#and michael does it as tenderly as he would because he can't stand to be anything but gentle with him

[adammilligan]

okay no i have to get these thoughts out of my brain. if we think michael can jack off adam’s actual literal soul then i have to say i don’t think he would do it hard at all i think he’d do it all soft and slow and sweet because they both wear matching stickers that say fragile: handle with care and adam would fucking pass out for an hour afterwards. i think since souls can power up angels michael would also be getting a fucking high off of it and since they’d be so wound together in there adam would ALSO feel the energy high generated by his own soul through michael’s grace feeding it back to him and it would be like a constant infinite push and pull from one to the other. forget about their body for a second they’re literally going to find enlightenment in there you know what i’m saying. like don’t even worry about it i think it’d leave them both unable to move for at LEAST a day

[slasherholic]

Can I get some Myers angst. I can't really think of any specific scenarios so you can totally go wild! Love your work 🖤🖤🖤

So this is a scene that takes place immediately after Michael was shot off the balcony in the first movie. I really love the thought of him fighting to stay on his feet and to stay awake, even as he’s bleeding out from his wounds~

Do Not Go Gentle | Michael Myers

Every crack of the gun had sent him staggering backwards, one foot behind the other, until he was out of steps to take.

Now, The Shape lies on his back. His silhouette bobs with the push and pull of his heavy breaths, the night air sitting crisp and cool and raw in his lungs. For a moment it seems as if the bullets did not hit him at all; The Shape feels no pain. He feels nothing but the prickly grass beneath his fingertips, and an Autumn gust lapping tenderly at his neck, and inwardly, he feels the steady thrum of his heart pounding in his chest. Not a single time that night had The Shape’s heartbeat strayed from its rhythmic, methodical pace— and neither does it now, as he stares blankly up at the swollen moon perched high above him, shining even brighter than before.

 The Shape is unfazed by his injuries. Then, he moves to sit up;

and it burns. It burns like a spark lighting in his gut, the resulting fire tearing through his chest until it finally catches, sending his insides up in a wild blaze. Molten metal replaces the blood in The Shape’s veins. He draws another breath, and the sound is hoarse and wet and rattling. The very heat seems to gush from The Shape’s body; he tilts his head and watches dark scarlet patches blossom up against his coveralls, budding like gory roses. Still— though flesh and muscle have been hopelessly shredded, The Shape remains unnaturally silent. Inhumanly stoic. He does not ponder the severity of his injuries; he simply allows his head to fall back against the grass, growing deathly still.

At this glaring disobedience the voices in his head are swept into a feverish rage.

Get up. Get up! Get up now! GET UP! GET UP! GET UP!

They scream at The Shape in a dizzying chorus, turning his mind into an echochamber and silencing the few thoughts that had until now remained his own. Every second he dares to disobey the voices grow more frenzied, more furious; their word is his law, and they are quick to remind him of it. To defy their purpose is inconceivable. So, The Shape sits upright like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, a corpse brought back to life. He staggers as he stands— a muffled grunt passes hidden lips at the effort— but moments later, the agony in his chest has dwindled into background noise.

He lifts his head and stares up at the picket-white balcony from which he fell. Shadows scurry in the house above. One of them is the blonde girl; and even though his hands had been around her frail neck, and he had squeezed and squeezed, felt her pulse wilting beneath his fingers, still the girl lives. Still she breathes.

Because of Loomis, he remembers. The doctor had interrupted.

It is not anger that The Shape feels towards Loomis; The Shape’s emotions are never quite that tangible, never that intense. Rather, the thought of the man who stands in the house above fills The Shape with a skin-deep agitation, as if the doctor were a stubborn thorn in his hand that he had not quite managed to dig out. If given the choice he would gladly rid himself of the annoyance. Even so. There is nothing more to be done about it now, not as wailing police sirens approach the house, drawn to the doctor’s gunfire like vultures to carrion.

The Shape turns. He walks silently away from the house, melding like a phantom into the blue backdrop of night.

He walks down the street until the house is far behind him but he does not manage to lose the sirens. Though their wail has grown distant and hazy, mixing with the jagged wheeze of his breath and the jarring thud of his boots against the concrete, The Shape can tell that they are closer now than before. For the first time that night— and perhaps, for the first time in his life— The Shape’s heart no longer beats steadily. With every step it seems to stall, sputtering like an engine running on empty.

Mentally, The Shape is unfazed by his injuries; his purpose is unwavering.

But as he takes another step he sways dangerously this time, nearly topples to the sidewalk. A memory drifts through the haze which fills The Shape’s mind, a memory of a little boy who had gone with his family to the county fair and ridden on the merry-go-round, a boy who had gotten so dizzy and confused by its spinning that he had fallen to the ground and scuffed up his knees. The Shape feels now like the little boy had back then; only, back then, the boy was content to let his stupor take him. The Shape will no longer go so gently into unconsciousness.

No. Even as the sidewalk below The Shape’s feet melds into blurry obscurity, The Shape’s battle rages on. Even as pulsing lights douse The Shape’s body in a glow of blue and red, the battle rages on. Even as dark silhouettes encircle The Shape, and even as voices, voices that do not come from within The Shape’s mind, command him to freeze, freeze now, or they’ll open fire, The Shape does not give up the battle.

The Shape— Michael— does not stop fighting even as his eyelids flutter shut. He does not stop until his body is in free-fall, until his head hits the concrete with a sickening crack that echoes through his skull, until blackness crashes over him like a breaking wave.

“You have to let me kill it! The Evil will keep coming back if I don’t kill it! Get off of me! I said let go!”

From somewhere beyond the haze of Michael’s fading awareness the voice of Samuel Loomis shouts and screams madly; then, even those screams have gone deaf against his ears, drowned away as if his body were submerged underwater; and for a merciful while Michael is left to float in the dark sea of his unconsciousness, unknowing, unfeeling.