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with-love-from-hell · 1 year

Text

Melancholia

{part eleven}

Fandom: Obey me!

Genre: Angst

Written for F!Mc

WC: 5.1k

CW: Torture!, physical and emotional abuse!, kidnapping!, mild sexual harassment/violence and allusion to arousal from said violence on the perpetrators end, whipping, Michael is very gross and predatory and abusive, slut shaming/victim blaming, mention of suicide vaguely, fear-based content and lots of tension, religious trauma/detailed depiction of purity culture in christianity, blood mention, violence, angst, depression, mentions to past sexual violence in Vermillion Skies, anxiety, panic attacks, descriptions of deceit, season 2 spoilers

A/n: be cautious with this chapter! As said in my Q&A, I got inspiration for Michael’s personality from Frollo from Hunchback of Notre Dame, so he’s very predatory.

Music accompaniment (Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums thru Lydia)

Tag list: @urmomondeez

>> Though I have a Masters Degree in Psychology and clinical training in treatment for mental health, I am not your therapist. If you have experienced any form of depression or suicidal thoughts, and are in need of help, please utilize the Suicide Prevention Lifeline, NIMH helpline, or the SAMHSA helpline. <<

Series Masterlist

Q&A for parts 1-10

You can find more of this series by searching the tag #Vermillion Skies or #Melancholia on my blog!

A slamming sound in the distance snaps your attention toward the small window on the door to your cell. Your senses were on high alert, eyes wide with fear of whose footsteps were clacking down the hall toward you. After experiencing numerous panic attacks and nearly losing your voice screaming for Lucifer to come help you, you had finally calmed down enough to try to think of a plan to escape your situation logically. An attempt at snapping the chains with magic was futile, and yelling through the thin barred window that lined the top of the west wall didn’t seem to do much either. You had accepted that the only way out was for someone to let you out, and for a moment you felt hopeful that maybe it was someone coming to your rescue. Though, now that the steps continue to draw nearer, you’re feeling the prickling anxiety come back, causing your limbs to tremble with anticipation of what is to come.

You weren't sure how much time had passed in your small cage. It was enough for the sun to come up and give you a teensy bit of illumation to the place you found yourself trapped in, though part of you wished it had stayed dark. The stains of blood on the concrete walls and floors, plus the plethora of bugs, made your terror spike much higher. The odd sounds you had heard when you first awoke continued, along with occasionally yells or sobs from who you assumed to be other prisoners. You still weren't sure where you were, but the small bit of the spires you could see in the window reminded you of the Celestial Palace, which you had seen on your brief visit to the Celestial Realm many months ago.

A face finally appears in the window, startling you. The individual is one you don’t recognize. It’s hard to make out her features given the window is so small, and she has a helmet covering most of her head. She locks her bright red eyes with you for a moment, before twisting a key into the lock and activating the tumbler on the door. After numerous clacks, the door unlatches, and she holds it open. At first, you think perhaps she is letting you go, but the thought is squashed when a familiar blonde-haired man steps through the door. He stares directly at you, and you feel your body immediately tense under his stare.

You begin to feel way too hot, and beads of sweat begin to form on your clammy skin as the man saunters over to you, his dark brown eyes flaring with intensity in the dim sun light that now shown from the thin glimpse your cell had to the outside. Following quickly behind him was the red-eyed angel who was dressed in silver and blue armor, and two other angels dressed similarly.

“So...we finally meet.” Michael smiled at you, but behind it was a terse hatred that showed plainly on his face. His eyes scour your body, taking in the state of dress you were in and trying to ignore his surprise at how attractive he found you to be. “Allow me to formally introduce myself. My name is Michael, revered leader of the Celestial Council and second in command underneath the Heavenly Father.”

You nod once, not knowing what to say in response. He raises his eyebrow expectantly, and it’s now that you realize he is wanting you to introduce yourself to him.

“Uh...I-I’m Mc...” You mutter out. “I’m the Human Ambassador to the Devildom.”

“Within Diavolo’s Royal Court, I presume?” He raises a brow, not realizing that you held an actual title within the Devildom political system. He curses himself internally, now realizing that kidnapping someone from under Diavolo’s royal protection would potentially result in the House of Lords declaring War on the Celestial realm.

You nod hesitantly, trying to place an emotion to the scrunched look on his face.

“Hmm. I see...” he paused, now beginning to pace the floor in front of you. “Well, I wish I could have been acquainted with you earlier, under different circumstances, but the trouble you have caused has required me to resort to extreme measures.”

You swallow hard, not liking the vagueness in his words. “T-trouble?”

He hummed in confirmation, pacing toward the window. “Tell me- for how long did you think you could keep getting away with your sinful actions?”

“w--what?” You stutter out the words breathlessly, unsure of what to make of such an accusation. You had no idea what he was even talking about, and the language he used gave you no insight into why he had you chained up in this dank, smelly room. When he doesn’t reply right away, you gulp back your fear, deciding to prod further, but your voice was meek and timid. “I’m sorry, but I don’t quite understand-”

Michael’s tense and nefarious-sounding laugh, followed by the clear tightening of his fists sent alarm bells ringing through your mind. You clamped your mouth shut as he turned to look at you, the intensity of his eyes now twice that of when he had entered the room. You scoot back an inch, pressing your body into the wall as he approaches, squatting down so that he was eye-level with you.

“Your manipulative tricks won’t work on me, harlot.” He hissed searching your fear-stricken expression for some clues into your weaknesses. He glanced down from your face, noticing the way your arms and legs were tightly bound to your body, trying to hide as much as you could from him. He made note of the scars that littered your collar and parts of your exposed chest that he could see, trying to soak in as much detail as he could get from just observing you.

You feel your body begin to tense even more than it already was under his judgmental stare and critical words, not liking how uncomfortable you felt under his prying gaze. The almost transparent half buttoned sleep shirt that hung low on your chest, along with the thin lacey underwear that was barely hidden by the hem of the shirt left you feeling very exposed. Your intention was to show off the set gifted to you by Lucifer for your engagement, since he was very smitten with how you looked in it. Had you known that you would be swiftly snatched up from your bed in the cover of night- presumably under the order of this strange man- you would have worn something more modest. The lingerie was never meant for the eyes of anyone but your lover, yet here you were, seemingly being undressed in the mind of the angel who squatted before you.

Michael shook his head standing back up to pace after feeling his brain start to stir with delinquent thoughts related to the curvature of your body. “Tch. It’s no wonder Simeon had difficulty controlling his purity around you. Such a teasing display you give, hm? Like a piece of fresh meat dangled in front of a tiger.”

Your eyes widen as you sit with his disgusting words, closing yourself off tighter from view. You try to speak to him, to tell him he’s misjudging you- but your voice merely comes out in a squeak.

“Come now, enough with this demure charade.” He hisses, staring down upon you with frustration. “I want you to try to justify to me why you have turned one of our own to the life of sin. Does it simply run in your blood, given your blood association to that other traitorous wretch? Or are you simply a Sadist- desiring to ruin the purity of those around you? Even having enough skill to seduce Demons back to instinctual depravity after sophistication has become their norm truly is impressive.”

“I...I haven’t done anything...” You whisper, feeling tears begin to well behind your eyes. “I didn’t seduce anyone...I-”

A swift backhand from Michael cuts you off. You shriek as his hand connects with your cheek, the stinging from the large ring on his fourth finger causes tears to escape from your eyes. How sudden his demeanor changed from calm to irate scared the hell out of you.

Michael scowls at the sight of you crying from what he believes is such a simple form of discipline. His voice is raised and wavered in frustration. “The question was rhetorical, Human. You speak when I ask for a direct answer, and you will address me as “sir.” I am owed that much respect. Is that clear?”

You hesitate before giving a quick nod, now refusing to look at him.

“I’m sorry, but I believe I asked for a direct answer this time, wench.” He hisses, clenching and unclenching his fist as if to loosen his knuckles for another strike.

A shudder runs down your spine and you nod more rapidly this time, trying to make your voice louder than a mere whisper. “Y-yes...s-sir.”

He smirks evilly at you. “Good girl.”

You could nearly gag at the way he had just referred to you, the events of your previous trauma bubbling to the surface as you wondered what he was going to do to you. You watched his unmoving feet from your peripherals, silently shifting between calling to someone to save you from this place and convincing yourself that it was all a horrible dream.

“Now then...” Michael stands, clasping his hands behind his back and returning to his pacing movements. “I expect you to answer my questions truthfully, and in full. First, Why is it that you’ve chosen to stay in the Devildom rather than return to your home- that of the human world?”

“U-uh...” You pause taking a shaky breath. “The human world wasn’t very good for me...and I found a family that I love and care about in the Devildom.”

“Why- pray tell- would you place trust in some random demons enough to refer to them as family?” He questions, gazing at you over the rim of his glasses.

“They showed me kindness, and genuine compassion.” You state matter of factly, not liking that he was questioning the structure of your relationships with the brothers. “I had limited experiences of that with other humans.”

“Had you even attempted to seek it out?”

“What?” you blink back your confusion.

“Are you deaf?” He hisses, pausing his pacing in front of you, now crossing his arms over his chest. “I asked if you had even attempted to seek such relationships elsewhere.”

You pause, thinking back to your early family and friends during childhood. “A couple times, yes...uh, sir...”

“So, If I may summarize.” He clears his throat, waving his hand as he spoke. “You had become entangled with demons beyond that of mere acquaintanceship, going so far as to undress before and betroth yourself to one, because your few attempts at connecting with other humans proved fruitless. So, instead of persevering through hardship, like God intended you to to, you gave up, betrayed and abandoned your people, and sought comfort in those who live lives filled to the brim with sin and stripped yourself of a morally pure path, one that would lead your bloodline to forgiveness and mercy. Is that correct?”

“What??” You shake your head in frustration, the amount of assumptions he was making on how you had come to find the demon brothers as part of your family, and how demons actually are in real life. “T-that’s not it at all! You think you can just assume these things about me!?”

Michael snapped his attention down as your voice came out in an annoyed retort to what he had said. He quickly snapped his fingers, and the two male guards yank you to your feet by your arms. Your heart pounds in your chest and your breathing begins to turn ragged as their grips tighten against you, holding you firmly in place as Michael leans in. His shallow breath is hot against your already too-warm face, the intoxicatingly-sweet scent of it overwhelming your olfactory senses. You try to turn your head away, but he grips your chin tightly in his gloved hand, forcing your eyes back to meet his.

“I thought I told you to address me with respect.” He hisses, pressing his thumb and index finger tighter into your jaw. He was infuriated by your response, but he couldn't fight the nagging thought in his head that your boldness in challenging him was endearing. Something about you was striking his emotions in a way he didn't expect. His heart pounded and he felt his loins stir with excitement. It was a confusing feeling, and he was enraged by the fact that it was happening.

He shakes his thoughts away and continues, the grip on your jaw never wavering. “I believe your insolent denial is proof enough of your wrong doing. Association amongst humans and demons is bad enough, as is becoming chummy with one. That sinful sorcerer has clearly also been an influence on your attitude toward them, and clearly has lead you further to depravity by spreading your legs for them. May I remind you, that coitus outside of your species is forbidden? But no. You did not stop there. You also have set to cross established peace sanctions, and marry one. Absolutely Deplorable. You have the audacity to say that I don’t know what I’m talking about? You may have me mistaken for a fool, Mc. And I assure you, that is a grave error in judgement.”

He finally drops your chin, shaking his head and tutting. He turns from you for a moment, clasping his hands behind his back as he mulls over his plans. He cursed himself for not being able to treat you more harshly. He anticipated you being easy to torture, but the more he was exposed to you, the more he was curious to know more about you. Perhaps it was the same power you had used on Simeon and the others...or perhaps it wasn't. Regardless of the reasoning, something about you made him want to make you his.

He pauses for a moment, deciding to change tactics. He sticks his hand in his jacket pocket, fishing around for something. You watch with baited breath, terrified for what was to come.

Finally, Michael turns. In his hand, he hold a small vial. It glows a bright, shimmering gold as he displays it between his thumb and forefinger for you. Your look at him in confusion, but your anxiety rises higher as you hear the soft gasps from the guards who held you still in their grasp.

“Sir Michael,” The woman who stands by the door sounds uneasy as she takes a step forward. “Are...are you sure about this?”

Michael snaps his attention toward her, his eyelid twitching in annoyance. His voice was hoarse through labored breaths and deep anger. “Are you questioning a superior officer, Dina?”

She pauses, glancing between you and the vial. A sympathetic look passes her eyes as she finally sighs. “N-no sir. My apologies for speaking out of turn.”

“Very good, then.” Michael turns back to you, a wicked smile appearing on his lips. He approaches slowly, and the reactions of the guards have you even more worried than before. You squirm in their hold, trying to desperately maneuver out of their arms.

"Now, Mc." His voice returns to a casual soft tone, though there is coldness behind it. "We could have forgiven your sinful actions if it weren't for two things. One of which is Simeon's corruption, which you are solely responsible for."

You flinch as he reaches for a strand of your hair, turning it over in his fingers. His eyes never leave your face, as if studying your every reaction to his touch.

"Second to that though, is your power." He smirks, dropping your hair and now running his hand down your neck. He continues down your collarbone, stopping just above your breast, where the dull scar-like outline of Lucifer's pact sits. "Initially, my plan was to just kill you- rid the world of the problem that had been unintentionally created by offering Lilith mercy."

You swallow hard, but remain silent. He leans into to your neck, his breath tickling your earlobe. You squeeze your eyes shut, heartbeat pounding in your ears.

He takes a breath in, inhaling your scent slowly. A shudder snaked its way down his back as he moves his hand up to cup your opposite cheek. He stroked the skin gently with his thumb, his breathing shaky on the outbreath. "However...It appears that I have changed my mind after finally being able to... observe you."

You stifle a gag as he presses his forehead to the side of your temple, giving a small laugh as he muttered the words in your ear. Finally, he leans back, dropping his hand from your cheek. He returns to pacing, now facing away from you.

"So...in my infinite mercy, as that is the type of angel I am...I will allow you to make a choice." He stops his movements, looking out the window wistfully. "I suggest you think over your next move carefully."

The guards holding you share an uneasy glance as Michael flicks his wrist, waving toward the door. They drop you to your knees, and promptly leave the room. You scoot as far away from him as the chain on your ankle will allow, still repeating the silent prayer that Lucifer would come for you, and reduce Michael to a bloody pulp.

Michael holds the vial up to the light, observing it as it refracts rainbow shapes onto the walls of the cell. "Your choice will be this, Mc. Either I end your life- giving you a very slow and painful death. You will never again be reincarnated as another being, and your soul will be kept in the deepest tomb of the Celestial Palace, never to see the light of day again." He turns to you, but his expression was difficult to read. It was crossed somewhere between pity and jubilation. "Lilith's bloodline will end with you. You won't even have a spirit to roam the earth with. You will simply cease to be."

Michael's face then contorts into a wicked smile as he drops his arms down to his side, now walking briskly toward you. He squats down as you try to shift away, the chain pulling tightly on your ankle as he reaches out to strok your calf.

"Or..." His smile widens as his fingers dust along your leg. His other hand holds the vial up to you. "...You can choose the path of grace by drinking this."

You hadn't realized how heavy your breath was until it suddenly catches in your throat. You stare at the intimidating angel before you, both terrified and confused. "Wh...what is that..?"

Michael chuckles darkly, twisting the vial between his fingers. "Curious, hmm? This is nectar from a very rare plant that we farm beneath the palace. It's called the Five-Winged Corpse flower. It's nectar is what we use to allow deserving humans into the Celestial realm as angels after their death."

You stare at the vial, watching the liquid ooze in different directions as he twists it for you to observe. You furrowed your brow in confusion, trying to figure out his intentions. "To...make me an angel..? You just got done telling me how horrible I am. Why don't you just kill me?"

Michael tutted at you. "Its rude to demand so many answers at once, little dove."

You grimace at the pet name, not liking the fondness he seemed to have for you now. In all accounts, you preferred him hating you.

"You see, I've decided to give you a second chance..." Michael beamed, searching your face for a reaction. "One that would still require your death, of course... but would also allow you the opportunity to renounce your life of sin. You will still need punishment for your actions, but I would allow you to be reincarnated as an angel. You would be held under my strict supervision as you unlearn all of the sinful things you had allowed yourself to indulge in, and i would truly look forward to the opportunity to make you into the heavenly being you could be."

You swallow hard, trying to decode why he was offerring you this choice. You were confused and terrified of his proposal, neither option sounding appealing at all. And the idea that you would be at his mercy should you chose this option, though, made you feel sick. Your mind raced with all of the things you feared Michael would do to you as "punishment." Tears threaten to well behind you eyes, trying desperately to manifest a call to the brothers to come help you, but you couldn't get up the strength to send out a call. You knew the anxiety and the physical weakness you felt from when they had struck you over the head had weakened your ability, but you felt something else getting In the way. It was as if something was siphoning out your energy. Each attempt at calling Lucifer, then Mammon, then Beel, Satan, Levi, Asmo, and Belphie proved fruitless.

Michael interrupts your thoughts with a laugh, somehow knowing where your thoughts were gravitating toward. "You would be forbidden from ever setting foot in the Devildom again, of course. Your pacts would disappear, as would your connections with those horrid brothers. And your engagement with Lucifer would become annulled. You will have anything you could ever want, and the ability to regain your purity. Certainly a life here would be a million times better than one amongst demons, wouldnt you say?"

You feel tears well up behind your eyes upon realizing that both choices would result in having to abandon the brothers. You shake your head aggressively, finding anger seeping through your pores at the fact that this so-called angel was seemingly trying to own you- to keep you something he could use for his own amusement. It overridded your fear, and you swallowed it down hard as he gazed at you expectantly, awaiting your answer.

You took a deep, shaking breath, deciding that your hope to live was forlorn. "I...I'd rather die a thousand deaths than live one second as your prisoner."

Michael's smile slowly fell into an intense frown. His gentle stroking of your leg ceased, now opting to squeeze it tightly, his sharp nails dug into your skin from beneath his gloves. You try to hold back your fear, now staring him down intently as his eyes shook with rage.

"You may feel that way now..." He hisses, squeezing your leg so hard that blood begins to ooze from the shallow indents he was making. "...but perhaps your tune will change when you see the fate of your lover."

Your eyes widen slightly at his words as he stands. You had no idea what he was talking about, but a pit formed in your stomach as your mind raced with all the horrible things he was probably planning on doing or had already done to Lucifer. Michael mutters something under his breath that you couldnt quite make out before again turning to leave. He pauses with his hand on the latch of the cell, glancing over his shoulder once more to look at you.

"Your death will ckme regardless of your choice-" Michael cracked another wicked smirk, the danger behind it sending a chill down your spine. "-I've already ensured that...but the right decision would preserve the life of Lucifer, and the rest of his pathetic little family. Take some time to let that soak in before hastily making a choice, Little Dove."

You fight back another gag as Michael walks through the door. He slams it hard behind him. You flinch at the sound, knowing that the violent action was an intentional warning of his capabilities.

The sound of his and the other guards' footsteps fades down the hall as you curl into yourself, hugging your legs tightly. You gently nurse the dripping wounds on your calf as tears finally force their way out of your eyes. All you wanted was to be held in Lucifers arms again; safe within the walls of the place you called home with the 7 brothers.

Michael paced the floor of the council chambers, awaiting impatiently his colleagues to come through on his urgent request to convene. If they didn't, it wouldn't be that big of a deal, really. His plan could be commenced without their silly input. Besides, he knew at least half of them would attempt to veto his plan. "Try" being the key word here. But he wanted witness to his grand scheme- one that would surely solidify a reputation of being as powerful as God himself.

The tranquilizer he had ordered Uriel and the guards to give Lucifer would wear off within the next two hours, so it was imperative that he finish what he started before that point. He did not expect Lucifer to be so strong-willed, making him ultimately question what it was about Mc that produced such a desperation. After meeting her, he was able to understand. Her aura was intoxicating, and oddly enough, he sensed a feeling of purity radiating from her that he didn't expect.

She had done so many sinful things, and caused even the most dedicated angel to become demonic. How could she still have purity?

Michael sighed, clicking his tongue as he pondered the human. The more he thought about her, the more his emotions confused him. He felt absolute hatred toward her, but also a deep longing and curiosity that he hadn't felt before. And that curiosity drove him to the brink of insanity. Was this her manipulative nature, or was she truly just so radiant that any being would fall to their knees before her?

Regardless of what it was, he needed to keep these emotions hidden.

The last thing he wanted was for the council to discover that he had changed his game plan, even fought they hadn't even really uncovered the original from the start. Each time he thought about the initial plot to wipe her from existence, he felt a strong urge to slap his past self for being so naive. Of course this woman was something special if she harbors so much power, and instead of destroying it, he could make that power his to command.

His thoughts wandered back to her state of dress, and what he perceived to be a mixture of terror and awe as she laid her eyes upon him. He paused on the image in his brain, feeling his body quiver with excitement. He wondered if she'd give up easily; if she'd give him what he wanted when he wanted it- or if she would resist. He wasn't sure which outcome would be better. Having blind adoration made his ego feel strong, but he also thrived off of a challenge- and something felt oddly gratifying in breaking someone's spirit.

Michael smiled to himself, licking his lips in eager anticipation. He couldn't wait for the opportunity to conduct a thorough punishment, and to see the fragile human quiver below his touch. He felt a shiver run through his spine as he imagined her begging to become an angel- begging to be able to repent- as Michael brought the whip down on her once more.

Regardless of what the human chose as her path, Michael would see to it that she would become his, no matter what it took.

He paused his pacing, feeling a twinge of worry manifest in the back of his mind. The small bit of his consciousness that always second guessed his motives and actions wasn't usually loud, but this time it produced a clear warning:

What if father found out about this plan? Or even the thoughts you are having about this human? Such heinous acts should not make you feel so inflamed with desire.

Michael winced, trying to think for a moment. Was this human already turning him to sin in just the brief interaction he had with her? No, preposterous. Michael was a just and righteous man, and his desires to control this human was not sinful. Serving a just punishment was not sin, it was glory. And besides, the sexual desire that underlied these emotions toward her could be nulled when the human would perish, and then be reborn as an angel.

After all, he fully intended to change her to this path, whether she consented or not.

Michael was jolted from his thoughts as irritated and anxious murmuring grew closer from beyond the council chamber doors. Within moments, the doors creaked open, and the annoyed and concerned faces of his peers appeared, uneasily taking their place in their seats.

"Michael, what is the meaning of this?!" Remiel demanded, having already been told by Uriel that Lucifer and the human were being held prisoner under his order.

Michael smirked. "All in due time, Remmy."

Remiel glowered at him, having told him over a thousand times at this point that she loathed that nickname.

"Regardless of what your intentions are, it is completely unacceptable that you did not include us in the conversation around staging a literal kidnapping." Remiel crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "So an explanation is needed for why you thought this was acceptable."

Gabriel and Raguel nodded their heads in agreement, but Uriel let out an annoyed breath.

"It's funny you all assume Michael's in the wrong here. Obviously he didn't come to us first because you all wouldn't even try to hear him out when he talked about how dangerous this human was before." They shrugged, mimicking Remiel's posture. "Besides, I think it's time Lucifer finally got to answer better for his crimes."

"Crimes? From a war that occurred thousands of years ago?!" Raguel spat, annoyed at the grudge Uriel clearly held against the eldest brother. "We have moved past that as a civilization, so why can't you?"

"It's the principle of it!" Uriel scowled, feeling his face burn in embarrassment.

Raguel rolled his eyes. "I'm sure it is. I think you're just an immature, spoiled, brat who merely wants to enact revenge, but sure. 'It's the principal'."

Uriel gritted his teeth, muttering insults under his breath.

"Now, now," Michael smirked, now turning his back to her. Walking back toward where the council had just entered, He continued: "You all may save your discussion for when i return. For now, I must go retrieve the man of the hour."

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peachsequence · 10 months

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Dead By Daylight Drabble Character focus: Jake Word count: 900 Synopsis: Jake Park makes himself a tent. Content: no ships, sfw, indulgent headcanons, poorly written Manchester slang lmao

The others were unsure about Jake’s plan, at least at first. They watched, whispering to themselves, while he scavenged for metal scraps, tarps, and sturdy sticks. Anything that could help with making a covered structure.

Some felt that a tent meant admitting this was their home now. Others were scared it somehow broke the rules of the place.

Maybe they were right, but Jake didn’t care anymore. He wanted privacy. It had been fine when there were just a few people but now there were well over a dozen flowing in and out from trials. He couldn’t go anywhere without tripping on someone sleeping by the fire or hearing David King’s rancorous laughter over his own stupid jokes.

After dozens of trials and free time exploring, he gathered an impressive pile of junk. Most of it came from the meat packing plant, much to the chagrin of the young woman that guarded the place. She’d nearly killed him several times for stealing from the supplies she used to adjust her traps. The tool sheds of Haddonfield had plenty of tarps. Michael hadn’t seemed to care even when Jake stole the sheets off the beds in the neighborhood.

What resulted in his work was an angular tent of blue and yellow tarps sewn together, held up by a string tied several feet off the ground to two trees. The ends were staked apart with nails and metal pieces, spread far enough that Jake could lie down any direction with plenty of room. He could even stand up without hitting his head.

Sure, the ends were still open so anyone could see inside if they really wanted to, but he had plans to alter the design to fix that problem. That, however, could come later. First he wanted to enjoy the effort he went through.

He slipped into his new hiding spot, tucked away a few yards from the campfire. The light slipped through the openings at each end, reflecting the color of the yellow and blue walls of the tent. He lay on a few layers of sheets, just enough to keep from feeling the uneven ground jab too hard into his back.

A smug grin tugged at the corner of his lips. This is perfect.

---

It took three trials before someone broke the threshold of his new home. Jake was tying knots on a piece of rope he’d found when David King barged in without so much as knocking.

“Park, make me a tent,” he said, ignoring the way Jake glared up at him. He dumped a stack of folded red fabric with gold thread embellishing the fraying hems. The smell of chemicals permeated from them.

“Did you tear down the tents in the circus for this?” Jake asked, noting the blood stains on the coarse surface.

“Yeah. Got a nasty scar for the trouble,” King said, grinning wide at the admission. “Oh, since I know you’ll throw a strop without pay, I brought you a toolkit. Weird one, too. Look at it!” David shoved the toolbox in Jake’s hands like a child wanting to show off a new toy.

While he remained stone faced, Jake was intrigued by it. Rather than the plain white toolboxes he normally found, this one was bright red with gold clasps and handle. Opening it up, he found it packed full with firecrackers and sparklers that once might have made him think of New Year’s festivals. Now it just made him wonder if he could hurt a killer with them.

Rather than ask where it came from – something that David would probably love to brag about – Jake simply closed it and set it aside.

“Fine,” Jake relented. “Just don’t expect anything special.”

From there, it became a downward spiral. He’d barely gotten started on David’s tent before the next person asked. Some were fine with anything Jake gave them, others wanted room to fit their partners too. Then new people arrived at the campfire and assumed getting a space was part of the norm. He made a rule after that: supply your own materials or pay out the ass for the trouble I’m going through.

Jake hadn’t realized just how much work he’d gotten done until he took a step back to admire a pale blue canopy he’d made for Kate. Seven tents were nestled in between trees and around the campfire, their colors adding the atmosphere of life to their hellish purgatory. Claudette’s small pink and green tent was surrounded by her garden. The white one Dwight shared had a clothes line which Ace hogged to store all his ridiculous outfits on. Meg and Nea were at that moment attempting to make stands outside each home for some lanterns they’d found.

A warm feeling settled in his chest, one that made him nervous to think about too hard. He hated to admit that he enjoyed the strange little community they’d all cobbled together. As standoffish as he acted, he liked these people. Even David King. Eventually that would get him hurt, he’d experienced that pain before, but for a moment he let himself enjoy it.

