Summary: The heater's broken in your home and blankets aren't just enough for Michael in the morning. Your warm body is right there for the taking, after all.
Content/Warnings: SMUT (MDNI), Somnophilia (was discussed before, consensual), cockwarming, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie (kinda, dont know if thats right with what happens lol), more fluff in this one
A/N: Been wanting to do a somno fic and decided to feature Old man myers again hehe. This one was fun to write and I quite like how it turned out. This one is a follow up to my other Kinktober story i did with him, and is a play on my old story 'Old Bones' from my old blog. I hope you guys enjoy <3
A Night's Feast (Part 1)
It’s cold in your apartment and no amount of blankets fixes that.
Your heater went out and you’ve been waiting for it to get fixed. Until then, you sufficed with blankets and Michael whenever he stayed the night. After a round of amazing sex, you’re quick to slip on some sweats and a sweater before diving under the covers. You curl up against Michael, pressing your cold feet against his thigh. If it bothers him, he makes no noise or movement indicating so. He is still naked, save for his mask. Unless he eats you out, he never takes it off… Not that you minded.
Still, you shiver and press your cheek against his chest. He lays stiffly beside you and you almost chuckle. He used to fuck you, or do whatever to you, and then leave. But after he spent the night nonstop eating you out, he sleeps over… or at least lies over. You’re not really sure if he sleeps or not.
Once enough body heat builds up under your mountain of blankets, you fall asleep against Michael.
It’s cold once morning rolls in but what else is new. You’re sound asleep, your back curled against Michael’s side and he is awake, staring up at the ceiling. Too cold and your body is almost too warm.
He feels his cock twitch with interest and you're just laying there against him, so pliant and willing. He turns over so his chest presses against your back. He lifts his mask enough to bury his nose against the nape of your neck and inhales deeply. His dick hardens further against your ass from your scent.
Not much interests the Shape except for killing. But then he spotted you. The urge to kill wasn’t present but instead something else. Something equally as insatiable as the urge to kill. Your smile seized up his chest, the way you talked and laughed made him feel lighter, and the way your body feels pressed against his drives him more insane. He is old, he knows that, and he kills. But with you? He is something else and he likes the pleasure that comes from you.
So willing.
He remembers you talking to him the other night and how you'd be fine waking up to sex, and that solidifies his growing desire.
His rough hand slides under the large sweater you wear, feeling your warm, soft skin. You were so soft. He liked that. He trails his hand to your front and slowly dips it underneath your sweats. He's pleased you didn't bother to put on panties afterwards. His large hand cups over your mound and he lets out an indiscernible grunt at the heat coming from your core.
Michael dips his fingers through your folds and easily finds your clit. He practically knows your body inside and out at this point. He rubs slowly circles around your clit, trying to get you wet enough. Soft little whimpers leave your parted lips and you shift in your sleep. He lets his fingers dip lower and feels you start to get wet. He grunts softly and can't stop himself from latching his teeth onto your neck. He doesn't bite hard just yet. He wants you awake for that.
You've been so open to whatever he wants. You're just as insatiable as him.
Michael shifts, pressing more of himself onto you as he touches you. His thick fingers start to prod at your entrance and you moan breathlessly in your sleep. He likes your noises. He likes that he's the cause of them. He slips his middle finger inside you and grunts softly at how tight you are. He grinds his palm against your clit to stimulate you more for his cock.
A sharp moan leaves your lips and your hips roll against his. He thinks you're stirring awake but your eyes remain closed and your breathless sounds are inconsistent. He feels your arousal start to really coat his hand and he grunts at the wet, sloppy noises coming from your pussy. He's half tempted to get his mouth on you again, but he knows that'll wake you. He wants you to wake up as his cock enters you.
He works you open slowly, letting you get wet enough for him to get two fingers in you, then three. He brushes over that spongy spot inside but never fully pressing against it like he normally would. He maneuvers his free hand under your body so he can palm at one of your breasts over your sweater. You whimper again and he can practically feel your cunt sucking his fingers deeper.
Slowly, he removes his hand from your sweats. He yanks them down as much as he can, revealing your ass and wet folds to him. He easily moves your legs and shifts his hips perfectly so he can enter you. He reaches down and guides his cock through your folds before sinking just his tip inside of your heat with a grunt.
Michael slowly inserts his ring and middle finger into your mouth, the two fingers that were inside you. He strokes your tongue and thrusts as if it were his length. Your lips tighten around his digits for a moment and you're sucking both on them and air through your nose. You make a sharp noise and blink away, to which he removes his fingers from your mouth.
“Michael-?” You sound so groggy it is almost adorable. He doesn't give you much time to process anything as he slowly sinks into your cunt in one thrust. You let out a mix of a moan and gasp as he fully sheaths himself inside you.
“Oh… Oh fuck. No wonder I was having the best dream ever.” You chuckle softly as his large hand holds your hip in place. He starts to move, slow and steady as he savors the tightness and warmth around his cock. You moan again and again each time his thick head rubs against that spot that makes soft uh uh uhs fall from your lips. Michael presses deep inside you, his breathing deepens against your neck as he takes what he wants.
His hand presses your hip down and you're practically on your stomach now as his thrusts quicken, his free hand now holding your other hip. He bites your neck hard this time, his breath hot against your flesh. You cry out and whimper at the pain but the pleasure of his deep and rough strokes inside you. The blankets drape over his frame as he fucks you in earnest. He can feel you starting to tighten around him, all while you were getting slicker. He yanks his mask back down now that he's marked you and really starts to move.
“Shit, I'm close. I'm so close.” You mumble out, trying to arch your back to take him even deeper. His hips snap against your ass and he groans–actually groans– by your ear. He's making more noises than normal but he doesn't care. He can tell you like hearing him and that's making you wetter. He plans to make more noises in the future.
“Michael-!” You cry out before it shifts into a moan. Your pussy rhythmically pulses around his cock and your juices coat him.
Michael grunts again and pulls out, his hand gripping his cock as thick ropes of cum shoot out into your stretched, clenching cunt. Some of it lands on your thighs or ass but for the most part it pools and sinks into your pussy.
Before you can react he sinks his cock back inside you. You moan deliciously as he thrusts slowly, fucking his cum inside you. Your warmth is addicting and so are you. He's getting soft, but the way your squirming and mewling is all he needs right now.
Michael's hips come to a stop and he's rolling you back on your side with him right against your back, his cock still inside you.
“Good morning to you too.” You chuckle tiredly as his arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close to him. You pull at the blankets that shifted off your bodies and press yourself backwards against him.
It may be cold right now, but all you need is him and all he needs is you to stay warm.
Summary: You and Michael Myers have loved each other in secret since childhood. Over the years, your visits kept that love alive. When Dr Sartain tries to use your bond against you, Michael comes for you, guided by his devotion.
You had known Michael longer than anyone else, longer than childhood itself.
From the moment you had met him in the fields of Haddonfield, when he had simply watched you from a distance and never left your side when danger approached, you had felt it.
Something in him drew you closer, and something in you called to him in return.
Over the years, that bond had grown.
When he was taken away, sent to the mental facility, it did not break you. It only made your love bloom in quieter, smaller ways.
Weekly visits became your lifeline. Sometimes you came twice a week. You would sit across from him in the observation room, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your eyes tracing the contours of the mask he had worn for so long.
He never spoke. He never moved unless he wanted to. But you could see him.
You could always see him. The tilt of his head, the slow shift of his weight, the faint rise and fall of his chest when you spoke, each one a language only you understood.
“Hello, Michael,” you whispered one afternoon, leaning close to the glass, your fingers pressed lightly against the surface.
He turned his head just enough to meet your eyes. The mask hid his expression, but the small tilt of his shoulders, the way his hands flexed slightly on the chair arms, told you everything. He had waited for you. He always had.
You smiled softly, a mixture of longing and relief curling in your chest.
“It’s been a long week,” you murmured. “I thought about you every day.”
Michael’s hand twitched ever so slightly, a reflex, but it was enough to make your heart ache.
You wanted to reach across the glass, to touch him properly, to hold him, but you couldn’t.
Dr Sartain observed quietly from the side, clipboard in hand. He had arrived only recently, yet even now, you could feel his measuring gaze.
He wrote something down, adjusting his glasses.
You had seen that expression many times in doctors before, curiosity, obsession, the hunger to “solve” what they did not understand.
He cleared his throat.
“Fascinating,” he said, voice precise. “Your regular visits… twice a week, same time, very consistent. It appears the patient responds to your presence more than any of our tests.”
You barely heard him. Your focus remained on Michael.
The room held its breath. Michael shifted slightly, leaning forward in the chair, just enough for you to feel the recognition.
His eyes, dark behind the mask, never left yours. You smiled again, a small, soft smile that you had practised in front of the mirror for this very moment.
Dr Sartain scribbled notes, muttering to himself about heart rates and emotional recognition. You ignored him.
It did not matter what he thought. It was always just you and Michael, always had been, and nothing in that sterile, monitored room could change it.
You stayed there until the session ended, reluctant to leave, pressing your palm against the glass one last time. Michael’s hand lifted to mirror yours, just a fraction, yet it was enough.
It spoke volumes. Silent, steady, unbreakable.
When the door opened to lead you out, you hesitated. His gaze followed you, unwavering, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest.
He remembered. He had never forgotten.
And in that quiet, metallic room, you knew your love had endured.
The following week, you returned to the facility at the same time as always, your coat pulled tight against the chill, your steps measured and familiar.
Michael had been waiting, as if you had only just left.
You could feel it in the way the guards parted for you automatically, in the stillness of the observation room when you entered.
