This may be controversial but James Marsden looks a lot like young Tony Moran so if they remade the original Halloween movies, James Marsden would be physically accurate for unmasked Michael Myers.
I came to this realization the other night so now I have to burden others with it. I am no sorry.
Okay finally have a moment to write about meeting Rohan Campbell (since I’m in the airport now)… So on the first night of Horrorhound I only popped in to grab my wristband and take a look around, thinking it would be bigger and busier than it was… AND that things would close up sooner (I got there around 8pm but apparently things run late!) So I said fuck it, let’s go see some guests. I went to his table where there was hardly anyone there (again, I was surprised by that) and made small talk with his handlers and volunteers (all supes friendly and casual) until it was my turn (there were probably like 2-3 people before me)… So when I came face to face, I luckily remembered to introduce myself first (I am TERRIBLE at that) and he very sweetly introduced himself back. (Side note, he is very happy and light and chill like ALL the time. I think he’s just like that, y’all.) I told him I ordered a selfie but I wanted to show him some art first on my phone (stuff I’ve posted here before). I apologized for not having time to get it all printed but I said something like “This is what I would’ve brought for you. I always try to bring people I meet art!” And he was loving it, saying he wishes they were stickers so he could slap ‘em on his phone (meaning the orange sticker sheet I designed lol). So anyways, we get into position to take the photo, and I ask if he can take it because I have short arms and am a small person in general. He goes “Sure but I’m so bad at it, I’m sorry!” So we take a few and he says “I think they look pretty good.” I go “It’s cuz you got such a handsome smile!” and he goes “No it’s cuz you’re in them!” Ahhh a sweet boy. He mentions again that he wishes he had prints/stickers of the art and I say “I’ll see what I can do before tomorrow—but I’d only do that for you.” And we wish each other a good night, see ya later.
The next day I managed to get a couple of prints made at a Kinkos, and head to his table first. Soon as he arrives (again there’s like no one hanging out at his table) he sees me coming up with papers in a folder and goes “YOU GOT THEM PRINTED?!” So I scurry up (greeting his same very kind handlers) and he immediately gets up to hug me. He looks at the other portrait I included (the blue and pink neon one I’ve posted here) and goes “Oooo you made me so sexy and smouldery” and we laugh about it and go on about the art. He’s so thankful and gives me another big embrace. He then asks about my process, I bore him with what it’s like to draw on an iPad… And then he asks me what else I’m doing at the con that day, I tell him and we get into a conversation about my anxiety about meeting people, and go on about that. We go on about nerves and stuff until he asks his handler “Hey what time are we done today? 5?” She answers 10pm to which he makes a little bug-eyed face at. I tell him get some caffeine and rest and right as we say goodbye he’s got people coming up his line. He was super cute and casual and yeah 😅
Warnings: possesive, obsessive behaviour. References to murder. This part has smut, 18+, very explicit, fem genetalia. Light choking, stalking.
Contents: Rob Zombie’s Michael Myers in Smith’s Grove meets a new therapist with unconventional ideas. Michael x you/ Michael x OFC. ‘You’ have a name, since i find y/n somewhat awkward for longer fics.
I am also proud to say that this fic is heavily inspired by Michel Foucault’s ideas on power difference and how this comes into play in the anti-psychiatry theories. Also: 80s fashion. I’d love to have feedback on this.
Halloween came. Trick or treaters visited and you had to restrain yourself from eating too many sweets. Sleeping had not come easy the night before, so eventually you got up early to read. The entire day, and you felt yourself become tired so early, you kept coming back to the last pages of the journal. That journal was another thing you and Michael shared. Each time you looked at the drawings there was that pang of desire, like a punch to the gut. It was rather evident murder had not been the killer’s intention, but there was something in his eyes, something in the way he touched you, that scared you.
The news was even worse. Hearing the newscaster interview police, ‘suspect still at large’, ‘several presumed victims in the Haddonfield area’, ‘armed and dangerous’, has never felt as complicated.
On the 2nd of November, most news outlets had calmed down. Dr. Loomis, however, had been contacting you twice a day since Halloween. He thought you held the key to figuring out where Michael had gone. Each time you just repeated yourself; that he had not told you anything during his sessions, nor drawn any locations that he could have gone.