He made his way back to his own tent, ready to rest after finally finishing the last bit of work he’d been commissioned, and settled into his makeshift bed. Jake’s head hadn’t even touched the pillow before a man tugged open one of the flaps and peered in.

His beige trench coat popped against his dark amber skin, which was tinged pink in the cheeks as he sheepishly tried to find the right words to say. “Sorry to bother you but I was told to ask you about a tent?” the man asked with an accent Jake couldn’t place.

Jake sighed, rubbing his fingers against his temple. So much for my genius plan to be alone.

#dead by daylight #dbd #jake park #david king #drabble

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twsted-idiot · 10 months

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🤯🤯 not emotionally damaging Willow content?!!!!! WHATTT!!! Teehee :3

Night One.

Willow stood in the bathroom, staring at the uniform she’d just changed into, a quiet groan escaped her lips as her gaze fell upon her nametag, she hated her last name, it was a reminder of her shitty father, dead mother, and wished it hadn’t been put on the nametag.

“Willow, hurry the fuck up, you’ll be late.” Quickly the white haired girl grabbed a hair tie and tied her fluffy hair up into a low ponytail before opening the bathroom door. Michael stood outside the door, his cheeks flushed slightly at the sight of her in her uniform.

“It’s only 11:30 Mike, I’m not gonna be late…”

Michael rolled his eyes before grabbing her hand and walking down the hallway towards his room. Once the two were in his room, Mike shut the door and pulled Willow onto the bed with him, her head resting on his chest. The girl's pale cheeks flushed bright pink as she listened to the sound of his soft breathing and heartbeat.

“I’m scared…” Willow whispered softly

“My God, Willow, why the hell’re you scared? You’re around them all the time during the day in a fucking springlock suit. Nothings gonna happen.” Willow stayed quiet out of embarrassment, and because she knew he was right, she was around the animatronics during the day, most of the time in a springlock suit, which could easily malfunction and lead to an excruciating death, so why should she be scared now?

A soft sigh left the girl's lips as Michael gently ran his fingers through her fluffy ponytail. The two lay there for the next fifteen minutes, the only sounds were their breathing and the clock ticking in the hallway. It was oddly quiet, Willow assumed Elizabeth was asleep and William was busy, occupied with work in the basement.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you there?” Michael asked softly as Willow got up and grabbed her hat and flashlight.

“I’m sure, it’s not that far, plus you’re already gonna be there when I get off soo”

Willow quickly leaned down, pressing a kiss to Michael’s forehead before walking out of his room and towards the front door, leaving the brunette flustered. Quietly Willow walked down the street towards the pizzeria, secretly dreading staying there at night. She’d heard ‘rumors’ about previous nightguards dying, or complaining about the animatronics, but she did her best to ignore them. As the girl got closer to the pizzeria she began to feel nervous, her stomach doing flips. Willow stood in front of the doors, hesitating before opening the door, shutting it behind her and locking it. The diner seemed terrifying, lacking the usual happy, playful aura she was used to during the day. It was nearly pitch black inside the building so she turned on her flashlight, the tables were empty other than the party hats. Freddy, Chica, and Bonnie stood on the stage, and Foxy was in the pirate cove, the purple, star decorated curtains were shut but you could see the fox pirate’s feet at the very bottom. Willow knew the layout of the diner well enough to be able to make her way to the office in the near pitch black darkness, her footsteps echoed through the building eerily as she entered the office turning off her flashlight, staring at the clock on the desk, watching the clock slowly count up to 12:00 am. A few minutes later the phone rang. Willow stared at it blankly before grabbing it.

“Hello…?” “Hello, hello? Hello? Uh, I wanted to record a message for you to help you get settled in on your first night.”

Willow tilted her head to the side slightly, before realizing it was a previously recorded message.

“Um, I actually worked in that office before you. I'm finishing my last week up now, as a matter of fact. So, I know it can be a bit overwhelming, but I’m here to tell you that there’s nothing to worry about. Uh, you’ll do fine. So, let’s just focus on getting you through your first week, okay?” The almost mechanical sounding voice continued, pausing for a moment.

“Uh, let’s see, first there’s an introductory greeting from the company that I'm supposed to read. Uh, it’s kind of a legal thing, you know. Um, “Welcome to Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. A magical place for kids and grown-ups alike, where fantasy and fun come to life. Fazbear Entertainment is not responsible for damage to property or person. Upon discovering that damage or death has occurred a missing person report will be filed within 90 days, or as soon as property and premises have been thoroughly cleaned and bleached, and the carpets have been replaced.” Blah blah blah, now that might sound bad, I know, but, there’s really nothing to worry about." The voice paused again, almost as if hesitating to continue.

Willow let out a soft groan

“Uh, the animatronic characters here do get a bit quirky at night, but do I blame them? No. If I were forced to sing those same stupid songs for twenty years and I never got a bath? I’d probably be a bit irritable at night, too. So, remember, these characters hold a special place in the hearts of children and we need to show them a little respect, right? Okay. So, just be aware, the characters do tend to wander a bit. Uh, they’re left in some kind of free roaming mode at night. Uh…something about their servos locking up if they get turned off for too long.”

The girl sighed, quickly flipping through the cameras, to her relief, all four animatronics remained where they were when she came in. Suddenly the audio began glitching and it became impossible to make out the words. Willow hoped whatever was being said wasn’t too important, since there was nothing she could do about it.

“Uh, now concerning your safety, the only real risk to you as a night watchman here if any, is the fact that these characters, uh, if they happen to see you after hours probably won’t recognize you as a person. They’ll p-They’ll most likely see you as a metal endoskeleton without its costume on. Now since that’s against the rules here at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza they’ll probably try to…forcefully stuff you inside a Freddy Fazbear suit.”

Willow’s eyes widened slightly, as she was familiar with what the inside of the suits were like, since she was often in a springlock suit during day shifts.

“Um, now, that wouldn’t be so bad if the suits themselves weren't filled with crossbeams, wires, and animatronic devices, especially around the facial area. So you could imagine how having your head forcefully pressed inside one of those could cause a bit of discomfort…and death. Uh, the only parts of you that would see the light of day again would be your eyeballs and teeth when they pop out of the front of the mask, heh. Y-yeah, they don’t tell you about these things when you sign up. But hey, first day should be a breeze. I’ll chat with you tomorrow. Uh, check those cameras, and remember to close the doors only if absolutely necessary. Gotta conserve power. Alright, have a good night.”

Willow shuddered at the thought of basically being springlocked, trembling slightly as she glanced at the clock again, it’d already been an hour. Flipping through the cameras briefly the animatronics were still on the stage, and Foxy was still in his cove, the only thing that changed was the fact that Chica, Bonnie, and Freddy’s heads had turned, as if staring at the now terrified white haired girl through the monitor.

Another hour passed, with no change, the band remained on the stage as normal and Foxy, still in the cove with the curtains shut. Willow stared at the screen for a moment, before flipping the screen back down, glancing out the door on the left side, despite nothing being there. The nightguard sat in silence, occasionally glancing out the doors on either side of the office, but never once turned on the lights or shut the doors to conserve power.

Curiosity suddenly started to rise in her, as the animatronics still hadn’t moved.

“Why the hell do they need someone to do night shifts if they’re just robots…” she mumbled to herself, with an annoyed groan.

Almost as if jinxing it, when she pulled the cameras back up, Bonnie had disappeared off the stage. Panic suddenly arose as Willow switched to the dining area, finding the rabbit animatronic standing between two rows of tables.

“Holy fuck.” she whispered in shock, regretting even saying anything about it.

Panic actually began to set in, the girl's heart began racing and her breathing quickened, genuinely scared now. Questions began racing in her head as she did her best to calm down.

Quietly she started talking to herself, trying to reassure her she was overreacting. “They’re not gonna get any closer…i-it’ll be fine…there’s only three more hours left for tonight, I can do-” only to be interrupted by the phone ringing.

Taking a deep breath, she picked the phone up as she checked the cameras again, Bonnie was now in the supply closet, and Chica had moved to the dining room. “Hello..?” her voice shook slightly.

“Is everything okay? You sound scared, did something happen!?” Michael’s voice was full of panic

“Oh my god- Um…e-everythings fine! Yep, mhm..nothing happened!” “Are you sure? It doesn’t sound like it..”

“Mhm, everythings good!! So um, what’re you doing still awake? It’s like…three thirty.” The girl spoke softly as she quickly flipped through the cams, a soft ��goddamn it” left her lips as she had found both of the animatronics had moved closer.

“I haven’t been up the whole time..but I just wanted to check on you…you probably need to focus though, so I’ll see you at six, okay love?” Willow flushed a little, giggling under her breath “Mhm..I’ll meet you out front at six Mikeyyy~”

A loud noise came from the background and Michael let out a loud groan before hanging up. Willow sighed quietly as she quickly checked the cameras again, panicking when she saw that Bonnie was now in the West hall corner. Quickly putting the cameras back down she turned on the light on the right side, Bonnie stood right outside the door, suddenly she slammed the button to shut the door, and the door slammed shut loudly.

“What the hell man..” After a few minutes she turned the light back on, the shadow of the rabbit was still there, keeping the door closed was draining power, but she had no choice but to keep it closed for now. After several more minutes she checked the light again, and the animatronic was gone, so she opened the door, quickly checking the cameras to find Chica and Bonnie both in the dining room.

The girl let out a sigh of relief, glad they weren’t super close by anymore. The next two and a half hours passed by relatively quickly, the animatronics occasionally moving to different rooms, however Foxy only peeked out of his cove, and never actually came out, and unlike Chica and Bonnie, Freddy didn’t move at all, remaining completely still on the stage, the power had been drained quite a bit, but only about to 60%.

Finally, the clock hit 6am, and Willow relaxed a little from her tense state, stepping out of the office as the lights inside the stage and dining area turned on, the animatronics had returned to the stage, standing as they did every day during open hours. The curtain to pirate cove shut all the way, with the “Sorry! Out of order” sign still in front of it.

“I should talk to Henry about him…see if we can do some work on him and get him back in working order..” she whispered to herself, and the curtain suddenly opened a little, as if the animatronic fox had heard her.

The girl stared at the broken down fox in shock for a moment, and then reached over and gently closed the curtain back before walking towards the front door. Michael stood in front of the building, arms crossed over his chest as he watched the girl open the door, worry melting away at the sight of her. Willow practically ran to him, hugging the brunette tightly, burying her face against him..and he could feel her trembling slightly. Michael’s hands gently ran through her long, fluffy hair in a comforting manner.

“Calm down, darling, you’re fine..” his voice was surprisingly soft and comforting, a stark contrast to his usual aggressive demeanor.

The two stood there for a few moments, enjoying each other’s embrace before Michael gently pressed a kiss against Willow’s forehead, taking her hand in his and lead her away from the building.

#Oc: Willow Parker #Fnaf oc #my writing #Willow x Michael

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gavinsdeviant · 2 years

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Enough for You

Sorry if there are any mistakes, I’m sick.

cw/tw- mention and confrontation of past toxic relationship, Michael being an absolute ass.

word count- 1,018

fandom- RedactedAudio

pair- David/Angel

Angel smiles down at the screen, shaking their head. The sun shines down on them from their spot in the coffee shop as they squint to get a better look. Heaven knows how Ash had gotten a selfie with both him and Davey in it- it sure as hell wasn’t willingly, that they were sure of.

Grumpy man <3

This little shit just sent me this. I am his fucking alpha.

They snicker. Shifting in their seat, they smile wider.

Their eyes take in the surroundings, and as they catch the gaze of someone sitting nearby they stop. Their heart drops.

They knew that cocky grin anywhere- that oily smirk that made their skin crawl.

They stare down at the ground, content on not facing him ever again.

A few minutes pass before their name is called. They hurriedly go to get the coffees- one for them, and one for Davey. Turning towards the door to leave, they pick up the pace.

And just when they think they’d make it out without a confrontation, a hand grabs their wrist.

“Shit.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again.” He had, seeing that they and Davey came here often as it was.

“Good to see you, Michael,” they try to tug their hand free, to no avail. “Goodbye now,” they add a bit more forcefully.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t think that is any of your business.” He looks them up and down, lip curling.

“You know, David seems like a nice guy,” he clicks his tongue. “There were stuff between us that you fucked up, and now you want to pass it along to someone else?”

They draw in a sharp breath.

“Haven’t you done enough?”

They finally manage to pull their hand out of his grip, heart pounding in their throat. They shove through the doors and step outside.

“Why are you leaving? Haven’t you done enough of that?” They swing around to face him, breathless.

They didn’t want to yell at him- didn’t want to tell him about all the things that had driven them away. He wasn’t worth that.

They spin on their heel to leave.

“Oh, by the way, did you cancel the gym membership? I would ask you to pay for it, but it doesn’t look like you’ve been going.” They blink past the tears, frustrating at themselves for making him let them feel this way.

They keep walking, ignoring his shouts from behind them.

“Hey Angel,” they nearly drop the coffees they’d forgotten they’d been holding. “Hey,” they say immediately, enveloped by his voice. It was safe- one constant in their life.

He wraps an arm around their waist and his chest rumbles beneath their hands. “Get lost,” he growls.

He’d seen everything, they were sure of it. And Michael was standing right there.

He tightens his arms around them and lets them bury their face in his shirt.

“Let’s go home.”

***

David has started getting worried over the course of his three days back. Something wasn’t right with Angel and he knew that he’d have to talk to them about it soon.

About their ex and how he’d probably been the reason for that tired look in their eyes.

They were more quiet than they ever were around him, tapping their knuckles every few seconds. It was a nervous tick that they’d learned not to do as often anymore, but it was ever present now.

He’d thought that with his day off on Monday, they’d be able to catch up on the time lost.

Something just wasn’t right.

“Angel?” He knocks on the bedroom door, not having heard them in the bathroom.

“Can I come in?” No answer.

He pushes inside, walking in on his angel curling into themselves with their legs pulled to their chest. The floor length mirror sits opposite them, as if they’d sunk down in front of it.

“Hey,” he sinks onto his knees at their side. “Baby. Look at me.”

“I don’t want you to see me like this right now. I don’t want you to have to…” they trail off and look up at him slowly.

“I don’t like the way I look,” the words sputter out of them, tears rolling down their face. “I-I didn’t know how to tell you that I don’t-”

He trails a hand to the nape of their neck, resting it there. It’s quiet for a moment.

“What did he say?

“Davey-”

“I want to understand. I want to help,” he dips his head to be eye level to them, giving his full attention.

They seem to consider what he says, taking a deep breath before they speak again.

“He,” they swallow,” used to say a lot of things that made me feel… awful about myself. And today, I just- I was reminded of that and I just… don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

Their words are gentle as they wipe their cheeks. He gives a light squeeze as if to say I’m here.

“I feel like such an idiot,” they mutter. They glance at themselves in the mirror for a second and he would be the only to notice the flash of pain on their face.

He lifts himself up from the ground and sits on the corner of the bed. “Come here.”

They seem to avoid their reflection at all costs as they turn to face him. When they’re close enough, he pulls them into his lap.

“You,” he kisses a path down their throat.

“Are,” brushes a hand through their hair.

“More,” pulls their face closer.

“Then I could have ever asked for.”

They grasp at the collar of his shirt as though it is the only thing keeping them tethered.

“You are perfect to me, and I know you might not believe that,” his eyes darken. “But whatever that fucker said doesn’t matter.”

He seems frustrated and they look away.

“I have never been more happy than I am with you. I love you.”

He can see that bright light in their eyes returning and smiles, wide and unrestrained.

“I love you more, Davey.”

#screaming crying shitting myself #i hope you guys enjoy #redacted asmr david #redacted asmr comfort #redacted asmr angel

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deepwoundsandfadedscars · 1 year

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First Line Tag Game

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway.

Tagged by @set-phasers-to-whump! Thanks for the tag!

I'll tag @rottenmarigolds @justwhumpythings @whumpdoyoumean @whump-captain and anyone else who wants to do this! Tag me if you do :3

Excerpts under the cut cause 10 excerpts is loong

In Between - Shadow & Bone

"Are you really sure this is the best use of our time, boss? I was rather hoping to be keeping warm with a drink and a rousing conversation over a hand of cards this evening," Jesper griped for the third time.

2. Car Crash - Locke & Key

"-yler! Tyler, please!"

Tyler groaned as awareness came back. His head felt heavy and like it had been stuffed with cotton. Everything felt muffled, including his hearing as he only distantly heard someone calling his name. His mouth was dry and his eyes felt like they might as well be glued shut for how hard it was going to be to open them.

3. Just Get It Over With - The 100

“The Ring’s starting to look pretty good right about now…” Murphy trailed off. He turned back to Emori as an idea came to him. “How much fuel is left in this thing?”

“Not enough. Why? What are you thinking?” Emori asked, wielding the screwdriver in her newly gloved hands, ready to take another jab at removing the collar.

4. The Fall - Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order

He woke to a shrill beep and something nudging against his hand. When he managed to pry open his eyes, a small vial with bright green fluid rested in the palm of his limp hand and he could see two more in the grass next to it. It was familiar, he knew he needed to do something with it, but the pain radiating up and down his spine and around his torso was too intense. A little droid bounced from one foot to another until it squatted down and pushed against his fingers with its head again. He curled his fingers as much as he could and tried to bring it closer to his face to investigate with blurry eyes.

The tiny movement made pain explode through his neck and he succumbed to the blackness again.

5. Finding Nic - TANIS

Watching them bring Nic out of the cabin is an image that will stick with me forever, no matter how much I want to forget. He looked awful. His face and clothes were streaked with blood, what little colour of his flesh I could see was pale, alabaster in the afternoon sun. His brown hair was a mess, half plastered to his head and half standing nearly on end with a mixture of dried blood and mud. He seemed completely unable to focus on his surroundings, confused and blinking warily around the clearing. For a moment his eyes settled on me and I held my breath, hoping for a flicker of recognition. Instead it seemed like he looked right through me, as though I wasn't even there.

6. The Dream - Original Content

The waning light of the evening sun bathed his skin, giving what warmth it could before the cool breeze overpowered it. The wind chased through the grass, swaying it around Michael's knees as he stood on the hilltop overlooking the city. The landscape looked weird, the city skyline black and contrasting against the colorful orange and pink of the sunset that glowed like fire on the horizon and reached across the sky, a last fight against the darkness of night.

7. Drowning - Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order

"Kid, you read me? They're not responding…" Greez turned to look at Merrin where she sat in Cere's usual spot at the communication station.

"They will, I am certain of it," Merrin said, her no nonsense tone leaving no space for argument. She pressed on the earpiece clamped over her head, as though trying to push the device deeper into her ear would make Cal respond faster.

8. Just Breathe - Uncharted 4

He claimed he was fine. Nate kept pestering him, asking him again and again if he was sure he was alright. Again and again he insisted he was fine and just to get on the damn plane, little brother.

In reality Sam's head was aching something fierce. Even without touching it he could tell there was a considerable goose egg on the back of his skull from when he hit the ground as the beam fell on him. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was an open wound on it too, swimming through the salty water as they escaped stung like a bitch, both on the bullet graze on his arm and on his head, not to mention the various smaller abrasions he’d acquired over the past couple weeks. He hoped maybe the water washed away any blood that had been in his hair before anyone saw it, he didn’t want Nate to fuss over him. His little brother had enough to deal with between him and Elena. The two of them seemed better off after a few hours alone together in the jungle, bounds better than after the fight at the hotel for sure, but they still had a long way to go.

9. The Trunk - Original Content

“She came out of nowhere sir, never saw her coming.”

Michael had repeated that sentence to himself so many times he almost believed it by now. Of course that was the best way to deal with a lie, try to replace the real story with the one less likely to get your ass thrown in with the fish a long ways from home.

10. Magical Exhaustion - Loki (TV Series)

Loki looked down as he felt warm fingers slide into his hand, squeezing tightly. He glanced between their interlocked hands and Sylvie’s face, her mouth pressed into a determined line as the wind whipped through her hair.

#kee speaks #here's a thing i wrote #tag game #not gonna lie i'm sad that in order to get 10 stories i have to go all the way back to 2021 😢#i want to write MORE #i already failed at my half ass resolution to do one fic a month this year lmao #but tbf when i said that i don't think I knew for sure that i would be spending two months in school

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 1 year

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And Eat it, Too: Chapter Fourteen: Lonely

In which Jon gets closer to monsterdom, destroys the dark sun, and is nearly poached by Peter Lukas....

>>> NOW ON AO3!

Lonely-typical content. LOADS of psychological torment in this one.

The Lonely always felt like depression to me, and Jon lands in it head-first.

(Masterpost including playlist)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Of course, if no one is here at this time of year, it’s unlikely he’ll find a working phone.

There is a sort of docking area. Maybe he can find a ship. Or flag one, or… something.

“So many other avatars get some sort of flight, or... fast travel ability, but do I get some?” he grouses to Book Michael. “No. I get to talk to people.” He pats the book in his shirt. “Still think I’m powerful?”

The book does not answer.

There are no lights in the research facility, unsurprisingly; Jon doubts they even left any of the bulbs intact—

Though he can hear generators, creating power. Even the People's Church of the Divine Host need heat.

But that means they’re here.

He pauses.

And hears the cock of a gun. “Nice and easy, there, pal. Raise your hands.”

American. Jon doesn’t know this voice, but knows this is Christopher Lorne’s younger brother, Ennis.

Jon raises his hands. The Beholding thrums through him, because Ennis has a story to tell.

Ennis also has a gun. Jon isn’t eager to be shot.

His captor speaks into a walkie-talkie. “You were right. He’s here.”

Manuela’s voice comes through, all static and bitterness. “Bring him. If he tries to talk to you, knock him out.”Jon preemptively winces. He’s not sure how long he can avoid asking questions.

Especially since he’s still feeling weirdly giddy, which definitely makes him unwise.

What the hell are you doing to me? He thinks at the Eye, and gets no answer.

And then they’re marching, faster than Jon likes, through landscape he can sense more than see, while Lorne is clearly utterly comfortable in the dark, and seems relieved when they step inside, away from the aurora, and into complete and artificial night.

But it’s not the Dark. Jon doesn’t give a fuck, after what he’s been through today.

He knows where they are, like heat vision, in the room—four utterly miserable humans, laced through with the Dark’s power, but ragged—not as ragged as he, but not that far off, either.

He wants to ask what happened so badly.

Needs to.

Isn’t going to be able to hold it back much longer.

Manuela is the one to approach him; he feels her, knows she is in a bad, bad place—a place beyond hope, which makes her completely without boundaries or reason. “So you’re the one who replaced Gertrude.”

“How did you—” He stops himself, and it hurts, like all his insides just jammed themselves in his throat.

“I was visited,” Manuela whispers with a sort of sour desperation. “We waited here, for so long, waiting for his word that never came… and finally, he speaks to us… just because of you.” Her bitterness is terrible, as if she blames Jon for her god’s apparent silence. “Mister Pitch wants you back, Jonathan Sims, and we’re going to give you to him.”

He should be afraid of that.

For some reason, he’s not.

“Maybe it’ll be enough,” someone whispers (Arnold McKirby, Jon’s brain supplies, English, a member of the Church for seven years, father to—)

“It won’t,” says Manuela. “It’ll be three hundred years until we can pull that much power again—but it’ll make me feel better.”

Lorne handcuffs Jon’s wrists behind his back—which seems very silly; his hands don’t do much—and, patting him down, finds the book.

“Don’t touch it,” says Manuela. “There’s weird power.”

“Then shouldn’t we… take it?” says another (John Ascot, English, formerly nightwatch at the museum of—)

“No,” says Manuela. “Could be a trap.”

They know better than to mess with potential Leitners, too.

She grabs his arm, presses her gun to his side, and begins walking him down the hall.

He wonders at his own calm. It wouldn’t be the first time he thought he’d run out of fear, but that isn’t it.

The stories here. The Eye wants what they know, through Jon’s eyes.

That need, that hunger, is eclipsing (see what he did there) everything else.

He tries, he struggles, he really doesn’t want to do this, but the question slips through, pops out, no more his choice than the beating of his heart. “Where are you taking me?”

Oh.

It came out… different.

He’s never compelled like this—smooth and natural, like exhaling, easy and gentle like a stream, power but so sweet and clear that for the very first time ever, no one in the room seems to realize what he’s done.

Manuela has gone still.

No one moves.

“I’m throwing you into the pits,” she says. “Into the brackish water, blessed with Its stillness.”

And now that it’s happening, he has to keep going, like he has to keep breathing (does he?). “What happened when your ritual failed?”

And suddenly, they’re all talking at once.

“We had hundreds of sacrifices prepared and ready, plunged into darkness and terror for days on end—”

“Maxwell was here, ready for our moment of triumph, to begin our seven-day feast—”

“Plunged its claws into his chest, freeing the darkness within him—”

Jon sways and gasps, inundated, trembling, drinking their memories like wine from their minds, and their words are clear and even and almost unfeeling, and their fear is new and old and laced with pain.

He drinks it, drinks it in, the tiny part of him that is horrified at himself unable to make a fuss.

And that’s how he learns how the ritual failed, about Hither Green’s congregation blowing up, about their arrogance in believing that Darkness is the only real thing, about their heartless sacrifices of innocents they’d gathered to fuel this rite.

He grows angry as he hears what McKirby did to his children, because the ritual was failing and they didn’t know why, because they’d tasted the incarnation of their god (and all admitted to the deep, draining fear that gripped them, even as they celebrated) and then panicked as Mister Pitch pulled away.

He is riveted to learn the dark sun is definitely still here, in another room. Waiting.

He needs to see it.

That’s mad. It is dangerous. It is something that should not exist. It could do such damage to him.

He has to see it.

And then they’re done, all four of them are done, and panting, and realizing what he did to them.

Jon feels dizzy with power, buzzing, strong. “Take me to your dark sun.” That tiny, horrified part of him demands, What are you DOING?

Manuela laughs, still gasping. “It’ll destroy you. Only Maxwell and I could ever even come near it.”

“What happened?” whispers McKirby. “How did he—”

“Fuck this guy,” says Lorne, and moves.

“No! He’s for the Dark!” snaps Manuela, and there is a tussle.

Jon can’t look. He feels the dark sun. He begins walking.

McKirby gets in his way.

It is a bad idea to get in Jon’s way.

“You fuck,” says McKirby. “How dare you bring that back to me, how dare you make me feel our worst failure—”

“That wasn’t your worst failure, though, was it?” says Jon in a voice he hardly knows, smooth and low and without a single imperfection. “Your children. You heard them scream, and you threw them in anyway. Maybe you should feel what they felt instead, staring at your face, believing to the last second that you would save them, and then you… did… not.”

And McKirby is screaming, McKirby is on the floor, and Jon sways on his feet, that little voice telling him he is doing something monstrous, that he needs to stop, that there’s no going back on this path.

“Stop it!” Ascot shouts. “We have to do this! Mister Pitch will feed!”

“I’m not going through that again!” shouts Lorne, and the gun goes off.

Jon is walking.

Vaguely, he’s aware he shattered what little stability they had left, aware he dragged them through the worst night of their lives and turned them on each other, but he doesn’t know how he did it, and it doesn’t matter.

He has to see the dark sun.

It is eager for him.

He arrives at the door he knows it’s behind, and pauses, because it’s sealed with a wheel lock like something on a submarine, and his hands are cuffed.

A childlike frustration rises in him; he needs to get in there. He needs to see.

So very verbal, he whines at the door.

Another gunshot goes off behind his back, then silence, and he feels Manuela approaching.

She is gasping. Laughing softly at nothing, dragging her foot. “Destroy everything, don’t you?” she breathes, shoving him aside and turning the lock. “Gertrude, now you. You’re worse than the Desolation.”

Jon isn’t in control of his tongue right now. “How does Mister Pitch talk to you?”

“Dreams. There’s no other way now, with Maxwell gone.”

The door is opening, creaky and terrible as if not opened for years. Something… pushes through, like radiation, warping the air, ringing in his ears.

“Have fun,” she says. “I hope it hurts.” And she limps away, and Jon knows she is thinking terrible things.

