the death of his parents just felt like a nail in a coffin somehow. The poor, unstable boy who now had no one waiting for him if he ever got out of Smith’s Grove. Many villainized him, of course, but some wanted him to recover. Some saw a traumatized child who needed help.

It was only after Michael broke out of Smith’s Grove and killed again that public opinion on him changed.

You pushed those thoughts aside and knelt before your mom’s grave. Digging up the damp earth - still wet from the rain earlier today - with your bare hands, you took the daisies out from their little pots and lay them in the hole made for them. With the dirt patted down, you barely winced at the dirt under your nails and staining your hands. You liked gardening, after all. This was hardly different from that. So, you opened the jar of your dad’s ashes and carefully, carefully, poured them in with the water.

It felt a bit weird. But it was his wishes. After everything, the least you could do was honor that. Besides, you didn’t really think you could cope having the jar of his ashes in the house you’d let him die in. So you poured the water over the flowers and sat there with the bottle once it was empty.

Talking to your mom’s gravestone had never been a habit of yours. You’d seen people do it before, your dad used to do it for your mom. There was just little appeal in it for you. It felt weird, talking to air. And you weren’t going to start now. But you did have a small, internal conversation that you hoped your mom would be happy to see him and that you wouldn’t be too upset if she hated you for what happened.

She’d died when you were young and you never knew her well. The concept of a mother meant more to you than who she was. Growing up, you’d looked at your friends’ parents and had felt a sting that you didn’t have a mom. But you didn’t particularly care for the woman buried beneath your feet. She was, essentially, a stranger. Your dad knew her better than you but you’d never brought that up with him. He’d always go on and on about how much you looked like her, how similar you two were, that sort of crap.

Now, staring at her headstone, you wondered what she’d think of you.

The feeling of eyes on you had become commonplace for you now. An is-ness rather than a concern. So you didn’t even bother lifting your head. Just crossed your arms and folded up your legs, staring at the headstone surrounded by daisies. “Do you ever miss them?” You asked aloud. You knew Michael was close enough to hear. “Your parents, I mean. I doubt you miss your sister, I heard about what you did with her stone when you killed those high schoolers.”

The silence was deafening. Only the soft sounds of birds broke the stillness.

“I’m trying to decide how I feel,” you confessed. “I never knew my mother so I can never miss her. She was never part of my life.” You swallowed. Maybe it was harsh, but it was always an internal thought you’d wanted to verbalize. If Michael Myers had to be the one to hear your confessions, at least you knew he wouldn’t tell anyone. “But I don’t know how I feel about my dad dying. Not yet. I feel like my mother and I always competed for him. He always spoke so highly of her and loved her even after death. Even when I was there and needed his attention.” You wiped your eyes and sniffed.

You cleared your throat. “It’s weird. I feel like sometimes he wished I had died and she had lived. I haven’t decided if I fault him for that yet. She was his wife before I was his kid after all…” You looked over your shoulder, noting Michael standing only a few feet away, eyeholes in his mask staring at you. “Do you ever think about if your parents wished Judith lived and you had died? Or do you think they wished they never had you?” It was hard to choke back your sobs then, curling in on yourself to let you cry.

The soft rustle of grass beside you was the only indicator he was sitting beside you, criss-crossed in the damp grass in front of your mom’s grave. He didn’t say anything but he didn’t have to.

He just let you cry in front of the daisies.

[moopityscoop]

Remembered when I made a confession on one of those proship acc on Instagram and everyone was more focused on me calling antis a “culture” than me being sexual harassed by them

[kosmogrl]

[moopityscoop]

The one piece brainrot is there guys

[moopityscoop]

I’m into anime now. I’m obsessed with this bitch

[partycoffin]

We all know I love me some Pokemon Dogshield… Yes, I did have independent thoughts! Wally Gym Leader in my mind…. 

