Snoring Contest

Consider, RZ Michael and Thomas with a s/o who likes to play with their hair. Like braiding it or just absent minded playing with it

Sorry this took so long!! I wrote and rewrote it so many times over the past couple days tryin' to get it right. Still not the happiest with it but I hope it's what you had in mine!

Summary: RZ Michael and Thomas with a s/o who likes to play with their hair.

Warnings: Suggested NSFW-ish, mentions of abuse and bullying

Wordcount: 1.5k

Michael Myers

Not gonna lie to ya chief, Michael doesn’t strike me as the kind of dude to give a flying fuck what happens to his hair. Or his body. Like, the dude gets shot, stabbed, slashed, burned throughout all the movies. I highly doubt his hair would be where he drew the line.

But, the act itself is intimate, personal. That IS something he gives a fuck about. It unnerves him. Years of isolation, cruelty from staff, harsh touches, and rough treatment? Getting close enough to even raise a hand to him without his own snatching your wrist into a vice grip would take time and patience. A lot of it.

Once your relationship with him finally grew enough, and he allowed your touch without smacking away your hand or walking out the door, you could get away with a lot when it comes to him.

Michael’s never had someone to touch him tenderly besides his mama all those years ago. So touch him with love, with care. The fucked up wires in his brain would uncross, reconnect and he’d eventually realize how much he actually enjoyed it. He’d soak it up like a sponge.

Now, playing with his hair? That all started out as something you would do when you could wrangle him onto the couch to watch a movie or a show with you in the evenings when he wasn’t prowling around the neighborhood. Always bribing him at first. “I’ll buy you a bag of Reese’s if you watch a movie with me,” or “I’ll make you a cherry pie if you sit with me while I work.” Every time, your hands would twitch when his hair brushed over his shoulders, when it swayed as he turned to look at you. Your thoughts filled with “What if’s” and ”What’s it like-”

It made watching the movie or focusing on whatever you were working on a nightmare.

Of course, in the end, you couldn’t resist touching it. Once you’d forced him into the habit of showering and using hair products, the blonde locks that sprouted from his head looked like gold strands of silk. And it felt like it too. It didn’t take long for your resolve to break down. He watched you like a hawk the first time your fingertips grazed his hair, piercing baby blues peering down at you. They’d shift to your hands for only a second, unnoticed by you, then back to your face. The only time people had touched his hair was when he was getting man-handled in Smith’s Grove, or when victims were trying to claw their way out of his grasp, desperate hands fisting into the silicone mask and catching his hair in the process.

But you weren’t them, and he wasn’t in Smith’s Grove anymore. You were the one who bought him candy and made him pies, so he let you sink your hands in and brush away those memories with every stroke.

Sometime down the line, if you're really lucky and hummed whatever melody came to mind in a soft enough voice, pressed the pads of your fingers into his scalp nice and slow, his eyes would close and his shoulders would just barely sag.

But only sometimes, it is Michael after all.

Congrats, you trained the boogeyman to let you touch his hair! After that, he wouldn’t care if you braided pieces of it, it’s not any different than you running your hands through it in his book, If you left them in and tied them off, he won’t take them out until he finally showers. The only reason he’d tug them out is if they got in the way or made his mask sit funny. Other than that, expect to see them when he comes home after hunts all frazzled and out of place.

Thomas Hewitt

Thomas is a whole different story though. This man was bullied his entire life, called all the names in the book, hit and beat by students and teachers alike. He was undeniably called a sissy, weak like a girl, every other bullshit insult towards femininity in the book. C’mon, it’s Texas. While braids aren’t inherently feminine, the only people he saw at school for the short time he was there wearing braids was the girls in his class, sporting lil' pigtail braids.

Because of all this, braids would mainly be off the table for him. Especially when Hoyt stormed into your shared bedroom one time and let out a slew of crude jokes at Tommy’s expense. He’d probably let you get away with it if you and him alone, just the two of you. Hidden away from Hoyt’s yappin’ and howlin’ in the basement, or laid somewhere on a blanket in a field under an old oak. But before anyone at home could lay eyes on em’, to your dismay, he’d softly pry them out. He’d be feeling really guilty about ruining such fine work though.