He needs to care about this. He needs to stop her. He—

Needs to see the dark sun.

His steps are unsteady as he walks inside, fighting himself, twitching with a war of desires, but then he sees it, and nothing else matters.

It’s like harmonics in the wind, mournful like old metal left to rust on a hill, and static is building, a frying in the air, and it is piercing and terrible and strong.

“It’s beautiful,” Jon whispers, nearly crying with it, overwhelmed, seeing a thing that cannot be seen and would not be seen if he were not who he was.

He feels it trying to unmake him, reaching for his eyes, his power.

Yet he sees.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, and the impossible sun of darkness and void begins to flake away.

Somewhere behind him, Manuela screams. He cannot turn.

Faster, it’s dying, this connection to darkness and fear turning to ash, and still, it tries to unmake him, and still, it fails, weakening power sliding along his skin and falling away.

Too soon, it is gone. Too soon, it is not there to see any more.

And suddenly, Jon is released.

He staggers, horror filling the emptiness in his gut, and feels she’s going to—

Jon turns and runs down the hall as fast as he can, trying to find that place inside him with power, trying to find that smooth and beautiful pull. “Stop! Stop!” It won’t be enough. Frantic, he tries something else. “Tell me about your parents!”

And Manuela, her gun pointed at one who was once her friend, stops—shaking with grief and resignation, she has to start talking.

She’s still talking as Jon slams into her, trying to knock her down, to stop her doing this, to do… something of any good at all.

His hands are bound, and he doesn’t land well.

Someone tries to stomp on his head, and he rolls.

There is another gunshot.

Jon curls around himself, crying out, suddenly aware how loud it is, how painful, unsure how the hell he didn’t even notice before—

Something punches into his side so hard that it winds him, and then whoever did that gets pulled away, and he tries to roll under a table for cover.

Half of him knows what’s happening (Lorne kicked him) and the other is in confusion, half-blind and dazed with overstimulation.

There is a horrible thump, a whistling exhale, and silence.

Only one person is still alive now—Manuela herself. She pants, holding the knife, and Jon knows she is not surprised that she had to murder her former catechists, her fellow failures of the Dark. It had to be. He isn’t sure why she put it off. She isn’t, either—but she is not surprised.

Manuela sinks to the floor, hands over her face, and sobs.

Jon tries to sit up. Without one’s hands, it’s quite difficult. “Are you… right, no, of course you’re not okay.” He hesitates. “After all the lives you ruined, you shouldn’t be, either. But I… I know it’s not that simple.”

The horror of what he’s done here today is still growing, and he has nowhere to put it, no boxes large enough. He tries to pretend it is not there. “Manuela?”

“Just go. I don’t care anymore. I don’t think it’d even… matter if I fed you to him. He’s abandoned us. He’s abandoned us. He’s abandoned us.” And she sobs.

Compassion wars with disgust.

Common sense raises a point. “Please let me go, Manuela.”

And he didn’t compel her, didn’t do anything but ask—yet she does, fishing out the key and undoing his handcuffs.

He rubs his wrists. Memory of that smooth and perfect power has already faded; he has no idea how he accessed it, where it is, what it cost. The Beholding, giving him a little treat because it wanted to see the sun. “What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.” She is small, seated, holding her legs.

“You don’t… you could turn it around. You don’t… have to stay here, to—”

“Don’t.” She’s disgusted. “Why would I want to do that? You think I have regrets about anything I’ve done?”

Well, there goes Jon’s empathy.

“No,” she says. “My only regret is we failed. Get out of here. Go. Before I change my mind and just shoot you in those stupid glowing eyes.”

Glowing eyes?

Jon blinks, looks down, tries to see if they’re lighting his cheeks, or something.

Not as far as he can tell. Maybe she’s seeing something that isn’t… literal.

Is it safe to leave her here? (He has no idea what he’d do if it isn’t.)

What he sees when he tries to know is a frightening thing: her faith in the Dark is shattered, and it doesn’t want her anymore.

He can see it, see the tendrils of lightless fear coming from nowhere and reaching in her direction but stopping just short—as if they find her distasteful.

She may cause some trouble down the road, but it won’t be through apocalypse.

Jon tries to think of something to say, anything—some wise thing, or comfort, or condemnation.

“Good luck,” is all he can think to do, and—feeling like an idiot—he makes his way back out.

He’s not sure where he’s going. The People's Church of the Divine Host took over this island, cut it off from communication. He’s not even sure how Manuela is going to leave.

If she leaves.

The docks make sense. There might be a way to communicate, or at least somewhere he can wait to be rescued.

Though it would be far too late to stop the Stranger.

The docks, he tells himself, trying to ignore the rising certainty that he just doomed the world to save a monster.

A monster he can’t even be sure is there.

“I’m an idiot,” he tells Book Michael.

There is no reply.

It is cold. He isn’t as protected as he was an hour ago, and he doesn’t know why.

Every step takes effort, breaking through the icy crust, into increasingly uncomfortable snow. His shoes and socks are soaked.

He swallows, fearing blackened frostbite, fearing scarred, healed feet without any toes left, because that’s how the damned Beholding would do it.

Things don’t grow back. They just scar.

He tries to hurry.

What’s the point? he thinks, and stops. There isn’t a ship there. There may not even be a way to call home.

And even if there were, what of it? Elias can’t travel instantly, like Michael. Salesa could have another toy, but he’s also in hiding.

Jon could try the book—but if he messes it up, he could destroy Michael, or doubly trap himself.

“And I don’t even know if you’d help me, do I?” he says, trying to be fair, trying to be honest with himself, because they had not parted on good terms and Michael is a monster.

The Distortion still wants revenge. Jon knows that. Well, leaving Jon here would do that, wouldn’t it?

Of course he’d leave you here. Everyone leaves.

Jon is puffing, trying to breathe around the enormous fist of pain in his chest.

Nobody NEEDS you.

No, they… they don’t, do they? They have the explosives, and…

All Jon does is show up on fire and expect everyone to put him out.

He wipes at his face, is a little frightened to discover his tears are freezing.

A very tiny, reasonable part of him points out that he just got out of the Dark, and he’s fragile, and his emotions are not trustworthy right now.

The rest of him grieves.

I bet they’d be relieved if you don’t show up again. If you just quietly went away—not even a body to dispose of.

He tries to take a step. Goes to his knees instead.

Safer without you there. All of them. Couldn’t even properly help Basira and Melanie and Daisy, and they asked.

Jon looks up. The dock is barely visible through the blinding snow, the wind having picked up—he hadn’t noticed.

He shakes his head. Something isn’t right.

The something not right is YOU.

No, he’s… not arguing that.

He thinks there might be a ship there. Possibly. There is a dark shape, and—

Mist, fog, something, is obscuring his vision. It’s wrapping the world, wrapping him in cotton, keeping him away from all the things he might break.

And what if there is a ship? You’ll go on board, make everyone there relive their worst trauma, then dream it all night long?

Oh.

That hurts.

His chest is heavy, physically heavy, despair winding its way through his fingers and into his mouth with sour realization.

Let them go.

Let them move on.

You can give them that much, can’t you?

“The Unknowing,” he breathes, and takes out the book to stare at it. “Don’t they need me for… for… something?”

The book doesn’t answer.

Why would they? They have Elias. Anything you can do, he can do far better.

That isn’t… is that right?

No one needs you.

Oh…

No one wants you.

Oh.

Let them all go and do the first unselfish thing in your whole waste of a life.

Jon curls down around himself, dropping the book, too heavy to rise.

He’s gripped. Cannot think. Ringing with this broad, empty pain.

It’s true. Even his grandmother—after his parents died, she… did her best, but… even as a child, he knew he was a burden.

It’s true.

“I should give you to Elias, but I don’t think I will,” says a familiar voice, and Jon remembers the man in Elias’ office (Peter Lukas, he’s a Lukas, that means the Lonely, that means…)

Means what? What does it matter? You can’t hurt anyone here.

That’s true.

Jon stays down.

“The way I see it,” murmurs Peter Lukas, who has not bothered to come closer because he does not hit with fists, “it doesn’t matter who you do the ritual for, if you’re marked deeply enough. You see what I mean?”

Tears, falling and freezing. Every beat of his heart hits him with pain, like some crazy gong. Alone is better for everyone.

“True enough. Don’t worry, Archivist… I’ll keep you plenty fed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some preparations to make.”

And suddenly the prospect of being truly alone and isolated shocks Jon, and he gasps, and barely manages a whisper: “Don’t go.”

Lukas is gone.

Jon makes a high, drawn-out sound—

And then a man comes stumbling out of the fog as if he’s been thrown, and he has trauma, he has a story, and Jon is reaching for him without any plan to do so, and without any way to stop.

He is sick, afterward.

There is a pinch of clarity, granted by this thievery of fear from this poor man, Brian, who went to the Institute to talk about spiders and ended up being swallowed by the Lonely.

Which is where Jon is now. He knows.

Peter Lukas had been tracking him, though he does not know why, nor does he understand what the man was talking about.

Preparations? What ritual? Marked deeply enough? What?

It’s hidden from him, hidden by some massive, unassailable thing, blocking him from knowing what the hell is going on.

He feels awful for eating Brian’s fear. He didn’t try to. He was wounded, and it just happened.

And now Brian will be in his dreams every night, trapped in the Lonely when awake and stared at in silence when asleep.

I’m dangerous, he thinks, not fighting it now, because it’s true and he should say it. I can’t be trusted around anyone. No one is safe near me.

If he goes back, what will he take next? Whom will he assault?

Tim?

Daisy?

Martin?

So it’s better to be alone.

Jon cries, wishing he’d never gotten close to them at all.

The cold penetrates him gently, almost tenderly; it isn’t like the Dark, isn’t cruel and punishing, but it is deeper, a weight of numb sorrow that threatens to drag him down.

If he goes down, he won’t feel things anymore.

He knows this. That’s what it wants—a dubious blessing, but maybe the only one he deserves for what he’s done and will do.

How am I any better than any of them? he thinks, and knows he’s not.

The Lonely feels like depression, comes next. And it’s related to the Dark, after that.

And that is important, because… because…

Something. Just out of reach.

His mind goes silent for a while.

Breeze picks up, cold and stone-scented; this is a place that feels like it’s never known warm blood apart from his.

Vaguely, he is aware that there is no snow beneath him now. It’s dead grass, old soil, and nothing. Nothing. This is the Lonely—its own separate reality. No one can find him now.

And that’s good.

Isn’t it?

Jon exhales, rubs his face. Tries to think.

Fog fills the world, inside and out. Everything is vague, but he understands one thing. All those… horrible, hurtful things… maybe they are true. They landed because on some level, Jon believes them. And it hurts.

But if he stays here, Lukas is going to do some sort of ritual with him.

Jon can’t imagine what; Lukas’ last one failed.

Spectacularly.

Thanks to Gertrude.

Really, who could’ve imagined a well-placed tip to a newspaper would undo Lukas’ incredible, stuffed-full apartment block of lonely, isolated people, unwillingly worshiping Lukas’s god?

And then Gertrude’s tip engendered all kinds of attention, and community outreach, and Lukas’ ritual died in newsprint and pity.

It’s funny, if Jon lets himself feel it.

So Lukas wants to do some new ritual, and Jon is part of it.

He frowns.

It is true that no one may miss him; it is true that he may have been nothing but a burden to everyone, all his life. (His grandmother’s weary face slides past, but he tries not to think about that. Tries.)

That doesn’t mean he actually wants to hurt anyone.

Jon feels alone, unworthy of love, isolated for the best, horrifyingly unhappy.

But he still cares.

“So I’m selfish,” Jon says, agreeing with the wicked little thoughts. “At least I know I am.”

It’s so odd, how just… facing these thoughts takes away some of their power. He still feels awful, numb, but no longer paralyzed.

He will not stay here and be used. If he’s going to become a weird Eye Hermit, he’s going to do it on his own damn terms.

He exhales slowly, and looks.

The Lonely is powerful; small, creepy shapes from the graves the Lukases have dug here for generations are visible, and not much else.

Jon looks harder.

And sees a way out.

Jon takes the book and walks, clinging to it like a teddy bear.

Every step costs him. Every single one is a new choice to push against the desire to just lie down, stay here, be forever alone.

“It’s funny,” Jon tells Book Michael. “If he hadn’t said something about a ritual, he’d have had me. He mostly still does, to be honest. But I… wouldn’t see any reason to fight. Funny, right?”

Book Michael does not reply.

And suddenly, Jon is in snow again, and he’s free.

It’s so anticlimactic. He’s just out.

And… exhausted.

Even with all the statements he’s taken today (literally taken and that feels so horrid), it took all his strength to walk out of the Lonely’s domain.

Jon is gasping. He falls to his knees.

Soaked.

And very, very, cold.

Breathing hurts. How much power does it take to disintegrate a fake sun and then walk out of the Lonely? he thinks, hysterical. More than I have!

He tries to rise, cannot. Falls onto his knees in the snow.

Too cold.

Too… stiff.

Weak.

He’s not going to make it to the dock or anywhere else.

Panic makes him try, scramble, stumble—

And somehow, he trips on Michael’s book.

He’d dropped it, somehow, and now he’s torn it, the cover half off, pages ripped, and he falls beside it onto his knees and sobs, because it’s for sure over now, because he’s destroyed Michael now, because he damns everything and everyone he touches, and if he had gone to Wales with a cat and some cows, they’d all be dead because of him—

“Oh, Archivist,” comes softly in his ear, and long arms lift him from the snow, fingers sharp and irritating, and long, spiraling hair falls into his face, ticklish and annoying, and Michael holds him close, real and living, and Jon cannot parse this fact in his current mental state.

The Distortion shudders, because it would, because whatever is happening in Jon’s head, true or false, it is twisted. “Delicious,” it whispers, “but I think that will do. You need a door—even if you don’t think you deserve it.”

And it carries him through, and the rush of reality and warmth and people so many people in the WORLD and the wildness of the Corridors and surreality of up and down is too much, and Jon gratefully, eagerly, passes right the fuck out.

part fifteen

#tma au #tma fic #jonathan sims #peter lukas #tma peter #the lonely #tw: depression #and eat it too

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coredrill · 2 years

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okay, snw thots now that i’m no longer (so severely) emotionally compromised LMAO

overall very good and i enjoyed it!!! not as much as disco but FAR MORE THAN picard. more misc thots w spoilers for the whole season:

i love what they’re doing with the gorn idk why it’s such a point of contention 😭 like i get they’ve been modernized but everyone who’s like “did you even SEE arena” like yeah? it makes arena work better actually? like now the gorn have a REP so the eventual conclusion of arena in-universe speaks even MORE to starfleet’s ideals cause kirk’s up against an enemy that’s that much more vicious and unforgiving!!! i’m a big fan!!

somewhat related: i was mixed on la’an at first but by the end i loved her and i hope she comes back asap 😭 her mind meld w spock was a highlight for me but like that is news to no one LMAO. the power of michael burnham parallels!!

on the flip side i LOVED chapel at first and i still love her personality but i really thought they were gonna give her more than just “is into spock” cause by the end of the season that’s pretty much what she is 🥲 lean into weirdo chapel please she was a DELIGHT!!!! also hell yes to bi chapel but i REEEEALLY hope they’re careful w that cause based on what we know of her personality they could lean into some bad stereotypes :-| so i am cautiously excited for s2 chapel lmfao

i hope we get to see more m’benga fishing trips and i also hope his daughter comes back!! i also think the omelas/adai ep would’ve been stronger had it focused more on him and less on pike LMFAO

i do love pike though, anson mount freaking kills it but literally we all been knew that!

number one was alright, she didn’t really get enough screen time for me to feel one way or the other about her? i assume we’ll get more of her in s2 considering the ending but also uh. like i GET what they were going for with the illyrians and her speech abt how she’s worried pike won’t fight for her if she’s not “a credit to her people” was good but like. DISCO DID IT FIRST AND NOT WITH A WEIRD “EUGENICS IS OKAY SOMETIMES” MESSAGE LIKE WHAT. like idk bro i cannot see this playing out in any way nearly as resonant as saru learning dozens of languages to prove himself as a kelpien, as him recording every single moment in his personal logs so that future kelpiens will never feel alone, as that whole arc for him tbh!!! like i’m queer i’m a girl (or enough of one) i’m an engineer and i’m the youngest on my team by a long shot so i GET IT BUT LIKE. eugenics are still bad!

anyways LMFAO. sorry for getting distracted by disco in my snw “review” it will happen again

hemmer was fun! i wasn’t super attached but apparently was enough to be affected by his death lmao. interested to see what they have for the actor coming up but also a bit cautious abt it because. uhhhhh see two points previous!

UHURAAAAAAAAAAA SHE WAS SO GOOD I LOVED HER!!!!! her whole arc was so lovely to watch and i love how she was given more depth beyond the glimpses we’ve seen of her in the past. also i hope she’s not leaving the show either???? also spock uhura friendship REAL! loved their music vibing session 🥲

ortegas was a delight i want more of her!

and last but not least spock. ETHAN PECK PLAYS SPOCK SO GOOD IT KILLS ME. GOD I LOVE HIM. but pls fix his sideburns LMFAO that shit is wack. mostly i enjoyed him n his struggles this season!! LOVED every time there was a michael reference they are so special to me 🥰 and i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again but like. i KNOW they’re taking spock on his journey to who he is and how we see him in tos (as evidenced by the last ep, where spock was closer to his tos version and uhura as well!!!) and i KNOW it’ll be rewarding once we get there but like. do we have to focus so much on his romantic endeavors. don’t get me wrong i DO LOVE seeing the face of concerned panic ethan peck makes ESPECIALLY when t’pring was like “i’ve been researcing human sex” but like. there are other aspects to humanity and the way it contrasts to vulcans!!!!!!! please!!!!!!! and sometimes it was done well and i had fun, like spock amok was pretty funny, but i was so sick of it by serene squall LMAO. like god just let the man grieve michael in peace!!!!

oh also last comment for now is that the episodic is fun and well done but tbh i don’t mind serialized at all either so. two cakes!! i do think the last ep did a GREAT job of showing that there WILL be growth for these characters, like i enjoy that it is aware that it’s a prequel!!

so yeah!! fun times, last episode fucked me up supremely by confirming spock’s importance, cautiously excited for s2, where is disco s5!

#f: star trek #trek: snw #also i talk abt disco alot ¯\_(ツ)_/��#t.txt

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wroteclassicaly · 3 years

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May I Taste Your Sin

(Michael Langdon x Female Reader)

Pairings : Michael Langdon x Female Reader

Warnings : Language, smut, blood, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, blood play, & period sex.

A/N : This fic has been a loooong time coming! I’m sorry it’s taken me this long, but now that I have inspo I wanted get this out for y’all! The warnings are obviously self-explanatory, so skip this if you don’t like the contents it’s gonna contain! Michael Langdon eats human hearts, and he’s a demon, before anyone starts to fuss over this, lol. I’m sure menstrual cycles with his partner would be a dessert to him!

Enjoy! This one is pretty intense, so I’m nervous about it! I also have more installments with different characters coming in the next few days! :)

Check out where I first posted the teaser for this fic, and check out these period sex headcanons I wrote for Michael!

~*~

He keeps staring at you. You try to move about, do your tasks, even attempt conversation with people you’d tried so hard to avoid these past several years. Your abilities to function like the human being that you are, seemingly vanish whenever the tall honey blond is within your exhausted proximities. You aren’t sure if you’d like to let out the loudest echoing scream and see where it ends up in this place, or let your wildest carnal urges guide your hormones into a literal sticky situation. Or, at the very least, let yourself fantasize about seducing him in your own self-created version of reality.

You’ll have to settle on the latter, unfortunately. Pocketing the cream colored dish rag, you place the last row of finely printed novels on the book shelve. Your fingertips linger, attempting to find a portal through their leather cover tops. Your tongue slicks your parched lips, neck stretching to crack out the tension. You aren’t trying to do anything but stealing some relaxation, when a largely hot hand is pressing a knot-out in a knead on your shoulder - clasping, settling a risky purchase.

You don’t have to make an educated guess to know whose hand that belongs to. He practically spews out his control and ownership of this place every chance that he gets. Biting down a venomous sigh, you coerce yourself into a turn around - gathering an eyeful of Langdon’s fancy black vest. That’s not good enough for the King, apparently, as he fits his pointer finger underneath your chin in a tuck, thumb pressing against your jaw to tilt your gaze to his own.

“Did you forget your manners, Miss Y/L/N?”

The way his shining eyes are sizing your attention, captivating your unwillingness to comply to how Langdon makes you feel - it can’t be humanly possible, can it? There’s that possessive ache that begs you to launch ownership over him and his entire body. Why is everything so widely dramatic whenever he’s around? Is he just full of himself or is it something way more than you’re aware? A crackling parch winds its pathway around your throat, sealing your breath in.

Nothing comes from between your lips. You’re frozen solid, legs a weightless press. Each touch this... man brings upon your body is like a bass thump - pumping you towards his secretive rhythm. All you can do is sway with the beat. Langdon smirks coyly, his other hand resting behind his back in an idle grace.

Neither of you dare utter a word. However, Langdon is seemingly content in making you squirm and you try to focus on everything but his perfectly crafted jawline, and how eagerly you’d suck on it if asked. You swear you can hear your heartbeat galloping off, so strong that it can tear your heart right out of your chest along with it. His colorful eyes glance over you in a brief stamping sweep, lingering at your sore breasts and your waistline.

What is he even doing...?

“Excuse me, but Ms. Venable did not authorize any private conferences with the help.” A cold and steel - grasped voice chills your bones down, dusting your cheeks with a reddening humiliation.

You haven’t even so much as spoken to Langdon, yet it feels like you two have been clawing and scratching at each other all over this fucking outpost, riding one another until you can’t fathom walking upright. You still can’t speak, but Langdon takes care of that for you.

“Interesting, and did Ms. Venable give you permission to waltz in here when you weren’t requested or required, just to give a meaningless order?” Langdon is mildly amused in his question, his hand still paused on your chin, thumb now swiping in a tickling drop with his fingertip - along your jaw.

Ms. Mead looks comical in her brief attempt at forming a snappy comeback, only to go silent in defeat. You take this tension as your escape line - quickly edging from the sacred confines Langdon has built for you two, and you all but run out the door. You’re clutching your shirt collar, punching a two pounce path up the staircase and to the help’s quarters.

Chores now, panic later.

~*~

Five minutes. Five fucking minutes in this place that you’ve served without question, complaint, for nearly two years - is all you want. But as the heavy handed rasps of Mead’s knuckle bones beat on your bathroom door, you know that is a simple pipe dream. Her low voice is harsh with you, making your headache unfold into a full blown migraine. You shift uncomfortably, knees knocking together, thighs sore against the cool porcelain seat below you.

Langdon must’ve massively pissed her off... Good.

Your palms collect purchase to your cradle your face, your eyes glistening with tears, throat burning with frustration. It hurts too much to stand upright this time. Normally women would lose this in stressful situations. Add the apocalypse and barely eating, you’d peg it normal to receive nothing. However, your predicament is much worse, fucking you over once more.

Your body welcomes Mother Nature each month. Unpredictable, yet there. Heavy, excruciating. You could list on and on reasons that don’t amount to much. You’re stuck with a part of you that won’t ever come to fruition.

Not in your former life, especially not in this one. Another reminder that carries an award winning irony. Sighing, you peer down at the red dish rag you were given. Literally on the rag, what a joyous harmony. The elites of course, are given the tampons and pads.

You have to use scraps of fabric you’re forced to wash in the bathtub if you move too fast or sneeze. And on your heavy days when you haven’t the time to stop your duties to wash and air out the towels, things are much harder. At least before the apocalypse you had chocolate, feminine products, a warm shower to take your time in, movies to curl up with, and a place of your own to cry where no one could hear you. You sniffle, hormones locking down your heart.

Most recently the outpost had welcomed the cooperative leader Langdon. He had interviewed everyone but you, uninterested, only flustering you a few times. Him being here just makes your period a more unwelcome storm. This morning as you were passing him on the landing of the staircase, delivering the bath towels to elite rooms, he stared at you. Right into you, nostrils flaring, tongue rolling out to slick his plump lips, blue eyes darkening.

Then there was this afternoon. How could I forget...?

The encounters were over quicker than they took place. Still, his acknowledgment of you didn’t bring your interview, nor did it promise your application for the sanctuary he preaches about. Forcing your tears to bank, you stand with your dress skirt and apron held up, staring at the stained rag in your panties. You turn and flush the toilet, eating back around to the shock of your fucking life. There, just feet in the from the doorway, is Langdon in all his glory.

It makes you swallow harshly, stomach drawing off the butterflies that have grown claws. You feel winded. His ring covered fingers bring an object to your sights. A thinly wrapped stick. You don’t answer, you don’t move, you don’t protest him approaching until he’s directly in front of you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You try, a mere whisper betraying your bravery.

“Helping you,” He answers simply, a heated slide crossing his mouth. You can practically taste him, damn near swaying forward.

You start to snap back into your senses, ready to cover your remembered modesty back up. He grasps your wrist, a hungry look soft in his features. “Will you let me?”

You’re shaking, body on fire at him touching you, you try to keep your legs from clenching, that want. You know what will occur if you let yourself. He is gentle with you, admiration clear. Why? You don’t understand this.

“You’re bleeding, I know.”

Jaw unhinged, you stand upright, his fingers still ghosting your skin. An unlucky movement on your part, the warmth spills from you and you look down between your thighs in horror at the red lines running down your legs, pattering against the floor. Langdon is breathing heavily, practically panting, stunning you once more. His other hand grips your cheek, thumb swiping your lip, eyes not breaking contact from yours.

“Do you know how good your cunt smells? Every pathetic person in this outpost is starving and you have the best meal between your fucking legs.”

When your silence stretches on, Michael nudges forward, careful with you. “May I feast?”

It’s all too much to handle. Having him talk to you, you speaking to him. And now this? How? You begin to grow dizzy, hands trembling as you try to pull your clothing back up. Langdon’s hands grip your wrists.

“Please don’t do that.”

You want to stun him incredulously, backhand him. None of that is happening, not even the urge. Instead, your want for him is magnifying beyond any feigned ignorance. Your tongue slides out across your lips, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a brisk chew. Langdon hooks his middle finger between your teeth, releasing your lip and combing the blood across in a coppery gloss.

Your chest is startled, rising and falling in quivering quakes, ears hearing a static rush. Everything inside of you is alive and crying out in need to be sated. Langdon grips you around the waist, lowering his forehead to rest atop your own, his middle finger - still doused in your blood - slithers past his own lips, which close in a sticky suckle. A vibrating moan pummels his throat, causing a constricting swallow that showcases his Adam’s apple.

If I could only just lick that...

Langdon is sly and devilishly cunning to a fault - fast in his next movements. He presses a designer boot down over your skirts, successfully preventing them from being made up. “Leave them here for someone else.”

“I... I can’t. This is too much, Langdon —“ He chuckles at the formality.

“Since I can see your womanhood running from between your legs, I suppose it’s only fair that we skip some formalities, don’t you agree, Y/N?” Your eyes are probably wider than necessary - a cartoon like sight. He’s used your full name in an authoritative command, leaving no room for question. “And you may call me Michael.”

It’s all a little more frantic from this point. He gives the slightest of information, and you see your skirts and panties gliding across the floor in a winded push. Michael brings that wrapped item back into your eye-line. “We won’t be needing this for a while.”

“I didn’t say yes.” You try, swallowing a weak, whimpering stifle.

“But you didn’t say no, did you?” That shit eating grin. He has you and he is all too aware - elated to the brimming brimstone of hellfire you’re about to bestow upon yourself.

Your insides melt into the trenches of red hot, raw ravishment. Michael drops his left arm down, hand palming his hardening cock through black slacks, eyes encouraging you in a chained bind. “Let’s go and make a mess in my room.”

