#mickey scream 2

[yourfaveiskenough]

Mickey Altieri?

Mickey Altieri from Scream 2 is Kenough!

[ramuqrr]

mickey altieri was the kind of man people warned each other about in semi-jokes and lowered voices. the tramp of a man. the one who smiled too easily, who leaned too close, who looked at you like you were already his. love never came naturally to him; if it even deserved to be called love at all. most of the time it began as nothing more than a flicker, a passing attraction, a curiosity he should’ve let die. but it never stayed small. it swelled, fermented, turned rotten inside his chest until it became something else entirely. obsession wore love’s face and spoke in its voice, and mickey never learned the difference.

he knew he was sick. that knowledge sat quietly with him, like a bruise you stop noticing until you press on it. he knew he’d been born wrong, wired backwards, misfiring from the start. other people seemed to glide into affection so easily; hands brushing, hearts opening, trust offered without a second thought. for mickey, everything felt jagged. every emotion came with teeth.

valentine’s day was his least favorite holiday. a circus of red and pink, cheap balloons and worse promises. he hated the way couples paraded their happiness like proof of something he’d failed to earn. he hated the public intimacy of it all. the hand holding, the laughter, the casual certainty that love was safe. the idea of being that exposed, that vulnerable, made his skin crawl. vulnerability felt like handing someone a loaded gun and trusting them not to pull the trigger.

and yet, the most horrible truth, the one that made him feel sick to his stomach, was that a deep, twisted part of him wanted it anyway. wanted to be soft. wanted to be chosen. wanted to love someone the way everyone else seemed to, without suspicion or rage coiled beneath the surface. he wanted it so badly it scared him. wanting was always the beginning of the end.

he couldn’t though. he never could. his so called “mood swings” saw to that. all it took was the slightest shift; a delayed reply, a distracted tone, a look that lingered somewhere else, and his mind would fracture. thoughts spiraled fast and violent, turning affection into accusation, silence into betrayal. he snapped, barked, bit like a cornered animal, all teeth and noise and desperation. he watched himself do it sometimes, distantly, helplessly, hating every second and unable to stop.

the shame always came after. heavy. smothering. he hated himself a little more each time, hated the way his need curdled into cruelty. hated that the only way he knew how to end the pain was to erase its source. and so he did. again and again. a final, irreversible solution to a problem he couldn’t fix any other way.

mickey altieri wasn’t a monster in his own mind. just a bad dog. mean when scared. broken beyond training. and somewhere deep down, he knew what happened to dogs like that.

@purple-1-0-1

[angel427]

mickey altieri (scream 2) icons

[ramuqrr]

sub mickey when 😢😢😢😢😢 SOOOO sick of him ALWAYS being portrayed as this strong dominant man like ok sure whatever but he’s just a big dog 🙁🙁🙁🙁🙁🙁😭😭😭😭😭🥺🥺🥺😢😢😢

[ramuqrr]

old hc i made of mickey thats from like october of last year that i still laugh at like he’s not even scared of pain he just hates the thought of stuff going into his eyes

i wanna write or draw a thing of all 4 of them holding him down while he acts like a dog trying to get its nails trimmed

[ramuqrr]

randy x mickey angst

tw for self harm

mickey’s manic breakdowns were not dramatic in the cinematic sense. they were horribly ugly. disorienting. private. they didn’t look like the chaotic euphoria people imagine when they hear the word manic. they looked like implosion.

when they came, he would isolate himself first. that was always the beginning. a door locked. curtains drawn. phone silenced. he would shrink his world down to the smallest possible space, as if containment might keep whatever was swelling inside hjm from spilling outward.

then the destruction would start.

it wasn’t random. it was frantic but deliberate; a physical translation of something unbearable happening in his mind. he would drag his nails down his arms hard enough to leave raised welts that turned into open skin. he would scrape, claw, press until the sting broke through the static in his head. his legs, his chest, his shoulders, any surface he could reach became a canvas for punishment. by the end of it, his skin looked torn and mottled, red and raw, like he’d been dragged across asphalt.

the room never survived either. glasses shattered against walls. picture frames split open. lamps overturned. anything breakable became collateral. the violence wasn’t aimed at anyone. it was aimed at the noise inside him. but from the outside, it looked terrifying. it looked like someone had tried to survive a war in a one bedroom apartment.

randy knew the episodes existed.

in the early days of their relationship, mickey treated them like dark humor. “sometimes i redecorate,” he’d joke lightly. “stress relief.” he would grin when he said it, but his eyes always seemed slightly elsewhere, like he was checking how much randy could handle.

randy had assumed exaggeration. everyone has bad nights. everyone spirals sometimes. the first time he actually witnessed one, he hadn’t been prepared.

he’d decided to surprise Mickey. takeout containers balanced in his arms, already rehearsing some dumb line about date night. he used the spare key Mickey had given him and stepped inside quietly.

the screaming hit him before he even closed the door.

it wasn’t anger. it wasn’t a fight. it was raw throated and uneven, the kind of sound that makes your body react before your brain can interpret it. something smashed against a wall. glass shattered, scattering in a violent spray. then another crash.

randy’s heart lurched into his throat.