Just running your hands through his hair though? Petting his head, fixing any stray fly always with your cute hands on him? He’s fine with that. Absolutely fine with it. Hell, he’d practically melt every time.

It’d always start in the mornings when the early rays of sun start to peek through the curtains over the windows. They’d slowly shift through the old room as the next hour passes, finally tilting through the glass window panes just enough to kiss his face and start to rile him from his sleep. He’d always give a heavy sigh when stirring from whatever dream he was gifted, somehow always feeling like he didn’t seem to get enough rest. Then again maybe that’s just what farm life is like. Especially when he’s been the only real able-bodied adult in the house. Luda Mae and Hoyt can still get around, but all the tuff labor gets shucked onto his shoulders, and after so many years of it he can’t help but be a little worn down.

You’d be next rise from your joint slumber. Waking up with Tommy would mean waking up curled into his side with his arm around you, holding you against his warm body. Now and then your leg is found tangled in his, but almost always your arm would be limp, situated over his stomach. You’d stretch your fingers and try to blink away the drowsiness in your eyes while tilting your head back to look at him, hoping one day you’d catch him asleep. No luck this time. Droopy brown eyes would be looking down at you with adoration, the arm around you pulling you almost impossibly closer while his thumb rubs circles into the soft flesh on your back.

Another few minutes would pass, and you’d find yourself laying on his belly, either by your own will or by his. A low hum would rumble through his thick chest as you slid your dominant hand up and through his chest hair, ever further till you reached his face. He is eyes would flutter close when your hands brushed against the scruff of his cheeks, and a sigh would have your body fall with his chest once they made purchase in his choppy brown hair. They’d dance through the gentle waves, and you’d feel him press into your touch, sighing as your fingertips slid against his scalp in mesmerizing ways.

Of course, it only lasted till someone started howlin’ Tommy’s name. But throughout the day you’d find moments when your hands could sink into his hair.

One is when you’d walk out to the barn with a cool glass of lemonade to give him while he works on fixing up one of the stalls. He’d set whatever he had in his hands down and take a seat on a nearby bale of hay, the furrow in his brow melting away when you hand him the glass. While he sipped on it you’d make idle conversation, your fingers finding themselves into their favorite spot.

Another is after dinner, whenever Luda Mae asks the two of you to clean up and handle the dishes. Thomas always insisted on washing, not wanting your hands getting dirtied unnecessarily. Forever stuck on drying duty. So for the first few minutes of him starting the water and getting everything soaked in the water, you’d steal the opportunity to hop up on the counter and scoot yourself as close to him as you could, hands reaching towards his hair as they always do.

That favorite, intoxicating feeling of it sliding through your fingers was usually bested by the soft groan of pleasure from the man that usually followed. It was an addicting little sound.

And sometimes it got you in the best kind of trouble.

Feverish | Art the Clown x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Or even a fic of him getting sick after being out in the snow with the Santa costume in Terrifier 3?

I can imagine him curled up on the reader’s couch, blanket over his lap whilst he’s pouting. And him silently sneezing into a handkerchief (despite him having to be told multiple times to cover his nose and finally doing so)

And the reader putting a thermometer in his mouth to take his temperature.. oh my god ❞

: ̗̀➛ Art comes to you when he's at his very lowest, but thankfully, you're tolerant of him enough to put up with it.

trigger warnings : ̗̀➛ mentions of gore, swearing, depictions of illness, mentions of murder

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Art crashed onto your sofa, appearing to sigh heavily although no noise left him in the slightest as he reached to rub his nose; you frowned upon noticing him. Unsure of whether or not demons could even get sick, but judging by his demeanour, he was weak enough to pick something up. His suit was covered in blood, and his big black bin bag was partially torn; you knew what you needed to do.

With careful hands, you tugged at the front of his costume, and he understood; he waited for you to turn around before he stripped himself and allowed you to carry away the bloodstained and soaked costume. Clearly, the snow had gotten to him as well, as the costume was damp enough to quickly drip onto the light coloured laminate.

You didn't mind much, though, shoving it into the washing machine and taking no notice of the bits of blood and sinew attached to the torso half on the front and the ends of his sleeves. He had come home with worse before.

You never did understand why Art was always so... placid with you, though. Sure, he scared you every morning by honking that fucking horn in your face, but he never attempted to hurt you. Unless the time he nearly burned down the kitchen trying to make toast counted, but you doubted it.

