summary: living in the myers house throughout the year
note: this is something out of my comfort zone, but i was inspired by the incredible @visceravalentines and a work she did in a vignette style <3
warnings: smut, mentions of death & blood
word count: 1.6k
winter
the myers house is always cold. no radiator or wool blankets can fight off the draft that rushes in through the gap where the windows don’t close flush with the frame. the wind whistles past the glass that’s coated in a layer of frost; the front walk ices over and the garden fills with snow. the floors creak louder in the winter months. michael rarely eats, but when it gets really cold, you can get him to drink a cup of black coffee, your legs over his lap on the couch as you try to defend yourself from the cold air with a layer of blankets. he is always warm.
you yearn for a shred of his body heat on the nights he doesn’t come up to bed, finding yourself alone more often than not. on nights he does actually come upstairs to sleep, he swallows his pride and lets your snuggle into his chest. anything to stop the teeth chattering.
•
it’s by far the coldest night of the year. no amount of clothing or blankets can warm the chill that runs through you. it’s in your bones and it doesn’t want to let go. michael hears the squeak of the faucet on the claw foot tub upstairs from the kitchen as he searches for you. his footsteps echo up the stairs, and the bathroom door creaks open as you sink into the water. you look up at him expectantly, arms wrapped around yourself in the bath. he unzips his stained coveralls and steps out of his boots. once his clothes are gone, he walks over and sinks into tub behind you. the soapy water overflows the edge of the porcelain, spilling onto the tile floor, but you don’t care. you lean back into him, and look to the side to see him drop his mask on the floor stop his clothes. you don’t turn to look at his face, instead closing your eyes and tucking your face into the crook of his neck. he is warm. and for the first time in months, you are too.
spring
the porch of the once clean white house sinks about half in inch each april, when the rain seeps into the not yet green grass. the wood is rotten underneath. the left hand railing wobbles on its post if you put any weight on it. flowers no longer grow in the soil of the garden; there is too much death in the earth. water creeps through cracks in the dated foundation, pooling on the floor of the basement and staining the concrete.
his boots track mud into the house, the rug on the front step might as well be for decoration only. you’ve asked him to wipe his feet before coming inside, but he either forgets after listening the first time, or simply doesn’t care.
the wind blows the branches of the trees against the side of the bedroom window, casting claw like shadows across the pale yellowed wallpaper.
you sit up with a start as your heart pounds against your ribcage, likes its screaming to get out. your eyes adjust as the unsettling shadow creeps in through the night. it’s frightening, but it’s familiar.
besides, the man sleeping next to you is far more frightening than anything that dare try to snatch you in the night. you lay closer to him and let his deep snores drown out the rattling of the trees. your monster will keep the other monsters away.
•
the roof leaks in the kitchen. decades of water have faded the colour of the tiles where the floor dips and the water collects. sometimes you step in the puddle in the middle of the night, dampening your socks, when you stumble through the house in the dark to grab a glass of water. the fridge light is burnt out. you forget to change it for days.
spring is the season of new life, but instead the myers house is haunted by death. decay. the wallpaper peels. the ceiling leaks.
but it’s home.
summer
heat surrounds the old house, and all its inhabitants feel it. the pitcher of iced tea on the kitchen counter is sweating, a drop of condensation rolling down the side to gather around the base of it. two glasses sit next to the jug; one used. one untouched. despite the heat outside, there remains a permanent chill inside the house. it’s there year round. unrelenting.
haddonfield isn’t usually this hot, and the heat wave has you considering venturing into the cellar. michael spends a lot of his time down there, but you dare not follow him. as are all things with michael, the unspoken rule is that is his space. his alone. sometimes he is down there for days, his side of the bed empty when you go to sleep and the same when you wake up.
the window box air conditioner rattles against the cracked wood frame. a few mosquitoes lay bleached and lifeless atop it. the sheer curtains do little to block the sunlight from slipping through. tiny dust particles float through the air in the beams.
the sun sets late, and you’re nearly asleep on the couch as you’re finally able to breath the air around you, the house no longer suffocated by the summer heat. your eyes feel heavy, but you fight to stay awake as you hear heavy footsteps up the basement steps. the third step from the top creaks. he doesn’t sit with you. he just watches you from the kitchen doorway. you know he’s there. he knows you know.