“mickey?” he called, trying to keep his voice steady.

another object hurled. another sharp explosion of breaking glass.

panic immediately crept up his spine. his mind scrambling for explanations. intruder, accident, someone else in the apartment, but none of them aligned with the rhythm of the noise. this was chaos from one source.

randy moved down the hallway toward the bedroom, each step cautious. when he reached for the doorknob, it was locked.

randy knocked gently. “hey. it’s me.”

something hit the wall again from inside. them silence. a thick, ringing silence that made his ears buzz.

“mickey?” randy tried again, tone softer this time.

from the other side came a sound that twisted his stomach. a choked sob that bent into laughter halfway through, jagged and wrong.

“i’ll be out in a minute!” mickey called. his voicw wavered, cracking at the edges like unstable glass.

randy stood there, hand still on the door, listening to the way mickey’s breathing stuttered between words.

“i’m fine,” mickey added quickly. too quickly.

randy knew he wasn’t.

he tried the doorknob. locked.

“mick, open it.”

“i said … minute.”

the word dissolved into something close to a gasp.

randy didn’t argue again. he stepped back and threw his shoulder into the door. the first hit rattled the frame a little bit. the second made the wood splinter. on the third, the lock gave way with a crack, and the door swung open.

the sight inside stopped him cold.

blood streaked across the sheets. smears on the wall. shards of mirror glittered across the floor like ice. thw bedside lamp lay shattered, its cord ripped from the outlet. and in the center of it stood mickey. chest heaving, arms shaking, skin torn open in angry lines that welled red and dripped down to his fingertips.

it didn’t look theatrical up close. it looked desperate.

mickey’s eyes snapped to him. for a split second there was anger. at being interrupted, at being seen. and then it crumbled into something else entirely.

shame.

randy didn’t yell. he didn’t ask what the hell happened. he didn’t react to the blood the way his body said he should.

he stepped carefully through the glass.

“hey,” rqndy said quietly, like you would to someone standing too close to the edge of a cliff. “i’m here.”

mickey’s hands were still trembling violently. his breathing coming in in sharp, uneven pulls. he looked like he was both in the room and miles away from it.

“i told you not to—” mickey started, but his sentence faded off before he could finish it.

randy reached for his wrists gently. mickey flinched harshly at first, but he didn’t pull away the second time. randy’s grip wasn’t forceful. it was grounding.

“you don’t have to do this alone,” randy said, voice trying to stay steady despite the pounding in his chest.

the adrenaline drained out of mickey almost immediately. his knees buckled, and randy caught him before he hit the floor. they sank down together on the edge of the bed, glass crunching under randy’s vans.

for the rest of the night, randy stayed.

he cleaned the wounds carefully, using warm water and whatever first aid supplies he could find in the bathroom. some of the scratches were shallow. others needed pressure to stop bleeding. mickey hissed when disinfectant touched raw skin, but he didn’t fight him. the fight had already burned out of him.

they barely spoke.

randy wrapped gauze around mickey’s forearms and thighs, careful not to wrap too tight. he brushed damp hair off his forehead. when mickey’s hands started shaking again, randy laced their fingers together and matched his breathing to a slow, steady rhythm.

“breathe with me,” he murmured.

it took time, but mickey followed.

eventually the trembling turned into exhaustion. the manic edge, sharp and electric, faded into something hollow and fragile. mickey leaned back against randy’s chest like gravity had doubled.

randy just quietly held him there, arms firm around his waist, letting his own body act as an anchor. every time mickey’s muscles twitched, randy tightened his hold on him slightly, not restraining. just reassuring.

when mickey finally fell asleep, it wasn’t peaceful. it was collapse.

randy eased him down carefully, pulling a blanket over him. he watched him for a long moment, studying the bandages, the dried blood at the edges of his skin, the way even in sleep his brow stayed slightly furrowed.

then randy stood and looked around the room.

he cleaned in silence.

he swept up broken glass piece by piece. he cleaned off blood from the walls with steady hands. he fixed overturned furniture. he took off the sheets and replaced them with clean ones from the closet. the methodical movement helped steady his own shaking.

in the kitchen, he made something pretty simple for the morning. eggs, toast, fruit cut into neat slices. something that didn’t require effort. something gentle. he left it covered in plastic wrap in the fridge with a short note: “eat. please.”

before leaving, he stood in the doorway of the bedroom.

mickey was still asleep, bandaged and pale against clean sheets, looking younger, somehow. not dangerous by any means. not broken beyond repair either. just worn thin by something bigger than him.

randy didn’t see a monster in that room.

randy just saw someone drowning in his own mind.

and as he closed the door softly behind him, randy understood that loving mickey wasn’t going to be simple or tidy. it was going to mean learning the shape of his storms. it was going to mean staying. 

not to fix him.

but to make sure he didn’t have to survive them alone.

[ramuqrr]

is x reader stuff still considered cringe

if not

mickey slowly stealing and replacing all his partner’s clothes/jackets with his own just so he can see his partner wearing his clothes while also being able to add more stuff to the fucking shrine he has of them in his closet

[urfavegetscalledbbygirl]

Mickey Altieri from Scream 2 gets called babygirl!