Dr Sartain was there again, clipboard clutched in one hand, a clinical smile playing on his lips.
“I’ve been reviewing your visits,” he said smoothly, voice low but calculated. “You come every week, sometimes twice. The patient… responds to you in ways none of our tests could replicate.”
You ignored him, letting your eyes fall on Michael.
He sat quietly, hands resting on the arms of his chair, shoulders tense yet composed.
The mask hid everything, yet you could read him like a book.
The faint rise of his chest as you spoke, the tilt of his head, the tiny shift forward in the chair, all of it spoke to his awareness, his longing, his unspoken words.
“Michael,” you said softly, pressing your hand lightly against the glass, “it’s me again.”
His head lifted, slow and deliberate, until the dark eyes behind the mask fixed on you.
The slightest nod, almost imperceptible, was his only response, yet it was enough. You felt your heart tighten. Years apart, countless visits, and it never failed, he knew you, remembered you, loved you.
Sartain scribbled furiously, muttering under his breath.
You leaned closer to the glass, imagining the warmth of his skin, the strength behind that silent frame.
“I missed you,” you whispered.
His hand twitched, the smallest possible motion, and your breath caught. That tiny gesture was all it took to remind you that he had waited, that he had remembered, that he had loved you in silence all these years.
Sartain’s expression darkened. He was studying Michael, trying to read what you already knew.
“The patient’s reaction… it is… love,” he said under his breath, as if admitting it aloud made it real. “This is not what we expected. This… this could be used.”
Your pulse quickened, though not from fear.
The thought that someone else could try to manipulate what had been sacred between you and Michael sent a shiver down your spine. You pressed your hand against the glass again, wishing you could reach through, wrap him in your arms, and shield him from the world.
Michael shifted forward slightly, his body language protective, deliberate. He did not move toward Sartain.
He did not react to the presence of the doctor in the way anyone else might have expected. Every motion was reserved for you. Every ounce of his focus, of his energy, of his devotion, was fixed on your small figure across the room.
Sartain’s pen scratched across the paper, but his calculations did not grasp what was happening.
He saw the data, the movements, the heart rate, but he could not measure the depth of what existed between you and Michael.
Love, silent and unyielding, impossible to dissect, impossible to break.
The session ended as it always did.
You pressed your palm to the glass one last time. Michael mirrored you, hand rising slowly, deliberately, until it hovered opposite yours.
You lingered there, chest tight with emotion, memorising the moment.
Even as the guards led you away, you felt him watching. Not just watching, but waiting, always waiting, always remembering. And you knew, as you walked through the sterile corridors of Smith’s Grove, that no observation, no calculation, no doctor’s ambition could ever alter what had existed between you for years.
Love, unspoken, silent, and steady.
---
It was the week after your last visit when everything changed.
The facility had grown restless, the air thick with unease.
You had arrived as usual, and for a moment, the room was the same. Michael sat waiting, still and silent, yet every fibre of his being spoke of anticipation.
Dr Sartain lingered behind the glass, notebook in hand, a faint, predatory smile playing at the edges of his lips.
He had studied your visits for months, observing the pattern, recording the ritual of your presence and the way Michael responded. He believed he could use it to his advantage.
But he underestimated him.
The riot started suddenly.
Alarms screamed, the echo of shouting guards and panicked patients bouncing off the sterile walls. Metal doors banged, and the fluorescent lights flickered in rapid bursts.
You froze, heart hammering as chaos unfolded.
From the observation room, you watched in disbelief. Michael moved with terrifying precision. Where everyone else panicked, he was calm, methodical. The chains meant to restrain him were nothing. He slipped free with a grace that belied the weight of his body, every movement measured, every motion silent but full of intent.
Sartain’s voice cut through the alarms, sharp and incredulous.
“Contain him! Contain him at once!”
It was already too late.
You knew, with certainty, where he would go first. He would come to you. He always had.
Every instinct in your body screamed at you, but the chaos of the riot made it impossible to leave. Guards rushed past, knocking into you, shouting, their faces masks of fear.
Sartain, always quick, always thinking ahead, was faster.
A day later, he was in your home before you realised. He struck without warning, a sharp blow at the back of your head, sending darkness rushing over you.
You woke up bound to a chair, a rough tape across your mouth, a sting of dried blood along your forehead.
He had been waiting. Waiting for Michael to come.
The hours passed in a tense, unbearable silence.
You strained against the bindings, your heart hammering, but it was useless.
And then you heard it.
The subtle scrape of boots on the pavement outside, deliberate, steady. A shadow moved through the window first, then another step closer, heavier, unyielding. Your chest seized.
He was here.
Michael stepped into your home, calm and immense. His eyes, dark and unwavering behind the mask, found yours immediately. The world around you dissolved.
Sartain’s voice rang out, smug and cruel.
“Ah, he’s here. And now you’ll see what I’ve planned.”
A knife pressed against your throat, cold and sharp, and you could only watch Sartain’s shadow looming over you.
“You see,” he said, his tone smug, “he will obey me… or you will pay.”
Michael shifted, his body coiled, quiet, his every movement precise. You didn’t need him to speak. The way his shoulders tensed, the tilt of his head, the sheer intent in his posture, told you everything. He would not let anything happen to you.
The next moment was a blur of sound.
A scream from Sartain, the sickening snap of bone. You refused to look. You could hear it, the crushing weight of Michael’s rage, the violence exacted with terrifying precision.
And then... silence.
When you dared to breathe again, his arms were around you. He freed you from the chair, hands steady, protective. You collapsed against him, tears streaming freely, pressing your face into the hollow of his chest.
“I-I thought…” you whispered, voice quivering, “I thought I lost you.”
His hands gripped your shoulders, his body a fortress. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
The way he held you, steady and unyielding, said more than words ever could. You cried into him, your sobs muffled against his chest, and for the first time since he had been taken, you felt safe.
Michael had come for you. And nothing in the world could separate you now.
The moment he held you, the world outside ceased to exist. The room, the blood, the chaos of the riot, and the lingering shadow of Dr Sartain all faded into nothing. There was only Michael and the steady, unspoken devotion he carried in every movement.
You pressed yourself against him, hands gripping the fabric of his coat, face buried in the hollow of his chest. Your body shook with relief, with fear that finally, finally melted away. Tears streaked your face, leaving marks against the blood on your forehead, but you didn’t care. He was here. He had come for you.
“I… I thought I lost you,” you whispered, clinging to him as though letting go even for a second would undo everything.
His hands moved slowly, deliberately, one pressing against the small of your back, the other holding your shoulders, steadying you. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Every line of his body, the quiet tilt of his head, the way he pressed his strength against yours, told you the truth you had known all along, he loved you.
Always.
You tilted your head up, forcing your eyes open to meet the dark, unblinking gaze behind the mask. It was terrifying and comforting all at once.
He had been called a monster, Evil, a thing beyond redemption, but when he looked at you, it was different. He was nothing but the man you had known, silent and unyielding, and entirely yours.
“I’m here,” you whispered again, pressing closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Michael responded in the only way he ever had, with action. His grip tightened ever so slightly, protective and possessive, and then he began to guide you out of the room. Every step he took was careful, silent, deliberate. You followed without hesitation, clinging to him, letting him lead.
Outside, the night welcomed you like an old friend. The streets were quiet, the air crisp and clean, carrying the faint smell of rain and earth. Michael kept close, a silent shadow, a guardian, his presence radiating reassurance and protection.
You lifted your head, finally able to see the sky, and a tremor of hope ran through you. The world had been cruel, and yet here you were, together. Unbroken.
He did not speak. He never had to.
When you reached a secluded stretch of road, you wrapped your arms around him again, pressing your cheek against his chest. You felt the rise and fall of his breathing, steady and constant, and you let yourself cry, let yourself feel the full weight of the relief and love that had been building for years.
Michael’s hands found yours, large and protective, and held you close. You whispered your thanks into the fabric of his coat, your words soft and broken, yet full of certainty.
“I love you,” you said. “I always have. I always will.”
His body stiffened ever so slightly, then relaxed, pressing you closer. He never spoke, but in the way he moved, in the way he held you, in the unshakable devotion in every fibre of his being, he told you the same.
The night stretched endlessly around you, dark and quiet, yet full of promise.
Michael had come for you, and you had come home.
Nothing could take that away. Nothing ever would.
And in that quiet darkness, you finally knew what it meant to be safe, truly seen, and utterly loved.
I have this short Halloween idea where my favorite slashers are featured. The reader is extra clingy before they go off to do their work, craving more affection than they’re already getting.
(Also, my work for Julian Dillinger in TRON is still in progress. I’ve been really busy with online school and other things, so it might take me a bit more time.)
English isn’t my first language, so I really hope you enjoy it! If you notice any grammar mistakes or anything that sounds off, please let me know — I’d be happy to correct them.
Micheal Myers :
Michael would be the type to pretend he wasn’t bothered — or worse, to ignore you completely while you tried everything to get his attention. You had agreed to let him do his thing, and he’d promised that when the time was right, he’d let you. But today clearly wasn’t that time, not with the long sigh he exhaled while cleaning his knife.
“Sweetheart, Halloween’s just a few hours away. You already got your monthly surprise. Didn’t I satisfy you enough?”
Of course he did. The way you walked was proof enough, and you could almost feel his smirk through the mask. Even sitting on his lap to feed him afterward had been hard work.
“Having trouble sitting?” he teased, his tone laced with mockery.