You didn't think about it much anymore, though; but you were quick to grab a hoodie and some jogging bottoms that you kept behind for when you had to clean his clothes. You lugged them back to the sofa, and tapped him on the shoulder so he could get changed.

Again, you turned around until he was decent, and when you finally looked at him, you smiled.

"So, where'd you get the Father Christmas costume from?"

Art shrugged, and flapped his hands around to mimic what he had done, standing up but still hunched over slightly; his mouth extended and open wide in an overexaggerated smile before he slapped his hands on his stomach and silently laughed.

His lips curled like he was in pain, and he bent his head forward, sneezing; you grimaced as snot and phlegm landed on your floor, and you tutted.

"Sneeze into your fucking hands!" You told him loudly, huffing and grabbing some tissue to clean it up.

You never raised your voice at Art, let alone swore at him, and he did pout a bit before he did it again; more phlegm and sticky snot splattering onto your floors.

You glared at him, shaking your head; you huffed, pulling out a handkerchief from your pocket and shoving it into his hands.

"Use that, for fuck's sake."

He started to pout and flap his hands again, childishly acting up in protest of being asked to show basic manners.

But then he stopped, doubling over and coughing into his hands; his eyes squeezed silently shut as he appeared to strain in what you only assumed was a sneeze. You frowned, pushing him back down onto the sofa and covering him with your old fluffy Batman blanket. You pressed your hand against his forehead.

He usually felt a bit warmer than the average person, but this time, you could feel the sweat beading and cascading down his forehead. Leaving streaks within his white makeup. You grimaced again and shook your head, disappearing quickly and coming back with a thermometer.

"Open your mouth," you told him, but he shook his head. "Art. I need to know how high your fever is."

He pouted at you, raising his brows to try and give you the puppy dog eyes; hoping that your concern could be easily melted away.

"Art," you grumbled, glaring at him sternly. He relented, and opened his mouth for long enough that you could get the thermometer in there. "Do not bite it. That one was expensive."

He chewed it slightly, letting the glass clink against his teeth until you pulled it from his mouth and looked; he was definitely running hotter than you had ever seen.

"You stay here," you told him. "I'm gonna get you some painkillers."

He nodded, almost excitedly, and watched you disappear. Again, he slapped his hands over his mouth, coughing against his palms. The only noise he made was the shuffling of the blanket once he settled down and turned onto his side, feeling sorry for himself.

But you weren't gone for long, and allowed him to cling to your wrist as you popped the tablets in his mouth and helped him to wash them down with a small glass of water.

"Your bin bag," you started, "do you want me to get a new one?"

He nodded again, this time excited as he pointed over to it; but his usual rapid and frantic pointing wasn't present, and you knew that that meant he was definitely not himself this time.

You were quick to grab the bin liners from the shed, the extra large ones, and you used three to make sure that none of his tools could poke through; you were actually quite surprised, really, as Art usually slapped your hand away whenever you tried to touch it. But he knew he was weak, and he knew that you were his only ally left.

Maybe ally wasn't the right word.

He did, in his own way, care about you; like a wild animal, he would come and go as if he owned the place and didn't care if he trudged in a boat load of blood and bone.

You learned pretty early on not to tell him about people who annoyed or wronged you - not unless you wanted him to send you a video of him bashing their fucking head in against a window or stamping on their head and peeling off their face.

You learned quite quickly not to do that.

He was, in his own way, protective. He didn't allow the little pale girl or Victoria inside your house, didn't even let them know what you looked like. You could still remember the former trying to look at you while Art closed every window and door and curtain to make sure she didn't.

You didn't even ask why, you didn't want to know.

Slowly, Art reached out his arms, and you knew what he was asking for; you lifted the blanket, and squished yourself against his side as he tapped his fingers on your arm like he usually did.

You often fell asleep with him like that, only to be woken up by him shaking you to make sure you were still alive. The worst was when you were snoring and he spilled water on your face.

It made you laugh so much, mostly because you didn't know what the fuck he was thinking.

But you loved that about him; he could always make you laugh, even though if anyone else so much as tried it, you would have kicked them out and told them to never contact you again.

He jerked suddenly, his body spasming as he silently sneezed against your shoulder; you felt the puff of air, and frowned.