Now or never. No more of this, back to reality, maybe some place better. You’re spinning in a foiling encasement, precipice wide and open - hungry to pull you under. And you dive in, you let it all go. Michael looks satisfied, sharing something with himself that you don’t know... yet.

Taking Michael Langdon’s hand, you’re led into the unknown.

~*~

Langdon leads you down his own separate corridor, your free hand scolded for trying to hold yourself over your uniform.

“I want you to make a mess.” Michael says.

You hope that you’re not the one who will be paying the cost for your own said mess, or cleaning it up. If it’s up to Venable - you’ll be licking it, all the way to her high heeled boots.

Once inside the confines of Michael Langdon’s bedroom, you take the time to look around, enjoying the perks this situation is bringing. The room isn’t any different than what the purple elites get here, it is bordering on a more... lived in feel, which is ironic when you consider that Langdon hasn’t been here like everyone else has for the past three years.

Guess he’s just more comfortable? He does look like an English vampire half the time..

On that note, a particularly harsh cramp antagonizes your uterus, causing you to clench your abdomen, choking out a acidic slice. “Fucking demonic cramps.”

Michael - now clad in his all black ensemble, minus the overcoat - chortles, knotting his fingers together behind his back and strolls forward, wetting his lips as the firelight crackles a sparking soundtrack. “It’s ironic how you refer to it as “demonic”, when Satan really has nothing to do with this. I mean, it’s not on him that humanity failed their pitiful guidelines for sobering temptation. Wasn’t it your lord and savior that bestowed this curse upon you?” He finishes, giving a head tilt to your unhinged stun.

“Are you religious?” Is all you can come up with.

Michael sneers, looking slightly offended. It fades seconds later. “Depends on your definition of religious, and then there is what one believes in. But I guess you can say that I’m devoted to... a certain cause.”

“Were you this mysterious before the apocalypse, or is that why the cooperative gave you the job?” You try, a discomfort crackling at your inner thighs.

They’re probably smeared... And not just with blood.

“I bet you’re uncomfortable.” Michael teases, snapping his fingers at the fireplace. Did your eyes betray you, or did the flames flicker?

You want to give a snappy comeback, but it feels unwise. You nod like the sap that you are, nails biting your palms. Your heartbeat has begun to accelerate, a visible sight beneath your apron. Langdon guides himself to step in front of you, leather shoes drumming across the floor beneath. Every sound in this forsaken room is flowing through your eardrums - Michael’s scent on the tip of your tongue.

You need him. More than your body has to have the air that filters underneath this mausoleum. You’re so unsteady, eyes brimming with the smoking arousal, blocking common sense. Michael catches you as you collide with his chest, wrapping your fists into his vest. His blue irises are disappearing to a canyon of night sky - lavish black so sinful that it steals the breath from your lungs.

Drizzling off your tongue is a hesitation. “Won’t we get into trouble...? Venable -“ Those rough fingertips hold a softness that hushes your lips, denting.

“Can watch me with my face buried into your cunt. The humiliation will arouse her.” Michael answers in his own finish.

You aren’t sure why, but that grates your mouth into a sneaky grin, shared with Michael’s, sensing that slapping throb at his phrases. He pinches your chin, nuzzling your head to the side, his lips sloping a map across your neck. His towering physique backs you by knocking his knees into your thighs, delivering you to the edge of his bed. You drop like wild weights, looking towards the ceiling, trying to take a deep inhalation. Langdon crouches, pants rustling as they tighten around his temptingly thick thighs.

He tuts in a scold, chiding you furthermore. “You will watch what I’m getting ready to do to you! Is that clear, Y/N?”

You don’t answer fast enough, Michael’s hand wrapping around your throat, eyes burning hellfire through you - dusting your bones to ash. Your throat is wet with the clingy, unshed tears. Fuck, you have to be filled up until you’re hollowed out. Michael is languid in grace, hand toppling into your lap, joining his other.

“Take down your hair, Y/N.”

Like a puppet, you obey your new owner. Unwrapping the pointed bun, you shake your locks free, sighing in an eased tickle.

“What a good and obedient girl that you are. Those who obey, shall reap the riches.”

“Why are you doing this?” An ignorant question on your part.

“Because,” As if it’s the most simple answer in this broken world, Michael let’s his hands start to unbutton his vest, carelessly sending it, his attention not wavering off you in the slightest. “I’m hungry.”

A literal moan comes from you, making Langdon hiss through his through his milky white teeth. He resumes his former position, hovering.

“Spread.” Michael says, a quaint wonder adorning him, his palms sliding up and down your legs to feel you part them. The blood is mixing some fucked out potion with your creamy arousal for him, and he knows it, has it right into your tremble from the exposure.

Your skin is steaming in scrapes, responding so vulgarly to Michael, that he is hooking his wrists under your knees, bouncing the flesh into his awaiting hands, and claiming. He hoists your legs over his shoulders to arch you to his idea of perfection. You should be protesting, in a shambled shyness. That is gone, no place here. Michael let’s his nose rest in the crease of your thigh, crudely sniffing like some beast.

His sopping tongue finds a striking stroke along your ruby red, damp thigh.

Closer... He’s getting closer...

When you can’t feel that warm and snide air he possesses, you lock to load a question. Michael is shedding himself of his remaining clothing in a cocky crawl. His hair curtains his face as he sees you seek out his cock - thick and heavy, weighted and wet with pre-cum.

“Finish taking off your clothing.” You’ve never done something so fast in your years alive.

You have to admit, being so vulnerable like this - naked and bleeding, it has you buzzing.

Michael outstretches a veined forearm, the back of his rings swirling in desiring dances across your breasts. “Do these hurt?”

Your lashes are slicked in perspiring tears, the tired soreness harassing your chest. He has his truth. His trim form bows to you once more, placing your legs back where they belong. He knuckles a pressing push into your abdomen. “Bear down.”

It isn’t an accident this time, it’s not a discreet secrecy. Michael wants you this way. All of you. Finding a confidence, you give yourself a high and sink your fingers into his hair, toes tickling his shoulder blades in a forwarding nudge, doubling down on your muscles. That warmth spills out of you and Langdon takes you, tongue parting your swollen folds. He regulates his tongue in wet paints, licking and sucking everything you give him.

“Please—“ You’re already begging. It’s so fucking intense and intimate that you can’t formulate your own damned name.

“Are you really going to ask, or would you just like to feel good?” Michael vibrates, his mouth visible and shining crimson as he seeks you out between your slippery thighs.

It’s outright feral. His irises are coal black, blue lost in some combing canyon that’s crumbled around sin. His digits prod at your sensitive opening, being accepted moments later. His lips close over your clit, tongue slithering back and forth to assist his beckoning fingers. He gathers more from you - his purpose.

That quenched fold starts to seize you early on, your pattering breaths signaling the orgasm that is about to tear the screams from your fucking diaphragm. Michael’s hand smacks and rolls your swollen breast - permission granted. That’s all it takes and you’re falling back onto the mattress, back arching in a lined drag, pussy flattening against his mouth. He jerks you impossibly closer, your vision whiting out into dark spots. You tangle your fingers further into his luscious strands, holding, pulling.

In the midst of close recovery, Michael is plowing you with a short lived let down, his mouth leaving your pussy. You can’t complain, no time available, as his hips slot in a frazzled fit between your legs. His pelvis is tense, sheathed in sweat. His chest smashes your breasts, his hand reaching down to guide his cock inside you. You can’t speak, but cling tightly to his back. He growls a sound that you’ll never forget, the fire bursting behind him, flames licking the rocked cove that houses them.

His mouth is covered in your essence, your cunt bathing his dick with each violent thrust. It’s pouring in drenches, salty perspiration, pooling blood - both of you losing yourselves in the mess. Michael props himself up, digging into a dipping slam, meeting your mouth in an ending kiss. His hair tickles your shoulders, nose nudges your now blood caked mouth, and he gives the warning.

“Spill your fucking curse all over me!” And you come undone, glued to him in puzzled entrapment.

Your thighs are wrecked, his bedsheets useless, and then there’s Michael, who forces you to look at him and really see him. There’s only black in his eyes. You sputter a disbelief, bracing. His mouth parts, tongue flicks across to gather more, leveling off into his jagged movements. He swells inside your cunt, dousing your walls in his warm cum.

He doesn’t leave you, not even when it’s over. He simply takes you with him. You aren’t sure where you get the courage to speak - body shaking and shivering.

“What... Michael, who are you?”

He cups a hand over your cunt, rolling onto his side, keeping you held to him. He lightly blows away a pesky lock of your hair, then maneuvers another behind your ear.

“I’m the man who’s going to save your wretched existence.”

Tag list : @littledemondani @dark-mei-rose @fckinsupreme @angelicmichael @icylangdon @ritualmichael @sojournmichael @celestialrequiem @instinctsxbaby @infernwetrust @ferndolan @9layerdevilfoodcake @bloodcoatedeclipse @wormycircumstance @antichristsxbox @xavierplympton @xavierplymptons @ramona-thorns @lovelylangdonx @langdxn @codyarchives @dailylangdon @codyfernuk @langdonsjoyy @7-wonders @blakescoven @holylangdon @bitchchatter @suspiriva @taskmastter @kitty4860 @ladynuwanda @langdonsexual @sammythankyou

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dollwritesarchive · 2 years

Text

𝓂𝓎 𝑒𝓂𝓅𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒹𝒾𝓇𝓉 ⎹ 𝓜.𝓚.

fandom kin / charlie cox masterlist

featuring michael kinsella x ex!reader ( f! )

rating none of my work is meant to be viewed by minors (anyone under the age of eighteen), and i will happily block any that interact with my posts or my blog.

content warning michael is really drunk, angst (poorly written angst, to be exact), very small amount of violence, reader is late 20s, Michael is slightly toxic, accusatory language, very briefly gets physical

summary Michael finds out why you stopped visiting him in prison.

word count 3.2k / one shot

attention do not repost or translate, even with ‘credit’. just don’t do it. reblog instead of like. leave feedback if you enjoyed.

“And that was it?”

“Yeah, that was it.”

“She didn’t say anything else? Nothing?”

Jimmy sighs, drumming his thick digits on the steering wheel. “She told me to go fuck myself, does that count?” casting a sympathetic look to his brother, he leans back. “She was pretty clear, Mikey. She didn’t want to be around the Kinsellas anymore.”

Michael grimaces, shaking his head. “That just— it doesn’t make sense, does it?” his words were slurred, but luckily Jimmy was used to translating drunken Mike’s babble. he looks back to the quaint home across the street where they were parked. “That wasn’t… she wasn’t like that.”

his brother nods, looking towards the house, too. “Remember when she nearly threw fists with Birdy for telling her she wasn’t one of us?” he chuckles, albeit bitterly, “Little firecracker wanted to go on every job with you, too. Thought she could actually keep you safe.”

Michael smiles sadly, remembering how adamant you were. “She hated that Frank wouldn’t let her help.” he offers.

“Amanda always said she couldn’t stand when you went on jobs, your girl would be up all night pacing the floor. Drove her up the wall.”

“Exactly.” Michael recalls, before shaking his head, “So, why…?”

frowning, Jimmy grips Michael’s shoulder with a vice mitt, “Maybe she wasn’t cut out for the wait, brother. Not everyone is. When you go away, most folks aren’t there when you get out. You know that.”

Michael wants to protest, he wants to curse his brother for even assuming that you didn’t love him enough to wait for him, but he couldn’t. he couldn’t find any words true enough to suffice. it had been nearly a decade since he’d seen your face. recalling how you looked during the last visit, he wanted to be sick to his stomach. crying, your eyes were puffy, and your hands shook. he couldn’t hold them, the guards too keen to punish him for any physical contact, so he had to simply stare at them, and hate himself for being the cause. no matter what he’d said that day, how many times he promised you that everything would be okay, it clearly hadn’t made a difference. you didn’t come back after that. you stopped answering his calls, and eventually changed your number. twice. you visited him twice in the first month of his incarceration, but after that? you disappeared. no goodbyes, no reason. of course, he always asked about you. Birdy had a way of finding out about people, keeping tabs, but you knew that as well as he did. apparently, you’d pulled a gun on Birdy when she approached you in the parking lot of a grocery store, told her to stay away from you.

hazel eyes catch a glimpse of you walking by the window, a bundle of fabric in your arms, and Michael frowns, reaching for the car door.

“Mikey,” Jimmy warns, gripping his shoulder tighter, “We’ve had a few too many, haven’t we? This is a bad idea.”

“I have to see her,” Michael’s face screws up in determination, “I have to know why.”

“I told you why.” Jimmy insists, wanting desperately to simply drive off with his lovesick brother in the passenger seat, but he was already halfway out. “She didn’t want this life anymore.”

“Yeah, I’d like to hear it from her. I won’t be long.”

another heavy sigh when Michael shakes free of his brother’s grip, and Jimmy gets out, too, but hangs back. “Do you want me to come with ya?” he asks, half joking, “I don’t think she likes me very much anymore, but—“

Michael scoffs, halfway up the drive, he shoves his hands in his pockets and calls over his shoulder. “She never liked you.” he hears a faint fair enough from behind him before he stumbles up on to the porch. his vision was doubled; drinking had been a mistake, he knew that, but when you didn’t show up to his welcome home party, he’d hit the bottle and hadn’t stopped for two whole days. it was now mid afternoon, and he was still wasted.

if he had been sober, he might’ve hesitated at the door. his brain might’ve swirled with the anxiety and excitement of seeing you again after so long, but copious amounts of alcoholic saturation has flooded all concern from his mind, and he hits the door three times with a flat palm. after a second and a half with no answer, he wavers on unsteady legs, wobbling over to the window to peek inside.

there’s a small figure seated on the floor with a plate in front of it; a child watching cartoons with his lunch, Michael assumed. his brows furrow as he tries to force himself to focus, to see the child more clearly, but just as he does, the door opens.

when he turns back to look at you, his breath catches in his throat, eyes wide. he smiles, stepping back towards you, “Hey—“ but the happiness is all but wiped from his countenance when you take a step back at his advance, half hiding behind the door. were you… were you scared of him? “You look…” he didn’t really have the words he was looking for. beautiful wouldn’t cut it. it was the first time he’d seen you in nearly ten years, and it was like every day since then you had only become more and more stunning. he wanted to grab you, right then and there, and kiss you so hard that it would make both of your heads spin.

“What are you doing here?”

his eyes fall to the bundle in your arms, cradled close to your heart, and he realizes it’s a baby. a newborn with big eyes the same tint as yours. his heart hurts; gaze scraping over the wedding band on your finger. “I…” he was caught off guard, and suddenly, he didn’t know what to say. should he turn around and walk away right now? no, no he couldn’t. “I just got out a couple of days ago.” he offers, as if you don’t already know.

but you nod, and say nothing, eyes avoiding his own desperate ones, and it’s painfully clear you were aware.

“Family threw me a party.” he offers yet another crumb, unsure of why he was sharing. you would already know this, too. you knew the Kinsellas, more intimately than anyone else.

“Michael—“

“You didn’t show up.”

you sigh, gently patting the newborn in your arms, and you look him up and down. what could you say to him? “I’ve kind of got my own shit going on now.” you reply, gesturing to the bundle in your arms, chewing on your bottom lip. “You shouldn’t be here.” you hold your son carefully with one hand, using the other to press against the door.

his foot jams itself against the door as he presses himself against it, and now that he’s closer, you can smell the booze on him. he reeks of it, as if alcohol oozes from his pores. “Wait,” he murmurs, closer now but keeping his voice down, eyes flickering to the baby, “please. I just wanted to see you again.” you’re drunk. it’s what you should’ve said. and then, you should’ve closed the door in his face. but you can’t bring yourself to do that. you made the mistake of looking into his eyes, feeling yourself drawn in by those hazel oceans, and suddenly, you felt like you were nineteen again. when Michael Kinsella was the only thing that mattered. “Can we talk?”

say no. your mind begged it of you. few ideas had been more terrible than letting him into your home, but he looked so pitiful, standing there with wet eyes and a permafrown. and the truth was, it worried you, seeing him drunk like this. teeth sinking into your lower lip, you ponder the question for a moment, before calling over your shoulder. “Kieran, honey, take your lunch to your room, okay?”

the little boy in front of the television perks up at the call of his name, grabbing the plate with a nod. “Okay, ma!” he replies, oblivious, already skipping down the hall to his bedroom.

once he’s clear of the living room, you sigh, and pull the door open a little more, nodding inside for him to come in. “Just for a few minutes.”

Michael nods, quickly ducking inside, and you feel a knot of pure anxiety in your gut. you never expected Michael Kinsella to be standing in your living room. he looks around it, examining each scattered toy on the floor as he steps around it and, eventually, sat on the edge of the sofa. you follow behind him, picking up the toys and tossing them into the box by the tv, before turning the cartoons off. you could feel Carter stirring in your arms, somewhere between sleeping and awake, and you cradle him closer to your chest.

“Little ones, huh?” you could tell he was forcing a smile; you could always tell with Michael. “How many do ya have?”

you hesitate, but figure there was no sense in lying. “Three boys.”

Michael nods, somewhat awkward, and his eyes keep lingering on you holding Carter. you almost want to hide with the baby, disappear, you could feel his thoughts before he even spoke them, they hang in the air like a dense chill.

“Husband?”

you pause, feeling a pang of guilt. why? why did you feel so guilty when you did nothing wrong. it was him. Michael chose to break the law, he chose to go to prison, to drive an iron wedge into your relationship for a decade. why did you feel guilty for carrying on with your life, while his sat still? you nod after a moment, eyes dropping to your baby.

“And you couldn’t even tell me.” Michael scoffs, averting his gaze with an incredulous shake of his head, and you were humiliated. his lips work into a grimace, glaring at the wall. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me? Or were you fucking him the whole time just waiting on me to go away—“

your eyes widen, countenance snapping up, indignant. “What?” you demand. surely, you must have heard him wrong.

Michael drops his forearms on to his knees, closing his eyes as his head hangs forward, the way he did when you and him used to argue. it infuriated you to see him like that now. “What?” you ask again, this time louder. Carter whines in your arms and you give him a gentle rock.

“Were you fucking some guy behind my back?” he asks, louder too, and you purse your lips together to shush him before he disturbs your baby even more. he hesitates, lowering his voice as he looks up at you. “Was it just perfect timing when I got locked up?”

“No,” you snarl, staring daggers into him from where you stood. if you hadn’t been holding Carter, there was a chance you would’ve leapt over and smacked that grimace look off his stupid face. “And fuck you, by the way, for even thinking that.” you added, eyes darting up and down the length of him. you lull your baby in your arms, chewing on the delicate skin of your lower lip. “I’ve never cheated on you. Not ever.”

“So then, why?” Michael barks in a husky whisper. maybe it was fragile from the way he held back tears, or maybe it was raw with anger, you couldn’t be sure. “Why didn’t you visit? Tell me anything at all? You just fuckin’ vanished, like a ghost. Don’t you fuckin’ understand that?”

“Yes.” affronted, you look down at your baby, sullen. you just want him to stop before it turns into a fight, and as soon as he paused to take a breath, you’d tell him to get the fuck out of your house.

“Do you? I mourned you. Like you were dead. Because you fuckin’ were to me.”

it stings, deep down in the depths of your soul where you buried all of the love you held for Michael Kinsella. “I get it,” you speak up, swallowing hard around a painful lump in your throat. “I get it and I’m sorry. But you don’t know what it’s like—“

“Then tell me.” Michael throws his hands up, sitting up straighter. they fall, palms flat, and smack against his thighs. “Tell me what it’s like.” his baritone is a little more strained as his voice gets louder. you frown, and take a step back from him, your brows knitting together. “Tell me just how hard it was for you that I was in prison, getting the shit kicked out of me, fighting for my life every single fuckin’ say and I didn’t even have the woman I loved to give me a reason to open my eyes every morning?”

you open your mouth to speak, but the sound of little feet coming down the hall spurs you to step into the doorway, block it from Michael’s view just as your eldest rounds the corner, bumping into you as he does so. “Ma?” his voice sounds small… afraid. a tone you swore you’d never hear from him.

Rowan. you just didn’t want Michael to see him. “It’s okay, baby,” you mutter, but Michael’s gaze falls to your hip, where his spitting image peeks out from behind you. dammit. “Go back to your room and close the door.”

“But ma—“

“Now. Please.” you beg of him, petting his mop of messy dark hair.

Michael stares, shocked, into the familiar hazel gems the boy has, jumping to his feet as he disappears down the hall. “How old is that kid?” he asks, taking a step closer.

you bite your lip, refusing to budge from blocking the hallway. “Michael, don’t.”

“How old is he?”

but you didn’t have to answer, because Michael could see the resemblance, even when you’d tried to obstruct the glance. hell, anyone could. the kid couldn’t be younger than seven, no older than eight.

“Is he…?”

“No.”

but Michael could see on your face that it was a lie. he walks towards the hall where his young clone disappeared on uncertain legs, feeling as though he’s being thrown about in a chaotic sea, but you hold a hand out to press against his chest, to stop him. he looks down at it, frowning. “You knew before I went inside.” he mutters, realization hitting him harder than a tidal wave. “And you didn’t tell me.”

your fingers twitch and quiver against the expanse of his chest, the urge to caress it returning to your muscles with a fierce vengeance, but you resist. you lower your voice to a faint whisper. “Three days before.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve—“

“What?” blinking tears back, your brow arches, almost as a challenge. “What could you have done, Michael? Raised a baby from prison? You grew up like that, and look at yourself.” shaking your head, you look at him, resolved. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want a Kinsella. I didn’t want him to be raised like a Kinsella. I owed him that much, at least.”

could he really blame you? no, but he wanted to. Michael’s wet eyes, glassy from booze and on the brink of crying, look up to your face, and you want to break down, too. “That’s my kid,” he whispers, “call him out here. Let me meet him, at least.”

you shake your head, “No, he doesn’t know— Michael, it would only confuse him.”

“He doesn’t know?” Michael’s perplexed, maybe suspicious.

“He knows he has a different da than Carter and Kieran, but he… thinks his is dead.”

“Dead?” he asks, angrily, and you take another step back, bumping into the wall, nodding. “My own son thinks I’m fuckin’ dead? You chose to tell him that over the truth?” he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. it was like you were a completely different person. the old you would’ve never hurt him like this.

you’re ashamed, feeling guilt gutting you, but you nod. “You made your choice, so I made mine.”

hazel eyes narrow, “Your choice? That’s my fuckin’ son in there, too.” his voice was louder now, reverberating in the small hallway, and you flinch. “Let me see my son.”

“I can’t—“ your voice was still barely audible, hugging Carter close to your chest and away from Michael, but tears glistened on your cheeks as they fell.

“Why? Why the fuck not?”

“Michael, keep your fucking voice down.” you hide out a warning. Carter was beginning to get fussy in your arms.

“He’s mine, I deserve to see him—“ the back of his hand pushes at your shoulder, trying to urge you out of the way, but you swat it away, stepping directly in front of him.

“You need to go.”

but something inside Michael snapped. was it the alcohol boiling his blood, or your betrayal, or the fact that some other man was living the life he wanted to build with you? perhaps all three, because he grips both of your shoulders with cruel fists and pushes your back into the wall. “You can’t keep him from me.” he growls, glaring into your now frightened gaze. you let out a little whimper, and the baby in your arms wails. it’s only then did he realize what he’d done, and he jerks his hands back. “Wait, wait…” he hadn’t meant to hurt you, and maybe he hadn’t. maybe the push wasn’t hard enough to do any physical damage, but you were terrified; he knew that look. he loathed that look. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… I wasn’t…”

all you can do is stare at the man you used to love. still loved? “This is why you’ll never see him!” you holler finally, shielding Carter from him. you felt your whole world fall apart as soon as he grabbed you, and you were stumbling over the pieces. “Because you— you’re a monster, Michael Kinsella. You destroy everything you touch, you nearly destroyed me. I won’t let you destroy Rowan.”

“I’m sorry!” as if that could be the fix all, he stumbles back, refusing to look at his own hands. how could he? he feels sick to his stomach, again. that same, ill feeling that he had sinking in his gut during your last visit.

“Just get out of here. Please leave.”

he does. you’re grateful, but feel as though you’re losing him all over again. that wasn’t true, though, you lost him eight years ago, and had never gotten him back. so why? why did it hurt so much to see him crying as he sprinted out the door, to hear the car doors slam and the tires squeal as they sped off?

“Ma!” it was both Rowan and Kieran from the other side of the bedroom door. Kieran was sobbing, hitting his little fist on it. you felt dizzy from overstimulation, and your free hand reaches out to steady yourself on the wall, sliding down it to collapse in a sobbing heap on the floor. Carter was screaming in your arms, so you shush him through your own, garbled crying, pressing your lips to his soft forehead.

#michael kinsella #michael Kinsella x reader #michael Kinsella x you #michael Kinsella angst #kin #kin amc #charlie cox x you #charlie cox x reader #Charlie cox angst #charlie cox imagine #charlie cox

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slasherhaven · 3 years

Note

Hi! I've been reading your content for awhile and I love it! I was wondering if you could maybe do something with Bo Sinclair and/or Michael Myers with a s/o who really likes to dote and be affectionate with them? Like they like to cook for them and kiss them all over their face and general stuff like that. They're also really cutesy and short, maybe? If not, that's okay! Have a good day/night!

Michael Myers and Bo Sinclair with an Affectionate and Doting S/O:

Michael Myers

Doting on Michael is easier than showing him affection.

If you weren't in the picture, Michael would not be eating well at all, but you make sure he has proper, balanced, homecooked meals.

Michael enjoys your cooking, it's the best thing he can ever remember eating. Though, that isn't really saying much when compared to Smith's Grove's so-called food.

And when you realise that the stoic man has quite the sweet-tooth, you are thrilled to make him some sugary baked goods. Cakes, cookies, pastries, whatever you discover he enjoys.

He can be a difficult man to read, nearly impossible, but you know that he enjoys your food from the way he lingers in the kitchen when your cooking and the way you have to tell him to wait until it's cooled down.

Of course, cooking isn't the only way you try to care for him. You're the person who gets him to wash up when he doesn't think to do so, you're the one who worries about him getting enough sleep.

He's more resistant to washing and sleeping but he eagerly accepts your cooking anytime.

Showing him affection is a little more complicated, especially during the early stages of your relationship but you manage to get the hang of it.

You have to hold back for a while until the rare opportunities show themselves for you to press a quick kiss to his mask.

Opportunities like that slowly become more regular and you take advantage of each one.

Affection is very new to Michael and some unconscious part of himself appreciates your patience.

But he slowly becomes more comfortable and even welcoming of your affection.

The vast majority of the time, Michael doesn't outwardly react to your affection but he isn't stopping you and you see that as a good sign. If he didn't like it, he would stop you. You knew Michael.

There is something...nice about the attention you pay him and Michael is certain that he would notice its absence...but that's all he has to say on the matter, at least for now.

Bo Sinclair

Well, aren't you just the perfect little house spouse?

Your role in Ambrose is likely to cook and take care of the house anyway but he's glad that you took to the role so easily, seeming quite content.

The brothers haven't had such good homecooked meals for a very long time, maybe even ever. Not as good as your cooking anyway, and Bo loves it more than he would let on.

While Bo tries his best to act as unaffected by your affection as possible, he really does like it. It feeds his ego but he goes get a more innocent pleasure from it.

He likes how domestic your relationship has become. How you greet him when he comes back to the house with a warm smile, hugging him and kissing him (though he nearly always deepens your innocent kisses).

You love showing affection but it is difficult to actually manage some innocent affection with Bo, because he will almost always twist it into something else. Whether it's deepening kisses, pulling you closer for more, or even just smirking and making a comment to fluster you a little.

Bo loves showing you off to people who come into Ambrose, how you hold his hand so happily, randomly pressing kisses to his face, giving him the sweetest smiles.

Whenever he throws an arm around you, you always snuggle into his side and he fucking loves it.

He secretly enjoys your affection at anytime but it thrills him when you show him so much affection in front of other people. Again, he just likes to show off.