•
his teeth sting against your sunburnt skin as he bites into your shoulder, his mask pulled up to expose his mouth. rarely do his lips meet yours. his teeth are far more familiar. you welcome them. he knows when you can’t take anymore, and relents, satisfied with the mess he’s made of you; disheveled beneath him. the room is silent now that the bedframe has finished thumping against the wall. you can faintly hear a frog croaking somewhere outside, likely under the porch in the overgrown grass. your legs like jelly, michael pulls you into his side by your arm. it’s the closest thing to affection he can show you. you wrap your arms around him and hope he doesn’t push you away. he doesn’t. it’s the closest to happy he’s felt in a long time.
fall
something changes in the air in haddonfield as soon as the first leaf falls. they know something awakens soon. something in him. people walk faster on the sidewalk in front of the house. they keep their heads down. they cross the street.
the house smells of pumpkin as you curl up in bed, a candle on your nightstand. the flame casts a soft glow throughout the room, the same orange as the leaves that flutter to the ground outside. the bed is empty next to you. you see him less in the fall, as he spends more time in the cellar.
you don’t know what he does down there. sometimes you wonder if he truly does nothing.
you don’t ask. he wouldn’t tell anyway. truthfully. you don’t care. if he is there, he is safe. the town is safe from him. you don’t have to worry.
•
you hear his name in whispers and in the wind all throughout the town. as october 31st approaches, people don’t stay out as late. there’s less people on the streets and in the stores. but they’ll still all be out on halloween. there is a line between the fear and the reward, and they dance along it.
it’s october 30th. you haven’t seen michael in 3 days. you hear his footsteps and the third from the top stair creaking when he comes up to get the food you’ve left out for him, so you know he is still here. for now he is still here.
you hear more footsteps that night, as he ascends the second flight of stairs and his heavy boots shuffle into the bedroom. the door hinges squeak, and you turn your head. the wind whips the tree branch against the window again. but he’s here. you’re safe.
michael kicks his boots off as the bed dips next to you and he lays down. something is different. his scarred hand reaches out for you, and you set your book down, blowing out the candle with a puff of air. before you know it he’s pulled you on top of him. he’s still in control,you’d be a fool to believe otherwise. he guides the rise and fall of your hips as his nails leave crescent shaped bruises in your flesh. you’ll cherish them until they fade.
he thrusts into you like it’s the last time, and you wonder silently if this might be a goodbye.
you fall asleep in his arms. he’s gone when you wake up.
•
he’s gone for four days, but to you it feels like four years. the marks he left on your body have faded; you wish they hadn’t, checking for them each time you get dressed. the only glimpse of him you see is on the news, and by the second day you wonder if he is dead. no one seems to know.
this year was worse than last year. more bodies - more blood. the house is colder without him, and it feels like it’s swallowing you like a sinkhole. you consider going to the cellar, though you know he isn’t there. the third step from the top creaks as your foot lands on it and you change your mind. you don’t consider it again.
he returns on the fifth day, bruised and covered in dark blood. your wonder how much, if any, of it is his. he washes it off before you can find out.
like nothing happened, he is next to you in bed again. like nothing happened, he lets you cling to his body, but he holds you a little tighter than usual. he missed you too.
you hum contently. you’re home. but it’s not the house. it’s him. and it always has been.
So I haven’t written or shared any of my writing in a long long time, so consider this a test run/writing exercise to get me back into it. Also I fully blame @plague-spell for this, they broke my heart on the God of War discord server with a headcanon of theirs and inspired me.
“I am here, my love.”
Faye’s voice is low and soothing, like balm on an open wound, and Kratos stills as best as he can. His right hand –curled into a painfully tight fist, his brawny arm trembling– lays upturned in her lap; her touch gentle and slow as she works to smooth out the knots that bunch under his skin. He loathes that he can’t truly feel her there, just the slight pressure of her fingertips: the nerves in his arms and hands had ceased to function years ago. Another lingering side effect from using those cursed blades…
kaledo-art
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