You rolled your eyes, your lips forming a pout — one that didn’t go unnoticed. He lifted his mask just enough to expose his mouth, stealing a kiss or two before his fingers began to massage your waist, gripping it gently.
“Look at you, clinging all over me. Keep this up, and my job won’t even last until midnight.”
You couldn’t help but laugh softly. Typical Michael.
You still remembered how long it had taken for both of you to open up to each other. It had all started when you were his neighbor, leaving meals at his door to make sure he was eating. Everyone else still believed in the Boogeyman — that he was nothing but a story — but you knew better. You knew him.
“I can’t help it,” you said with a soft smile, shrugging as you took a bite from your plate. “You take care of me too well.”
Before you knew it, Michael’s lips were trailing down to the crook of your neck, pulling a quiet chuckle from your throat.
“Mi—”
He hushed you before you could finish, his voice low and rough. “Shh. I wanna hear that sweet voice before I go.”
A soft moan escaped before you could stop it. Your eyelids grew heavy, your grip on the fork loosening until it slipped from your hand and landed quietly on the plate. He knew exactly what he was doing. But before he could go any further, a sudden knock at the door and cheerful voices interrupted.
“Trick or treat!”
That was his cue.
“So soon?” you whispered, breathless. Whatever he had planned for the night was enough to make him skip dinner — something you noticed as soon as he pulled away, leaving you flushed and dazed.
“What about dinner?” you murmured, your cheeks warming as he stood, knife in hand, and leaned down for one last kiss.
“Once work’s done.”
You watched him slip out through the back door. Your job now was simple: hand out candy and keep the neighbors entertained. He paused at the doorway for a moment, his gaze locking on you — a silent command in the way his eyes drifted down your thighs.
“Don’t start the fun without me, sweetheart.”
You swallowed hard and nodded, pressing your legs together as his words lingered in your mind.
“I promise.”
Billy Loomis:
Billy, of all people, wasn’t big on PDA, at least not unless it was a killing night. Sure, he’d indulge you when you were needy enough for him to make you shut up, but otherwise? Movie nights were your thing. A small slice of normalcy between chaos.
With Stu playing Ghostface for the first half of the night, Billy had time to stay with you at your parents’ house, Chainsaw Massacre flickering on the TV, popcorn bowls half-empty between you. Billy scoffed at the screen as another victim ran for her life. “See, babe? That’s why it’s important to take notes. Not just get inspired. Pulling a move or two from these iconic slashers isn’t bad, but at least ours don’t scream and cry like that.”
You only half listened, which, of course, he noticed. For someone who didn’t show empathy, Billy always caught on fast when your attention drifted.
“You’re not listening to me,” he muttered.
Blinking, you shifted closer on the couch, but just as you did, he leaned away, sulking. Typical Billy, brooding came naturally to him. It made you laugh softly. “It’s not funny,” he snapped.
“For someone who knows how to sway his victims, you sure don’t know how to sway your girlfriend into a real movie night,” you teased.
Billy arched a brow. “What do you mean? We’re doing that right now.”
You sighed. “Not when you keep ranting about how your victims should’ve survived. It’s starting to sound pathetic.” He almost looked offended, almost before rolling his eyes. “Maybe…”
You trailed your fingers slowly along his thigh. Even if he wanted to ignore you, that touch made him pause, his attention reluctantly fixed.
“Maybe we could arrange something,” you whispered. “If Mister ‘Killer Mastermind’ here wants to recreate a movie scene while Stu’s out doing the dirty work.”
That got him. His gaze sharpened, curiosity flaring instantly. Sure, he didn’t mind cuddling, you were the one who suggested it. But not being out there with Stu always left him restless. A little “fun” might cure that itch. “I’m all ears,” he said, voice low, leaning in until his fingers found their way into your hair. You could feel his restraint slipping, the temptation heavy in his breath.
“Maybe we could recreate a scene or two,” you suggested, a sly smile tugging at your lips. “Just to… kill time. Stu won’t mind, right? Plus, it’d help you burn off some of that tension. You look so wound up.”
Your hands slid over his shoulders, massaging gently. He exhaled through his nose, the weight in his stare darkening. You weren’t wrong — whatever he needed, it wasn’t just cuddling. “Tell me, princess…” His tone dropped, teasing but dangerous. “You wanna be in the sequel?” That one line sent a shiver down your spine — and the smirk that followed was pure Billy Loomis. “Then you better hide.”
Will Graham and Hannibal:
It was late that night. You had barely gotten the amount of rest Hannibal expected you to have, though expected was far too kind of a word. Ordered was far more fitting. During your exam season, sleep was a luxury you couldn’t afford, let alone time to spend with the two of them. It pained both Hannibal and Will to see you that way, something Jack had noticed first during your internship with Will.
You had dreamed of joining the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, of understanding killers, empathizing with them, and one day teaching at the Academy where Will himself once lectured. You were one of the best students in class. Will didn’t even need to meet his students to know who stood out. When Hannibal invited you for dinner that first evening, it had reminded Will of that same lost freshman who used to sit quietly at the back of his lectures.
But your brilliance came with a warning, one that left both men uneasy. Especially that night at dinner. You had barely touched your food, your eyes heavy as you tried to stay awake during what was supposed to be an important meal. Hannibal noticed first, the faintest trace of disappointment showing in his expression. When you glanced at Will, his gaze showed the opposite. Understanding, with just a hint of concern.
“Come,” Hannibal said softly, standing. “I’ll escort you to bed. You can eat once you wake. Both Will and I will stay for the night. Isn’t that right, Will?”
Will blinked, slightly caught off guard before rising as well. “Yeah,” he said, helping you up gently. “Come on, princess. Bedtime.”
“But, but…” you tried, your voice drowsy.
Hannibal shook his head. “No buts. Come now.”
By the time you reached your bedroom, your body collapsed onto the bed. A satisfied sigh slipped from your lips, leaving the two men to quietly make sure you were comfortable. A soft chuckle escaped from Will, prompting Hannibal to raise an eyebrow.
“What’s amusing?” Hannibal asked.
Will shrugged. “I was just thinking that if she’s working this hard, maybe I should have a word with her teacher.”
“And?” Hannibal asked, clearly growing impatient with small talk.
“Well,” Will said with a faint smile, “I am the teacher. Or at least, I used to be.”
“Not anymore,” you murmured faintly from your pillow, half-asleep. “Now it’s some random guy grading my work with Jack. And he doesn’t mind marking me wrong when one of you decides to keep me up for ‘me time.’”
Will laughed quietly. Hannibal said nothing, which made Will frown slightly. His silence always meant something was turning in his mind, and it rarely ended well for whoever caused it.
“I’ll stay with her,” Will said quickly, sensing the tension. “You can go handle whatever it is you’re planning.”
Hannibal nodded once. “I have some business to attend to.”
Will sighed. He knew that tone. He knew exactly what kind of business Hannibal meant. Once he was sure you were half-asleep again, he leaned in closer. “Look, I know the guy,” he whispered. “He’s not that bad. Maybe don’t turn him into a dish by tomorrow night?”
Hannibal didn’t respond right away, only exhaled softly. “Perhaps just a few bruises then,” he said, his voice calm. “Now stay with her. Feed her dinner when she wakes. Put her to bed before I return.”
Later that night, Will kept his word. You had woken briefly and insisted on eating beside him on the couch instead of in bed. He gave in easily. That pout of yours always managed to win. You fell asleep curled against him, his arm resting lightly around your shoulders as the room grew quiet.
When Hannibal finally returned, it was no surprise. What caught Will’s attention was the faint smear of blood on his shirt and the way he calmly wiped his lips clean before setting his coat aside.
Will tilted his head with a knowing smirk and whispered softly so as not to wake you. “I told you, just a few punches.”
“I couldn’t help,” he shrugged innocently but quite obviously and walked towards your sleeping body with a soft smile, leaning to press a soft kiss on your forehead. “Sleep well, love. Your studies won’t be as hard anymore.”
Michael wasn't expecting to fail, not after all of his efforts to get his young niece Jamie Lloyd alone and defenseless so he could kill her. It should have been easy, she was just a little girl after all, but unexpected intervention came in the form of Jamie's older foster sister y/n, who had actually managed to defeat him through sheer luck last Halloween, albeit temporarily and for just long enough to get her younger sister to safety. Michael wasn't used to being beaten. He didn't like it. Didn't like her. He wanted revenge.
He'd deal with Jamie later, the poor thing was confined to that children's hospital since last Halloween, and y/n visited her beloved foster sister every day, but one day her parents had both left Haddonfield for "important business" the night just before Halloween, leaving their young adult daughter to watch the house. She suspected the two just wanted to avoid the holiday after the trauma of last year. Now she was alone in their family home, alone and with her guard down.
y/n was tidying up the place before going to her room to get all dressed up for her hangout with Tina, vulnerable as she changed out of her clothes with her back to the door, first the shirt, than the skirt, until she was standing half naked in her bra and panties. She turned around to grab something nice from her dresser, only to be face to mask with it, with The Shape. Michael Myers. The man that had killed so many people and tried to kill her and her baby sister, now he was mere inches away from her scantily clad form, black eyeholes somehow glaring at her with pure malice.
He was on her immediately, roughly shoving her and making her stumble and fall face first onto her bed. She tried screaming for help before remembering she was home alone for the next few days, and it was hard to scream when Michael shoved his calloused fingers into her mouth to silence her cries, and when she instinctively bit down on the invading digits she was instead met with a knife to the throat as the man's entire weight pressed down on her smaller back.
