#john strode

John Tate (Halloween H20: 20 Years Later) x fem!reader

John discovers you're on dating apps. It breaks him a little.

Made it so Halloween H20 takes place in a modern timeline for the sake of using dating apps, but everything about the story is the same

You didn’t mean for it to happen.

That’s the thing you keep telling yourself when you swipe.

It’s not like you’re looking for anything serious—just something to fill the quiet. Something to distract you from the way your chest tightens every time John laughs at something you say, or the way his hand lingers a second too long when he passes you a coffee.

You tell yourself it’s harmless.

Because if you let yourself think about it too hard—about him—you’ll ruin everything.

You and John meet first week of uni.

Same lecture hall. Same confusion over the syllabus. Same sarcastic comments whispered under your breath that somehow turn into a shared grin, then a conversation, then… everything.

It’s easy with him.

Too easy.

Late-night study sessions turn into ordering takeout and sitting on his dorm floor, backs against the bed, talking about everything but the things that matter. He tells you about growing up with a mum who worries too much. You tell him about the things you don’t usually tell people.

There’s always something unsaid, hovering between you.

Neither of you touches it.

Because once you do, there’s no going back.

John knows he’s in love with you long before he admits it to himself.

It creeps up on him slowly—quietly—until one day he realises there isn’t a version of his life that doesn’t have you in it.

And that terrifies him.

Because you’re… you.

And he’s just—

Him.

He convinces himself you could do better. Someone easier. Someone less… complicated.

So he stays your best friend.

Even when it hurts.

He finds out by accident.

Of course he does.

You’re sitting next to him in the library, your knee bumping his under the table, both of you pretending to focus. Your phone lights up.

He doesn’t mean to look.

He really doesn’t.

But your screen is right there—and the notification is impossible to miss.

Aiden: “You seem really cool. Wanna grab drinks this week?”

John’s stomach drops.

He tries to play it off. Tries to look away like he didn’t just feel something inside him crack.

But then you sigh.

“God, dating apps are exhausting.”

You say it so casually.

Like it’s nothing.

Like it doesn’t just shatter him.

“Dating apps?” he repeats, a little too sharp.

You blink at him. “Yeah… I mean, it’s just—something to try, I guess.”

He nods.

Too quickly.

“Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”

It doesn’t.

Not to him.

Because in his head, there was always this unspoken thing between you. Not real, not defined—but there. Something that meant maybe.

And now—

Now you’re out there looking for someone else.

That night, he can’t sleep.

He keeps replaying every moment—every laugh, every look, every almost-touch—wondering if he imagined all of it.

If you ever felt it too.

Or if he’s just been… convenient.

Safe.

Not wanted.

The next time he sees you, something’s different.

Subtle.

But you feel it immediately.

He’s still there—still John—but quieter. A little more distant. Like he’s pulling something back that you didn’t realise he’d been giving.

“Did I do something?” you ask eventually, catching him outside your lecture.

He frowns. “What? No.”

“You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

A beat.

Then—

“You’re on dating apps,” he says.

And it lands heavier than you expect.

You stare at him. “Yeah… I told you that.”

“Right.” He lets out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “I just—didn’t think you were actually… looking.”

The words sting.

“What does that mean?”

He hesitates.

Too long.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“No, don’t do that,” you snap, frustration bubbling up. “Say what you mean, John.”

His jaw tightens.

“It means,” he says finally, voice low, “I thought maybe you weren’t interested in that kind of thing right now.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He laughs—short, hollow.

“I don’t know. Maybe because you already had someone.”

Your heart stops.

“…What?”

He shakes his head like he regrets saying it, but it’s too late now.

“Forget it.”

“No,” you step closer, pulse racing. “Who?”

He looks at you then.

Really looks at you.

Like he’s standing on the edge of something.

“…Me.”

Everything goes still.

“You…?” your voice is barely there.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “Stupid, right?”

“No.”

It comes out immediately. Instinctively.

And his eyes flicker.

“No?”

You shake your head, trying to steady yourself. “I thought—you didn’t… I mean, you never—”

“Because I didn’t think I had a chance,” he cuts in, a little sharper than he means to. “You’re—” He stops, exhales. “You’re everything. And I’m just…”

“John,” you whisper, stepping closer again. “I’m on those apps because I thought you didn’t want me.”

That shuts him up.

Completely.

The silence between you shifts.

Changes.

Becomes something fragile and dangerous and real.

“You thought that?” he asks, softer now.

You nod.

“I figured… if you did, you would’ve said something by now.”

