Reasons Michael from The Good Place is sex/romance repulsed aromantic asexual
1. “Kissing is gross. You just mash your food holes together. It’s not for that.”
2. “I have no real ability to gauge the physical attractiveness of humans. But no, you did not pull it off.”
3. Him being supportive of his friends romantic relationships but no desire for it himself. I’m convinced his lack of desire isn’t even from the fact he’s a demon because other demons and otherworldly beings like The Judge show an active interest in sex and romance for themselves and find people attractive. It’s literally just Michael
4. Him never being shown to end up with anyone even when he is a human. He’s shown to have friends and loved ones, but not a significant other. Just him vibing with his dog. Further supporting the fact that his lack of interest isn’t “just a demon thing”
5. I’m aro/ace and he’s my favourite character and I say so
I’m actually convinced AMOTI is the extended universe of TGP.
Charles is just Michael after he becomes human, and in order to make the most of his time on earth, he decides to become a private investigator named “Charles Nieuwendyk”.
cuddling between strangers, whatever pairing that moves you
So I think I probably took this in a different direction than intended, but... I don't know, this is what I was feeling. It is cuddling only in the very barest (and also extremely non-romantic) sense of the word, but I like how it turned out anyway.
~
| The Good Place | Michael & OC | G | a number of words |
Three bulging bags of all the shit she owns in the world are sitting beside her, on the bench outside the laundry room. Claire taps her phone to wake up the screen, but there aren't any new messages. Nat said she would text when she was on her way back to the apartment. Her building is nice, or at least a lot nicer than the shit hole Claire was staying in, with--
She sniffs and rubs her hand over her face. No. Nope. She's not thinking about that, not right now. She's fine. She's great! She's a free woman.
Her asshole ex is going to be the last thing she thinks about.
There's not much to do, waiting on Nat, so she's been watching a lizard sitting on the brick border of the sad looking flower bed. She's halfway ready to try to start a conversation with him, when she hears footsteps and a quiet whistling coming down the path. There's a man, tall and white-haired, carrying an empty laundry basket. He swipes into the laundry room and Claire can't help but listen as he opens one of the machines. Probably getting things out of the dryer, if she had to guess.
There's a buzz against her lap and she scrambles to grab her phone, pulling it out and praying that Nat will be home soon.
Erika
>>> need the money u owe me for this past month
>>>anything u left here im clearing out bc u clearly didnt want
>>>not like u took care of things anyway right
>>>:))))))
>>>bitch
"Jesus," Claire says to herself, fighting back another wave of tears. She feels nauseated, sick with herself for the little kernel of herself that still loves Erika, no matter how awful she turned out to be. Her grip on the phone tightens and she sinks down, leaning against a bag full of her clothes as she tries to keep as quiet as she can. But then she thinks--no. Erika hated it when she cried. Erika was always soft and quiet and dignified. Claire's a mess, she deserves to look like it. She deserves to act like it. Who the fuck cares if someone hears her crying.
It's not as cathartic as she'd imagined.
And even if the freedom to cry feels nice, everything else is a matter of loss rather than gain. No girlfriend. Lost most of her friends, since they were all Erika's. No home. And if she can't get herself together then she's probably going to lose her job, too.
She's halfway into a pretty big doom spiral when a soft voice startles her.
"Oh, are... are you all right?"
Claire looks up and sees the man from before, his basket now nearly full of neatly folded clothes.
"Yeah, I'm fine," she says. She sucks in a breath through her nose and wipes at her face with her sleeve. "Why? Don't I look it?"
"You're crying," he says. "And you look sad."
Fucking prick. "Okay, well I am sad. Thanks for the update, now can you go mind your own fucking business?"
"I don't want to bother you," he says, "but if there's something I can do--"
"Make my friend get her ass home faster? I'm waiting for her to let me in." She looks up, furtive, and realizes maybe she shouldn't have admitted that. "I'm not telling you which one."
"Wasn't going to ask," he says. "But if you want some company while you wait, I can sit with you. Over there," he emphasizes, pointing to another bench. He shakes his laundry basket and grins. "A button fell off my shirt and I need to sew it back on. With a needle. And thread. It's my first time."