His knife nearly sliced her throat as he positioned himself behind her, his broad chest pressed flush against her bare back. It took her a moment to realize what exactly what he was doing, but by the time she figured it out it was already too late, and he roughly slammed into her, his grip on the knife faltering for a fraction of a split second as an almost imperceptible shudder of pleasure surged through his body, before deciding to ditch his beloved knife all together in favor of holding her neck in place with one large hand as he began to rut away at her cunt.
Michael was heavy, so heavy in fact that she could hardly breathe with his entire weight pressing down on her own slight frame, heavy balls slapping against her pert ass as he pounded away at her with single-minded purpose. She thought she could protect his bloodline from him, that Jamie wouldn't succumb to the darkness that ran through her veins. That was fine, because he could always extend that bloodline, add a new relative for him to one day slaughter, and he was going to use her to carry on his cursed lineage. The thought of infecting her with his spawn is actually what triggers his first orgasm.
It seems like he might stop after that, his movements slow and his hips move only slightly, pushing his load deeper into her womb for a moment before suddenly starting to move again without warning or any sign of fatigue. This goes on for a while, fucking her and cumming in her over and over again until his thick semen is spilling out around his shaft with every thrust and her stomach is visibly bulging with the copious load pumped into her overflowing womb, it would be shocking if she wasn't knocked up already.
It's hard to tell how long it's been, it was light out when Michael showed up and now the moon was high in the night sky. A pitiful whine of relief escaped her drooling lips when he finally, finally pulled out of her stretched out and filled up cunt, his seed leaking out of her like spilled molasses, staining the once pristine sheets of her bed with the white puddle spilling out of her. It was more likely to than not that she was full of Michael's babies now, and if by some miracle she somehow wasn't; then there was always next Halloween to rectify this error...
If you don’t like the fuck out of Halloween as a holiday, this might lose you. Either way, 🎃HAPPY FIRST OF OCTOBER!!!🎃 (Pic source: Rob Zombie’s Halloween (2007))
5k+ words
October 29th
For you, the living, this mash was meant too
When you get to my door, tell them Boris sent you
The sung notes of a white man’s doo wop, a Halloween classic in its own right, fill the air as the Monster Mash plays around you. Scents of cinnamon and glove, pumpkin guts and decaying fall leaves accompany the music. All adding to the warm feeling that sloughs through you while you’re waiting to be handed an autumn flavored drink of your choice and the big ass muffin top you’ve been eyeing for the better part of the five minutes you’ve been waiting in line.
“I think today was a good choice to come,” you start, shuffling forward with little thought when the line goes up. Where your hands are shoved in your pocket in a bid to stave off Illinois’ current coldfront, they flex and squeeze around nothing. “The crowd is full enough that the place doesn’t feel deserted, but not too much that we can’t find pockets around here to enjoy ourselves.”
“Yeah, sure, baby,” your man mutters, attention audibly split even as you refuse to acknowledge it. When he glances at you, he doesn’t wink or smile or anything you’re hoping for. Terrance slips the twenty dollar bill from his free hand into yours, only looking at you for a second, expression pursed, before his face is lit by the light of his screen again. “Get me a hot chocolate, will you,” he finishes.
There’s a part of you that already wants to snatch the phone out his hand, but you behave and uncover a hand for only the flash of time it takes for you to retrieve the money before shoving both back in your pocket.
Haddonfield’s neighboring town’s Fall Festival and its characteristic oddness wrap around you like a comforting blanket despite everything, at least.
With the lighter of your winter coats on and the sun setting in the distance casting the sky in radiant oranges and ombré blues, you certainly feel the edges of that coziness too. In your bones as you carefully palm your drink, trying to fight off the creeping freeze of Terrance’s barely present existence around you with its warmth, you know you’re only playing at being a couple.
The man’s already stepped aside and sipping from his cup as you pay for the drinks and your muffin, smiling when the guy handling the booth dressed like Frankenstein’s Monster wishes you a Happy Halloween.
“Did you think about what I said?” you toss out quietly afterwards.
No response.
A sip is taken by you, then by him, and then you again as you gravitate back to Terrance and start walking.
The zing of pleasant flavors taste too bitter on your tongue for your liking. A frown pulls down your content smile due to the Festival the longer you wait for any acknowledgment of what you’ve said and are met with nothing.
Letting a stream of air out your nose, you take to cracking your knuckles against their warm new handhold. You don’t look at Terrance where he’s keeping pace with you, or comment on his uncharacteristic lack of interruptive commentary, you just continue where you left off.
“There's that little squared off spot in the barn the hay rides operate out of we found last year. We could sneak in there again, maybe?”
A beat.
Two.
The silence between you reigns.
Now you look over at your fiancé, not bothering to suppress the urge to squint.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Baby, I’m literally right here.” Terrance picks his head up, looks at you like he’s barely refraining from rolling his eyes. The fingers of the one hand you put back in your pocket curl into the makings of a fist, you force them to relax, taking a deep breath.
“Really?” You stop walking, turning to him fully with a scowl, pursed lips, and your hip cocked. “The fuck did I just say then?”
“I don’t know, something about going on a hayride?”
A stiff, cooling breeze rushes through your tight curls, wisps over your scalp and ruffles the scarf around your neck.
Desperately, you try to let your irritation be carried off by it.
“Close, but no. I’ll let you try again though.”
“Mmchtt,” he sucks his teeth. “Man, you been talking a lot. You can’t expect me to remember all that.”
“Sucks for you,” you snap, “because I sure as hell do. When I speak it’s with the expectation that you’ll listen.”
Terrance’s expression pinches with an emotion that might be regret. Could just as easily be poorly hidden resentment.
Either way it’s hard for you to read him anymore.
“Okay, alright. Fine.” He sighs. Looks around a little haplessly. “Let’s just walk together, alright? I don’t feel like anything crazy.”
He holds out an arm to you, and like a beaten dog you jump for the bone. Latch onto his arm to curl your own around it and keep the disappointment off your face with a vengeance at the way he brushes off your attempt to hold his hand too.
Can’t be a hand down when he just has to be on his phone.
Less than three months ago he wouldn’t have dreamed of blowing you off like this.
Guess you two’ll just be walking the event this year.
Swallowing hard, you take what he is giving you in stride. The two of you walking around, you easily juggling your drink and your treat until the muffin top’s polished off and sweetness permeates on your tongue and your fiancé’s warmth stops feeling quite as uncomfortable.
Dirt gives marginally beneath your shoes, not wet, but certainly damp with the fog in the air and lapping at your ankles.
There is plenty to look at, at the very least. Considering this was meant to be a date and all, otherwise you would’ve come here to sightsee by yourself with your own mental commentary and a playlist to keep you company.
The winning sculptures from the pumpkin carving competition and the interactive decorations and festive boots offer a lot of entertainment though.
With Terrance’s current mood you don’t stop to take pictures at displays or buy from any of the booths, but you think about it the entire time. Just can’t sike yourself up enough to force the issue, not when the man’s barely given you a stroll together.
After a few more minutes of you awkwardly throwing conversation starters at him that he refuses to catch with more than a quickly dropped “uh huh” or “sure, babe” you guys close in on the pumpkin patch and your eyes light up.
Your pace picks up and how you point out the patch for him is juvenile, but you don’t care, finally smiling wide since getting here.
“Oh, we could carve pumpkins together! That’d be fun, right? We haven’t done that in a hot minute.”
Again Terrance only gives you a cursory glance.
“Mm.” He grimaces, blurring thumbs tapping at his screen.
Again you’re dismissed.
Fine. Okay.
Downing the last dredges of your more warm than hot drink, you detach from him with a hidden sneer. Get closer to the patch teeming with plenty of families, and smiling couples you barely keep yourself from glaring at.
It wasn’t their fault your boyfriend was steadily becoming less compatible with your system.
The pumpkins bring your mind back to work, but it’s not an unpleasant occurrence. You had purpose when helping the patients at Smith’s Grove, for one. And you know one person who’d appreciate some spooky holiday cheer at least.
Maybe you’d get Michael a little pumpkin. Keep his spirits up as the date of the murders he committed nears only hours away, and his hearing with it.
Everyone had been tense around him aging into reevaluation territory. Even though you’d been assigned to walking a new female patient around earlier today, you still know he’ll be standing in front of the suits in charge of the Sanitorium so they could come to their own conclusions about whether he should be let go or not tomorrow. Knew already that the verdict would be a resounding ‘fuck no’.
The news vans and sea of reporters and protesters alike had been telling enough as to the direction his hearing would go in, and you knew Michael was dangerous, but it was still surreal to walk past all those raging people on your way into work this morning.
So yeah, Michael could be considered a monster— and your brows had definitely shot up towards your hairline when you found out how young he was considering his significant stature, but he could still use some reprieve in the form of a baby Jack o’ Lantern on what you were reasonably sure would be his last day out of full scale prison.
The patch is more than a bit picked through, but that’s alright. You wade through empty spots and squishy dirt and gnarled vines until you get to anything of interest.
To your surprise Terrance keeps pace on the outskirts of the patch. He glances over to you with a curl to his lip, but otherwise only raises his brows before shoving both hands in his pockets.
Heart picking up, your smile widens even more for him.
“Hm,” you mutter absently, hand going up to trace the pads of your fingers lightly over one of the smaller gourds. You pick it up to show him, careful of smashing any unsuspecting pumpkins while you make it a little easier for him to see. “Do you think Michael would like a pumpkin? Would I be allowed to give him one?”
“Jesus, Y/n,” your fiancé starts up, and you snap your head up to look at him, pumpkin momentarily forgotten as both your brows raise. Running his hand down his face, he gestures jerkily at you crouched over crunching leaves and browning corn husks, severed roots ground beneath your soles. “We’re on a date and you’re thinking about that fucking freak.”