.・*・.・*・.・*・.・*・.
That night, you woke up around three. It wasn’t unusual, but you got up to use the restroom and drink some water, before trying to go back to sleep. Settled back in bed with the soft nightlight still on, your eye fell to the old journal again. It did not leave you undisturbed, rather; the thought of his hands, his eyes boring into yours, what he imagined of you were enough for that particular feeling to arise in your belly. For something to warm you in between your legs. Without noticing the figure that loomed just beyond the light, on the edge of the doorway, you bit your lip and grabbed the journal. It fell open on the pages you had intended to see with ease, as if it had become a habit already. Trying to lay on your side comfortably, you flipped through those last drawings of Michael’s. Seeing his hands grip your hips, being underneath him, tasting his lips – how would he feel? His warmth, that much you remember, but it had been short lived. You touched your lips. He really seemed to focus on your face in the drawings. And he had touched you with such reverence… The floorboards creaked behind you, and you turned around. It was him. You snapped the journal closed like a child doing something naughty. The knife glinted in his hand. His overalls were messy with dirt and most likely blood, the mask was splattered with it too. A gash in the fabric over his chest spurred you into action.
“Michael- are you alright?” you ask, raising yourself up until you’re standing in front of him. With unsure hands, you trace the rip in the coveralls. His hand is quick to cover yours. He nods in answer to your question and you sigh in relief. “Have you taken a shower since you left Smith’s Grove? It’s late, but you can’t sleep with- I’ll show you the bathroom.”
Avoiding looking at the stains any closer, you squeeze past him, and expect him to follow you to the bathroom. You hang a clean towel on the radiator – would he need two with how huge he is? The shower cabin took up most of the space in the bathroom, its glass doors textured and matte, only allowing an outsider to see colour and vague shapes.
“Warm is on the right, cold on the left,” you idly explained, if only to shift your attention from his penetrating gaze to the world around you. “Do you need anything else? I have a spare toothbrush too, if you need. Just use whatever’s in the shower.”
He made no move, nor uttered a word. Just observed you as you moved awkwardly around him to get the extra toothbrush from the cabinet under the sink. There was no space to bend down to get it, so the two of you were touching. He felt hot, even through the thick material he wore.
“I’ll leave you to it,” you said, putting it down by the sink and moving to leave. A firm hand stopped you. Slowly you looked up at him, one hand on the door. “Want me to stay?”
A nod. You crossed your arms and leant against the door. “Alright, is there anything else you need?”
Slowly his hands moved up, each movement deliberate, as a cat trying to silence their movements through the bushes when they spotted a mouse. He pulled the zipper down, taking unnecessarily long. Then it hit you. Did moving hurt him? Was that why he was behaving like this?
You pressed a hand to your eyes, massaging your temple shortly, before reaching out and taking over from him. The denim was hard with caked blood in some spots as you pushed the fabric off his shoulders. He wore a black shirt underneath, which was not doing much better. It was torn around the gash, which you could see clearer now. It was indeed a wound, with mean jagged edges. The bleeding had stopped, it was just a scab now.
“Your shirt seems to be stuck on the wound, I’m sorry if it hurts,” and with strange sensation in your stomach, you slip your fingers underneath his shirt to move it up carefully. His skin was so hot. He takes over and instead of moving it over his head, he splits it in two from the rip that was already there and drops it. His chest… Embarrassed, you pull your hand back, that still laid against his stomach. He was well-built, with a delightful softness over rippling muscles. Shoulders that were even broader now that they were no longer hidden beneath clothing.
You were about to offer to turn around, but he pushed the coveralls down, and his underwear with it in one fluid motion. Then his socks. Something even hotter hit your abdomen. His hands were on you before you could step away.
“Michael,” you said, firmer this time. “I’ll wait for you outside, find you something to wear.”
.・*・.・*・.・*・.・*・.
