MICHAELS HANDS ARE TWITCHING AROUND HIS CIGARETTE AS SHE SPEAKS, And Her Words Are Nowhere Near As Comforting

MICHAEL’S HANDS ARE TWITCHING AROUND HIS CIGARETTE AS SHE SPEAKS, and her words are nowhere near as comforting as he wishes they could be. Fucked, yeah, it is: their whole situation, their whole family, has been fucked from day one, and he’d give anything to change that […] but despite everything he’s just said, he can’t help but think of the crisp little note that had appeared on his doorstep. His father’s words (orders). The way he’d dropped everything to follow them (trained too well), pausing only when he caught word his sister had been living close by to the town he’d stopped in overnight.

‘Cause his question lies deeper than that. Could you kill him?—He knows Ollie could. But could she kill the dog? Michael, if he gets sucked into yet another of their father’s schemes; would she put him out of his misery, kill him before he had the chance to do more damage? His time after Ollie’s escape had brought pain and death to so many: Michael suffocates in his dreams under the intensity of their hatred for him. Ollie can kill her father. Could she kill her brother?

Lucky it won’t come down to that, yeah? Michael isn’t stepping out of his father’s plan alive: or, at least, not as himself.

The cigarette flares to life, finally, and Michael shoves it into his mouth, offering her a lopsided sad little grin and a cig in his free hand. “Thought you’d say that. Hoped you’d say that. ‘S gotta be one of us that can do it.” Keeps his mouth very carefully shut about his own feelings on the matter. Instead, he pinches the cigarette between his teeth and reaches into his pocket, pulling out the note from his doorstep less than forty eight hours ago. Hands it over to her, sharp blue eyes scanning her face. A request to go to the Circus Baby location, work a week’s shift until ‘further instruction’. It reads like a trap, but he wants to know her thoughts. Misses having her to bounce ideas off of.

“What do you think about this? Creepy as hell, by the way, that he delivered this to me.” In an attempt to lighten the mood, Michael laughs weakly. “I moved two states out and changed my name without telling him. He really is always watching, huh.”

@runeians: " if you have to kill him - could you ? " [ from my multimuse @runeians - from MICHAEL ! ]

fear street pt 2 starters / accepting

"Shit," she says immediately in response to the question, caught a bit off guard. Sitting up a bit more, Ollie leans forward a little. Brow furrowed a little bit as she considers it. She...had some suspicions, before she left, about what was really going on. But hearing it laid out like this, it is a lot, each piece of new information stacking on top one another.

She had cared for her father, at some point. Maybe some part of her still does. But as she had gotten older, things had become more strained, and then when she left...well, she knew something was wrong, but now she realizes how deeply fucked everything was.

"I don't know," she admits before considering it some more. She thinks she can set aside any personal connection to her father. It's more about if she thinks she could kill someone. But she's been in some pretty messy and dangerous situations, and she thinks about how she's felt in those situations. When things really come down to it what she would do. Her voice is a little quieter when she continues, "I think so, probably."

IT’S BEEN LITERAL YEARS SINCE HER DEATH, AND MICHAEL STILL WINCES AT HED DEADPAN WORDS. Sure, he hadn’t actually done anything to kill her (— other than be another Afton kid, who would eventually go on to join his dad’s work, though that’s a whole other story —) but the kicked-puppy look of guilt won’t leave his face as he replies awkwardly:

“You could try being anything else, y’know. Get creative! Be dead AND dress up. Halloween only comes once a year, Cass. Uh… There’s bound to be some white tablecloth or something lying around back here.” Leaning back on his chair, taking a moment to slurp emphatically on his soda, Michael glances vaguely from side to side in the office. Nothing jumps out immediately, but he’ll improvise. “You could at least go as a stereotypical ghost. Something fun.”

"this year for halloween, i'm going to be dead."

"just like every other year."

AFFILIATE CALL !! what this means is that i will consider your muse's canon intertwined with mine (to whatever extent we discuss!!) and will automatically make starters, playlists, moodboards, and general content around our threads & muse interactions !! it also gives you a spot on my carrd and priority for threads, dms, etc :)

( multiple of the same muse can 100% be affiliates! [it's encouraged. pspsping at the other michaels btw] )

LIKE THIS POST FOR AFFILIATION!!

HE’S DIZZY AGAIN, BUT THIS TIME FROM RELIEF. Well, Michael thinks it’s relief. It could just be exhaustion, those long angry nights catching up with his emotions, or maybe surprise at having anyone (let alone his father!) on his side. But no matter, because tears nip at his eyes and Michael turns away to the cabinet indicated to hide them, scuffing roughly at his eyes with his bloodied cuffs. Any comfort, no matter how basic, is unfamiliar […] But in a situation like this, he could practically fall at his father’s feet in praise. A man of devout faith to a god.

“No, it was— it was slow,” he says, just as drawn out, like he’s not really there at all, “he— I didn’t even know him much, and I just heard him saying shi— STUFF ABOUT OUR FAMILY. Stuff about you and me. I just wanted to make him stop.”

The cabinet is opened, but his arms are occupied with dirty, bloodied rug. In this state — a little numb, a little dazed, Michael blindly copies his father, rolling up his already sullied sleeves and dropping the rug at the side of the room. Tunes out the repugnant tang of blood and the sight of the body. It’s the little things, the unthinking obedience, that helps him cope with the next words.

“I just… lost it, I guess. And I didn’t even realise ‘til halfway through, didn’t realise how bad I’d hurt him.”

Rug, discarded. Sleeves, pushed back. Michael falters briefly, and keeps his eyes firmly averted from the corpse as he opens the cabinet. He’d punched until the red mist cleared and the throbbing in his hands made him cry out, and then he’d panicked and floundered at the mess he’d made.

All of you Aftons, the boy had spat, you’re all monsters, and everybody knows it.

The queasiness returns at the memory, and Michael lurches over to his father with cleaning products like he’s forgotten how to walk. William is so nonchalant and vaguely pleased about the whole situation that he’s beginning to feel some of that sought-after delight of killing (alongside the disgust and dread).

Well. Of his father’s praise and attention. But he won’t realize the difference between the two for another couple of months.

William’s last words steady him. Breathe. His chest heaves up automatically, and it’s ridiculous how much easier it feels now that he’s been told to do it — breaths jerky, but less panicked, Michael shoots his father a look. It oozes more gratitude and more positive emotion than he’s aimed at the man in several years.

“Thank you. Thank you. I’m okay. I promise I’m okay. I just— didn’t know what to do, and I was so angry. It— It felt good.” A lie, but he’s seeking approval. It feels like the right thing to say. “To just… let it all out.” (Now that’s not a lie.)

CONTINUED. / @behindslaughter

The Emilys & The Aftons

Mike and Lizzie being actual siblings ✨

Antes la Sra Afton se encargaba de peinar a sus hijos; pero ahora Michael se peina solo, y de vez en cuando peina a su hermana (por más que le fastidie hacerlo)