“Uhm,” you start, blinking hard at him like he’s sprouted sparkling bat wings and started screeching for the whole Fall Festival to hear. “Excuse me, Whiplash, you’ve been in your phone all day.”
“Hn,” he scoffs, shaking his head at you like you’re some sort of child. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was, maybe, thirty minutes tops. I had shit to do.”
“Thirty—?” You shake your head, standing from the soft ground to face him. “Are you deadass?”
Terrance narrows his eyes at you, stepping up to you until he can move to speak directly in your ear. The hand he wraps around your bicep doesn’t squeeze, but the fact that it might as well be makes you freeze.
“I don’t like you thinking about other men when I’m around, yeah?” He shifts till he’s looking you in the face. “That’s not unreasonable, is it?”
The words ‘like you’re always thinking about other women’ and ‘fuck yes’ skip in rushed circles around your brain as you stare Terrance down, brows steadily furrowing over your eyes now and fists clenched at your side.
None of them falls past your lips.
“He’s a patient,” you ground out, tilting your head at the man in the exact type of way that lets him know you think he’s a dumbass. “And at least if I bring Michael a pumpkin someone will be enjoying Halloween with me.”
Terrance shakes his head, and the too amused, too sarcastic, “Right,” that falls past his lips makes your fists start to tremble, you tighten them so much. He’s on the cusp of getting as nasty as you've only recently learned he’s capable of being at all, and you’re gearing up to make a fool of yourself in this pumpkin patch because you’ve apparently been craving more heartbreak as of recent, when his phone rings.
Spell broken, you nearly stagger away from him and his hand slips from your body like a limp noodle.
Both of you stare at one another — blank, open-mouthed, and short of breath for no good reason — before Terrance’s phone is on its fourth ring. His hand snaps out to answer the call before it goes to voicemail and your mouth closes, lips forming a thin line.
In the end you don’t end up getting that small ass pumpkin, but that’s only after calling your head nurse, the one that likes you, not the one you’d reported for berating the patients. When she instructs you that a physical Jack o’ Lantern might not be the best idea given Michael’s unpredictability, you settle on lugging two of the roundest pumpkins you can find that are easiest to carry back to the vehicle you came in.
All the while your fiancé stays on his phone, laughing it up leant against his truck whenever you’re not in earshot, and glancing more at whatever he’s being texted than at you and your trembling arms as you’re shoving your second pumpkin past the tailgate.
Motherfucker.
─────
October 30th
The halls of Smith’s Grove echo.
Shoes, the squeak of wheels on a cart, your soft hums as you travel door to door, all of it bounces around and back to you two-fold while you’re doing your rounds for the afternoon.
Dinner time was usually uneventful, unless Cassidy was accidentally given canned peaches or Trumble got too heavily interrupted during his usual true crime ramblings and was knocked outta routine, so you’re not in any hurry as you make your usual stops.
The only surefire sounds around you that aren’t your own are of Nurse Trudy doing a similar dinner run with the patients in the rooms across from your delivery recipients. Older and more experienced, she gets through her run faster every time, but you don’t mind.
It wasn’t like you needed to be particularly speedy, especially not when your shift would be good as over right after this. Three more hours out of a twelve hour shift was practically nothing considering the field you were in.
Cassidy thanks you, tells you your new uniform looks nice, and you nod politely and redirect him like you’re taught to. Ker laughs when you enter, doesn’t do or say anything else, but he stays on his bed when you enter his room to set down his styrofoam tray of assorted food stuffs.
Lunch was being served in everyone’s rooms today on account of a fight breaking out yesterday over the therapy dogs, so now the patients had to keep to themselves for a bit and you’d probably never see those scared puppers again.
All in all, you can count your blessings, making quick time of your next two stops before knocking on the last door in the block. Michael’s room is across from one empty room and beside another just as empty one because the others annoyed him too much, and an agitated Michael was the last thing anyone wanted.
“Myers,” you call out softly, giving one swift knock to the bulky metal of his door. “Dinner.”
What remains on your cart are his tray of food and paper cup of medicine, both of which were personally handled by you from start to finish. A precautionary measure you’ve taken up because certain members of staff were even more wicked than the patients sentenced to live out the rest of their lives in here— all of them varying levels of violent, and with Michael being the least reactive out of all of the ones you’ve ever worked with.
And you shouldn’t be showcasing such blatant favoritism, maybe, but Loomis never once disapproved of or reported your actions.
“You’re new, Miss Y/n, so you don’t know about Michael just yet, but if you remain careful I don’t see the problem with sweeping this giving him treats business under the rug so long as you do,” he’d said. “Might just do the boy some good, maybe you being closer in age and providing him with a more levelheaded peer presence could keep him on the level, hm?”
Loomis had smiled at you, almost warmly then. Let you shuffle off to freak out in private over how easily he’d clocked you. Michael had stepped in front of a plastic tray of food coming straight for you only two weeks into your psychiatric residency, though, the least you could do was thank him appropriately— and since you couldn’t very well take any physical blows for him, this was your compromise.
A little candy, a smidgen of advocacy.
Regardless…
“I hear he’s been in a mood since Loomis’s last visit after lunch,” Trudy says, voice just barely above a whisper that only carries to you in an echo from where she’s settled at the other end of the hall waiting for you.
Beside her, Matias finally steps forward from where he’s been leant against a shadowy corner on the same far wall as your fellow nurse— or, well you were an RN, but, whatever. For the first time since you’ve gotten over here the security guard is deigning to do his job, crossing the length of the hall to get to you since everyone knows Loomis signed off on you interacting with Michael and personally monitoring his medicine intake.
Sure, this was your fancy version of an internship, but all the nurses over you pushed for you to gain hands-on experience where you could, and this was no exception. Your head nurse would only shadow you twice before she was confident you had things relatively settled, and after that you’d just be lightly monitored.
Matias is meant to shadow both you and Nurse Trudy as you guys go from door to door, but he was an asshole and a bum, so more often than not you had to power through without the promise of his backup. Hell, you’re surprised he’s even stayed through for the entirety of dinner delivery today.
Biting back a cringe at Trudy’s words, you stare perhaps a little more apprehensively at the door, and the barely their shuffling you can hear from just behind it, than you had been before.
“Understood,” you mutter, nodding, and not a second later does Michael finally knock back.
None of their doors locked from the inside, but you liked to give them a few seconds of at least a semblance of privacy before you barged in. The count of three wasn’t a lot sure, but it was nice enough, and all you could reasonably give without the forewarning becoming a security risk.
Michael, however, as was becoming maybe a bit too common for you on the scarce days of the month you were assigned to work with him at all, you liked to give you explicit permission.
The man was big and quiet apart from his muteness and even as you swing the door open of your own volition, you have to take a step back as to not back peddle too harshly from where he’s towering at the very edge of the door frame.
Matias’s heat lights up your back in the way only the sun does when you’re really not in the mood for its shit during the summer, over warm and threatening to be nauseating, but you don’t pay him much attention outside of stepping aside so he can silently cuff Michael.
That fact, his lack of taunting or trying to work Michael up, is something you can appreciate even if the guard is decidedly unreliable.
Too many guards and orderlies liked to…poke at Michael — too many nurses liked to gossip about him like he was deaf too, and you’ve long since adopted Loomis’s wariness at the shift in Michael’s eyes whenever he was being antagonized. You never forgot about the hard won lesson that was his psychiatrist showing you the old security footage of Michael earning his ‘no metal utensils’ rule.
Matias stays by the door as Michael shuffles away from it. As the bigger, towering man takes a seat in his desk chair and levels you with his usual stare from behind the curtain of blonde hair obscuring his face.
“Good afternoon, Michael,” you chirp, taking care not to bring the cart in after yourself even with him restrained.
Michael looks at you, the weight of his stare physical enough to press against your lungs, but it’s near impossible to even hear him breathing. Bar the rise and fall of his broad shoulders you’d be well within your rights to think he wasn’t.
“I’ve got your meds,” you begin, the usual running commentary you liked to keep up when dealing with him tumbling past your lips unbidden, “and then I’ve got your dinner.”
With that said, you hold out two small paper cups: one with pills and one with water.
Air conditioning sluggishly pouring cool breeze into the room, Michael only stays paused for a few beats before reaching out to grab both items from your outstretched hands where you’ve stopped just within arms reach in front of him, his chains clinking with his movements.
A bigger part of you than was probably wise might’ve felt bad for the guy, but you were both invested in your own continued safety and under no delusion that the newly minted twenty-one year old did more than tolerate you slightly more than he did everyone else.
When he’s done, Michael stiffly hands everything back to you and you retreat back to the cart for his food.
Matias grumbles all the while about how you’re doing too much and how he’d’ve just tossed the shit on the ground.
Ignoring the guard, after glaring at him out of the corner of your eye, you pass where he’s leaning against the one bit of wall by the door not covered by Michael’s scarce personal belongings.
The room itself, decorated from roof to ceiling, wall to wall, with various paper masks of his own creation, is small but otherwise tidy.
His desk is full to the brim with cuts of paper and the usual glue mixture he uses for his paper mache endeavors. The wall behind it taped full with newspaper clippings that’ve caught his attention over the years. Hands, nicked from his youth, are probably likely sticky with the glue solution going off the structure of a full face mask with a wide grinning maw sitting atop his table.
The orange paper he voicelessly requested from you less than a handful of days prior is neatly tucked into a corner of the white wooden surface bolted to the floor. Awaiting its decorative application once he’s done with the mask’s frame, no doubt.