He really was in bad shape, and you wished you knew how the fuck he caught it.

You silently promised that you would look after him until he was better; you could take the time off of work just to make sure he didn't get into too much trouble, and you could always ask your friends to pick up some books from the library to see if there were any on sickness in demonic clowns.

So, you relaxed into his arms, and you gently grabbed his hand, hoping that it would at least make him feel better.

hi! thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed this fic, then please spare me just a bit more of your time! Sara and her twin sister Huda are both 12 year old Gazans, and need to relocate so that Sara can access medical care and they can both survive the genocide; so far, they've gotten $14,802 of their $25,000 goal, so if you could spread their link or donate then you could really be saving childrens lives!

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Carnival Kiss 🤡🪞🎭🎪🎡🎠🤹‍♀️🎢

(Art the clown x F! Reader)

——————————————————-

The carnival had always fascinated you. The flickering lights cast an eerie glow on the weathered rides, and the distant laughter of children mingled with the sounds of creaking metal. But tonight, the atmosphere felt different—charged, almost electric, as if the air itself was alive with anticipation. You had heard the rumors, whispers of a clown who stalked the carnival grounds, a figure of terror known only as Art.

You moved cautiously through the half-lit paths, drawn in by a mix of dread and morbid curiosity. The thrill of danger pulsed through your veins, but you had never expected to feel this way about a monster. Every shadow seemed to whisper his name, and every flicker of light hinted at his presence, sending a shiver down your spine.

Then you saw him.

Art stood under the dim glow of a flickering bulb, his tall, lanky figure unmistakable. His stark white face was accentuated by the grotesque black makeup that framed his eyes and mouth. He wore his signature striped outfit, a vision of playful horror that made your stomach churn with both fear and fascination. The way he grinned, a sharp-toothed smile that stretched impossibly wide, sent a chill down your spine.

You hesitated, heart racing as he locked his dark gaze onto yours. For a moment, it felt as if time had stopped, the world around you dissolving into a haze. Art tilted his head, his expression shifting from playful to predatory, the grin never faltering. You felt drawn to him, an inexplicable urge tugging at your senses.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward, your heart pounding like a drum. “Hey,” you managed, your voice trembling despite your attempt at bravado.

Art’s eyes flickered with intrigue, and he stepped closer, the tension palpable. The air between you thickened, charged with an electricity that sent shivers across your skin. You were well aware of the danger he posed, yet the thrill of the unknown beckoned you closer. There was something deeply alluring about him, a chaotic energy that pulled you in.

Without a word, Art gestured toward the funhouse, the warped mirrors reflecting distorted versions of reality. You felt a mixture of fear and exhilaration at the thought of stepping into the darkness with him. Compelled by a force you couldn’t explain, you nodded and followed him inside.

The funhouse was a labyrinth of shadows and reflections, the dim lights casting an unsettling glow. The air was thick with the scent of stale popcorn and something metallic that made your stomach churn. The laughter of carnival-goers faded into silence as you entered, replaced by the echo of your footsteps and Art’s eerie silence.

He moved through the maze with an almost feline grace, darting from mirror to mirror, watching your reflection with a gleam of mischief in his eyes. You felt the urge to turn and run, but the tension between you kept you rooted in place. You were captivated by him—the way he danced around the distorted glass, the shadows playing tricks on your mind.

“Are you scared?” you whispered, your voice barely breaking the silence.

He turned to you, the grin on his face widening, revealing those sharp, predatory teeth. It was a chilling sight, one that sent a thrill of fear through you, yet you couldn’t look away. The thrill of danger was intoxicating, but deep down, you recognized the peril of your fascination.

Art stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. The warmth of his body contrasted sharply with the chill of the funhouse, and you could feel your breath quicken as he closed the distance. He reached out a gloved hand, brushing his fingers against the cold glass of the mirror beside you, leaving a streak of smudged paint. It felt intimate and terrifying at once.

In an impulsive moment, you reached up to touch his face, your fingertips grazing the cool skin of his cheek. Art froze, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before that familiar grin returned. His dark eyes bore into yours, and in that moment, you felt an electric connection—a primal understanding of fear and desire.