My Funny Little Thought is he’s a very nice Gym Leader who lets younger trainers win if they look like they’re very close to winning… All his pokemon look like his friends… His Gym Mission is singing the alphabet with a bunch of Unowns… I cannot think further…

[moopityscoop]

Bro, I can’t send tweets on my Twitter acc fuck! Well, I’ll just schedule and repost my art on my art blog ☝️

[flowercrownapples]

another frank x wally post!! 🍎🦋

[moopityscoop]

Oh hey

[pumpkinclock]

for valentine’s day!

comic, felix better start running 🏃‍♂️

[pumpkinclock]

my favorite drawings i did for my animatic i created for my fanfic 😭

[alarmclockticktock]

love.. at first sight?

or maybe they already like each other and wondering how to ask the other out.

[joelsgeetar]

Me when Peepaw is chasing me on Halloween night

[alarmclockticktock]

maybe i should start posting on this acc. anyways, previous captions, i cannot believe i use to call this bitch “belle”.

[yourshipsarevalid]

Springtrap from Five Nights at Freddie's x YOU from real life is a valid ship

[moopityscoop]

Yes 😍😍😍😍😍😍

[abyzzalstarz]

This is your reminder to not instantly trust someone just because they are a proshipper.

I can understand that you might go “Oh, they’re not an anti, they must be safe!” but there are going to be people with bad intentions who hide behind pro-fiction and anti-harassment for immortal reasons.

People on either side can be awful. Don’t trust someone closely because their discourse or political views line up with yours.

You can seek out friends through the community, and I’m far from against that. But please remember basic internet etiquette and safety when interacting with strangers.

Stay safe out there.

[politicalmamaduck]

Writing about a child rapist did not make Vladimir Nabokov a child rapist.

Writing about an authoritarian theocracy did not make Margaret Atwood an authoritarian theocrat.

Writing about adultery did not make Leo Tolstoy an adulterer.

Writing about a ghost did not make Toni Morrison a ghost.

Writing about a murderer did not make Fyodor Dostoevsky a murderer.

Writing about a teenage addict did not make Isabel Allende a teenage addict.

Writing about dragons and ice zombies did not make George R.R. Martin either of those things.

Writing about rich heiresses, socially awkward bachelors, and cougar widows did not make Jane Austen any of those things.

Writing about people who can control earthquakes did not make N.K. Jemisin able to control earthquakes.

Writing about your favorite characters and/or ships in situations that you choose does not make you a bad person.

It’s a shame that in this day and age these things need to be said.

[nyarnamaitar]

Or, in short: the narrator =/ the author.

[oblakom-deactivated20200302]

You know what else is a shame? This nowadays tendency of putting on the author the responsibility of teaching their readers morality.

Authors are allowed to write morally ambiguous characters.

Authors are allowed to write downright despicable characters - and guess what they are even allowed to make despicable characters charismatic and likeble and the protagonists of their stories if they wish - because absolute monsters exist only under the bed.

It is not up to the author to spoonfeed the readers about morality and Yes I know this character did a bad thing and I am going going to show it in the story and make other characters call them out of it and– Bullshit.

The authors should be able to write what they want without having thousands of people jumping and their throats claiming to know them, their ideas and their morality based on what they write.

It’s not up to the author to teach you about what is right and what is wrong.

[theanishimori]

It’s not up to the author to teach you about what is right and what is wrong.

[freedom-of-fanfic]

Is it me or is the anti movement... really american? We have that stereotype over here that americans are super uptight about sex and super shy about it and obsessed with purity and hiding it from the children and stuff. Idk as a european it always striked me as a product of american culture

it’s very, very American. While there are certainly antis who aren’t American, many of them are.

I have a lot of theories as to why this is, but a lot of them are covered in this post: anti-shipping as the cool new trend (while it’s mostly about the age bracket of anti-shippers as of June 2017 (this time last year), it’s an americentric post talking almost entirely about US phenomena).

tl;dr version? anti-shipping is:

the natural result of growing up both LGBT+/queer and marinated in American-flavored Puritan Christianity/purity culture 

with a side order of valuing safety over freedom 

b/c you’ve always had freedom of information 

but you’ve never known a sense of security 

thanks to lifelong internet access 

paired with post-9/11 paranoia.

add a dash of radical feminism/exclusionist thinking

never being taught how to think critically, and

zero education on sex of any kind, and

viola: anti-shippers. 