Michael lets you get around his bulk so you can put down his food for the afternoon. Keeps his distance even as he turns to track how you putter around, blue-grey eyes burning a hole into the side of your head.
“I know your parole hearing is today,” you talk, keeping your voice level while double checking you haven’t accidentally left anything with him you’re not supposed to. “It sucks that instead of giving you parole they want to move you.”
A scoff sounds from behind you. You ignore Matias and don’t roll your eyes how you want to because you’re an adult.
It wasn’t like your opinion meant shit on the matter anyway. The decision had practically already been made, they were just bringing Michael in after the five o’clock dinner time as a formality, really. Michael hadn’t committed any violent crimes since he was twelve, but they were sending him off to prison regardless. And Loomis had signed off on it.
Sure, you didn’t think Michael was in any condition to leave Smith’s Grove, not with how heavily he disassociated without being drugged till he couldn’t so much as lift his head, but making him do hard time for disassociating and killing his bully and abusive family nine years ago seemed far-fetched and like a disaster waiting to happen when his routine got shaken up and he was put in a penitentiary that wouldn’t remotely accommodate his needs.
To your credit, you don’t look back at Michael until your hand’s shoved into your pocket after you’ve put down his plastic spoon and a few napkins.
The man doesn’t so much as blink back at you, but his gaze does drop, zeroing in on your covered hand.
You stifle a snort.
“Alright, Michael,” you sigh. “You’ll probably be gone by the next time I’m in, but I’ll miss your silent, looming presence when you’re gone. And try not to cause too much trouble.” You smile at him, wane and fleeting. Hope he can read the sincerity in your expression. “Happy early Halloween,” you say next, a lot softer before slipping a hard candy or five and a few fisted fun sized chocolates under the brim of his styrofoam tray and the cover of a napkin.
In response the only reaction you get, if you could call it that, is a hitch in the rise and fall of his shoulders, but that’s all he gives.
The amusement on your face gets a little broader anyway.
“Christ,” Matias curses, and you suck in a sharp breath, caught up enough you’d nearly forgotten he was in the room.
Looking him over in his pristine white patient scrubs, his form statue-still, you curb the urge to ask Michael something banal like ‘how are you doing’ and step away from him, loafers tapping lightly against his scuffed floors.
“Are you fucking crazy?” The assigned guard hisses, grabbing you by the upper arm before you can even get partway through the room on your own. You stumble as he damn near drags you the rest of the way out. “Kid, I know you’re naive enough to get anywhere near the freak without a weapon, but don’t tell me you’re stupid too. Are you trying to set him off?”
“Set him off— Michael hasn’t had an incident in years! Loomis makes it a point to mention the date all the time during October to test his triggers.”
Okay, yeah, maybe you should exercise some more caution in general around the guy, but you’ve literally seen Loomis chat Michael up about the haunted holiday in a bid to get him talking and get nothing but a blink in response.
“This isn’t necessary,” you grunt, briefly glancing at him to glare.
“Yeah?” Matias snaps a scathing look your way, shoving you out the door before immediately following you through and shoving the keys on your key ring into your hand. “Well the Doc ain’t here, now is he?
When you look back into the room Michael’s standing stock still beneath the dim white lights, nearly halfway across the room, food untouched and eyes honed in on a spot just behind your back.
A hitch hiccups through your chest at the unexpected positioning, but you only meet the darkened gaze of one Michael Aubrey Myers for a split second, feel it suck you in and dry your insides out, before the metal of his door slams shut with a resounding thunk by your hand and your key is in the lock.
The guard somewhere at your back lets out a nasty curse, tongue lashing, and you’re so stuck on getting your heart to stop climbing up your throat you can’t even be irritated.
Heaving a shuttering breath, attempting to fortify yourself, you look up. Look up and meet the very gaze mere inches from your face through the little glass window that nearly swallowed you whole seconds prior. Meet it and feel your whole world tilt just as your wrist pivots and your key clicks with the sound of the locks engaging.
Your chest heaves. Your brown eyes widen and your lashes flutter.
“S-shit,” you gasp, breathless, and nearly trip into the cart next to you when you stumble backward.
Slowly, you watch Michael’s dilated, nearly pitch black eyes shift past you.
Watch them land on their target and hold, and would bet a good amount of your paycheck that his fists are trembling behind the door.
Matias makes a strangled sound, and is standing just to your left, hand clamped tight around the hilt of his baton when you turn around. All the color drained from his face and turning his complexion ashen in a way you wouldn't be surprised currently mirrors your own.
Okay.
Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything for real, because you’ve never seen Michael move that fast. Not even when he’d seemingly materialized from the shadows on your first day and taken a tray full of food to the chest so it wouldn’t hit you square in the face.
“I’m sorry,” you mutter to the tiny window, lips numb and heart rioting, the feeling in your stomach less unpleasant than it should be. Grabbing the cart, you give him a handful of glances while he stares Matias down.
Shame lashes a violent path up your chest and sends overwhelming warmth clashing through your blood. Something more dangerous brushes gently alongside it.
─────
October 31st
In the end Michael follows his mother.
After a jolt that finally set him back into motion. A broken shard and a man’s throat giving way beneath his palm that made him feel more whole.
Follows his mother and her flowing white dress and the white horse at her side into the light.
Has no choice but to be spurred on by the pain thrumming through his body. Multiple pinpricks peppering down his front from that cop and his shiny metal weapon.
Silent, his jaw works. Memories batter for entrance into his thoughts. Make his head throb lowly.
Hands clench tight enough they start up a small tremble at his sides.
He misses the weight of the knife he’d taken in his hand.
He’d find another one.
Ambulances were ear splittingly loud up close. A fact he only remembers duly. Memories burrow deep, and only come up in disjointed spurts despite the vivid picture his first string of kills still run through his mind in.
Michael remembers the armada of fire. The sizzling, all consuming pain of bullet after bullet tearing through him, and then…
…nothing.
A blank, all consuming anger.
He was nothing, and that was nothing new.
Memories still fizzle like pop rocks — ones you’d snuck him once, the ones from his candy pale on That Night — of what happened before the bullets and tearing of skin.
Before his undoing; if he were going to put this still gnawing feeling in the cavern of his chest into the kind of fancy word Loomis would sprout.
He remembers his sister. Of finding Boo. Not remembering how to stop her crying like he used to.
Pain.
His stolen knife through his neck, maybe.
Then.
The anger.
Michael remembers the anger. The rage that took him over and was always teeming at the edge of him, waiting for unrestrained release.
Angel didn’t want him. Had hurt him too.
He’d run at her with barely a thought after chasing her through their old home. After she and Loomis had tricked him, gotten him to let go of the last of his family only to let him get shot for the trouble. Every too easy to rip off and crumble floor board and strip of ceiling once he’d retreated back into the house had stoked his fire.
Every word out of Loomis’s mouth was a lie. Michael lets the sound, the blood pouring sight, of the old man’s head giving and starting to cave in beneath the pressure from his hands replay in his mind.
Grunts out of something that might be satisfaction.
The trembling in his fists jars his wrists.
A howl builds in his chest. Stays trapped behind clenched teeth.
Michael drags up the place he retreats to in his mind as he walks away from the crash, his belly full with raw beef and slick warm blood. The mask that still remains on his head cool to the touch.
Recalls flashes of monochromatic memories and mischievous disimbodied giggles while he’d been confined by thin plastic.
Searchingly, he goes there now.
Forgets about his legs, about Angel hurting him, about Loomis. Lets his feet carry him on autopilot, and travels toward the fading after effects of his mother’s voice.
Forward, he walks. On and on.
Sees those neverending white walls he retreats to close in around him and the pumpkin-headed court he'd thought up at twelve. Occasionally, when his head is too active he finds them and their bloody antics to capture his attention instead.
Bishop Trick settles into his seat at a grand, decorated table, silver platters and ornate goblets and candle operas with lit candles all around.
Everything he sees is in black and white. Snow falling and the air twinkling.
From the head of the table the scepter King Jack holds waves around, gesturing in a manner Michael finds vaguely amusing, to the form that takes up most of the space on the table. He’s surrounded by his Lord Treat as well, all their similarly cherubic faces trapped inside their pumpkin heads marred with expressions that say they’re up to no good.
Finally, Michael lets his metaphysical gaze pan to where the king had gestured.
To you.
Feels the pressure on his knuckles loosen some. Curled fingers going lax.
Legs crossed and bent at the knees beside you, your body propped up by your arm as you lay amongst a bed of flowers and leaves over the table cloth eating whatever odd assortment on the plates before you.
It’s you, your hair longer and tight, springy curls fuller, but the woman laid out like a goddess on King Jack’s table is the one nurse he’s ever attached to.
Snow flakes fall onto your dark skin and melt. Land onto your hair and nestle like diamonds amongst the coils.
The smile you give him is familiar when you turn to look over your shoulder at him. The silver glint on your wrist beneath your frilly sleeves and the chain running from it and attaching you to the table is an affirmation that settles in his bones.
Gait shifting, memories surface of the trashed file room he’d left behind at Smith’s Grove and the words he’d memorized drag up, and he starts heading in the appropriate direction to find your address.
In the end, he leads himself back to you.
TBC…
NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!! 🎃🔪
I used a combination of the theatrical cut and the workprint versions of the movie (alongside trying to send Michael to jail from the original) for the timeline here, just amalgamated them together and made a few of my own changes. And Michael is twenty-one here because I forgot he was older than in the original and it was too late to change.