You always make sure that he is eating well, even making him a lunch to take into Ambrose with him when he's planning to do some repairs that day.

He will act dismissive if you fret or fuss over him, telling you that you're being dramatic, but you don't give up and he isn't actually going to stop you. Your fretting feeds his ego just a little.

Bo can take care of himself, he's been doing it for a long time. Sure the house might be cleaner, the food might be better, Ambrose might be brighter with you in it, but he can take care of himself.

The only problem is that he realises that he doesn't want to go back to that. He likes you doting on him.

He definitely teases you about it all though, pulling you down onto his lap while he smirks about how much of a good little house spouse you are for him.

(Maybe even makes an offhanded comment about how you should make it official, giving you a fluttering feeling.)

You aren't embarrassed by it though. Just smiling and kissing his cheek, telling him that you love him and don't mind caring for him in those ways.

That has him feeling a way he doesn't really want to think about. He's just going to enjoy it.

#michael myers x reader #bo sinclair x reader #slashers x reader #slasher x reader #slashers #slasher #my writing

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scarofthewind · 3 years

Text

Slashers x Reader || Spanking

A/N: I thought of this while washing my face so I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Ass Slapping, spanking, slightly suggestive content but mainly fluff

word count: 850 Tip Jar (every bit helps!)

Lightly taps/makes you jump a bit:

Norman Bates: He doesn’t mean to make you jump and drop all the mail you had in your hands; but your ass looked really good in those cute bottoms you were wearing and he couldn’t help himself. Norman immediatley laughs and apologizes when you turn around and gawk at the fact that he smacked your rear with the front door wide open and the neighbor staring at you in disapproval. “I couldn’t help myself,” he chuckles while picking up the mail you dropped, taking another look at your behind before planning his next attack.

Vincent Sinclair: “Did you just touch my butt?” You look down at your lover who sat in his work chair, hand still extended towards your backside. After going down and checking on him and seeing the masterpiece he was working on, you had started to head back upstairs when you thought you felt a tap on your ass. “Sorry,” he admits, quickly looking away before you smile and leave him to his work; he watches your ass while you walk up the stairs and reminds himself to be bolder next time.

Brahms Heelshire: Cleaning a house as big as the Heelshire mansion took almost two full days and now that you were almost done, you just wanted to relax and sleep. Brahms had been watching you from various spots in the house, much to your annoyance. It wasn’t until you were putting the cleaning supplies away that you felt a swift smack to your rear; spinning around quickly you caught Brahms off guard and he looked down at you with an ‘innocent’ smirk, “I wanted to remind myself of what it felt like. You know I’ve been watching it all day.”

Sends you flying:

Jason Voorhees: He’s no stranger to touching your ass; he’s spanked you countless times - more behind closed doors, but still has had his moments where he just gets so jittery that he smacks your rear hard enough for you to fall into the dining table. “What the hell, Jason-” you go to snap at him while rubbing your wounded behind but freeze at the heated look in his eyes. Those leggings really did something for him and seeing you in them only made him want to rip them off your skin even faster.

Bubba Sawyer: He’s seen other men do it to women all the time. However, he doesn’t know how much strength he truly holds until he nearly sends you a few steps forward from one hard smack to your ass. You yelp at the sudden sting of pain, the dishes being long forgotten as you turn around to look at him. “Sorry! You okay?” He asks quickly, waving his hands around trying to find something to help your stinging behind. It honestly surprised you how much his hand could hurt and you secretly wondered what it would feel like against your bare skin.

Thomas Hewitt: Another one who usually gives you light smacks or taps to your rear but for some reason decided to put you through a wall. You were folding laundry when you almost got the wind knocked out of you from being shoved into the dryer by an outstanding force upon your rear. “You look pretty like this,” you hear Thomas grumble, rolling his sleeves up and preparing for another smack to your ass before you practically run for your life.

Grabs your ass after and kneads the pain away:

Michael Myers: You knew you made a mistake the second you walked out of your house in the semi-revealing Halloween costume, surprising Michael beyond comprehension. You should’ve known he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands to himself as you found yourself yelping from the impact of his hand on your ass, his arm circling your waist to hold you against him while the other hand rubbed out the sting. “Careful now, don’t need you falling on your knees just yet,” he hums tauntingly, “I’ll have you do that after I get you home.”

Charles Lee Ray: “Do you mind?” You snap, smacking his hand away for the fifth time that night as you two walk home from a nice dinner. The dress he insisted you wore was hugging your ass perfectly and Charles couldn’t find the strength to stop himself from smacking it multiple times, palming your burning cheeks afterwards. “C’mon, I want to see the marks I’ve made already,” he groans, dragging you off to the nearest alleyway, much to your distaste.

Bo Sinclair: The plate you were putting away crashes to the floor as soon as Bo’s hand comes in to contact with your ass. His palms kneading into the soft flesh hidden behind the bottoms you were wearing as he tried to soothe the stinging you felt from the impact. “How about a little warning next time?” You scoffed, feeling him chuckle as he pinched your rear, earning a hiss from you. “Your ass just looked too good for me to ignore,” he replies, earning a pained groan from Vincent who was an innocent bystander, walking through the house to get away from his sex-crazed brother.

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networkluvs · 2 years

Text

word count: 1.8k

warnings: none! :)

“Finally, everyone’s here!” Jeonghan smiled widely as he opened the door, letting you, Wonwoo, and Misty into his apartment. He wore a festive antler headband with a Santa outfit, the same outfit as Wonwoo’s which you found quite humorous. However, when you walked further into the apartment, everyone was wearing a Santa outfit.

Misty pouted and whined looking at the array of Santas in front of them, “And no one told me?”

You laughed before setting down the gifts you and Misty brought underneath the Christmas tree. You couldn’t help but notice one gift that was wrapped in the shape of a guitar case. “No way,” you thought to yourself, “Jihoon couldn’t have gotten me the guitar, right?”

“Good news!” Mingyu shouted, distracting your train of thought. He came out of the kitchen in a red apron tied around his Santa costume with a soup ladle in hand, “Sooyoung's Soup Extravaganza isn’t a failure! Let’s eat then open gifts okay?”

---

“Alrighty! Who should go first?” Seokmin said as everyone spread their seating around the living room. Surprisingly, Soonyoung’s soup was indeed not bad, it was quite delicious in fact. You could see the beaming smile on Soonyoung’s face after everyone complimented his good job with the meal prep. You sat on the floor next to Misty, adjusting the festive Santa hat Soonyoung gave to you after calling his chicken noodle soup “The Best Chicken Noodle Soup you’ve ever had.”

Seungcheol left his seat on the couch to grab his gift, later handing it to Joshua, “I know how much you miss your family and that this isn’t the ideal situation to spend the holidays, but Merry Christmas, Shua. I hope you had fun this month regardless.”

“Cheol…” Joshua nearly teared up, opening the small red envelope and staring at the contents within. A plane ticket to Los Angeles lied in front of him, “You didn’t have to…”

“Jeonghan and I pitched in,” He explained more, “It’s set for the summer so when you’re done with graduate school, you can visit before residency.”

There wasn’t a single dry eye in the room when Joshua stood up to engulf both his roommates into a hug. You were wiping the tears that streamed down your face with your sleeve when Joshua said while chuckling, “Alright! Enough crying, I’ll give my present now!”

Joshua ran under the tree to give Chan his gift and judging from the wrapping shape itself, it seemed like Chan would be receiving a vacuum cleaner. But as Chan unwrapped the contents of the present, it turned out that he received a new pair of sneakers instead. “Of course Joshua would pull something like this.” You thought to yourself as you examined the changed reaction on Chan’s face.

“Woah! Joshua, did you order these from America? They don’t sell these in Korea.” Chan asked in awe, holding up the pair of clean blue and white shoes for everyone to see.

Joshua grinned while patting the younger on the back, “Yeah! I had a friend visit from America recently and he delivered these for me.”

“Thank you so much, I love them!” Chan said while taking off his slippers to do a few dance moves in his new shoes.

“Hey! Don’t crease them!”

Laughter erupted in the friend group as Chan sang a few lines of Smooth Criminal by Michael Jackson while doing his signature moves. In moments like these, where only happiness could be found in the room, you knew for sure you had found your place in life. You were destined to be a part of this large, family-like friend group, and you were glad to meet them all in this precious life.

---

Shortly after Jihoon opened his gift from Minghao, which was a miniature piano that could connect to his laptop to produce songs, Jihoon stood up from his seat on the floor. He grabbed the gift that you knew belonged to you from under the tree, later handing the large present towards you while saying, “Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

You grinned slightly as you ripped the wrapping paper off the present, the tears showcasing the shiny black guitar case underneath. As you looked up at Jihoon, you could see that he was quite flustered at all the comments being made about your gift.

“As expected from our Jihoon!” Jeonghan said while patting his younger friend on the back.

“No way! You got her the guitar she’s been wanting?” Vernon exclaimed.

When you opened the case, the all-black, six-stringed electric guitar that you’ve been dreaming of for months was laid perfectly inside the case. You noticed that in one of the mesh pockets inside the case, a decorative envelope with your name written on it was neatly placed. Jihoon quickly mentioned, almost as if he knew what you were thinking at that moment, “There’s a letter inside, you can read that later tonight.”

The room filled with oohs and awes right after, causing both yours and Jihoon’s faces to burn up. You gathered the courage to look up at the boy in front of you, engulfing him in a hug while softly speaking, “Thank you, Jihoon.”

“Anything for you, Y/N.”

---

Everyone was messing around with their gifts, getting ready to watch movies to end the night when you excused yourself to the balcony to read Jihoon’s letter. Impatience ran through your veins as you zipped your puffy coat, placing the letter neatly into your pocket as you opened up the balcony. Surprisingly, it wasn’t too cold outside. It was cloudy for sure, the sky was illuminating different hues of grey, but somehow it was still bright outside, making it legible to read the letter.

You grabbed the envelope from your coat pocket, opening it from its fold while grabbing the letter inside. A smile appeared on your face as you saw the familiar writing on top of the paper. You began to read the letter in your head.

---

Dear Y/N,

Were you surprised?

You’ve been eyeing this guitar for so long! Even before you decided to come work at the music store, I remember seeing this cute girl come in every Saturday to stare at the black electric guitar and thinking “I hope she doesn’t know how to play… maybe I could give her lessons!” You could not imagine the disappointment I felt when you started shredding one of the electrics the next week.

Don’t even get me started on how much I admire your advocation for music education… Seeing you teach the beginners’ lessons and seeing the kids’ bright smiles after, knowing that someone out there supports their passion for learning an instrument is so special. And you know what? I completely understand how they feel because you’ve shown the same support to me. I've never been able to talk about my interest in music with someone, or even to talk to someone who has the same dreams of becoming a music producer comfortably, but with you? The world is a blank sheet of music, and every time we talk about our hopes and dreams for the future, a bar full of the sweetest melodies is added.

I can't say I didn't see it coming, but it did catch me a bit off guard when I realized how much I cared for you in ways that a lover would. I find you so admirable. I mean, really, what's there not to like? Your loyalty to friends is astonishing, the way you ramble about life to me during break time (hand movements included! I love it when you describe a crazy encounter with your hands), your kindness to others, how smart and bright you are, not to mention you’re so so pretty. I admit. I've caught myself staring at you more times than I've changed guitar strings.

Y/N, you’re bound to do great things in this world, I just know it. Whenever you feel like a failure, or that you’re not good enough, I hope you’ll remember my sincere words.

I love you, Y/N. I’m most definitely truly, madly, deeply, enamored by you. I adore you.

With love, your Jihoon.

—

Tears were falling from your face, landing directly on the paper after you finished reading Jihoon’s letter. After placing the letter back into its respective envelope and into your pocket, you rested your head on top of your arms while leaning on the balcony’s railing, softly mumbling to yourself, “This guy has no idea what he does to me.”

Just then, you felt a hand softly stroking your hair, causing you to jump back to reality. When you looked up at who the hand belonged to, you were appalled to see the person you were thinking of. Although your vision was semi-blurry from the tears, you could make out that the figure in front of you was Jihoon

“Jihoon-”

“Y/N,” He interrupted you, “You know how I told you I wasn’t ready for… us yet.”

You nodded slightly while playing with your thumbs with anxiety. Jihoon exhaled shortly after, causing a puff of white vapor to escape from his pink lips, “Well, the reason I wasn’t ready was that I wanted to wait for this day.”

“R-Really?”

He nodded, “I wanted you to receive your last gift before I asked you out. I know how much it means to you… to be able to have the guitar of your dreams.”

Although your heart was pounding out of your chest, somehow Jihoon’s words made the rhythms worse. Before you could say anything in response, he cut you off once again, “But now that it’s over with,” he exhaled shakily, “I’ve been wanting to ask you this since the day you started shredding on the guitars at work. Y/N, Will you do me the honors of letting me be your boyfriend?”

All you could do in response was cup Jihoon’s soft cheeks, smashing your lips into his shortly after.

What the books say about a true love's kiss wasn’t real. He didn’t taste like bitter coffee and you didn’t feel fireworks erupt in your stomach. Jihoon did, however, taste of sweet hot chocolate with hints of cooling peppermint, and your stomach felt warm like a fireplace. Jihoon’s hands found their way around your waist, pulling you closer to him just like the time underneath the mistletoe. Deepening the kiss further, you felt the slight smile escape from his lips as he moved in sync with yours.

As you parted away from the kiss, keeping your foreheads together, you noticed that Jihoon’s eyes were still closed from being too embarrassed to look at you after the kiss. You softly giggled before Jihoon asked, finally opening his eyes to meet yours, “So… was that a yes?”

“It most definitely was, Jihoon. I would love to be your girlfriend.”

“Great,” He managed to get out before pulling you in for one more kiss, “Because I want to do that again.”

---

adore you | all I want for christmas is you

synopsis: in which your lonely friend group tries to get into the christmas spirit by holding a secret santa party. to your surprise however, your special secret santa jihoon likes to give you gifts everyday until christmas.

a/n: words cannot describe how much I enjoyed writing this series and hearing so much feedback from you all throughout the journey, and it saddens me so much to say that this series has found its last chapter! thank you all so much for all the support, before I can say anything further without being repetitive I think I'll just let Vernon say what I want to say :)

taglist: @wuriwoori @solarbxby @sansbyeol @xfirebenderx @cloudyhaos @iho6hi @http-mewchuu @cheolsblackgf @baesgyus @erens-piss-cleaner @lynniac @leech4ns @imaginegot7bangtan @sakura-uji @timelessruins @currently-existing @lebritneeey @fav9yu @sunniesoobin @atomoonchild @anjiuniverse @coookiemonster @vanillxangxl @coupsiekkuma @kamikokii @odetoyeonjun @pengu-hours @makiswrld @cathartichaoss @1004jcm

couldn't tag: @bbarneybarnes @wooziwooziwoozioioioi @yeeeeezly @mulletdinos @svtster

previous | masterlist | next

---

bonus!

#caratwritersclub #seventeen #seventeen scenarios #seventeen social media au #seventeen smau #svt smau #svt social media au #seventeen fic #seventeen crack #jihoon fic #woozi fic #adore you au #jihoon smau #woozi smau #woozi social media au #jihoon social media au #jihoon x femreader #woozi x femreader

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archived-kin · 3 years

Text

simeon with a himbo boyfriend

note from kin: once again i am writing for the boys because this fandom doesn’t have nearly enough content for them, especially for Big and Beefy Men. let them be in dating sim fandoms too!!!!!! give them more content!!!!!

anyway i’ve made you an angel since i don’t want to have to think about the deeper repercussions of what simeon dating a human would be (i mean we all know what happened to lilith when she tried it)

fandom: obey me!

character(s): male!reader, simeon, luke, belphegor, beelzebub, asmodeus, satan, leviathan, mammon, lucifer, barbatos, diavolo, solomon

pairing(s): simeon/reader but it accidentally becomes everyone/simeon’s boyfriend at some point whoops (this ended up as a pretty big block of text as a result so please let me know if you have difficulty reading it so that i can try to format it better!)

warning(s): nope!

genre: fluff!!!! fluff everywhere!!!!!!!!!

simeon thinks you’re the cutest goddamn thing in all three realms

you may be six foot four inches of muscle but to him that is six foot four inches of ADORABLE

you’re very strong so he likes to just run and jump up at you from behind and wrap his arms around your neck because he knows you won’t be fazed by it (physically anyways, emotionally is another story)

the other angels always gasp when he does this in public because it’s so far from his usual ‘poised and elegant’ thing but how is simeon NOT supposed to climb all over you like a koala when you’re so big and huggable???

simeon just really loves jumping at you like that okay

because every time he does you’ll just pause for a second and look very confused as to why your back has suddenly gotten heavier, and then you’ll turn your head, and your smile and excited little ‘simeon!!’ is to DIE for

he has to be incredibly upfront with you about what he wants because otherwise you will not understand

he has to say, word for word, “i want to sleep in the same bed as you every day” before you actually realise that that’s what he meant

the whole exchange kind of went like this:

simeon, being sappy at like seven in the morning: “i want to wake up like this all the time from now on”

you: “??? do you want me to come lie down next to you before you wake up tomorrow morning?”

simeon: “no, for the whole night”

you: “you want to wake up like this for the whole night??”

simeon: [sighs]

he also often has to be the one taking charge when it comes to physical affection

like you’re always willing to give him hugs and carry him around and let him sleep sprawled out on your chest like a starfish and give him kisses but half the time simeon has to ask you because for some reason you just won’t do it on your own???

at one point simeon starts getting a little insecure that you don’t actually really like physical affection and are just going along with it for him

because he’s a sensible angel, he brings this up with you before jumping to conclusions

he was not prepared for you to reply that you always wait for him to confirm that he wants affection because you’re afraid that you’ll accidentally hurt him with your strength if you go for it by yourself

simeon doesn’t cry a lot but dear god did he come close that day

after that it’s just hand holding and hugs and forehead kisses galore from you and simeon couldn’t be happier

now, it’s time for a bit of backstory

you were created purely to fight during the big celestial war, which is why you are so Beefy and Stupid

the beefy is because they needed you to be both strong and intimidating, while the stupid is because they didn’t create you with anything but fist fighting in mind

during the war you were a force to be reckoned with because you could just run at and headbutt a demon and they’d immediately be flung straight out of the skies and back into the devildom

and, even better, this meant that you didn’t have to kill anyone! you could just punt them so hard that they’d be flung out of the realm where the battle’s taking place entirely

once the war was over though they didn’t really know what to do with you

you were basically just this giant baby who didn’t know how to do anything but war

so they just dumped you in a garden and told you to take care of the flowers

which was how simeon originally met you! he was taking a walk around the gardens and saw you crying over a tree that you accidentally snapped in half with your big clumsy hands

now, simeon wasn’t one to believe in love at first sight, but HOLY FUCK

if he hadn’t already been an angel in the celestial realm he’d have thought you were some divine being from the heavens

anyway long story short simeon consoled you and started helping you take care of the garden, taught you how to live a life in times of peace, spent entire nights just lying awake and thinking about your smile and your laugh and how warm your hands look to hold and how it would feel to hug you, and finally managed to confess to you without you misconstruing it as just a Friendly Act of Kindness, and now you two are the proud holders of the title Cutest Couple in The Universe

granted only asmo calls you two that but you’ll take it

speaking of asmo allow me to segue this to the rad exchange programme era

you get so sad when simeon tells you he’ll have to leave for a year

your face falls when he breaks the news and your voice is all lost and quiet when you ask, ‘does that mean i can’t see you?’

simeon is absolutely devastated

it’s like a thousand puppies and kittens are being murdered right in front of him

he nearly cries (when i say nearly i mean he does)

but he can’t back out of the exchange program now, and one year isn’t THAT much for beings that live for possibly forever, so in the end, giving you a giant hug and about a million kisses to make up for the ones you’ll miss over the coming year, simeon leaves for the devildom

he makes it about a month and a half without you before he starts getting all mopey

and you’re not doing much better up in the celestial realm

michael actually has to message simeon and ask him how to deal with you because you spend every day dejectedly shuffling around the gardens that you take care of and it’s making everyone sad just looking at you

simeon reads that message and immediately decides that either he’s going back to the celestial realm or you’re coming down to the devildom

the authorities are a little cautious about it because you’re one of the purest angels they have and they really don’t want you getting corrupted by demons

but simeon assures them that the few demons that you’ll actually be having contact with wouldn’t do that, and you’ll be under both his and lord diavolo’s protection

so you end up being allowed to join simeon in the devildom for his exchange year!!!

honestly with the way the two of you react when you see each other again you’d think you hadn’t seen each other in years

simeon runs up to you and jumps straight into your arms and you spin him around in a big hug and ahhhhhhhh it’s like a teen romance movie but with an actually compelling relationship

and so you move into his bedroom (because of course you’re still going to share one down here) and take up a temporary position as a gardener to take up time since you can’t really do school

pros: simeon now gets to see you every day again and you look very cute bustling around the devildom’s fancy gardens with a watering can and wheelbarrow. also he gets to watch you lift an entire shed and it’s the best thing he’s ever seen

cons: the others are all basically in love with you now as well

simeon’s torn between ‘why wouldn’t they be, he’s literally the most perfect being ever’ and ‘what the fuck, that’s MY boyfriend’

belphie likes you because you are similar to beel and you’re also warm and big and strong so he can take naps on you and you won’t be bothered in the slightest

one day simeon sees belphie just jump onto your back and start sleeping there while you’re crouched in the garden doing some weeding and he’s so stunned by the sheer audacity that he forgets to be mad about it

honestly you don’t really notice that belphie is sleeping on you until you go to get up and feel something move on your back

and then, being the dumb precious idiot you are, you just lie face first there on the lawn so that he can carry on sleeping without being disturbed

consequence: simeon nearly cries at your sweetness but is also incredibly jealous and belphie is now having Feelings that he didn’t sign up for

beel meanwhile isn’t sure how to feel about you at first because he kind of feels like you’re stealing his twin all the time, but then you make him your special candied fruits (from produce that you grew yourself) and he loves you from that point forward

also PLEASE share your workout routine with him he wants to know your secret

it turns out that you don’t really have a workout routine?? you were just made like that

though the constant exercise and heavy lifting and stuff you do as part of your daily garden-care routine (you take care of basically all of the gardens back in the celestial realm) helps as well

he’s a bit disappointed but he does like that you can pick him up without any effort

one time he asked if you were capable of it and without missing a beat you went ‘let’s find out!’ and straight up swept him off his feet

beel was fucking screaming on the inside but no can’t feel feelings that’s simeon’s boyfriend

meanwhile asmo… okay we all know the way asmo is

boy took one look at you and immediately started drooling (figuratively anyway. physically his jaw just dropped)

kudos to him though, he backs off with the flirting as soon as simeon informs everyone that you’re his partner

asmo may be the avatar of lust but he is no home wrecker (he still finds an excuse to hug you every time he sees you though because awooga, muscles)

(he does know his boundaries so simeon doesn’t mind too much)

asmo also very likes the fact that you have such a green thumb because it means you can grow the prettiest flowers and you’re always willing to trim him a few to use as accessories

at some point simeon accidentally eavesdrops in on a conversation between the two of you where you’re just gushing about what kind of flowers he likes and how you’re going to plant them everywhere in the devildom because you like it when he smiles when he sees them

CRITICAL HIT!!!!!

simeon is pretty sure he combusts on the spot, while asmo is just squealing

thus was the origin of the title ‘Cutest Couple in the Universe’

satan on the other hand is mostly disinterested in you at first

the two of you live in pretty different worlds even if you live within the a five minutes’ walk of each other. he prefers to stay locked up in his room or the library and just curl up with a good book or ten for hours on end, while you’re always outside, digging flower beds and pruning bushes and cleaning fences and walls and basically doing every other little bit of manual labour that none of the brothers could be bothered to do before

he does note that you’re pretty good at what you do but that’s about it

until one day

you’re just pottering about in the garden outside the house of lamentation doing your angelic gardener thing when the stray cat that satan’s secretly been feeding for the past month or so comes by for its usual afternoon meal

satan has the window overlooking the garden so he quickly spots its ginger fur as well as you staring directly at it, and he immediately panics because what if you scare it away with your intimidating stature???