For Michael, this was his first shower that wasn’t in a shared space. This was your space and he was surrounded by you. Your smell, your soft towels, your choice in toothpaste, the water set to the temperature you preferred. He felt he could drown in it, as he drank the warm water as it rained down on him. His reflection in the foggy mirror unsettled him less than he expected. He smelled of your sandalwood bodywash, even used your shampoo with the sole intent of being more of you. His coveralls were part of your laundry pile. They would be washed with your detergent and perhaps softener if you felt generous. If Loomis were to meet him now, he would notice that the two of you had began to seep into each other. That he smelled of you now. That he had find a place among your things, as he belonged to you.
Michael’s pulse quickened. Only one last thing to do for the two of you to merge. To make you belong to him.
.・*・.・*・.・*・.・*・.
He came back after a good twenty minutes, leaving wet footprints on the carpet. You found a bathrobe that belonged to your grandfather, and a sweater from your dad – but looking at it now it wasn’t big enough. He barely shrugs on the robe, being more interested in crowding you back into your bed. It was a long twenty minutes, you had too much time to think about what you were doing. Being an accomplice in crime, that’s what you were doing. Assisting murder, resisting your civil duty to report on a murderer. Fuck, that was a lot. But looking at him, awkwardly tugging the still small robe over his shoulders, how could you turn him away? Would one extra night of his freedom change that much?
“Did you find everything okay?” you asked, holding on to his sleeves to keep yourself upright. Your legs hit the bedframe. Breath hitches, but you were unsure whose. His hand fell to your hip, warm and tickling. His fingers found the hem and trail under it, up your stomach. He smelled clean, mint on his breath, but still like him, masculine and your sandalwood shower gel. The urge to reach up and kiss him grew, but he still wore that blood-spattered, emotionless mask. His hand found your neck, thumb resting on the pulse point. Your breathing quickened. Slow and with controlled force, he pushed you on the bed. Sitting down, it took all you had not to look straight ahead at his cock. You folded your legs underneath yourself, looking up at him, then trailed a finger over his length. It’s an impressive size, although that is hardly surprising. His cock gave a little bounce and you moved back to make space for him on the bed. From down there, he seemed even more imposing.
The robe fell to the ground and he lowered himself down to the mattress, over you. The bed dipped underneath the weight, creaking almost dangerously. Daring to touch him, you laid your hands against his chest, feeling the slight fuzz of hair, his warmth, the muscles moving underneath as he touched you in return. Hand on your hip, pressing you down. He was so strong, he was holding back. For you? It was easy to give in then, to trust that he would be good. That he would feel good.
Something caught his eye however, it was the journal. He cocked his head to side, before throwing it to the floor. He smelled so strongly, of just him. You bit your lip, feeling flushed, feverish. He trapped your legs and straddled you, one hand moved up your shirt, the other found your lips. You opened up, gently biting his thumb. Even his fingers were thick. His eyes were intense as they were when he had you caged before, ferocious, unforgiving, glittering with dark intent. From just that, biting his nail between your teeth, the roughness of his fingers on your skin, you shifted beneath him, filled with a wanton need. How his eyes were always on yours, what did he see that you didn’t know? He smeared his thumb over your lips in a circle. Your grip on his arm turned urgent as you pulled him down to meet you.
“Michael,” you whisper, “it is forbidden, but I want you.”
That did it. With a snap the nightlight was out, large hands pulled your shirt from your body, tore your panties with a harsh snap. The darkness and heat was all there was. A third thump on the floor. Then his lips found yours, stumbling at first, but a hand on your throat forced your head so he could kiss deeper. His tongue exploring your lips, teeth, then met your own. His long hair was still wet, as you raked your fingers across his scalp, neck, shoulders. Soft gasps filled the air. Despite being inexperienced, he seemed to know exactly how to touch you to make you buck your hips up into his, to make you moan from the back of your throat. His chest moved along yours, feeling the bumps of each his muscles against your nipples.
Michael groped your breasts, circling the nipples, experimental. Swallowed up each sound you made. You arched your back to feel his chest against yours, nothing was separating you. So much hotter and broader and bigger he was, his hand pushed you back down, but relented and lowered his weight down until he covered you fully with his body. He leaned on his elbows next to your head, one hand pulling your hair, never letting up for air. His hot minty breaths made you feverish. His cock pressed harshly against your pubic bone and stomach, the pressure unbearable. There was little room to move, but you tried to touch him, feel more of him.