"Uh..." The guy isn't giving off any dangerous vibes, but there's something about him that's certainly weird. "Good for you, man. Real big day."
"It is," he says, leaning down a little like he's telling her a secret. "Before, I wore a, uh. Well, a different kind of suit. Buttons weren't much of an issue."
He looks like he's waiting for an answer, and while something in Claire wants to tell him he can go fuck himself, there's a reckless, starving part of her that just. Doesn't want to be alone. So she shrugs and says "I don't care. Sew wherever you want."
So with a nod and another smile, he sits down on the other bench and pulls out a little zip-up sewing kit from his breast pocket. It takes him four tries to thread the needle, but he never gets frustrated. If anything, he seems delighted by his failure. When he catches her looking at him he says "We--humans that is, humans like you and me--we make this tiny needle with an even tinier hole, when it's useful without any thread through it! And our eyes are generally terrible!" He laughs as he finally gets it threaded, holding up the needle with pride. He even puts on a thimble, and then sets to work sewing the button back on with what Claire thinks is a really fucking weird amount of gusto.
And he does a terrible job at it.
Since they're there anyway, she doesn't completely ignore him. He asks her some questions as he works. All of them are generic, non-invasive, like he knows that she could use some conversation but doesn't want to pry. It's refreshing to have someone actually listen to her, to seem like they care about what she has to say. And before she can help herself, she finds that she's spilling her guts to this kind, weird old stranger.
"--and so I had to leave. It's-it's her place. It's not ours, it never was. If Nat didn't take me in I don't know what I'd do, and I'm grateful, but I'm just." She puts her face in her hands and worries at her lip with the edge of her teeth. "I'm just so tired."
He--Michael, he told her his name was--puts down the shirt. There's a button on it that wasn't there before; he said he was sewing it "just in case." He clears his throat. "Can I saw something?"
Claire snorts and waves a hand towards him. "Floor's yours, man. Say whatever the hell you want."
Michael opens his mouth for a moment before closing it. He tilts his head and furrows his brow. Then, "Erika," he says, voice measured and deliberate, "sounds like a heinous bitch."
Claire blinks. Then she starts laughing. She laughs and laughs, so hard she has to bend forward, holding her stomach. She laughs and laughs--and then, as she's laughing, she starts to cry. It comes out of her without warning, a flood of all the feelings that have been building up since she left her old apartment that morning. Her face crumples and she buries it in her hands, sobbing so hard her whole body shakes with it. And this is the catharsis she was missing earlier. This is the crying she needed to do.
Michael clears his throat, much closer, and Claire looks up. He's standing beside her bench, gesturing down to one of her bags. "May I... ?"
"Yeah," she says, moving it down to the ground. "Go ahead. I don't care anymore."
Carefully, Michael sits down beside her, near but not touching.
"If you try anything," she says, muffled, her face once again in her hands, "I have a taser."
"I won't," he says. "But... if you need someone to listen. Someone to help. I know I don't know you, Claire, and you don't know me. But I'm here if you need me for the moment. If you just want someone to be there."
And God. She really, really does.
Claire keeps crying, letting all of the ugly emotions, the pain, drain out of her. Michael hums in sympathy but doesn't touch her, doesn't try to make more conversation. After what feels like a long time, she finally settles, the last of the tears abating. She sniffs and wipes at her face.
"Thanks," she says, not looking over, knowing that she sounds small and wobbly and tired.
"I'm happy to be here," he says.
"Hmmph." Without really meaning to, she leans over, and for a moment she lets her shoulder rest against this kind stranger's.
"I can get the taser out. If you wanted," he says.
She laughs. "I don't need it, old man," she says. "I think I can take you."
"Probably," he admits. "My frail, human body is squishy and weak."
"Oh my God," she stage-whispers, "you're so fucking weird."
But he doesn't argue, and he doesn't do anything else. Just supports her as she leans against him outside the apartment building's laundry room.
A few minutes later her phone buzzes again. She taps it and sees a message from Nat. She's going to grab food from Claire's favorite place and then she'll be on her way. Claire sighs and slumps a little further into Michael's shoulder.
For the first time since she told Erika it was over, she thinks that, one day, she might be okay.