(yes, part of the reason satan doesn’t acknowledge you before this is because he was kind of scared of you and your muscles that he heard could punt beings out of entire realms back in your hey-day)

so he quickly dumps his book (though not without carefully bookmarking his place first) and rushes down to the garden in hopes of salvaging the situation, only to find you lying face first on the grass once again, though this time it’s not his little brother on your back

it’s the cat, who is purring like a little motor and aggressively kneading its paws against your back

satan can’t even see your face in this moment but he still basically gets cupid-shot in the heart because this is the cutest thing he’s ever seen

he has to force himself to calm down for a bit before he approaches lest he get overexcited and accidentally incur simeon’s wrath in the process

anyway after that satan makes a beeline for you every time he sees you and learns that you are an Absolute Idiot, but it just makes him like you even more

if satan was intimidated by you at first though, levi is downright terrified

you look like you could snap him in half with a single punch

he doesn’t try to talk to you at all for the first few weeks because how could he possibly find common ground to talk to you about?? you probably hunt dragons and eat rocks or something in your spare time

it isn’t until satan brings you up one day and mentions that you are incredibly dumb of the ass and probably couldn’t hurt a fly even if you tried that levi even entertains the idea of befriending you

he’s still not making the first move though

but it turns out that he doesn’t have to! one day you just show up at his bedroom door holding a giant crate of his latest akuzon haul

turns it got dropped off at the local post office after traffic problems and you volunteered to go pick it up and bring it back

anyway levi thanks you and starts unpacking his stuff, expecting you to leave in silence, but then he looks over and sees you just standing in front of his tv and staring at it

he’d been playing some battle platformer to pass the time before you showed up, and while levi himself doesn’t consider it particularly remarkable, you’re absolutely fascinated

being a gardener in the celestial realm you’ve never really had experience with this kind of thing, and you’re even more tech-illiterate than simeon, so what you’re seeing is basically like magic to you

so levi takes it upon himself to teach you as much about the art of gaming as he can in the short span of the next four hours before simeon gets home from a meeting of some kind and you inevitably immediately run off to greet him

you learn the basics relatively quickly but you’re still pretty awful at it

levi loses count of the amount of times you’ve accidentally run right off the end of the platform and fallen to your death once it reaches thirty two

it’s pretty much the most he’s laughed in, like, forever

congratulations! you have gained a new member in your party! levi will now follow you to the ends of the earth because you are the first person he feels like he can just be totally at ease around without being judged at all and just have fun with

(once, after you leave another gaming session to go cuddle with your boyfriend in the garden, levi catches himself thinking that ‘it isn’t fair that simeon gets to date him’ and has to do some serious self assessment)

mammon meanwhile has none of the reverence for you that his brother does

the amount of times he’s tried to rope you into his money-making schemes (which never work because he fails to realise that you are incapable of doing anything malicious in the slightest) is honestly just embarrassing at this point

simeon has to step in more than a couple of times because honestly mammon could ask you for your wallet and you’d probably just give it to him without another thought

that being said your wallet wouldn’t be much use because you never have any money

you just don’t understand the concept of exchanging money for goods and/or services so you never see any need for it

that being said, simeon does give you some money every time you go out into town on your own because something will inevitably catch your eye and you’ll suddenly realise that you just cannot live without it

the thing is simeon spoils you ridiculously so he always gives you way more money than would be considered a reasonable allowance

which means all mammon has to do is tag along and ask you nicely and you’ll probably buy him anything he wants

he does this a couple of times but then stops because he actually starts feeling bad about it

something just doesn’t sit right with him when he’s walking around with a bunch of shiny new things you’ve bought him with money that was meant to be spent on you while the only thing you’ve bought of your own volition is a pack of chocolate lollipops shaped like rabbits to share with simeon and luke

he may be the demonic avatar of greed but even he has a line that he won’t cross

he makes up for it by buying you things instead

nothing too expensive (he’s still mammon after all), just little things like sweets or bulbs for flowers you haven’t tried planting yet or food colouring for you to use for your candied fruits

speaking of those candied fruits, guess who loves and would probably kill a man for them?

lucifer

man may not seem like it but he has a hell of a sweet tooth

there was a bit of tension between the two of you when you first met (well there was tension from lucifer anyway) because he’d never met you like he had simeon and luke and had no idea what you were like

plus he’d heard about how you’re everyone’s favourite now back in the celestial realm and the little piece of him that still misses his life as an angel is a little petty about it

but then he interacts with you more and he realises that that favouritism is absolutely deserved

he will not admit it but he has wondered what being carried by you would feel like on multiple occasions

figures out how to read you really well which isn’t much of an achievement when you wear every single feeling you have on your sleeve but it still brings him a bit of satisfaction when he notices something that simeon doesn’t

he may be a pridey mcprideface but he is willing to give up a bit of that pride by pretending he can’t carry something heavy so that he can watch you do it

simeon acts like he doesn’t notice this but he absolutely does and he doesn’t know if he should tease lucifer about it or whack him over the head with a newspaper for it

all that aside though, much like simeon, lucifer also thinks you’re just the cutest

he comes across you building a pillow fortress in the middle of the house of lamentation’s living room one day and is understandably like “what are you doing in my house and what are you doing with those pillows”

you explain very seriously that satan asked you for help in an apparently pre-arranged pillow fight with mammon and that every warrior needs a well-protected base of operations and offer to show him all the optimised battle features somehow recreated from nothing but cushions and blankets and chairs

lucifer’s heart goes d o k i d o k i

he also has experience with Big and Dumb men from dealing with both beel and diavolo (when the three of you are together it’s just himbo3) so the stupid doesn’t bother him much

speaking of diavolo (wow i am nailing all of these transitions from character to character look at me go)

this man is basically just a grown up golden retriever boy and you are a big gentle st. bernard so the two of you get along like a house on fire

you’ve seen how much this man gushes about lucifer. now imagine that times a thousand

that is how he talks about you

honestly sometimes you’d think HE’S the one dating you

simeon would probably get defensive if he didn’t get so much whiplash from their conversations about you

diavolo: “i must say, i never would have pinned [name] as being your type”

simeon, ready to Fucking Brawl: “excuse me?”

diavolo: “though i don’t blame you, have you seen his page in that book about the celestial war? the illustration does his true beauty no justice, of course, but it’s enchanting in and of itself. to be honest i’d have loved to have seen him in action during the war, i imagine it would have been quite breath-taking to see”

simeon: “…what”

barbatos is usually just there in the background during half of these exchanges and he has to seriously stiffen up his poker face to resist just bursting into laughter

the other half of the time the conversation is just simeon and diavolo going back and forth gushing about you

barbatos honestly dislikes you a bit at first

not for any personal faults of your own! it’s just that all your garden work + your very forgetful mind means that you’re often tracking dirt everywhere

it doesn’t help that diavolo keeps inviting you over to the castle for tea and a chat and half the time you leave these big footprints on the floor and he wants to cry because he just spent four hours mopping that

he mentions it to diavolo in passing at one point, who then passes the message on to simeon

barbatos kind of gets concerned for himself because he knows simeon does not take well to you being insulted (one time a demon at the r.a.d. called you an ‘unintelligent buffoon’ and he was ready to start a fist fight right then and there)

not that it was an insult, but you never know how love can blind you to reason

but simeon just assures him not to worry and tells you to remember to clean your shoes as well as changing clothes after doing some gardening

normally you’d forget being told these things within a few hours but simeon offers to give you a kiss every time you remember to do this so now you remember every single time you’re about to enter a building after doing some gardening

after that barbatos holds no ill will to you at all

he teaches you how to bake and is honestly so endeared by how clumsy you get in the kitchen

you knock an entire container of salt into the cake mix by accident because your hands are too big and you moved too fast and barbatos is just like 🥺

he low-key babies you even though he’s like an entire two heads shorter than you

you don’t mind though because getting babied by barbatos means you get given all sorts of cakes and sweets all the time

simeon isn’t sure how to feel about it but it doesn’t seem to be the patronising kind of babying (it’s more of an affectionate doting) so he lets it happen

what he doesn’t let happen is solomon’s relentless attempts to feed you his food

you are both too dumb and too nice to realise just how bad his cooking is, but simeon knows you have a sensitive stomach and are actually a pretty fussy eater - you just tend to stay quiet when something isn’t to your liking because you don’t want to complain

having had a sample of solomon’s food himself in the past, he knows that you’ll probably get sick eating it, and he doesn’t want you to be uncomfy so he refuses to let you try even a bite

it’s like he has a radar in his head that goes off every time solomon approaches you will a bowl of ‘noodle soup’ that looks more like something he’s fished out of a nuclear waste tank

solomon, when he’s not trying to indirectly poison you, is probably the guy you spend the most time with apart from simeon and luke

he’ll just hang around nearby with a spell book while you do your gardening and show you some neat little magic tricks every now and then

he tries to help with the gardening but he’s not exactly physically strong and he nearly breaks his back trying to lift a giant bag of compost

so he decides it’s probably better for him to just watch from afar

kind of wants to conduct an experiment to see just how much weight you can lift before you start getting tired

one time he sees you cut down a whole tree with one hard swat of your hand and just walk off carrying it over your shoulder and he has to take several deep breaths

luke knew you already, so not much changes while you’re in the devildom

he really wants to learn to make candied fruits the same way you do but he can never get the hang of boiling the sugar mixture to the right heat and consistency (plus he’s kind of scared of how hot it gets)

you like to just carry him around on your shoulders and while luke would normally bristle at being treated like a child, you act like this with nearly everyone

(once he sees you running around the garden with diavolo of all people perched on your shoulders, arms raised in the air like he’s on a rollercoaster ride, and he nearly passes out on the spot)

he seriously adores you and acts like a guard dog whenever he feels like any of the others are trying to take advantage of your dim-witted naïveté because NO demons are allowed to harm his big brother like that

he will also chase them off with a stick if he has to if they get too close because no being is allowed to even remotely try to disrupt your relationship with simeon

simeon himself is no fool, and he’s well aware of the effect you have on pretty much everyone you come across, but he trusts them because they’re his friends

besides (and he isn’t being cocky or anything), it’s not like the relationship you have with them even holds a candle to what you have with him

they’ve all known you for less than a year, he’s loved you for nearly two millennia

they might be allowed take naps on your back while you work or be carried about on your shoulders, but do they get to spend every night snuggled up in your arms, feeling your chest rise and fall with every breath you take? no, he doesn’t think so

in conclusion: one day himbos like you will probably take over the world with their big muscles and unwavering loyalty and clueless grins that could make anyone’s heart skip a beat, and simeon’s pretty sure he’d be okay with it

1K notes · View notes

dr3amofagame · 3 years

Text

take a shot - dsmp!mcc fic

MCC FIC! MCC FIC! MCC FIC! To be clear, I outlined this weeks back, when teams were first announced, and I took very very little from the actual MCC itself when it came to actually writing this - all I have are the same teams, but it really exists in its own continuity outside of Real Life MCC (obviously, as it’s using the dsmp characters) and everything like that as a whole! Just to be clear :D)

The worldbuilding is also Absolutely Bullshitted start to finish, as well as any and all medical information. Rip. We’re here for a good time, not for a long or particularly accurate one - hope you guys enjoy regardless!! I had a LOT of fun writing this fic, dsmp!mcc aus my BELOVED

title obviously from win it all by derivakat

---

Michael loves MCC.

But it’s one thing to love the normal Championships and quite another when his team looks like it’s falling apart from the inside out - and as the games progress, it becomes more and more obvious that losing, this time, might not be an option.

tws: C!QUACKITY CRITICAL (sorry i promise i love him but he is NOT portrayed very nicely here, very dark portrayal of him), implied trauma, abuse, torture, panic attacks, manipulation, gaslighting, needles, hospitals, MCC-typical violence, emotional distress, prison arc, pandora’s vault themes

(16k words !! :D long boi)

Michael loves MCC.

Of course he does! It’s fucking MCC - like, who wouldn’t love it? MCC is how he met so many people, how he met Dream, that one time, the two of them teamed with Techno and Burren and winning it all - MCC is a goddamn blast and he’s thankful every time he gets the invite that he’s able to compete.

Still- it’s hard not to be a little more nervous, now.

Dream gave him an invite to his SMP right after they teamed, but it wasn’t until months later that Michael actually cashed it in. Entering the server, it became very obvious very quickly that the DreamSMP, as it’s known, isn’t quite the same as its shiny media appearance. The spawn was covered in blocks, creeper holes littering the ground. The people he passed were grey-faced, too stoic to be the same, smiling faces he remembers from only less than a year ago. The air stings of gunpowder and iron. Worst of all are The Crater, shoddily covered in glass that does nothing to hide the damage done, rending the server in two straight down to bedrock, and the Prison, looming on the horizon. Absent-mindedly, Michael rubs at his left shoulder, remembering the Warden setting the prongs of his trident against the skin in warning, just hard enough to barely draw blood. Yeah, that place is bad news.

The fact of the matter is the server is a mess. And like, okay, whatever, Michael gets it. Everyone has their issues - it’s just the DreamSMP seems to have more than most. Despite his original worries, it’s honestly not been as bad as he originally feared upon logging in; yeah, Bad and Puffy and Foolish and the rest of them are a little more trigger-happy than he might’ve expected (and he’s not going to say that Bad crying over turtles wasn’t a little startling when he first joined, but honestly he thinks Bad is just Like That.) There’s way more death than he’s really comfortable with, and Puffy keeps mentioning Bad murdering her son (Foolish? He thinks? The guy is also a literal God but like, families are weird, who’s he to judge) in a way that’s way too casual to come from anyone entirely well-adjusted, but overall his experience has been alright.

Still, he gets the feeling that nobody exactly wants the outside world to know about the issues with the place. It’s not an issue for him usually, not when his sleeping schedule is the exact opposite of most of the people he knows and he spends most of his time screwing around on the server, anyway (usually harassing the Warden until the asscrack of dawn if he’s being honest) but with MCC, with everyone watching - he’s starting to get why everyone from the SMP was so damn tense all the time, now.

Anyway- he loves MCC, he really does. But even that doesn’t stop him from wincing when he sees his team card, the names Dream and Quackity and Sapnap written in Scott’s looping handwriting. He’s not seen Sapnap at all since joining the server, has only heard a little about his place (something Kingdom, not that he was paying attention) from Foolish, and has no idea what the man has been up to. Quackity is his own unique can of worms; Michael doesn’t know exactly what’s up with him and his country, but everything he’s heard so far has sounded like nothing but bad news, casinos and schemes and a trail of wreckage following wherever he goes. And Dream-

Michael looks out his window, chewing on his lip, looking directly in the direction where he knows the prison stands, impenetrable, intimidating. Where Dream’s cell is, in line with his house, where he’s been hidden for months without a trace. Where the Warden had confronted him that one night, a dangerous gleam in his eyes, blood splattered on his boots.

There’s no real ignoring an MCC invite - not without good reason, not without the admins picking up on something being up. There’s not really a choice, here, but for Michael to duck his head down and pretend everything’s fine just like everyone else from the SMP. He directs one last glance at the prison before walking away, setting the invite on his counter. If he’s lucky, everything will turn out fine.

(He ignores the part of him that asks what’s going to happen if they’re not. No point in worrying about what hasn’t happened yet - right?)

---

Weeks pass, the tournament creeping closer, and Michael gets no alerts from his teammates on his comm. No one comes to his house to check in, say hi, not even a ‘hey, we’re kinda competing in a massive tournament in like, seven days, you ready?’ Hell, he even starts checking his goddamn mailbox for a letter or something only to come up empty-handed every time. Never mind performing well - it’ll be a miracle if their team manages to arrive at the tournament at all.

It isn’t until the day before MCC, the sun high in the sky at what must be near noon, when he finally gets a message on his comm. Michael fishes it out with a frustrated huff, seeing Quackity’s name pop up first when he manages to turn on the screen.

Quackity whispers to you: you down for some practice?

It takes a couple seconds for him to blink away his shock - out of everyone he expected to arrange practice for their team, Quackity was definitely not at the top of the list. He half-thought they would have to drag him to the tournament kicking and screaming; from what he’s heard, he’s been nothing if not devoted to his country. Shaking his head, he goes to reply; practice is practice, and their team really needs it.

You whisper to Quackity: sure. practice server?

Quackity whispers to you: yes

Pulling up his server list, Michael scrolls for the practice server, finding it and then letting the server transfer do the rest. A few nausea-inducing seconds later, he’s at the practice server spawn, standing in the middle of a neatly paved road surrounded by colorful arenas and signs.

“Michael!”

He turns; there, by the Battle Box arenas, Quackity is waving at him, already dressed in a red varsity jacket and a pair of shorts, the jacket bearing a front pocket embroidered with a rabbit and a large R stitched onto the back. He reaches behind him for a red bag, throws it his way for Michael to catch mid-air.

“Got these outfits for us last minute - hope it’s alright with you,” Quackity smiles, and Michael tries to prevent his eyes from clinging to the scar spanning the entire left side of his face. “Anyway- how are you, man? I feel like we haven’t seen each other at all on the server. How’s it been?”

“I’m good- it’s been good.” Michael opens the drawstring bag, cataloguing the contents - there’s a jacket, just like Quackity’s, a pair of shorts and sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a headband, all in varying shades of red and white. “Nice outfit- thank you. Is anyone else around?”

Quackity waves a hand behind him. “Yeah- Dream’s here. Should be coming out of the arena soon, actually.” Michael looks over behind his shoulder to where he’s pointing - there, walking down the stairs, is another figure wearing all red that must be Dream. “There he is- hey Dream! Michael’s here!”

Dream hurries down the stairs; unlike Quackity, he is wearing the sweatpants along with the same jacket, hands stuffed in his pockets. His hair is a lot longer than Michael remembers, pulled back behind his head in a ponytail, mask, as usual, fastened over his face. He settles behind Quackity, giving Michael a small wave; his hands are covered by a pair of fingerless gloves.

“Hey, Dream!” Michael grins; it’s been such a long time since he’s seen his old teammate, and despite the circumstances and everything that’s apparently happened since then, it’s still pretty damn nice to see him. “How’ve you been?”

Dream seems to freeze for a moment, before shaking his head. “Good,” he says, quiet, sounding almost breathless. Michael’s eyes go to the slivers of skin that show on either side of his face, to the slight shake to his hands.

“You alright? You look a little pale,” Michael asks, and he definitely doesn’t miss the way Dream stills at the words, muscles tensing, gaze averting to the side even with the mask - doesn’t miss how Quackity steps forward, looking Michael in the eye as he tosses a casual arm around Dream’s shoulder, smiling brightly.

“Don’t worry. This idiot has just been practicing a bit too much before you got here,” Quackity gestures with a flippant twist of his wrist, “You know how he gets. Right, Dream?”

“Um- yeah. Ha,” Dream responds just a little too late to be strictly normal, shoulders tight and nearly pulled to his ears under Quackity’s arm. “Practice- I’m a little out of shape.”

“You sure?” Dream’s breathing hitches and Quackity steps forward, just a little bit, eyes still fixed firmly on Michael’s own even as he shifts his gaze to try and look at Dream. “We can take a break if you need, Dream-”

“I’m fine!” Dream smiles with a little stuttered breath that turns into a small laugh, “It’s- uh. It’s fine. Thanks Michael, but we can practice. Not much time left to waste, you know?”

“You sure, Dream?” Quackity says, suddenly, voice soft and sincere. “I guess it has been a while since you’ve been able to practice- you sure you don’t need a break?”

Dream shakes his head firmly. “No- it’s fine. Really- where’s Sapnap? He should be coming soon, right?”

“If you say so, pal,” Quackity replies, doubt coloring his tone as he pulls out his communicator. “I told Sapnap to come, he replied a couple minutes back; he should be here soon, I think. You want to go meet him at spawn?”

Dream nods, and they begin to set out towards the center of the server, Quackity and Dream quickly taking the lead as Michael falls back. After a minute, Quackity falls into casual conversation, rambling about something as Dream nods, Michael trailing behind the two of them and adding his own input as he sees fit. Sapnap arrives soon after, and the noise level picks up even more after that, Sapnap and Quackity falling into an easy rhythm of banter and quips as they set out to practice Battle Box and Parkour Tag, carefully working their way through the different games under Dream’s tutelage and advice.

And here’s the thing- Michael isn’t stupid. Yeah, he’d hardly consider himself a top tier MCC player, and he’ll be the first to say that he’s nowhere near qualified to deal with the literal laundry list of issues that affect every member of the SMP, but even so, he’s not clueless. He’s good at looking at multiple sides of a situation, doesn’t easily give into intimidation or manipulation, and he’s observant as all hell. So when Quackity wraps his hand around Dream’s wrist, fingers wrapping all the way around until his knuckles pale, when Dream winces, muscles in his arm locking before letting it go limp, not protesting when Quackity drags him forward except in the tiny, tight expressions that flit across his face every few moments, tight and gasping and shaky at the corners - Michael notices.

“See you at the tourney, yeah?” Quackity calls to him after practice with a wink before clapping Dream on the back, Michael watching silently as the muscles of Dream’s neck pull tight, head ducking to his chest. “Good job, big guy,” he says, laughing. “Keep this up for tomorrow and we’ll be good.”

“Mmhm,” Dream mutters after a brief second, “We’re- we’re gonna win.”

“Betting on it, pal,” Quackity replies, voice light in a way that completely fails to explain Dream’s full-body flinch. “MCC, huh? Can’t fucking wait.”

“See you tomorrow, Quackity,” Michael says as he presses DreamSMP on his server list, pretending that a chill doesn’t crawl down his spine at the smile that the other man throws his way in return.

---

There’s no real easy answer.

Michael comes to that conclusion at some point in the middle of the night, restless and pumped on way too much adrenaline to go to sleep. He can’t outright antagonize Quackity, can’t let him know he knows something’s up - not when Quackity had already spent the majority of practice keeping one dark, narrowed eye on him at all times, lips pursed in a slight frown whenever he thought Michael wasn’t looking. He’s not stupid; whatever’s happening between Dream and Quackity is secret, and kept that way for a reason. His mind goes back to the brief flashes of anxiety that had moved over Dream’s face before he could react fast enough to school them back into a carefully neutral position; whatever it is, he doubts it bodes well for Dream in the slightest.

Unfortunately, his hands are pretty damn tied. He knows public opinion on the masked man in the server is overwhelmingly negative, but has no damn idea how far it extends. How many people are in on whatever’s happening in that damn prison? How many people know what would make Dream, bold and bright and recklessly confident in all of Michael’s (rather limited) memories, into someone so quiet, unimposing, nervous? His head spins with the possibilities, with the ever-present reminder to not make a fuss, let the tournament pass on, to never, ever let anyone find out what’s going on within the SMP. Should he do anything at all?

Too soon, it’s morning, and he drags himself out of bed with a groan to glare at the sun streaming through his window. Somewhere, Quackity and Dream and Sapnap are also waking up, are preparing to compete in one of the biggest damn tournaments to exist. Michael sighs, glancing over to where he’s set out his outfit, freshly pressed and waiting. Any other day, and he’d probably be fucking ecstatic. Here, he buries his head in his hands, muffling a frustrated groan against the palm of his hands.

He loves MCC, but he sure as hell doesn’t like whatever the hell is going on with the rest of his team.

Getting into the server goes smoothly enough. The outfit is comfortable and looks damn good, props to whoever made the thing, and the sight of the multicolored crowd successfully manages to tamp down some of his nerves. He busies himself with saying hi to all of the members waiting in the lobby, happy for the chance to talk to some people he hasn’t seen in ages, feels the night of anxieties wash away with every stupid joke told and burst of laughter drawn from his lungs.

They come back the moment Scott steps up in front of the lobby. “Teams, it’s time to head to your team rooms! The tournament will begin in fifteen minutes,” Scott says, expression sunny and bright, “we’re wishing you all luck for a great performance today! May the best team win!”

In a flurry of movement, they’re all whisked to their rooms for a final few minutes of preparation and morale-boosting, and Michael enters the glorified dressing room to Quackity, Dream, and Sapnap already standing there, seemingly in the middle of conversation.

“You ready to win?” Sapnap yells, and Quackity whoops, and Michael manages a small cheer of his own. They’re all visibly nervous; Quackity has scarcely stopped moving, pacing from one side of the room to the next; Sapnap is basically jumping in place where he stands. Dream stands at the very back of the room, looking tense; Michael directs a wave his way and gets a small one in return.

“Game plan, game plan,” Quackity mutters, “do we know what games we’re playing first? Dream?”

He nods at Dream, and Dream stands up straighter, mouth falling open.

“Oh- um,” he hesitates, a strand of hair flopping forwards as he tilts his head in thought. “We’ll want to save Parkour Tag and Battle Box towards the end- maybe something more high-risk at the beginning, but not first, just to boost morale,” his teeth catch on his bottom lip, “Maybe something like To Get To The Other Side? If they have that- or Build Mart, if we can get it out of the way.” He shakes his head. “If that’s alright- I mean-”

“Great,” Quackity cuts in smoothly. “Sapnap? Michael? Does that sound good to you?”

Sapnap flashes a thumbs up, and Michael nods. “Yeah, sounds great. Thanks, Dream.”

Dream’s head snaps towards him, mouth slightly open in shock. The sight of it makes Michael’s gut twist uncomfortably; there’s something about how surprised he is, at the nervous hesitancy with which he spoke that was nothing like what Michael remembers of his easy leadership in that MCC with Techno, that doesn’t sit right at all in his stomach. Even with his expression largely hidden, there’s no mistaking the clear, genuine surprise on his face at the idea of someone thanking him - Michael tries to tell himself that he’s reading too much into it as Quackity continues to speak.

“We’re going to win,” he grins, just a little too sharp at the edges, “so get out there and play like your lives depend on it, yeah?”

Sapnap cheers, and again, Michael and Dream follow. It’s not until he’s outside the door, within the clamor of screaming teams and people counting down with the timer that Michael realizes that Quackity was staring at Dream the entire time.

---

Michael curses, frustrated, when he’s knocked off a platform again, making sure to flip Krinios the bird before he falls into the Void entirely. When he makes it to the other side, Quackity and Dream are already deep in conversation - if you can call it that. Even from here, it looks worryingly one-sided.

“-were you thinking, falling off there-” Quackity’s hand is on Dream’s shoulder, Dream standing stock-still in front of him, “you better be taking this seriously, Dream.”

“Hey- sorry about that,” Michael calls with a wave, “I swear Krinios had it out for me. At least I made it across, right?”

Quackity turns, startled, and in the split-second that it takes for him to register Michael’s appearance, his expression smooths over into something friendlier, more inviting. “Michael!” He says, enthusiastic, and it’s like the anger that had filled his words just seconds before was never there at all. “Don’t- don’t worry about it, man. We all kinda dropped the ball on that one, right Dream?”

The words should be encouraging, just simple ribbing between teammates. Dream’s mask is still ducked down, facing the floor, shoulders slightly hunched in.

“Um- Sapnap did pretty good,” Dream says, quiet, “he got top ten, right?”

Michael looks over to where Sapnap is standing a little ways away, seemingly busy typing on his communicator. Quackity laughs, sharp and loud.

“True,” he punches Dream lightly on the upper arm, and Michael watches the way he freezes the second the fist makes contact with his jacket, “come on, man, you’re losing your touch. You really gonna let yourself get beat by Sapnap?” he shakes his head, still laughing as he pulls open his communicator. “Jesus- even I beat you in that last round. Watch your spot, Dream, I’m coming for you.”

“I mean,” Michael says when a second passes and it becomes clear Dream isn’t going to respond, “Dream was doing pretty well with the last two rounds, right? I thought I saw his name pretty far up there.”

Quackity takes a second before responding, again, staring at Michael oddly as he does. “That’s true,” he concedes, “hey- I was just making a joke, don’t worry. It’s all for fun, right Dream?”

His gaze goes to Dream, and automatically, Michael follows. Dream seems to startle under the attention, twitching Quackity’s direction in the awkward silence that results. Michael watches as the mask slants slightly to face Quackity, as Quackity looks back at him with an intense, unreadable expression, shoulders strangely tense. Whatever unsaid conversation that seems to pass between them is entirely lost on Michael as Dream finally responds with a sudden, almost strangled bark of laughter.

“Yeah- just jokes,” his fingers twist over one another, hands held close together in front of his body, “Though Qu- Q’s right, I- I should probably pick it up. We’re playing to win.”

A ding alerts them to the end of the round, and Michael steadies himself in preparation for the teleport to the next map. As he turns, he catches Quackity’s expression, once again, and the self-satisfied smirk on his face as he continues to look at Dream.

“Good luck,” he calls just before they enter the next round, and tries not to think too much about what he’s saying it for.

---

They manage pretty well for the rest of To Get To The Other Side, finishing with a second place overall that got cheers from Sapnap and even a slight smile from Dream. Hole in the Wall, on the other hand, has been a lot less successful - though Michael will be the first to say that it’s his fault. His practice in the last few months has been lackluster (at best) and it definitely showed in the arena.

He leans over the railing, watching Dream and Sapnap through the crowd of participants left that have yet to be knocked out by the giant walls of slime. Quackity’s standing next to him, having been similarly thrown off the platform early in the round, expression tight and lips set in a small frown, and looking at him for too long makes Michael uneasy so he looks down at the arena again. They’re in the last round, and they’re supposed to be making callouts anyway for their teammates still participating below.

Without thinking, once again, Michael looks over at Dream. Sue him, he knows the guy best and Dream has been acting odd all day, to put it lightly. Even ignoring the part of him that’s screaming that something’s wrong, that there’s something up that has everything to do with the beanie-wearing man standing besides him, it only takes a few minutes of observation to see that Dream is - for the lack of a better word - off. Michael watches as he vaults over another wall, only barely managing to bring himself to his feet in time on the other side. Dream’s movements - even to his untrained eye - have always been fluid, effortless. He jumped and vaulted and ran like gravity didn’t exist, like every physics-bending maneuver he made was as easy as breathing. Michael remembers watching him sprint over the parkour course before, time completely unmatched as he appraised each obstacle and basically flew his way through, sounding hardly even winded when he whooped loudly in victory from the top of the salmon ladder. In total contrast, Dream jerks away from the coming wall again, movements sloppy and harsh as he scrambles to the other side of the disc-shaped arena. He’s still fast, and still making jumps, but everything is strangely angled where it had once been fluid, stopping and starting suddenly, moving in bursts of speed and then skidding to sudden stops.

“WEST!” Quackity shouts, and Michael watches as Dream’s head turns jerkily at the noise before he dives out of the way of the incoming wall and manages, barely, to twist around the side. Michael winces at the tumble he takes on the opposite side, clutching his chest slightly as he stands back up again.

“North!” Michael calls, because he should probably actually help his teammates, huh, and Dream manages to move around this one better, jumping through a hole in the wall and tucking and rolling as he lands. “Nice jump- East!”

It’s an easy wall, thankfully, and both Sapnap and Dream visibly take a breath as they stand in place for the wall to pass over them. As it passes, a droning buzz comes from the speakers, and the walls below them speed up.

“South-to your right!” Michael shouts as they turn, eyes turning between all of the false walls before finally focusing on the right one, his shout echoed by a similar one from Quackity. At each one of the calls from the man besides him, Dream seems to tighten further, movements increasingly erratic as he dodges and weaves around the walls. There’s still a lot of people left - Michael follows Dream through the crowd with a frown, watching as he and Sapnap jump the next wall, Dream’s foot nearly catching on the top edge.

“West-” Dream flinches, jumping over the two-high wall at the last possible second, landing completely off-balance on the other side and falling to the ground. He scrambles to his feet, but there’s already a wall at the west edge of the platform - his head turns, still searching for the wall - Quackity yells.

“LEFT!”