Without fully realizing it, you leaned in, the tension between you reaching a breaking point. Your lips met his in a sudden rush, a kiss that was both reckless and charged with an undercurrent of dread. It was a soft exploration, yet the danger of it sent your heart racing. You were kissing a monster.

Art responded almost instinctively, leaning into the kiss. His lips were cold against yours, a stark reminder of the dark world you were stepping into. You felt a shiver run through you, a mix of exhilaration and terror. The kiss deepened, and for a moment, the world outside faded away. It was just the two of you in that warped funhouse, where reality and madness collided.

But the moment was fleeting. Art pulled away, his expression shifting into something darker, more primal. The grin was still there, but it no longer felt playful. It was a hunger, an insatiable desire that made the air around you crackle with danger. You realized, in that instant, the peril of your actions—of inviting this creature of chaos into your life.

You stumbled back, heart pounding as you took in the sight of him. Art stood before you, a vision of horror and allure, his presence overwhelming. The darkness that surrounded him felt suffocating, and suddenly, you were struck by the realization of how far you had let yourself fall into his world.

In the silence that followed, the reality of the situation began to settle in. You had danced with danger, kissed a monster, and now stood at the edge of an abyss you couldn’t fully comprehend. Art’s gaze remained fixed on you, his expression unreadable. It was a silent promise of the chaos that lay ahead, a world filled with fear, thrill, and an unsettling intimacy that bound you to him.

With a surge of adrenaline, you turned and ran, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the confines of the funhouse. You didn’t dare look back, but you could feel his presence behind you, a haunting shadow that lingered in the darkness. The thrill of the chase ignited something within you, a twisted desire to return to the chaos, to confront the monster that had captivated your soul.

As you burst into the night air, the carnival lights flickered around you, and you knew one thing for certain: you would return. The darkness was calling, and somehow, you felt compelled to answer.

Falling asleep on Daryl would include :

(Woooo more fluffy prompts! Awwww Daryl :3 Hope it is as requested and you all like it :3 Gif not mine/found it on google/credit to the original)

-Him being startled for a moment to feel your head on his shoulder and pushing you to the other side, only to realize it was you and grabbing you back

-Him feeling bad for his action earlier and just whispering apologies to you while stroking your hair as if to reassure you

-Him cupping your face and approaching you closer to his shoulder or sometimes even his neck to feel your warm breath on him

-Him tucking your hair away from your neck thinking it might be bother you and resting his hand there to comfort you

-Him always lowering the sound of the radio when he drives or telling the others to do so to avoid waking you up

-Him wondering if he should hold your hand, only to careful approach yours and slowly grab it

-Him sometimes just looking away from you to let you rest thinking that his gaze might bother you

-Him feeling your drool on him and just laughing, realizing how childish you are and jokingly telling you to close your mouth despite knowing you won’t hear him

-Him giving dirty looks to anyone around who doesn’t keep their voice down around you and just asking them sarcastically if they can’t see that you’re asleep

-Him letting himself get comfortable with you and slouching in the seat to let you rest on his chest before drifting to sleep

Marvel Unleashed #1 (2023)

written by Kyle Starks art by Jesus Hervas & Yen Nitro

Tosche Station: Oasis Springs

Over the weekend I got it into my head to make a Star Wars Themed restaurant that can take advantage of the existing Star Wars costumes, and all the new experimental food items. While recreating the Mos Eisely Cantina was the obvious choice, I’ve never been one to go for the obvious, hence why I chose Tosche Station instead.  I mean there had to be more than just power converters that had Luke Skywalker so anxious about going there.

In addition to the Restaurant and Bar, the build features Bacta Baths, a Rancor Pit, a Lounge, a Sarlacc Waste Disposal chute in the kitchen, and of course, a Power Converter shop. You can find additional pictures of the build on my blog.

I’ve created a bit of custom content (pictures, stickers, bantha milk dispenser, door and counter recolors etc) for this build which you can download below. You’ll also need some additional custom content by other creators which you can fun listed under the cut.  You can find the Tosche Station restaurant in my SimDoughnut gallery. simply enable the “include custom content” button under the Advanced Options menu, and use the hashtags #starwars #toschestation #restaurant and #dineout. I strongly recommend enabling the MoveObjects cheat before placing this lot. I hope you enjoy the build.

Have Fun :)!

Tosche Station Stuff Pack Download (Dropbox)

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