A small, almost disbelieving laugh leaves him.

“Yeah. Same logic.”

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then—

“You can delete them,” he says, almost like a question. Not a demand. Not an expectation. Just… hope.

You don’t even hesitate.

You pull out your phone, open the app, and delete it right there in front of him.

His breath catches.

“Done.”

The look on his face is something you’ll never forget.

Relief.

Disbelief.

Something softer. Warmer.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

And when he pulls you in, it’s not hesitant.

It’s like he’s been holding back for too long.

Like he’s finally allowed to have you.

Later, when his forehead rests against yours, he exhales quietly.

“I hated that,” he admits.

“The apps?”

“The idea of someone else having you.”

You smile faintly. “You should’ve said something.”

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Working on that.”

You tilt your head, brushing your nose against his.

JOSH HARTNETT as JOHN TATE

This is a little all over the place as far as composition, but it was a fun way to practice drawing these guys. I love the idea of ghost!Judith too, I’ll definitely do more with that idea in the future.

Yesssssss give Laurie the kids!!!! And that’s such a cute way to think of it haha. John is a mama’s boy and I love him.

And go off! I love long rambles. I too feel the Myers Sibling love. 💙💙

Judith is there to be the more chill and feminine aunt that gets Karen’s nature and shows her how to do a lot of their shared interests, and as a little girl Karen tries to copy Judith’s hairstyles. Jamie is like “Mom Mom Mom Mom! When do I get as tall as uncle Michael!! When do I get so strong I can kick through doors like uncle Michael! When-“ Laurie: TuT “Honey I got some bad news...” and while she is never as tall and very salty about it, they all stare in horror (and in Michael’s case, glee) as she “SomeBODY” Shrek style tries to jokingly come in after school at age 14 and kicks in the whole door. John is like, “Man I just want to read more books and go backpacking in Scotland and have a little adventure...” *gazes whistuflly out the window* Laurie, choked up & in a whisper: I’m so proud of you son.

John Tate (Halloween H20: 20 Years Later) x fem!reader

You meet John years after his run in with serial killer Michael Myers.

The bell above the bakery door chimed softly, the kind of sound that usually faded into the background of your mornings.

Flour on your hands, hair hastily tied back, you didn’t look up right away. “Be with you in a sec,” you called, sliding a tray of croissants onto the cooling rack, the scent of butter and sugar wrapping warmly around the small shop.

It wasn’t until the silence stretched a little too long that you glanced up.

He stood just inside the doorway, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to be there.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Hands tucked into the pockets of a worn jacket like he needed something to anchor himself. His eyes—soft brown, but tired in a way that didn’t match his age—moved slowly across the bakery before landing on you.

“Oh—hi,” you said, brushing your hands off on your apron. “First time here?”

He nodded, just once. “Yeah.”

His voice was quiet. Careful.

You offered a smile anyway, the kind you gave everyone. “Well, welcome. You picked a good day. Everything’s fresh—what can I get you?”

He stepped closer to the counter, gaze flicking briefly to the display before returning to your face, like he’d already made up his mind.

“Uh… whatever you’d recommend.”

That made you laugh, light and easy. “Dangerous choice.”

For a second—just a second—you saw something shift in his expression. Like he wasn’t used to laughter that wasn’t sharp or cruel or aimed at him.

“Then surprise me,” he said.

He came back the next day.

And the day after that.

At first, it was always the same. Quiet greetings. Small orders. A hesitant “thanks” before he left, like he wasn’t used to being seen.

You learned his name on the fourth visit.

“John,” he said, like it was something he was still getting used to offering.

You repeated it with a nod. “Nice to meet you properly, John.”

He lingered a little longer that day.

And then a little longer the next.

“You don’t have to keep ordering something new every time,” you told him one morning, leaning against the counter as he studied the display like it was a test he might fail. “It’s okay to have a favorite.”

He huffed out a soft breath—almost a laugh. “I don’t really have those.”

“Favorites?”

“Things,” he said simply.

There was something in the way he said it. Flat. Careful. Like he was skimming over something deeper.

You didn’t push.

Instead, you reached into the display and pulled out a cinnamon roll, still warm, icing just beginning to melt into the spirals. “Try this.”

He hesitated. “You’re just giving it to me?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “Because I think you’ll like it.”

A beat.

Then he took it, fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. Warm. Calloused.

“Thanks,” he said again, softer this time.

It became a routine.

John, at 8:15 every morning.

You, pretending not to notice you were starting to time your breaks around him.

Some days he talked more than others.