[freedom-of-fanfic]

someone* added these tags to their reblog of this post, which, uh: this is literally the basic, standard fandom anti-shipper position on ships.

 Whether you call yourself an ‘anti’ or not, this is precisely what a fandom anti does: ‘throw down’ if they think someone’s ships are ‘abusive’, ‘pedophilia’, or ‘incest’ (generally with widely expanded definitions, hence the scare quotes).

it’s a pretty solid example of how this works, though:

tag op is 21: too young to remember a world before 9/11 happened or remember a world without internet access

tag op’s strong feelings about fictional ships suggests they flatten fiction and reality to equal levels of potential danger: classic black & white thinking structure that is strongly encouraged by American Protestant Christianity

tag op didn’t read this post with self-awareness and/or application of critical thought, much less click the link that the tl;dr list references

tag op feels justified in limiting other people’s freedom to use fictional ships to explore certain social/romantic/sexual dynamics, threatening to throw down over it.

this is because those social/romantic/sexual dynamics are not safe or healthy in real life.

even though ships are fictional, the safety of censorship is more important than freedom of expression or thought.

the concern is always about ships/sex fantasies: never violence/fantasies about harming others. this is the combined effect of purity culture and radical feminism in a society that glorifies and normalizes violence.

tag op will fight you for bad ships, because it is okay to fantasize about fighting people but not okay to fantasize about unhealthy fictional relationships

Anyway. 

I have a lot of sympathy for antis because I think their lives often set them up to favor censorship and abhor education-as-inoculation, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re being jerks to fellow fans on the basis of assuming things about the core of their person because of what they ship.

fandom policing of this sort is assumptive, presumptive, and deeply damaging, both to the victims of anti-shipper cyberbullying and the anti-shippers themselves, who are encouraged in this abusive cycle hellhole behavior by emotional manipulation and coercion.

(I want to end this with a joke about how American this is, but assholes are everywhere tbh. Americans are just especially susceptible to the thinking patterns established by fandom antis at this precise moment in history because of the factors listed above.)

*if you figure out who it is, kindly be a decent person and leave them the hell alone.

[mikkeneko]

To take this the next step which is to say, why does this matter? There’s a phrase that’s hovering at the tip of my tongue, can’t quite remember it, but it’s a word that basically means “a culturally specific passcode.” (Ed. I looked it up – it’s “shibboleth”.) A thing that members of the community will use to challenge you on your authenticity, to verify your right to be in that community, with the specific implication that this kind of verification is essential for keeping the community safe. The classic example is that of an American brigade in the European theater in World War II, suspecting the presence of a German spy, remorselessly interrogating a new recruit about World Series baseball scores. Because of course, any TRUE American would know everything about baseball scores! – and no non-American would, so if someone fails this test you are righteous and justified in declaring them The Enemy.

The overt, performative denunciation of Bad Content has become the “shibboleth” for modern fandom, as managed by the increasing influence of antis. Why is that every time one of these posts come around people so inescapably feel the need to add “but of course I don’t condone the pedo stuff” to their reblogs? Do they have reason to assume that pedophiles are so universal and normative that any reasonable person would assume they were, unless they explicitly state otherwise? Of course not – it’s a passcode. A performance of cultural acceptability.

And as the anti movement is hugely American, that means that the passcodes and rituals are also firmly based in American culture. Why all the focus on who is and isn’t eighteen? That’s the age of legal adulthood in America. There’s no magical transition in America where you go to bed on the eve of your 18th birthday an infant and wake up the next day magically transformed into an adult, any more than this same metamorphosis occurs at 16 in the UK, or at 20 in Japan. Concepts like the age of adulthood are entirely arbitrary and culturally defined – but the only acceptable metric, among antis, is the American one.

All the other Unacceptables are equally foggy as soon as you step outside the USA boundaries. Are relationships between adopted siblings considered incest? What about non-blood related people raised in the same creche? Childhood friends? Step-siblings? Classmates? Second or twice-removed cousins? Ancestors or descendants? Different cultures don’t all answer these things the same ways (nor is there any reason that they should,) and that murkiness provides plenty of foothold to launch an attack from, when someone else is shipping in a way that Just Doesn’t Seem Right to you.