Harsh nips and bites that will leave a mark, slowly he reached down his hands to where you wanted him most. He traced rough fingers over your heat, finding it wet and sticky. Unable to suppress a moan, you bit down on his shoulder.
“For you,” you whisper. With some effort, you move your legs from underneath him so he was in between your legs. Grasping his velvet length, you guide him closer. His size and girth left you breathless with anticipation and fear. He bit at your lip, thrusting his hips blindly, before holding himself and pushed in properly. A scream died in the back of your throat, sounding more like a moan, mouth wide open in the dark. Michael let out a raspy groan, thighs trembling with the sensations of it. He stretched you painfully wide, but he was mercifully, cruelly slow as he continued to fill you. There was nothing you could do but take it. You touched your clit and it was electrifying. His hand returned to your neck.
“For me,” he growled in your ear, and pushed in as far as he could go. You grasped at the sheets, spreading wider to accommodate him. Teeth are at your ear, neck, chin, lips… Never before have you felt so full, so fully taken. With groans and whines, he moved his hips, slowly. His nails dug into your hips so harshly they’ll surely leave bruises. You gasped out his name. It was wonderful how he felt inside you. The slickness drawn out of you and back in, out and back in, made filthy noises, barely audible over your combined moans.
The movements grew faster. The bed creaked dangerously, but it seemed nothing existed but him and the way he made you feel. Through his groans, you thought you could hear him utter words, but you were too far gone to quiet your moans to hear him. His hands kneaded your breasts, before pulling you up to his chest. Crushing you to him with hands spread out over your back. You sought eye contact, and he was there, despite the dark. He was beautiful. Faster now, and the sensation was building. Blinding. His eyes were ferocious, unfair, unrelenting. His mouth opened in another groan, eyes fluttering closed. A sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. Bites along your jaw. The pitch of your sounds grew higher, breathier. He noticed, pushed you back down and moved into you harder, faster, keeping your hips in place with strong hands. Each time he pushed in, he hit that terrible spot inside that set your nerve endings alight with a blinding pleasure.
A cramp grips your feet as your toes curl involuntarily. Gasping out his name, and he crashed his lips to yours as you convulsed powerfully around him, gripping his arms, clawing at his hair. With similar stuttering movements, he came inside. Out of breath, he whispered something over and over.
“Mine, my Marion, all mine, all mine.”
He stayed like that for a while, inside, and you held him, his face in your neck as he peppered you with kisses. Tiredness overcame you as the sparks and peaks of the orgasm subsided. Slowly he pulled out, with a long, tortured groan. As if being apart now was too much to bear. Moving your legs was uncomfortable, they trembled like a new-born fawn. Michael sank beside you, pulling you to him, leg over his hips. A trickle of cum tickled out.
You pushed some strands of hair behind his ear to look at him. “I love how you touch me, I love touching you.” Your voice was raspy from before, and you reached over to drink the water on the nightstand. He took the glass from you when you offered and chugged it entirely. Settling back down, you let your fingers play with the soft blond hair on his chest.
He didn’t answer you, but rested his hand on the back of your head, and it felt safe.
.・*・.・*・.・*・.・*・.
In the morning, the bed was empty beside you. The sheets were cold. The art journal was open on the pillow, and you reached out to read it with sleepy, satisfied eyes. ‘I will keep you safe from cruelty and yearning’, a drawing of you, asleep, hair sprawled out over the pillow, resting on his chest, both necks speckled with dark markings. The other page had another sketch, of your body, and his fingers as they left bruises behind, and of his cock as it connected him to you. Written, very small, ‘only for me’.
I know Michael literally tries to kill Laurie but I LOVE the idea that these two have a love-hate relationship. I think it’s cute that they’d TRY to be compassionate siblings but they still want to kill each other.
Also, I’m REALLY bad at digital art so apologies with the sad art, lmao.
Yall. I fell down a YouTube rabbit hole and there are dedicated channels to collecting Spirit Halloween animatronics. Apparently there’s been a lot of backlash at spirit because there’s been way too many clowns in recent years rather than new innovative characters. I’ve been become invested in lack of innovation in SPIRIT HALLOWEEN ANIMATRONICS.