I started writing the majority of this fic before watching part two — and have only added small bits of plot info and details of Michael’s increased emotional state and general mental state after the events of the first movie — and by the time the final half of the movie started all the good will it gained from how much I loved part one, that it’d been steadily losing as part two went on, completely fled the scene. Did not like the supernatural ghost/shared hallucination angle, or the entire climax really. Annie’s death was sad, and I really loved the exploration of everyone's mental health post Michael’s big attack though— anyway. Also, I was vibing so hard with Harley in the van that when Michael burst in to kill her that was one of the few times I jumped hard as hell.
When I’m not bending canon I think RZ!Michael would just kill you. It’d be more drawn out and intimate like it tends to be when he’s formed a “connection” with somebody, but maybe he’ll pose your body somewhere comfortable at the end and we’ll call that a manifestation of some fondness. Or, honestly, as long as you don’t try to keep him locked up or outright reject him you might be tentatively fine— might.
Also, because of me wanting both Michael and the reader-insert to be closer in age, she’s gone through her first four years of college and is now in her first year past that in her residency, and I think that works age-wise. Question her professionalism all you want, I didn’t know wtf I was doing there, so whatever.
And as someone who doesn’t mind the lack of mythologizing Michael and what rules him — ultimately humanizing him — in Rob Zombie’s reboot, I really like how differently RZ!Michael reads when compared to any version of OG!Michael. They’re very similar, but where they diverge is distinct and I’ve had a good time since watching the 2007 movie unpacking RZ!Michael as best I can. All this to say it’s really fun for me that the versions are so different from one another and, as such, cause me to write them incredibly differently from each other and play around with different ways they’d work— especially in a reader-insert fanfiction sense.
Anyway, bye!!! 🫶🏾
btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!
hey alii it’s your fav riooo!! :3 anyways no more silliness.. can you write where your getting stalked by Michael and he breaks in and fucks the brains out of u, oh and has a size kink/bondage? thank you i love u and your fics!!! 🩷
enjoy the silence
MICHEAL MYERS x fem!reader
nsfw content — pls scroll if uncomfortable
summary: myers decides to break in while you’re babysitting your friends younger brother
warnings: smut, p in v, size kink, bondage, knife play, sadism/masochism, blood
reminder reader doesn’t know the myers iconic mask because this takes place the night of his return in the og movie :)
nsfww content below !!
this years halloween wasn’t like last years, the year before and all the halloweens you’ve lived through. normally it was cheery, bright, with lots of candy and spooky costumes jumpscaring you at every corner. you’d always look forward for october 31st, the scariest day of the year.
your favorite day of the year. you were a horror fanatic, always binge watching horror movies and buying merchandise. friday the 13th was one of your favorite franchises, the slasher and gruesome scenes catching your eye from a young age. ever since then you’d always get excited at the mere mention of horror aspects.
you remembered years ago when the myers incident happened— when the perfect family down the block broke apart and crumbled into mere names you’d see on the newspaper. you were friends with the daughter, having a few classes with the upperclassmen which you two shared.
she was so sweet. always giving you pencils, helping you braid your hair, sometimes walking you home. she was too young to leave the earth. the reminders of that terrifying night rung in your head every halloween, slowly ruining the once colorful holiday for you.
now even fifteen years later, flashes of red and blue tainted the back of your mind as you sat on the couch of your best friends house. you had been ‘hired’ by your best friend to babysit his little brother. you didn’t mind— her brother, kilo, was a sweet boy. he was barely passing second grade, but you weren’t one to judge.
“you finish your homework, bud?” you ask the little boy who sat across from you. he looks up from his papers, crayons at his side with his papers covered in scribbles and his bad handwriting.
“almost!” he smiles, returning back to his homework and doodling. you hum and glance back at the movie playing in front of the two of you, the street lights illuminating the living room subtly through the blinds. you could hear the kids from the streets chatting, the giggling and the sounds of halloween night.
you hear a thud from the kitchen, making you frown. you pat the kids back and tell him to stay out, standing up and walking to the hallway. you enter the kitchen and look around, your eyes catching glimpse of a fallen plate on the ground. you shudder. your friend and her parents weren’t gonna be too happy with you about that.
“hey, kilo?” you call out, grabbing the broom and sweeping it up into a bag.
“yeah?” he calls back.
“i’ll let you keep your ipad in bed if you take the blame for me about this.” you hold up the bag of shredded glass sheepishly, trying to win over the little boy with the bats of your lashes. he hums in thought, tapping his chin before nodding eagerly.
you grin and give kilo a hair ruffle before ushering him up the stairs. he takes two stairs at a time before skipping into his room, the dark blue walls painted and his bed having star wars bedding. it was cute, you could tell his parents loved him.
“night night, kiddo. you need anything i’ll be downstairs, alright? i’m gonna be sleeping in your sisters room tonight.” you tell him gently, keeping up on your promise and handing him his ipad. he giggles and nods, quickly opening it up and ignoring every other word that drops from your mouth. you sigh and walk off, leaving the door open with a small crack. damn ipad kids.
the next hour is calm. you’re downstairs, handing out candy while catching up with your shows in her television. you’re happy she has cable. you’re quite comfortable in her house, you’ve been over so many times a part of you considers it your second home.
the sound of another thud grabs your attention. at first you think maybe kilo was being kilo and caused some ruckus, but you quickly realize it came from downstairs. you get up from your couch and walk towards the kitchen once again, blinking dumbly at the sight of the pantry door wide open. you swore you closed it earlier.
“this is creepy.” you grumble to yourself, stepping forward to slowly close it. once the click echoes, you stand there for another moment, a part of you expecting a loud jumpscare. the silence is anticlimactic and you sigh tiredly, dragging yourself back to the couch.
slumping back against the cushion, you wrap yourself in the throw blanket they have and hum, focusing your eyes on the television in front of you again. the streets have quieted down, leaving only a few determined trick or treaters that you’ve started to ignore when they ring. you’re too lazy to get up.
another few long minutes pass before you hear footsteps down the hall. you stiffen immediately and sit up, peeking over the top of the couch down the hall. no way kilo made those footsteps— they were too heavy.
fuck. did someone break in? it’s halloween night, you wouldn’t be surprised. lots of people always engaged in reckless behavior this night of the year.
“hello?” you call out, sitting up sheepishly and hugging the blanket around you. you peek down the dark, luring hall and shiver. you gulp down your nerves and let out another call. “kilo? i thought i told you to stay in your room, kid.”
silence answers you.
it’s creepy. too creepy. you don’t like this anymore. you want to go upstairs and check on kilo, make sure he’s okay and maybe sleep next to him in his bed. you were creeped out and wanted to make sure he was safe mostly.
a shaky exhale leaves you as you turn back forward, preparing to stand up to make your debut upstairs. you’re met with the terrifying sight of a man over six feet standing over you, his mask staring down at you emotionless.
you don’t scream. no. you stare up at him with a gaping expression, mouth open and eyes wide in terror. your heart skips several beats and your entire world goes radio silent, a ringing noise in your ears. you were paralyzed. paralyzed from fear. you don’t know what to do, your fingers suddenly feel like twenty pounds and your throat is dry.
oh fuck. he’s gonna kill you now, move dumbass!
another long second passes before you quickly move, sitting up and trying to jump over the back of the couch. he’s blocking the front, and his hand comes down to grab your shirt and manhandle you down onto your back again. the couch is a pull out so you’re thrashing around with your legs stretched out, fist throwing weak punches. he easily holds your wrist down and stares silently down at you.
tears fill your eyes, trembling in fear. you try and muster up the courage to speak but each words stays on the tip of your tongue, wavering shakily in your head.
“who are you?!” you finally managed to to shriek, fist clenched and your wrists being held by his large hands. his fingers were thick and long, his body well over six feet with a large amount of mass. the size difference was laughable.
his heavy breathing echoes in your ears, taunting you. he doesn’t answer your question, instead he slowly picks up his knife and drags it down your neck. the tip of his knife catches into your skin lightly and you whimper at the feeling. it stings.
his knife is dragged from your neck to your collarbone, tugging aimlessly at your collar. his movements hold no rush, instead ease and stealth. his mask is staring down at you as you bite your lip, muffling your pained sniffles as the knife nicks at your collarbone.
“why are you doing this?” you croak. he doesn’t answer.
the knife along your skin continues its journey down your stomach until it drifts along your pajama shorts, slowly creeping underneath the waistband and letting it snap against your skin. he’s inhuman, not making a single noise and instead drinking in each of your cries and reactions to his touch.
his grip around your wrists stiffen, gripping you tighter and holding you down firmer onto the couch. your hips squirm weakly before you’re shut up by the small nick he delivers to your soft skin. a silent warning.
the knife against your neck and the rope around your wrists is a reminder to stay quiet and still as he slowly sinks his cock inside you. it’s thick and girthy, the size belittling all the other boys you’ve ever touched. it hurts, the feeling of having your walls getting stretched by his mushroom tip.
a small sob leaves at the feeling, your hands tugging weakly at the rope, pretty tears covering your flushed cheeks. a burn in your pussy aches your lower body, thighs tensing up as he inches his way deeper and deeper. your cunt squeezes him tight and he doesn’t give any reaction other then his fists grabbing the cushion around you tighter, the fabric wrinkling.