Something in Dream’s movements seem to shift, even in the distance - Michael watches as he immediately, almost robotically, steps to the left at Quackity’s voice, not even jumping, not turning his head to take in his surroundings, just moving instinctually at the words, and slams into the coming wall hard enough to get flung into the middle hole in the platform. Quackity curses, fist crashing into the railing as Dream falls and the chat message shows on their communicators, and a second later he’s materialized beside them, face oddly slack and mask focused somewhere faraway.

“Shit,” Dream mutters when he seems to come back into himself, shaking his head and then turning to the two of them, still by the railing, “Dammit. Sorry, I-“

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael cuts in before Quackity can speak. “You did good.”

“I-” Dream catches Quackity’s gaze, then pushes his head away, mask facing the ground. Something about it and his raised shoulders and the dark, angry glare that Quackity directs over the railing when Michael looks back makes him shift in place, uneasy. “Could’ve done better, ha. Sorry.”

The three of them watch, silent, as Sapnap continues to compete. He manages to get pretty damn far, making it to the top three, but getting knocked off-balance by a wall and off the platform just before the timer sounds. Michael cringes back at the sound of it over the speakers, watches the other contestants settle into place, panting, in victory.

“Great job, Sapnap,” Michael shouts when he materializes in front of them, and the other two are quick to echo his sentiments. If they sound a little duller than they should be, if Quackity’s jaw seems clenched and Dream’s all coiled up like a spring, far too tense, it’s from placing lower than they wanted and slipping in the rankings, not anything else.

Keep your head down, Michael reminds himself, and everything’s gonna be fine. And if the words ring more and more hollow with every repetition, well, that’s for him to ignore and for everyone else to never, ever find out.

---

Buildmart is chosen next, which they all groan at, but at least it’s going to be out early and not left to ruin all of their scores later. Michael takes his place at his build, one third from the left side - it’s some abomination of colored glass and white concrete meant, if he is to guess, to emulate a stained glass window. He’s between Dream and Sapnap, the former positioned in front of a flower-dotted grass field with a picnic table, the latter staring down a miniature car with black concrete for tires and stone buttons for detailing. He breathes a steady breath as they await the countdown, already planning for his trip to the Colors section to grab materials for his build and the others’- Buildmart isn’t his strongest game, but it’s not his worst either, and he’s damn well going to try his best.

He skids into the portal with an armful of colored concrete and glass, spilling half of its contents inside a chest before running to his build. He pulls himself to the crafting bench to craft - he squints at his build - he needs four red glass panes and 3 yellow, right. As he brings the panes to his inventory and begins laying out the frame of the build in concrete, he looks over to Dream, who is noticeably struggling with placing the flowers in his build and getting the placements to match that of the original. He knocks away a white tulip with a muffled curse, sounding frantic as he looks back to the original, and places it again to no avail.

It seems that his struggle hasn’t only caught Michael’s attention, as the statue to the leftmost side of the room explodes in gold coins and confetti - Quackity has finished his build and is now looking at Dream with narrowed eyes. Dream places the flower again, and the build refuses to respond. Quackity’s gaze narrows further, and he opens his mouth-

“Hey Quackity!” Michael starts speaking before he’s even noticed that he’s opened his mouth, fumbling as he regains awareness of what he’s doing and tries to find a direction for his sentence to go, “do you have any concrete?”

Quackity looks at him like he’s grown a second head, which is fair, considering there’s a block of white concrete pretty obviously visible in his hand. “Um- no? Weren’t you supposed to go to Colors?”

Dream finally manages to place the tulip where it belongs, and the build between them disappears in another explosion of gold glitter. Michael laughs awkwardly.

“Sorry- haha. I got a little mixed up.” He places the last piece of white concrete, watching as his own build disappears. A little wooden cottage takes its place, made of what appears to be just oak wood and cobblestone. “Are you going to get wood? Or should I?”

“I- You get wood,” Quackity shakes his head, visibly frustrated, “And I’ll get stone. We have to hurry, we’re falling behind.”

After that, Michael finds it a little too easy - or maybe not easy, but at least tolerable, to interrupt when Quackity looks a little like he’s about to fall on the side of being angry versus just annoyed, stepping between his angry glares at Dream with a forced smile and an incessant string of annoying questions-

“Hey Quackity, do you have any spare iron?”

“Hey Quackity, I think you placed that a little too far back.”

“Hey Quackity, can you take a look to see what I placed wrong?”

It’s not perfect. It’s hardly even functional; Michael knows that Quackity has begun with the habit of directing death glares at his back whenever he thinks he’s not looking, his responses to Michael’s questions becoming more and more clipped, often paired with irritated grumbles and sighs. Sapnap, when Michael looks at him, seems largely engrossed with his own builds, but he’s also begun looking over at the two of them with a vaguely dissatisfied expression, and Dream only seems to be getting more jumpy with every frustrated growl out of Quackity’s mouth. Even Michael’s forced levity and falsely ignorant questions can’t do much against Quackity’s anger when they walk out of Buildmart dead last for the minigame, dropping their team all the way down to seventh in the overall rankings, and the tension within the team as they walk out - Quackity nearly stomping, Dream following with his hands wringing around each other and head ducked fearfully - is almost enough to make Michael scream. He looks at the scoreboard with a worried expression as he enters the Decision Dome, trying to quell the sinking feeling in his gut.

There’s still five more games to go, and he’s not sure how long they can last before something snaps.

---

Battle Box is chosen next, and they react to the game with quiet cheers and slightly grim faces. Michael’s been in enough MCCs to know that this game, of any, is crucial - after their lacking performances in the last two games, a good showing at Battle Box will be crucial to pull them back into the competition and raise morale. With Sapnap and Dream, if this were any normal game, they should be able to sweep through a good amount of the competition without much effort. As it is, though, Michael looks at the two more combat-oriented members of his team with a worried expression, the two barely even able to meet each other’s eyes. Their interactions so far have been less than promising- if they can’t hold it together for this round, well.

Michael shakes his head. They’ll do fine. They have to.

Even so, the first round only seems to confirm his concerns - they get woolrushed almost immediately, and in Dream and Sapnap’s stumbling to get to mid, nearly crashing into each other and focusing their efforts on the same player by accident, the other team manages to fill out the wool, sending them back to the spawn box even more frustrated than before.

“Amazing teamwork, guys,” Quackity snarks immediately, and Michael rolls his eyes.

“Like you did that much.”

Sapnap is still staring at Dream oddly, Dream turning his head to avoid his gaze. The two of them look largely oblivious to Quackity and his whole deal, even as Quackity whirls around to give him the stink eye.

“You didn’t do anything either, if I remember correctly,” Quackity mutters, and Michael shrugs.

“Fair.”

A ding alerts them to the round’s end, and they resign themselves to preparing for the next round. Michael picks the extra arrows from the wall, knowing that no one else will want the kit, and watches as Dream anxiously runs his hands over the crossbow.

The next round goes better, barely; Michael and Quackity end up knocked out pretty early, but Dream and Sapnap manage to kill the rest of the team soon after. He watches from the box as they fill in the wool, Dream looking awfully tense as he shears away the white wool for Sapnap to fill it with red. Quackity watches them both with a tight expression, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Michael turns away, ignoring him, going back to watching Dream and Sapnap still standing within the arena. Both of them look awkward, oddly out of step with each other - Michael’s not watched them fight much, but he knows that they have a reputation as a pair, was there for the Sky Battle round where they completely wiped through the competition. Even here, Sapnap moves forward and Dream flinches back - there’s something heavy and tense between them, lingering in the few words they’ve spoken to each other, if they’ve even spoken to each other at all, one always rushing forward too fast or following just a little too slow. They’re still brilliant fighters, almost unrivaled in hand-to-hand combat and with swords, but the faltering communication is sure to hurt them more in the future.

His worries come true just three rounds later, the two in between being narrow wins for their team, each a little more shaky than would be comfortable. Michael has found himself easing off the worst of his anxiety in verbally sparring with Quackity, jabbing at the other with offhand remarks and little needling jokes to keep his attention off the other two, especially as his glare has become more pronounced and his words more angry. Even so, nothing he does or can do will fix the odd tension between Dream and Sapnap, whose communication remains as stilted and awkward as ever.

They’re facing a stronger team, PVP wise, with Punz and Seapeekay, and Michael ends up falling in a bow duel against Jack. He watches as the Captain falls to a potion by Sapnap, then as Jack is taken out by a crossbow bolt courtesy of Dream, just before Quackity falls to a well-timed bow shot from the opposing team.

That leaves the strongest PVPers to battle it out, and Dream and Sapnap manage to team up and kill CPK - but not without taking a nasty damage potion to the face that must leave the two of them low. Michael watches Punz, booking it to mid with a crossbow, anxiously - both of them would be a oneshot with the thing, and on the condition that he takes no damage before fighting with either of them outright, he’s probably got enough health to hold out a few hits.

Sapnap pulls out a health potion, and Michael grins - that’ll be good for the two of them, and should secure them the win - only for him to gesture roughly with his sword and for Dream to stagger backwards, panic flashing over his face. He only seems to grow more fearful at the sound of glass shattering on the ground, falling backwards further - far enough to be largely out of range of health pot - and in their shock, Punz manages to catch both of them off guard and nail Sapnap with a crossbow bolt that downs him for the round before similarly dispatching Dream in two hits of his sword.

Sapnap explodes upon respawn in the box - “What was that? I had a health pot!”

“I-” Dream fumbles, face still oddly pale, “Sorry I didn’t- I- I-”

“We had that round!” Sapnap’s arms flail forward as he gestures angrily, Dream freezing further as one hand skims past his shoulder. “I can’t believe- I had a health pot! Punz was on, like, half! We could’ve killed him!”

“Easy, easy,” Quackity moves forward, putting a hand on both of their shoulders - Sapnap seems to relax immediately, while Dream, if anything, only looks more tense. “It’s time for the next round - we’ll talk about this later, alright?”

Dream nods, movements overly tense, and Quackity flashes a toothy smile his way as Sapnap moves back, still mumbling to himself. He and Quackity move to talk in the back corner, words quiet enough that Michael cannot make them out, and something sick and cold slithers over his spine. Sapnap and Quackity are fiancés, aren’t they?

Michael looks over at Dream, mask still covering his face as he looks away through the glass to the arena, shoulders still tight as Michael’s pretty sure they’ve been for as long as he’s seen him since he came onto the server. He remembers the panic that make itself obvious on his face every time Quackity came up to him, even as covered as it is, the similar- if not the same- fear that had painted his face when he respawned fresh off of the Battle Box round after Sapnap’s sword had passed a little too close to his body.

Quackity and Dream- he’s sure, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, that there’s something going on there, dark and dreadful and poisonous. Who’s to say that Sapnap isn’t involved, as well?

---

They finish Battle Box decently well, but not as well as they’d hoped, pulling them up to fifth place with a decently large gap between them and fourth. Quackity and Dream disappear immediately as the Audience Votes begin coming in, leaving Sapnap and Michael to stand awkwardly in the lobby to wait for the rest of their team to come back. Michael watches the crowd for a glimpse of Quackity and Dream, comes up empty. A sigh fizzles through his teeth as he looks up into the sky, the endless blue doing little to ease his nerves - he’s worried, even if he doesn’t want to think about it, for his teammates. For Dream.

It doesn’t take a genius to see that the man is scared of Quackity, that there’s an odd sort of history there that Michael conveniently has no information about. Whatever it is, it’s left Dream unsure and uncharacteristically nervous, left the entire team floundering without proper leadership to tie them all together. Really, a part of him knows that the Championships should be the least of his concerns - if he were braver, or a little better at combat, or a little less inclined to just let things pass as they always have, then he’d be raising a fuss. Getting in the way, talking to Dream, doing something other than making backhanded compliments to Quackity that he’s sure have been doing little more than annoy the man further.

“Michael?” Sapnap comes within his line of sight, lips pressed together in a carefully put-together expression that Michael is sure will collapse the moment they’re away from others’ prying eyes, “Can we speak for a moment?”

Michael forces another easy smile to his face as he turns towards his teammate, feels a little disgusted at the amount of them he’s had to use to simply function with the rest of his team. “Sure! Where to?”

They walk at a brisk pace to the team room, Sapnap’s eyes focused forwards the entire time, not speaking. If he’s being honest, it’s a little awkward, but the lighthearted comment on his tongue to break the silence dies out the minute Sapnap closes the door and looks back at him with fierce, focused eyes boring into him.

“What’s your deal?” He hisses immediately, words pitched low even though he doesn’t really have to - there’s no one nearby, and the team rooms are decently soundproofed. Michael feels his hackles rising as Sapnap’s arms cross in front of him, eyes still focused on his own as he talks. “I’m not going to lie- I don’t know you that well, even though you’re on the SMP now, but can you quit it with Quackity already?”

“Quit what?” Michael snarks - sue him - matching Sapnap’s tone with irritation of his own.

“Don’t- you’ve been antagonizing Quackity all day,” Sapnap’s hand runs through his hair, messing up his hair and tangling it into knots, “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re kind of in the middle of a competition here? So it’d be really nice if you could save the fighting for until after we’re done?”

“Says you?” Michael can’t help the retort this time, huffing irately at the offended expression that flashes over the other’s face, “I don’t really know if you’ve noticed, but your teamwork has been a little less than stellar, today. Pot calling the kettle black, much?”

“What-” Sapnap looks confused, even through his anger, gesturing more and more wildly. “What do you even mean?”

“Oh, so are we just ignoring what just happened in Battle Box then?”

Sapnap’s eyes flash as he closes into himself again, hands gripping at his upper arms as he crosses his arms in front of his chest once again. “That- that’s different. That’s because of Dream.”

“Oh, just keep blaming it on the other guy, why don’t you?”

“No-” Sapnap shakes his head furiously. “You haven’t been on here for nearly as long, you don’t get it, Michael. Dream- he’s-,” Sapnap flails, and Michael groans at the familiar words.

“Dream’s what? I was on the team with the guy before, you know. It’s kind of the reason why he invited me in the first place?” He raises an eyebrow. “We worked together perfectly well then - am I supposed to believe that his self-proclaimed ‘best friend’ can’t do the same?”

“You don’t understand,” Sapnap repeats, expression hard and oddly far away, “Dream- he’s changed- he’s done so many terrible things. I don’t know what he’s said to convince you, but he’s bad news, man. He’s hurt- so many people.”

“Oh- you want to talk about hurting people?”

Michael isn’t quite sure what comes over him - only really realizes a white-hot flash of rage lancing through his chest, a sleepless night and half a competition’s worth of anxiety and frustration and build up combining into a sizzling spike of fury that briefly tinges his vision red.

“How about the way Dream looks like he’s about to keel over whenever anyone gets close to him? How about how he flinches back at literally every loud noise and fast movement? How about how Quackity’s been making these stupid, angry comments at him for the entire competition that make him freeze for a minute each time? Or how about when you were in Battle Box and Dream backed away from your sword like he thought you were gonna drive it through his chest?” Michael barely feels himself stepping forward with each word, jabbing his index finger into the other’s chest. “You want to talk about hurting people? How about you go talk to that fiancé of yours and then come back to talk?”

A loud, droning buzz comes over the speakers, alerting them of the end of the break. Michael steps back, face flushed in embarrassment, before the world whirls away and they’re teleported back into the Decision Dome.

He adamantly refuses to meet Sapnap’s eyes as Quackity and Dream materialize in the sector with them, Quackity’s hand clamped around Dream’s upper arm as the other man keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, looking even more panicked and frozen than before the break.

“You ready to win?” Quackity laughs, and Michael watches as his hand tightens around the sleeve of Dream’s jacket, knuckles paling from the strain.

“Yeah,” Michael tries to cheer, and it feels like ash on his tongue. “Let’s do this.”

---

Survival Games ends up being picked next - Quackity and Sapnap quickly pull up to the front of the group, close enough to be within eyesight but too far to really pick up their conversation. Michael keeps an eye out for the reddish glow of their bodies as they scout the surrounding areas for chest, staying back with Dream as they look at the other side of the road. He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel a smug sort of satisfaction of Sapnap seemingly confronting Quackity about whatever the hell has been going on, as awkward as his whole outburst had been. As it is, some time with Dream is nice without Quackity watching over his shoulder like a hawk - he directs a small, genuine smile at the man by his side that Dream seems to do a double take at before shyly returning it with one of his own.

“There- I think I see a chest,” Michael points under a lamppost, running to the wooden box and flicking the lid upwards. He pulls out a chain chestplate that he promptly puts on himself, then throws over the iron boots to his teammate as well as a small stone axe that he’s sure Dream will make better use of. “We should probably catch up to the others - don’t want to be caught off guard while separated.”

Dream nods, and the two of them pick up the pace before finding another chest that Dream rummages through, this time, finding an iron sword that Michael takes for himself and a cake.

“You’ve been doing really well so far,” Michael says after a few minutes of quiet, words becoming more firm when Dream looks up at him with a surprised expression. “Seriously- you’ve been doing great, man.”

“Thanks,” Dream smiles, words quiet and terribly sincere, and the sinking pit in Michael’s gut returns at the tone. “Not as good as I should, though. I’ve been underperforming a lot,” he laughs a little at the words, but even to Michael’s ears it rings hollow. “It’s not over yet, though.”

“No it’s not,” Michael concedes, rearranging his inventory as they run. “But it’s good enough, man, really - just look at my rankings.”

Dream huffs. “You’ve been doing good, Michael.”

“And you’ve been doing a hell of a lot better than me,” Michael tips his head in his direction. “Give yourself some more credit, man. You’ve been playing well.”

Dream smiles again, but even now the corners of his mouth seem tight, tense. “I need to play better, though, if we want to win,” he says, matter-of-fact, analytical to a damn fault. Michael rolls his eyes, but nods to concede the point.

“Sure, but that goes for all of us, Dream,” he shakes his head. “And it’s okay if we don’t win, you know?”

“No.”

Michael turns, frowning. Dream’s tone has become oddly flat, eyes dead as he continues to stare at the pavement under their feet. He seems to be chewing on his lip anxiously, startled out of his own thoughts when he looks up to meet Michael’s gaze. “I mean- I don’t know. I really have- want to win.”

There’s something so carefully worded about the admission, quiet and scraped open and raw in the slow sincerity of the words. Michael wants to poke at it, wants to understand what’s left him so unsure of every step, what determination lies behind the words that has left desperation clinging to every shallow breath he draws. A crack of thunder on the horizon, heralding a player’s death, reminds him that now is not the time.

Keep your head down.

“Alright,” he smiles thinly, hoping that the fracturing, yawning pit of emptiness in his chest isn’t obvious in the words. “Then we’re going to win.”

---

Michael skids to a stop at the finish line, feeling the elytra deequip as he’s thrown into spectator mode. He runs his hands through his wind-tousled hair, feeling it strain against his fingers as he roughly finger-combs it back into place. Dream and Sapnap are off to the side, standing next to each other but seemingly not speaking - Michael smiles as he floats over, still shaking the adrenaline off from the race.

“Hey,” the two look up, smile in recognition, and Dream waves; there’s a small smile on his face, strained but present. “You both did really good!”

“Thanks, Michael,” Dream laughs, earnest, “I did decent, I guess- haha. Top ten at least.”

Sapnap whoops. “We’re popping off!” Michael cheers in agreement, and their efforts manage to pull Dream’s smile a little wider as he ducks his head to look away again.

“Thanks, guys.”

They watch as Quackity flies through the finish line, appearing in front of them and shaking his arms out as he gets his bearings.

“Geez- that trident,” he shakes his head, looks up. “Hey, there you guys are. How’d we do?”

“Dream got seventh,” Sapnap scrolls through his comm, looking through the rows of contestants and their times as they come in, interspersed by the occasional chat message, “And I got 10th. Michael got- 28th, I think? And you got 32nd.”

“Hmm,” Quackity hums, “What do you think, Dream? Is that good enough to pull us to Dodgebolt?”

Once again, Michael watches as Dream stiffens under the scrutiny, head ducking down and looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Um- I don’t know,” Dream mumbles, “I messed up a trident- fell into the void once, probably could’ve done better otherwise-” his voice trails off, tensing further as Quackity takes his usual spot by his side, jabbing an elbow none-too-lightly into his ribs.

“But you didn’t, though,” Quackity says, tone flippant, “so what do you think? With those placements- is it going to be enough?”

“Hey, we did great, man,” Michael glares at him, more forward than he’d usually be - but all he can see is the shoulder that he has pressed against Dream’s arm, the way Dream’s stood stock still since the moment he made contact, “Lay off of Dream, would you? He did great.”

“Yeah, Q,” Michael’s eyebrows raise in surprise as Sapnap chimes in from the side, rising further when Sapnap moves forward to link his arm with Quackity’s own and half-drag him away from Dream. “Chill out, man, we popped off. We’re gonna fucking win this, ok?”

Quackity’s lips press together; he’s still smiling, but there’s no mistaking the seething darkness that lingers in his narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows, gaze still trained on the pale off-white disk of Dream’s mask. Still, with the rest of the team against him, he’s in a losing fight and he knows it; Michael watches as he visibly backs down, rolling his shoulders back as he lets Sapnap pull him further back.

“We’re going to fucking win this,” he repeats, and Michael wonders how he manages to make the words sound so much like a threat.

---

“Sky battle,” Sapnap calls as the decision dome below them lights up in confirmation of the penultimate game, expression immediately becoming more focused as he turns back to the rest of the team. “Alright- strats, what are we thinking?”

“There’s the iron at spawn,” Dream starts, interrupted by the teleport to the Sky Battle arena, making him cut himself off comically and take a second to shake off the resulting disorientation, “And then there’s the iron in the nearby island. We gotta pick one, tower as soon as we can.”

“Got it,” Sapnap looks down, seemingly calculating, before looking up again - Michael has heard him compared to fire before, but he thinks this is the first time he’s really seen it; there’s a veritable blaze burning in his eyes as he looks at each member of the team, easily taking charge as they prepare for the first round. “Same buddy system as Survival Games - Q, stick with me, Michael, stick with Dream. I’ll tower to the next island- Dream, you good with getting the iron at spawn and crafting armor for us?”

Dream startles, before flashing a small thumbs up at the other - Sapnap smiles wider, teeth bared dangerously.

“This is our game,” he cheers, and Michael enthusiastically whoops in reply, “we’re winning this, you got that team? Let’s go!”

This, Michael thinks, is the way the games should’ve gone - they jump into action upon the start of the game, Michael watching as Dream races through both chests on the spawn island, getting the iron and jumping down cleanly with a water bucket before following Sapnap’s bridge to the other island. He tosses over a pair of leggings and boots as he lands, then takes Sapnap’s excess iron to craft the other pieces of iron for himself and Sapnap as the other man begins shooting at opposing teams. Their communication is near wordless, simple one- or two-word requests communicating all they need as they follow each other seamlessly into the main arena area, sealing off their entrance as they search the ring for other teams.

Sapnap, especially, seems to have shifted - instead of waiting for Dream to take the lead, he seems comfortable barrelling on forward on his own, trusting for Dream to follow his steps. Michael watches as the two of them easily work through the two lagging members of Orange, shooting through a gap in the wall to catch an unsuspecting Yellow player chased by the border. Michael ends up dying to an unlucky block of TNT placed on his head - curses out what appears to be Quig, bounding over to the other side of the arena, and follows Dream and Sapnap as they continue to fight their way through the competition.

It’s not perfect, for sure - Dream hesitates at a bad place a minute later, ending with Sapnap getting 2v1ed and exploding in a flash of red sparkles. Dream is similarly dispatched a few seconds after, and the three of them watch Quackity, caught in the crossfire of two other teams, before he also goes down.

“Good work, team,” Sapnap says as he appears, disoriented, in spectator mode, and they watch the remaining two teams battling in a rapidly shrinking border before Fruit falls as well, leaving Pink as the winners. “That was close- we’ve got this.” The conviction in his voice leaves no room for argument, and Michael, briefly, feels bad for anyone that stands in the way of it.

With the second round, they once again fall into rhythm without any major hiccups - someone tries to cut them off before entering the main arena, but are made quick work of by Sapnap’s relentless onslaught. As Michael watches, Dream seems to regain confidence as well, moving more to fight with Sapnap side by side instead of just playing support, tugging him back from a risky play and catching Punz in a nasty combo that does him in when he manages to slip past Sapnap.

The four of them end up in the final stand off in the middle, but end up getting caught too high up and killed by the border before they can jump down. Sapnap hisses at the narrow defeat, but the disappointment has hardly seemed to dim his determination - if anything, it seems to burn brighter.

“Last round,” he mutters, and Michael watches as Dream walks up to him, bumping him lightly with his shoulder.

“This is our game,” he says, a small smile appearing on his face, and Sapnap returns it with a fiery, blinding one of his own.

“Ours,” he says, and even just standing on the side, watching - Michael believes it.

Still, his concerns have yet to disappear - they linger in his mind as they jump into an adrenaline-filled last round, jumpy from excitement and victory just within their grasps. Dream is still more jittery than he should be, taking a second more than usual to react to fights, and his teamwork with Sapnap - while good - is still noticeably rusty. Michael’s lips thin at the memory of Dream backing away from Sapnap’s sword in Battle Box, hunched into himself, almost on the floor, with a clearly desperate edge to his expression - and no matter how he tries, he can’t quite manage to shake it off.

Unfortunately enough, the third round doesn’t bode well for them from the start - Quackity gets bowed off while bridging to the main arena, and upon entrance there they end up flanked, hard, by another team in a conflict that gets Michael killed within seconds. Sapnap and Dream book it to the other side of the arena, where they manage to work through a full team without too much trouble - but the next minute brings another half-team flying at them from the back, catching them in the middle of trying to recuperate. The two focus Dream in the middle of eating a steak, and Michael watches as Dream steps back instead of moving forward to fight, that same shade of fear making his muscles seize as he stands, stock still, watching helplessly as swords fly his way- Michael cries out, but there’s nothing he can do-

Between one blink and the next, Sapnap is standing in front of Dream, a snarl painting his features as he whirls through both players in a fury. Michael watches, awed, as his sword weaves and dances between the two attacking Dream, making quick work of them both until they’re no more than items scattered over the ground, then grabs Dream by the wrist and drags him up a nearby ladder onto the upper floor, plopping him by the wall and then backing off.

Sapnap stands back as Dream sits against the wall, breathing fast and labored, dropping to his knees with his hands in front of him, palms up, no weapons in hand. Michael watches, frantic, for the signs of any teams nearby - with Dream panicking and Sapnap’s back to the rest of the arena, they’d be easy pickings - but for once, luck seems to be on their side, because no one comes. Dream heaves a breath through his lungs, deep and shuddery - Sapnap watches, lips flat from concern, but doesn’t speak.

“You good to continue?” he asks, when Dream seems calm enough to recognize his surroundings, and Dream looks up at the words, jaw slack from shock and disorientation, before his head dips in a firm nod.

“Good,” Sapnap smiles, tight-lipped and fiercely determined, fiercely loyal, as he reaches out a hand that Dream moves to take. “Let’s go fuck them up, yeah? You and me, just like we used to.”

Michael watches, heart in his chest, as they stand together to face the rest of the competition, towering towards the middle and facing off with the remaining teams, watches as they move forwards through explosions and buckets of lava, coalescing onto the middle island, as they battle through the remaining opponents as one in a clean spiral of clashing blades and flying arrows, fighting with their backs to each other in the center of the arena. He watches as a well-placed fishing rod by Dream knocks their final opponent off the platform, leaving them in the middle, triumphant, as the only remaining team -

Watches, a brilliant, bubbling laugh in his chest as Dream and Sapnap take their spots in the middle of the arena, standing side by side as Sapnap raises Dream’s hand in victory, both laughing and cheering into the sky.

---

Their performance in Sky Battle manages to pull them to third - but second place still stands a few hundred coins away, and they watch anxiously as Parkour Tag is chosen as the last game and they are transported over the arena.