Anyway, a lot of this goes under the surface. Many antis don’t even realize how inherently American their anti-ness is, and how much of their opposition to Bad Fan Content is rooted in opposition to non-Americanness, because very little of this happens out in the open. They don’t say to themselves, “American culture and ideals are better than any others, and anyone who fails to adhere to those must be punished,” – instead it gets sublimated into passphrases and rituals, little things you do to signal that you are one of the Good Ones, you are Doing Fandom Correctly. And outsiders who don’t know the correct passphrases and don’t perform the right rituals aren’t just newcomers or people with different cultures – they’re abuse apologists and pedos and predators. Outsiders against whom the community must be defended, even if it comes to a fight.

[freedom-of-fanfic]

@mikkeneko ’s addition is wonderfully astute, as usual.

this post has had more than one addition from anti-shippers with various objections, and I’d like to make a few additions to address some things not clearly laid out above.

First of all: ‘anti’ is short for ‘anti-shipper’.

anti-shippers called themselves ‘antis’ before anyone else did.

before anti-shippers nicknamed themselves ‘antis’, fandom generally referred to people who shit-stirred over fictional ships they didn’t like as ‘rabid shippers’ (b/c they usually loved a different, rival ship) or ‘fandom police’ and called the shit-stirring ‘fandom wank’.

Secondly: fandom anti-shippers focus most of their energy on policing FICTIONAL CONTENT - fanworks and fanwork creators in particular - by 'whatever means necessary’.

Anti-shippers contend that fanworks that depict harmful and/or illegal-irl content harm people, especially minors, in fandom by 'teaching them’ that harmful/illegal things are 'okay’ IRL (expressed as 'fiction affects reality’.) My primary issue with this argument: it contends that people who consume certain types of fiction make themselves susceptible to predators - and thus abuse they suffer is their own fault.

Anti-shippers believe this potential and indirect harm justifies violence towards fan creators - usually in the form of online harassment, death threats, noise mobs/spam, report spam, smear campaigns, and more.

Corallary to above: fandom anti-shipper definitions of 'harmful’ fictional content are extremely expansive and, apart from some room for mlm / wlw fiction, nearly indistinguishable from American right wing puritan definitions of 'harmful’.

To this end, fandom anti-shippers refer to any ship/ship dynamic they dislike as 'pedophilia’, 'incest’, or 'abuse’, regardless of accuracy, and modify the definitions of these loaded words at their convenience.

They also frequently smear anyone who argues with them as a 'pedophile’. (raise your hand if being called a pedophile over and over again for arguing that nobody deserves to be sent death threats for their fictional content makes you throw up in your mouth a little every time!)

Finally: fandom anti-shippers constantly dismiss and steamroll input from non-Western (particularly non-American) fans regarding anything they dislike in fandom, even if the creators/content aren’t Western/American.

The most egregious example of this is the redefinition of 'fujoshi’ - a reclaimed slur against Japanese women meaning 'a woman ruined for marriage [because she likes/creates BL content].’ Japanese BL (boy’s love, i.e. mlm) fans reclaimed this attack against them and call themselves 'fu/joshi/jin/danshi’, but English-speaking fandom anti-shippers started claiming “'fujoshi’ means 'a woman who’s gross b/c she 'fetishizes mlm’” - and they speak directly over any Japanese or Eastern Asian fan who tries to correct them.

other examples include: getting into arguments with fans over what constitutes statutory rape when the age of consent is different in different cultures*, claiming that first cousins getting married is 'incest’ even when the source culture has no issue with first cousins getting married, or arguing that various traditional romance practices unfamiliar to American/Western cultures are 'gross’ and therefore harmful/abusive.

*there’s nuanced arguments to be made about what’s the appropriate age of consent, etc, but let’s be real: we Americans are hardly in a position to judge or police other nations.

In conclusion: Besides the contentions I make in the OP about how anti-shipping culture is shaped by a very American crucible of thought, the imperialist behavior of anti-shippers:

the 'our moral standards are the Only REAL Moral Standards’ thing, and

the 'we know your own words better than you’ thing,

simply clinch the matter.