About university—finished, thankfully. About England—“quiet, which is good.” About sleep—“getting better.”

He never went into detail, but the edges were there. Nightmares. Therapy. The kind of past that didn’t fully let go, no matter how far you ran from it.

You didn’t need the full story to understand pieces of it.

And he didn’t need to say it for you to treat him gently.

“You ever take a day off?” he asked one morning, watching as you wiped down the counter between customers.

You snorted. “This is my day off.”

“That bad?”

“My parents built this place from nothing,” you said, softer now. “I took over last year. Feels… wrong to step away too much.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood that kind of weight.

“Still,” he said after a moment. “You should.”

“Why? You planning to cover my shifts?”

That earned you a real smile.

Small. Crooked. But real.

“Probably burn the place down,” he admitted.

“I believe that,” you shot back.

And for a second, the heaviness around him lifted. Like sunlight breaking through clouds.

It happened gradually.

The way he leaned a little closer across the counter.

The way your conversations stretched past closing time, both of you pretending you had somewhere else to be.

The way his eyes softened when he looked at you—like you were something safe.

Something steady.

Something he hadn’t had in a long time.

One evening, you found him sitting outside the bakery long after you’d locked up.

Hands clasped, elbows on his knees. Head bowed.

“John?” you called gently.

He looked up, startled, like he’d been pulled from somewhere far away.

“Hey,” he said, quickly standing.

“You okay?”

A pause.

He nodded. Then shook his head. Then let out a quiet breath. “Bad night.”

You stepped closer, not touching, just… there.

“Nightmare?”

Another nod.

“They getting worse?” you asked.

He hesitated. “No. Just… some nights are louder than others.”

Louder.

You swallowed, chest tightening at the way he said it.

“You don’t have to sit out here alone, you know,” you said softly.

His gaze flicked to you, searching.

“You could’ve come in,” you added. “I was still cleaning up.”

“I didn’t want to… bother you.”

“You’re not a bother, John.”

The words settled between you.

Heavy. Honest.

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure he believed it—but wanted to.

It was a week later when he finally asked.

You were closing up again, stacking chairs, when he lingered by the door instead of leaving.

“Hey,” he said.

“Yeah?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, something nervous creeping into his posture that you hadn’t seen before.

“You—uh… you ever go out? Like, outside of here?”

You smiled faintly. “Occasionally. Why?”

He exhaled, steadying himself. “Would you maybe… want to go out with me?”

Your heart skipped.

“Like… a date?” you asked, teasing just enough to ease the tension.

“Yeah,” he said, meeting your eyes. “A date.”

There was something raw in the way he said it. No games. No smooth lines. Just honesty.

And a little fear.

You stepped closer, tilting your head slightly. “I’d like that.”

The relief on his face was immediate. Quiet, but unmistakable.

“Okay,” he breathed.

“Okay.”

Your first date wasn’t anything extravagant.

A small café. A walk along quiet streets. His hand brushing yours once, twice—until you finally laced your fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He froze for half a second.

Then squeezed gently.

Later, as you sat side by side on a bench, the night settling around you, he spoke softly.

“I didn’t think I’d… get this.”

You turned to him. “Get what?”

“This,” he said, glancing at your joined hands. “Something normal. Something good.”

You studied him for a moment, taking in the quiet strength, the lingering shadows, the way he still chose to show up anyway.

“You deserve it,” you said simply.

He shook his head slightly, like that was a hard truth to accept.

“Maybe,” he admitted.

Then, after a pause, his thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“But I’m really glad it’s with you.”

Your chest warmed, something steady and sure settling deep inside.

Zeke Tyler (The faculty)

John Tate/Strode (Halloween)

Lucas Reyes (Fight or Flight)

Cooper (Trap)

Danny Walker (Pearl Harbor)

Stan Rosado

Zeke Tyler

Untitled

Zeke goes to university after he finally graduates high school. Majors in Chemistry. He meets you at the campus cafe.

Hate

Zeke is starting to think that something might be wrong with him.

Zeke finds out you’re on dating apps. It drives him a little insane.

Zeke Tyler trembles when he touches you for the first time.

Built to Last

Nothing You Could Win

Misunderstanding

Requests

"...you know i flirt with you, right?"

Zeke Tyler was supposed to be the one in control.

The One Who Got Away

Holding your/their face so gently in the cradle of your/their palms and smattering kisses all over your/their pretty face until you're/they're giggling and grinning wide

John Tate/Strode

You meet John years after his run in with serial killer Michael Myers