“t-that hurts, hey— stop, slow down at least,” you plead pitifully. your voice is smaller then intended, your mouth forming an ‘O’ shape as the thickness has you going silent. you don’t have the bravery to complain any further, not after he pushes his knife a little closer to your neck. you go silent immediately.
the feeling of him sitting inside you still is only temporary before he slowly pushes out, leaving just the tip, before slamming back inside. he’s brutal with the way he buries himself deeply, making sure every centimeter of himself is squeezed tight. a moan you do your best to muffle escapes your throat.
he repeats the action again, slowly pulling out only to slam himself deeper again. somehow his tip presses against your g-spot, making you clench down and gasp. his hands grasp your waist, the difference in his fingers and your torso noticeable— he can almost fit his entire two hands around your stomach.
you were nothing compared to this big, burly man. not with the way he was holding your waist down and slamming his cock in and out, knife discarded by your side. your eyes roll back as you moan, lips quivering and producing noises you can no longer stop. not when he was this good at fucking you.
more slams of his hips had you clenching down, crying out for him to slow down and give you mercy. he was mean, battering your insides and plummeting his cock inside, like he didn’t wanna go a single second without being sheathed inside your warm cunt. he can feel the way your walls squeeze him and a low grunt escapes his throat, squeezing your waist tight.
one if his hands grabs your neck and squeezes, not gentle at all. you can feel your air ways get cut off and your eyes go wide. and your pussy tightens even more, making him cum deep inside. his load is thick and hot, painting your insides the creamy white color. it’s not surprising you immediately cum afterwards, the penetration and the warm stickiness making you cry loudly and release in his cock.
he slowly pulls his cock out and watches as the cream pie leaks out of your pussy, staining the couch fabric a dusty white. you shudder at the feeling of emptiness after being used to being stuffed full. a small hiccup leaves you, trembling still.
you gasp as one of his hands grab your thighs, holding it still while his hand slowly grabs the knife beside you. you stiffen in fear and shake your head, whimpering and pleading.
“please don’t— i was good— don’t hurt me—“ you’re shut up by him squeezing your thigh hard, a silent warning. you shut up, muffling your hiccups and cries. you watch as he slowly drags his knife to your meaty thigh and presses down with a little bit of pressure, making little lines. small droplets of blood drip down your thigh and you want to vomit.
he tilts his head down at you, silently wondering so many things. why were you crying? if you looked closely, he had marked his name. that was no reason to cry.
All characters are over 21 years old. This content is for mature audiences (18+).
The click broke the silence. You admired his beautiful face from the small screen and smiled as you observed his squinted eyes and his hand covering the flash. It could be likened to the others you had saved: cigarettes crushed on his skin, hickeys on his neck, and sudden hair pulling. This one, however, was more innocent; you could even pretend he was more than your little toy. You pulled him strongly by the back of his neck and kissed him passionately; your teeth bit his lips and your tongue clashed with his. He closed his eyes and let himself go, his raised hands oscillating between moving them to his lap or your waist. You descended along his jawline, giving small kisses, until you sucked his neck. His warm skin screamed for you to mark it. You bit between kisses to leave your mark. You smelled your sandalwood perfume on him.
When you pulled away, a tickle in your crotch encouraged a loss of control. But you preferred to swallow and ignore the erection that protruded from his pants to torture him. He breathed raggedly. His wet, swollen lips matched his lustful eyes.
"You look good like that," you whispered, a tremor in your voice. "I could photograph you all day."
He swallowed. He lowered his head, ashamed, remembering what you were reviewing: his naked body among all the images. Nights of passion that no one else had to see.
"You'll stay with me, right?" You lifted his face from the chin, and stroked it condescendingly. "You wouldn't want them to see what a good boy you are, would you?"
He didn't lower his gaze. He just moved closer to you. He showed you the slight burn scar on his forearm, and looked at the pack of cigarettes on the grass. It was good. He already knew how absolutely consumed you were by him.
I rlly liked your other fics with him, not a big fan of him being characterized as overly affectionate so I rlly liked your kinktober fics about him
something in a similar vein to that? smut or no smut is chill, just him being infatuated in his own creepy way
Michael Myers x male reader
Headcanons
Im happy you like my stuff :3c ive never imagined he was overly affectionate either, it just didn’t feel like it fit his character very much, ya know? No hate to the people who write that, I just like imagining him as a creepy guy, standing there… menacingly…
I think the only way you two could have met where you made a lasting impression is if you were somehow at the same asylum as him. Be it as a doctor or a patient. But I’ve never read a fic where the reader was one of the doctors, so that’s what we’re gonna go with here.
Joining up at smith’s grove sanitarium hadn’t been your first choice, since it was known as a pretty run-down place, that treated their patients more as prisoners than people. It may have been a place for the worst of the worst, but they were still people in your eyes.
You get Michaels attention by somehow wrenching his care from Dr Loomis’s hands, using all kinds of laws and loopholes to rip it from him and then running for the door pretty much. To you, what Loomis did should get him placed in jail and his license removed, as it could only have made his patients states worse.
Building a relationship with Michael is what many would call impossible. But you believed that every person had something special that fueled them, and just being treated like a worthwhile human being always seemed to do the trick.
It took months, if not years for you to really worm your way into Michael’s heart, or whatever was left of it. He hadn’t really had many positive male people in his life, something you also blamed Dr Loomis for, but over time he grew closer to you, in his own way.
To others it may seem like Michael was the same as always, but at this point you’ve worked with him so long that you know him. You can feel his attention follow you, even when you are on the other side of the yard where the patients get sunlight.
It’s no shock that you are most patients’ favorite, especially after you become head of the hospital, after a very long and stressful battle with those stuck in their old ways. It made you start cleaning house, getting rid of bad caretakers and methods to replace them with better ones.
You took it extremely seriously, and would have any so called interviewers or investigators removed from the premises, to not mess with your patients’ care.
You gain a bit of a reputation in the media at how incredibly cruel you can be to the people who wish to use and abuse your patients. Some call you crazy for protecting them, especially as everyone knows Michael Myers resides there.
But to you, it doesn’t matter. You have no spouse, no children, you haven’t talked to your family since you left home at 18, all you truly have is your job, so that is what you use your energy on.
And if a lot of that time is spent with Michael, then so be it. Having Michael actually emote or pay attention to you, is a big step in the right direction in your book. You can never get him to talk, but he does succeed in learning a couple of signs, though you suspect he only does it because he knows it makes you happy.
Later you would look back on Michael’s escape as something you blamed on yourself. Over the long time you had been his caretaker, you always made sure to be there on Halloween, since it was such an important date for him.
He never told you this, obviously, but you could tell. It just happened that you had needed surgery around that time, something you couldn’t put off as much as you wanted. If you wanted to keep caring for your patients, then you needed it done.
So, it truly shouldn’t have been such a surprise for one of your nurses to call you in a panic that Michael had somehow gotten out. Being bedbound, there wasn’t much you could do but give orders from home and watch the tv.
You didn’t technically live in Haddonfield, but you lived close enough that you could bike to town for groceries if you needed to, but also so you could drive to work without much issue.
Seeing no reports of murders outside the usual made you sigh and slump in on yourself. You had put off taking your pain medication, wanting to be clearheaded and aware, just in case you needed to be. And what else kept one clear in the head but pain.
As bedridden as you were, there wasn’t much you could do when you heard your back door open. You only knew it was that door, as it had a loud squeaky hinge you never got fixed, as it wasn’t like you used that entrance much.
Seeing Michaels looming stature shouldn’t have been a shocker either. What did amaze you to a certain, professional extent, was that he hadn’t put on his usual coveralls or mask, instead it was one you two had made together using safe materials.
There was no verbal or physical reply when you spoke to him, outside of a slight rise of tension in his shoulders when he heard you grunt in pain, as you turned to look at him.
You didn’t want to call the hospital, knowing just how volatile Michael could be. And you may have replaced many doctors and nurses, but they still feared him, all but you at least. The only thing you truly could do was speak to him, to make him stay so he didn’t go kill anyone.
Maybe it was the years of care you had given him, but Michael at some point moved closer, just staring down at you and the bandages around your stomach.
You had a feeling he wanted to poke it or maybe just unwrap it, but you had worked with him about other people’s pain tolerance. Michael still only seemed to care when it was you, but you put a lot of stuff in his notes about your professional opinion and growth.
There were worse caretakers than Michael. In all reality he wasn’t really a caretaker. A lot of it was just him standing by the door, in the corner, or right at the foot of your bed to watch you. Hed shuffle after you wherever you went in the apartment, even carrying you when you couldn’t move too much.
you had decided to heal enough to bring him back to smith’s grove when you healed enough, already knowing how violent Michael could be with other people.
To Michael though, this meant more than you meant. He wasn’t one to feel lust or much romantic attraction, but he was drawn to you and attached enough to just stay, to even bring you your pill bottles and water, like how you would to him at smith’s grove.
You theorized it made him happy, in his own way, to know he was helping in the ways he knew how. Another more paranoid part of your brain did worry about what he did when you slept, since the pain medication had that effect.
Nothing ever looked out of place, but you did catch him kneeling beside your bed on more than one occasion, just holding your hand. Or the times hed place your hand on top of his head so you would caress him.
It was inappropriate for a doctor to do such a thing with his patients, but Michael seemed calmer and more at ease when it was just you two. He couldn’t cuddle in bed with you, and neither did he seem to want to, but being held and coddle in small amounts seemingly worked for him.
Michael clearly wasn’t pleased when you took him to return to smith’s grove, but he actually came along without issue. It caused a whole media storm, but over the years you had mastered those too. As long as it helped your patients, then you would do it, to a certain extent.
And if giving Michael weekends at your place where he got to stalk you around your own property was what he needed, then so be it. you saw it as progress, in his own, weird way. Hell, Michael even started sitting and having dinner with you instead of just hovering. To you that was a win, no matter what others said.