“Last game,” Sapnap calls, “We’ve got this, alright?”

He gets terse, short nods in return - it’ll be a close game, and even Michael is feeling the pressure. He breathes a soft, quiet breath through his teeth as they prepare, looking over to the opposite team as they choose their hunters and runners.

“Dream, you up to hunting first four?” Sapnap seems to be watching the effects of his words more, waiting for Dream’s agreement before moving forward, sliding into the position of leader easily when Dream seems to struggle. Dream nods and steps into the hunter’s box, lips pressed together, flat and focused, and Michael turns back to the arena to plan out his route.

Parkour, by far, is not his strong suit. It hadn’t been his strong suit during Parkour Warrior and sure as hell isn’t it now - he enjoys it well enough, but with the pressure of a hunter on him or the time creeping past and the competition standings hanging over his head like a guillotine, he’s prone to slipping up and he knows it. The map is full of dizzying, multi-colored structures and difficult jumps, the twists and turns of the arena making his head spin. Being good at parkour is more than being good at movement - it involves being able to make split-second decisions and execute them with no time to hesitate. Unfortunately, Michael isn’t particularly good at any of that, so Parkour Tag mostly just stresses him the hell out.

He sets out to the arena, listening for callouts over comms as he fumbles over the buildings. Halfway through the game, Dream’s voice comes through comms, quiet, focused.

“Gottem.”

“Nice, Dream,” Michael smiles, trying not to trip over a particularly hard jump, only to fall to being tagged in the back by the opposing team’s hunter - Ant, if he remembers right. “Sapnap and Q are still in- we’ve got this.”

Once again, each time, Dream races through the opposing team in seconds, seemingly going faster with each round. Michael has heard his reputation as a hunter before, but only now is he really appreciating the extent - the speed at which he manages to dispatch all three opponents is downright terrifying. They manage to win all four rounds, lingering around second place overall on the leaderboards, before Sapnap and Dream switch off for hunting.

With each round, Michael watches Dream in the lobby, watching as he tenses further in focus and determination and no small degree of fear, but it hadn’t been nearly as obvious in between rounds. Now, with him in the arena with Quackity and himself, Dream’s jumpiness is all that more palpable, adrenaline making him pace and jump in place from where he stands at the edge of the place. The glass lowers, and he explodes into motion, bounding on top of the nearest tower to wait for the hunter to come towards them.

Michael ends up caught first, early in the round, once again, and resolves to following Dream over the glass to watch his movements and make callouts for the hunter chasing behind him. Watching Dream move through the arena, dodging below fixtures and through tunnels and jumping from tower to tower with seemingly no regard for gravity pulling him down, it’s become all the more obvious that this is his element. He makes another hairpin turn around a pole, kicking himself up over a tower and then diving from it to a nearby building, landing on a ledge inside it, hands clutching the wall - Michael watches, quietly awed, as he outlasts the hunter, landing in small, panting breaths in the lobby.

“Great work,” he cheers, quiet, as Dream shakes off the last dregs of the adrenaline, all of them watching the leaderboard anxiously, “Just three more rounds, alright?”

The rounds that follow continue in much of the same vein - Dream, once he’s gotten started, seems near-impossible to chase down; Michael and Quackity provide support, distracting the hunter for as long as they can until they get tagged, but part of him wonders if it’s all even necessary. Dream flies from structure to structure seemingly unhindered by The Laws That Be, expression firm, if a little frantic, as he parkours his way through the arena. To their credit, the hunters chase, and several come pretty close - but Dream, worked up on adrenaline or anxiety or some twisted mix of the two, races over and around the buildings within the arena like his life depends on it.

It’s a surprisingly (if sickeningly) apt description - the skill in parkour is far from unacknowledged on Dream’s record; they all know his reputation with Parkour Warrior, all know that there are little that can match his skill as a traucer - but there’s something newly desperate in the way he runs, the muscles of his body tight and taut even in between rounds, expression permanently tight at the corners from fear. His movements, lacking in their usual fluidity, are made up with sheer speed and mad scrambles up walls that no one else seems to dare replicate. It’s concerning, even to Michael’s untrained eye, how frantic he seems the entire time, the flashes of expressions that he’ll direct towards the hunter like being caught by them will be his end, but- if anything, at least it’s effective.

Between his parkour and Sapnap’s own skill, they manage to dominate the other teams without much issue, and the bonuses from eliminating the other team first combined with Dream’s survival points each round land them a first place for the game by just a few hundred coins. The four of them watch with bated breaths for the event standings, whooping and cheering together when it shows the red rabbits in second -

“DODGEBOLT, BABY!” Quackity cheers, loudly, and the rest of them join him, laughing and screaming incoherently, “LET’S FUCKING GO!”

“LET’S FUCKING GO!” Sapnap punches the air with a loud, resolute whoop of joy, and Dream - still shaking off the jitters of his last round in Parkour Tag - soon joins in with a few cheers of his own.

Michael watches them all with a smile on his face as they cheer in victory - Dodgebolt has them against the Yellow Yaks, which will be a hard match up, but between Dream and Sapnap’s skill, if they all stay focused, they shouldn’t have any issue.

They’ve done it. They’ve made it to Dodgebolt - if they keep their heads in the game, then they should win. All he has to do is keep his head down a little longer, long enough to win them the game, long enough for them to go home with new crowns and new coins, long enough for him to go back to living his quaint little life in his quaint little house - going back to heckling the Warden at night and hanging with Bad and Puffy, working on builds and living life away from the rest and pretending that nothing is wrong. The server will go back to normal come tomorrow, and it will all be okay.

The smile slips off his face.

They’ve done it. And then they’ll go back to the SMP, and Dream might evade whatever immediate consequences come with losing, but there’s no evidence that whatever’s caused that heartstopping, devastating fear that has characterized his every move is going to stop. They’ll win, and they’ll go back to the SMP, and they’ll keep dying and fighting wars and keep pretending that the world they live in is normal; they’ll go back to the server, and Michael will go back in his house while Dream goes back into his cell directly across from it, still locked in a black box with no way in or out, no means of communication with anyone outside, locked away with the key thrown away for anything to happen with no one to know-

Michael glances over to Dream, to the tense edge of his shoulders that has never left for as long as the tournament has continued and long before. To the grey-faced, grey-eyed inhabitants of the SMP, coming to the Championships with sealed lips and a shared determination to never reveal that anything is wrong, to pretend that things are normal and move on.

Michael’s hands clench into fists at his side, then unclench, the helplessness cutting through his excitement like a splash of cold water straight through his chest. They’ll win the Championship, and then what? They’ll go back to the server, and then what?

He looks up at the sky, avoiding the eyes of the rest of his team as they are teleported to the arena. Around him, nothing comes in reply.

---

“Shit-”

Sapnap disappears in a flourish of red particles, and Michael winces as Dream picks up the arrow he left behind, biting his lip as he watches the opposite side maneuver on the ice.

Both of Dream’s shots hit true, and Michael switches to dodging over the ice as the opposing team begins to shoot. His mind is still buzzing with uncertainty, questions whirling around his skull and making his head spin, the reminder to just let things be raging against the anxiety that has wormed its way deep into his bones for the better part of the day. His performance has fallen a bit as a result, and they’re tied, 2-2, for the last round of Dodgebolt against Yellow - winner takes all.

He doesn’t know what to do. He wants to tell, but he wants to fall back into the background. He wants to make a difference, but also wants nothing more than to go on pretending that everything is fine. It would be so, so easy to move on and wash his hands of the whole affair - it’s not like anyone else will know, only himself and the guilt that he’s sure will haunt him to remind him of his failures. Is there even anything he can do? He’s no genius at combat, or parkour, or strategy- all he has are his eyes, his ability to see what the hell is happening with no means to change any of it.

An arrow whizzes towards him, too low to hit, and falls to the ice by his feet. Michael feels it plop into his inventory as he runs past it, shivering slightly from the cold or adrenaline or some mix of the two - not that he can really tell. The other team still has an arrow, the gleaming arrowhead catching the light as the person shooting - Jack, it looks like - moves it from one side to the other, looking for someone to aim. Michael lets the arrow into his hand, feeling its weight.

A sudden shock of clarity.

He staggers back and nearly trips over his own feet, feeling relief rock his body when he manages to catch his balance - his eyes rake over the rest of his team, still dodging over the ice, completely focused on the opposing side. He worries his lip between his teeth - it’s a risk. It’s a hell of a risk, and if he messes up - they’re fucked. They’re more than fucked. There’s a good chance that this does more harm than good, a good chance that it won’t do anything at all.

Michael takes a deep breath, and nocks his arrow.

With his bow pointed to the floor, he doesn’t think anyone’s noticed yet - especially the rest of his team, gazes still trained over the centerline to the other side of the arena. Michael plants his feet, raises his bow, aims - he’s standing still, too still, and he can already see Jack swinging the bow towards him from the corner of his eye, preparing to let the arrow fly directly at him. That’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

Keep your head down.

Michael lets go, and Quackity manages to turn just in time to see the arrow hit him between his eyes.

Not this time.

Michael just manages a wicked, satisfied smirk before the world disappears in a flash of red.

---

“What the hell was that?”

Michael teleports into the middle of the MCC main lobby, finding Quackity already mid-yell in front of the podium, where the Yellow Yaks have taken their places as the winners of the Championships, new, shining crowns on their heads as they greet the crowd with smiles and cheers. Michael turns to where the rest of the team has gathered in the corner, Quackity hissing angrily at Dream, curled into himself against the fence.

“I- I-”

“You lost us the fucking game, that’s what you did,” Quackity grabs him by the arm, rage painting his features as he yanks Dream closer to him, ignoring the other’s panicked yell at the proximity and flailing to get away. “What the fuck- you had both the arrows. How the fuck did you miss that?”

“Back the hell off, Quackity.”

Michael steps forward, bodily shoving Quackity out of the way - Dream’s head rises just enough for the two eyes painted on his mask to look above where they’d been hidden behind his arms, though Michael’s far too lost in his own anger to pay any mind to him at the moment. Quackity turns his furious direction towards Michael, only seeming to get angrier as he meets his eyes.

“Oh, fuck off, Michael- you-” he rakes a hand through his hair, “You fucking- we fucking lost because of you, you know that? We had that! We were going to win that, you fucker-”

“And then what, Quackity?” The words Michael had been pushing back the entire day come forth, mixed with his simmering anxiety and muffled anger that he’d been forced to push down, game after game after game, one bubbling mess of emotion underscoring his tone and making Quackity rear back, “Then you’ll go back the SMP and pretend that everything’s fine and dandy? Go back to your shiny little country with a shiny new coin, beat up Dream a few times to work off the adrenaline because, hey, it’s not like anyone else is gonna know if he’s black and blue inside of that shitstain of a prison, is that right?”

The flash of panic that makes its way over Quackity’s face is more than enough to confirm the worst of Michael’s assumptions, and the rage that has made a home in his chest only burns hotter.

“What- what the fuck did he say?” Quackity barely manages to catch onto his tone, pressing harder with narrowed eyes and a snarl, “He’s lying, you fucking idiot, that’s all he ever fucking does-”

“He’s not told me shit,” Michael presses forward, forcefully pushing Quackity away from Dream, who is cowering from both of them behind him, “But you would know a hell of a lot about that, wouldn’t you Quackity?”

“I have no fuckin’ clue what you’re on about, pal,” Quackity shakes his head, hair whipping past his eyes, “And I’d recommend you shut your fucking mouth before you go around hurling baseless accusations- I could have you sued for defamation, you know-”

“Oh, we’re talking law, now? Fine! We’ll talk legalities- how about we start with that casino of yours and work from there?”

Sapnap moves over, quiet thus far as he watched from the sidelines, and Michael watches as Quackity relaxes, minisculely, at his approach - only to tense further when Sapnap presses a hand to his shoulder, meeting his eyes with blazing eyes staring right at his.

“Q,” Sapnap says, voice uncharacteristically serious, “tell the truth, now- what did you do?”

Quackity laughs - it sounds unsure, even in Michael’s ears, “Sapnap? You can’t tell me you believe-” he waves his hands frantically, “this- this fucking asshole, now, do you hear him? He sounds- he’s literally out of his fucking mind-”

Sapnap shakes his head, firm. “Quackity, I’ll need you to cut the bullshit. What did you do?”

“He’s backing up Dream, Sapnap,” Quackity focuses his gaze on Sapnap, something creeping up in his tone, sweet and cloying despite the bitter tone, that Michael can’t quite recognize, “You know what Dream is like- he pulled the same shit with you, remember? You and George? Tommy?” He waves a hand at Dream, who ducks down further at the attention, “He hasn’t changed, man! He’s still pulling the same bullshit, still manipulating people for the hell of it- you know, the exact same thing he did to you? Don’t fall for that again, man.”

“I-” Sapnap seems to hesitate, conflict warring over his features.

“Look at me, Sap - you know what Dream’s like. He pretends to be your friend, makes up some stupid bullshit to justify his shit - Michael hasn’t been around for as long, not like the two of us, remember? He doesn’t know.” Quackity brings his hand to Sapnap’s own, ignoring Michael’s protests as he laces their fingers together, “I care about you, Sap. All of this- I’m just worried that he’ll end up manipulating you again. I’m just trying to protect you.”

“...liar.”

“What?”

Sapnap steps back, wrenching his hand out of Quackity’s own. His expression, out of what Michael can see from the sliver of his face that is facing him, is stormy with fury and no small amount of regret - Quackity steps back, unease finally beginning to flicker in the corners of his self-satisfied expression as Sapnap stares him down.

“You’re a liar, Quackity.” Sapnap draws himself up. “Now, I’m asking this for the last time- what did you do?”

Quackity’s expression stutters, falls, as Sapnap stands back next to Michael, the two of them between him and Dream. His eyes flick between their faces, then to Dream, then back again, frown deepening with every pass he makes between the three of them. Michael keeps his arms crossed in front of his chest, feeling his muscles tense with every second of silence that ticks by, Quackity seeming to grow more and more angry and tense under their scrutiny and unforgiving stances-

-a second passes, and he throws himself forward.

“Quackity!”

Michael only manages to throw himself out of the way of the man barrelling towards him just in time - too late, he realizes that he wasn’t Quackity’s intended target. He tackles Dream to the ground, pinning the taller man underneath himself onto the ground in a rough thump that seems to knock all the air out of him. Dream immediately begins to thrash aimlessly, jaw going slack in panic as Quackity levels his arm against his neck, going still as Quackity presses harder against his windpipe. Michael is only barely close enough to pick up what he says over the sound of the surrounding screaming, Sapnap rushing forward to pull Quackity off to no avail-

“-make what I did two weeks ago look like a fucking joke when we get back, going to make you wish you fucking died-”

The world explodes into white.

When Michael’s vision clears, he’s face to face to the stony face of one of the MCC admins, their status displayed by the proud red [Admin] by their nametags and the fact that they’re floating several inches off the fucking floor. He backs away, strangely winded - probably from the panic or adrenaline or yelling or, more accurately, all three, as Quackity is pulled back effortlessly by an admin, easily caging his flailing limbs with a snap of code as he is frozen into place - and Michael whoops.

“LET’S GO!”

(The arrow hits Michael in the shoulder, and he disappears in a flash of red - only instead of going to his usual place above the Dodgebolt arena, standing with the other competitors, he finds himself teleported in front of a dizzying array of screens and buttons, too many to have any idea where they connect and how they work. Michael turns to meet the faces of the MCC Admins, each one looking at him with odd, concerned expressions and furrowed brows.

“You shot your teammate,” one says - Noxite - and Michael nods to concede the point, not quite finding the words to speak. “Why?”

“If you had such a big issue with the teams, you could’ve just talked to Scott,” another one pipes up from the back, “I’m sure we could’ve worked something out.”

“I know, I know,” Michael runs his hand through his hair, both relieved at the plan working better than he could’ve ever fucking imagined and suddenly lost for words in front of the admins, each one looking at him with their full attention. Every nerve in his body rails against the scrutiny, reminds him to pretend that nothing is wrong - but it’s too late to pretend, now. It’s been too late for a long, long time.

He remembers Dream, looking away all competition, voice dead and lacking all of its former vitality - remembers Puffy, hair a little greyer from stress, grief painting her face whenever she thought anyone wasn’t looking - remembers Bad, hands still shaking despite his attempts to hide it - the prison, looming on the horizon, unbeatable, impenetrable - himself, helpless, for all this time, to do anything but watch and wait. Until now. He takes a deep breath, steels himself-

“Something’s wrong with Dream.”)

“Thank you for your information, Michael,” Noxite smiles at him, and relief throws itself through his system so fast that it makes him dizzy- “We’ll handle this from here. Good job.”

“Holy shit- when did you get time to contact the fucking admins, Michael?”

Michael ignores the clamor around him as the lobby bursts into activity and people talking over each other, each one probably trying to figure out what the hell just happened, ignores Sapnap muttering, awed, from beside him, to move towards Dream, still sprawled out over the floor. There’s an admin by him, standing by to seemingly keep the crowd away but not engaging with Dream directly, and Michael ducks by them to kneel down by Dream and meet his gaze.

“Hey,” Michael smiles, still shaking from the leftover adrenaline as he presses his hands to the ground to try and hide it, “We’ve got you. It’s over- Quackity’s gone. You’re safe now.”

“Michael?” Dream’s voice is so damn small when his head twists to look over, hair having fallen largely fallen out of his ponytail to land in wisps all around his face. “You- how-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael shushes him, chest twisting painfully. “It’s alright.”

“...I don’t feel so good.”

Dream coughs harshly, and Michael quickly maneuvers him to a sitting position as his shoulders shake with another one, hand flying to his mouth as he is wracked with loud, wet-sounding coughs. Concern wells up in his throat, watching as Dream shakes with more coughing, nearly choking as he curls into himself, muscles tense. After what feels like an eternity, he pulls his hand back, and Michael gasps at the sight.

“Dream-”

There’s blood, and a lot of it - mixed with the saliva in his palm, shiny and stringy over the planes of his hand, dribbling past his lips and down his chin. His teeth are similarly stained red when his mouth opens slightly, stance wobbling before he collapses altogether against Michael’s body - Michael can barely hear himself shouting for a medic as Dream heaves a rattling, wet sounding breath into his shoulder.

“Th’ts not g’d,” he mumbles, quiet, before going completely limp.

---

When you first get strong enough to go to the Nether and collect blaze rods and brew potions for the first time, the first thing that gets beaten into your head forwards, backwards, left, right, and every way in between is that health and regen aren’t a replacement for actual recovery. Instant health pots are famous for their tendency to heal everything affected to the same degree - which is bad when you have a particularly deep injury, as it’ll often finish healing it near the surface while the injury persists underneath. Regen pots tend to be better at that front, but even they cannot completely fix a serious injury - the two can only act as a temporary, emergency fix for severe wounds, often being an invaluable resource to stop the worst of the bleeding and hold everything together for long enough to bring someone to proper medical attention.

Unfortunately, when someone tries to use health pots and regens to completely bypass the time and rest needed for the body to properly heal itself and recover, what usually ends up happening is internal injuries - not completely healed by the potions alone - continue to be jostled and irritated, which can lead to further, worse, problems with internal bleeding and bones shifting out of place if they’ve been broken, which can then pierce through muscle and organ tissue - to be honest, Michael was never the best with all the medical stuff, and he’s half-sure that the horror stories he’s heard were exaggerated to beat it into his head never to be an idiot that thinks that potions can solve everything, but either way, he’s never tested his luck with the things.

Unfortunately, Dream doesn’t seem to have done the same, as the entire day’s worth of intense activity, between practices and MCC itself, were more than enough to fuck over the healing effects of whatever health potions he apparently downed before coming to the Championships. From what Michael has heard, it got a little harried after he was first brought into the hospital, but he’s apparently stabilized since - recovery will be slow, both physically and mentally, but at least he’s out of that damn prison to actually start on that path.

“Simply put, your teammate is a bit of an idiot,” Scott tells him when he finally catches him in the waiting room, hair fluffed up at the sides from where he’s evidently messed it up in Admin-related stress. “But he should be alright now, with proper medical attention and lots of rest - make sure to tell him to actually rest, will ya? No more parkouring for him - he can wait until after he’s out of the hospital to show us all how it’s done.”

Michael laughs, relief settling into his chest, “Thanks, Scott.” He directs a playfully accusing look towards the other, a grin tugging at his lips, “but you know, he’s only my teammate because you made it that way. Kinda sounds like your own fault there..”

“Oh, quiet, you.” Scott laughs- he looks stressed, and Michael feels a twinge of sympathy. The administrative side of things after his whole stunt at Dodgebolt, and then especially with what happened in the main lobby, must be an absolute nightmare. “Anyway, I need to go back - Admin meeting,” he shakes his head, already looking at his comm. “You should go see Dream, by the way. I think he’s awake.”

“Thanks for everything, Scott.”

Scott smiles at him, soft, sincere. “Go see your friend.”

He disappears in a flash of white light, teleporting away, and Michael looks at the empty space where he stood for a few seconds before standing up out of his chair to move towards the door. He hesitates at it for a second, hand on the doorknob but not yet turning it to the side - it’s suddenly awkward, without the pressure of the competition at his back and the relentless questions of what he should do. He doesn’t even know if Dream knows what happened, or if he’ll be happy with him - for all he knows, Dream was the one who started the whole ‘don’t tell the Championships what happens in the server’ deal. His teeth catch on his lip as he stands, lost in thought, at the door.

Well. Here goes nothing.

He eases the door open, getting a glimpse inside the room - it’s white, clean-looking, the smell of disinfectant heavy in the air. There’s a bed in the middle of the room, a chair on the side with his Championships clothing and what appears to be some sort of padded body armor laid over the cushions. Dream, as expected, is lying down in the bed, unmoving; for a second, Michael thinks he’s sleeping, before he suddenly twists his head over to look at him.

“Michael?”

“Hey,” Michael smiles, moving into the room and closing the door behind him. For the first time today, Dream’s face isn’t masked, a glimpse of it visible behind him on the dresser by the bed. He blinks up at him owlishly, eyes wide and green, looking even bigger combined with the hollow planes of his cheeks, overlaid by pale, slightly raised scars. “How are you feeling, man?”

“Um-” Dream tries to pull himself up, visibly struggling, and Michael rolls his eyes as he hurries over to help raise the back of the cot because you’re supposed to be resting, Dream, just let the fancy bed do its job, and settles back with an odd look on his face as Michael pulls over a chair. “Good? I think? I mean-” he flails his hands a bit, “this is weird. And I kind of hate this gown- but um. Yeah.”

“That’s fair,” Michael laughs, and Dream huffs a small laugh out of his own, settling back into his pillow. He looks strangely small, with all the layers stripped away, frail and skinny against the sheets. His skin isn’t that same paper-white shade it had been when he collapsed in the middle of the fucking lobby, but it’s still pale enough to be vaguely worrying, especially combined with the IV and other wires hooked up to him.

“Apparently, I’m dehydrated,” Dream drawls when he catches Michael staring at the IV, making a small, frustrated sound through his teeth as Michael turns to look at him, “figures, I guess, but still sucks. I hate needles.”

“Ouch,” Michael winces in sympathy, “yeah, those don’t look that fun.” Dream smiles up at him, before his expression shutters, dulls, and he looks away, not meeting his eyes. The sight of it makes Michael frown, quiet, remembering the way he’d drawn back from them all over and over again throughout the day - that fear and trauma won’t go away in a day, but it hurts all that much more to see his face as panic flashes across it and he pulls back, gaze carefully detached.

“Dream?” Michael moves closer, but is careful not to make contact, “you alright?”

“Hmm?” Dream directs another small, tight smile his way, strained at the corners as his eyes flick away to the floor once again, “yeah- I’m- I’m fine.”

Michael sighs, but decides not to push it. “Have you done anything else here, yet?”

Dream shakes his head. “No- I think that someone’s going to bring food over soon, I’m not sure. Not really hungry,” he mutters, half to himself, and Michael tamps down the concern that wells up in protest, “But we’ll see, I guess.”

“That’s good,” Michael nods, and Dream looks up at him, expression startlingly unsure.

“Um- do you know?” He wrings his hands together, eyes darting across the room nervously before flicking over Michaels’ face, and Michael tries to make himself look as calm and comfortable as possible, “I mean- do you know what’s going on with- everyone?”

Ah. Michael winces internally- he probably should’ve expected this question, but in the fallout of what happened in the lobby and Dream, you know, passing out in his arms, he ended up brushing off or ignoring a lot of the chaos that resulted. He wracks his head for snippets of information that he’d seen in his communicator and from visitors to the waiting room, including people that had been there with him that had been pulled for questioning and meetings, Tommy’s expletive-filled yelling from the lobby still ringing in his head.

“Um- I think that they’ve got a team of moderators pulled up to investigate the server, figure out what’s been going on,” Michael ticks names off on his hands, mentally going through the list of people that he’s been given information on, “They have Quackity in custody, I think, for the moment- they’re still waiting for more information on what to do with him, but they’ve got a whole MCC lobby’s worth of witnesses that saw him assault you so far, if you plan on pressing charges and stuff- um- Sapnap got pulled for questioning, nothing too major right now, I think that they’re going through the other server members that were attending the Championships for the moment.”

“Are they- putting them in jail?” Dream’s voice sounds slightly tinny despite his forced calm, arms crossed in front of him, and Michael shakes his head firmly.

“No- legal stuff between servers is weird, and I think they’re holding off on anything like that for now. Quackity’s just there at the moment because of assault charges on the MCC server - stuff in the SMP is still technically outside of their jurisdiction.” Dream visibly relaxes, and Michael smiles thinly, “It’ll be rough for a few weeks as they collect evidence and figure out what to do, but for now, they’re just focusing on recovery - giving people medical attention if they need it, lining up therapists,” he laughs, quietly, “lots of therapists.”

Dream hums, looking away. The corners of his mouth fall, eyes fluttering shut as he breathes a shuddery sigh through his lips.

“I- never wanted it to get this bad,” he opens his eyes, looking down at his hands, lip slightly trembling, “I don’t- I don’t know where it all went wrong.”

“Hey,” Michael slides closer, ducking to meet Dream’s eyes with a soft smile. “You’re not alone anymore, alright? You don’t have to fix it all by yourself. Focus on yourself, on recovering.”

Dream hesitates, breath seeming caught in his throat, wide green eyes staring into Michael’s own, before ducking his head to look away with a slight nod. Michael leans back in his chair, watching as Dream turns to the side, curling in on himself slightly with a small wince, eyes fixed on the window.

“Didn’t think I was going to see the sun again,” Dream says after a while, gaze still trained behind the glass to where the sun is slowly setting, rays of sunlight streaming past the slits in the blinds and casting glowing stripes of honey-gold throughout the room and over Dream’s face. Michael feels something cold press against the back of his throat, the quiet admission making air stutter in his lungs at the image of Dream, alone, huddled in the middle of an obsidian box for months and months and months, never knowing if he’d see anything other than the same black walls for the rest of his life.

“You’re not there, anymore. You’re safe now.”

Dream doesn’t reply, continuing to look out the window silently, breathing slowly as he moves his hand through a sunbeam, watching the way it streams between his fingers and warms his skin, seeming mesmerized by its soft glow.

“Michael?” Dream looks over, and Michael feels the air punched out of his lungs at the soft, disbelieving sincerity held within his expression, the fearful edges for once pulled back far enough for the light to catch the quiet, heartfelt appreciation gathered in the slight quirk of his lips and downward slope of his eyes. He looks away a second after, a band of light cutting across his face and landing over the bridge of his nose, smile still on his face, voice almost too quiet to make out. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Michael feels his own smile widen, looking out the window himself- it really is a beautiful sunset. “What are friends for?”

#-> my writing #my writing :D #c!Quackity critical #tw trauma #tw abuse #tw torture #tw panic attack #tw manipulation #tw gaslighting #tw needles #tw hospitals #tw emotional distress #pandora's vault #prison arc #god this was so fun #hope you all enjoy !!#long post

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