#it's fashion sweaty | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ofholyfire · 1 year

Note

🎁 - Cherry

🎁 ─ exchange & open christmas presents

“I apologize for being late. As per the agreement, I drove here,” Michael says bitterly as he steps into Cherry’s abode. He was never late to anything, but with the angelic fast travel through space and time now restricted to him– barring certain circumstances– he is forced to deal with the discomfort of not being punctual. Per the cherub’s very logical suggestion, Michael’s first step in understanding humans better is that he has to live like one. Perhaps he doesn't have to do everything they do, but this is a small and practical adjustment.

It is driving Michael a little mad, but not as much as The Shopping.

Someone (not him) proposed that they exchange gifts for Christmas. He found this odd, for Christmas is the day of gifting the Holy Son in honor of his birth. Angels do not receive presents; instead they return to Him the gifts God bestowed upon them at their creation. Usually this comes in the form of praise and reverence, but some angels possess anointed talents such as singing and crafting. Standing so close to the throne of God, Michael is skilled in a little of everything but excels in service and war. For Christmas Eve, the entirety of the day, and well into the evening, he was in Heaven preparing for the celebration and delegating tasks to his subordinates. The Heavenly host was vast but highly structured, thus allowing him not only to attend the celebration of Jesus, but also to take part in the final hours of festivities with Cherry afterward.

In comparison to all his responsibilities in Heaven, he still thinks The Shopping is worse. After Cherry convinced him to participate in this custom, he spent a week aimlessly walking in and out of stores to find something acceptable. He does not know Cherry’s likes and dislikes and he has no one to ask about this very human endeavor. At least not without raising further questions about what he is doing and why. His pride insists that he do this on his own. And so after entering one particularly interesting shop, and standing before a selection of items for an hour debating with himself about which was the best option between them, a thread of his sanity frayed. Despite it, he comes to Cherry’s place as promised with a gift in hand.

“It’s OK! I can only imagine how busy you are, considering whose birthday it is,” Cherry welcomes with a smile. He is particularly cheery today, even more so now that his company arrives. In lieu of the season, his place is decorated with festive colors. White Christmas lights are strung along the walls of his living area, Christmas music plays softly from his television, and his apartment smells of vanilla and spices. A modestly-sized artificial tree twinkles in a corner of the room, its branches decorated– perhaps overly so– with ornaments, balls, garland, and a star at its top. The cherub, too, appears even more cherub-like with his loose golden curls, rosy cheeks, and cream-colored oversized sweater with sleeves so long that they fall over his hands. He pushes them back as he steps aside to let Michael in and closes the door behind him. Bright eyes sparkle with curiosity at the size of the box in the archangel’s arms as it is much larger than the one he has for Michael. “Yo! What’s this? We agreed on one simple present.”

“It is ‘one simple present,’” Michael says as he toes off his shoes and steps further in to take a look around. This space is cozy and the smell of cinnamon and fruit draws his gaze to the kitchen. “What is this sweet scent?”

“Oh!” Cherry perks as if there is more room for him to be perky. “That’s probably my new candle and something you’ll like. You mentioned drinking red wine once, so I made mulled wine!” he says proudly. The recipe is simple enough, but it takes a discriminating eye and tongue to select the ripest fruit, proper spices, and quality wine. He, in his own opinion, has extremely good taste. Impressing such a lofty angel isn’t an easy task, so he uses all of his talent to make this drink.

“Mulled wine?” Michael asks as his feet start towards the origins of the smell. Cherry stops him by skittering ahead and standing in his way.

“Hey, hey, hey! Wait! You take off your coat and just have a seat on the couch. I’ll pour us a glass and we can open presents. That’s the good part!” He gives Michael a gentle shooing push into the living room and heads to the kitchen.

Thusly shooed, Michael does so. Box placed onto a small coffee table, he first strips off his black pea coat, neatly folds it, and drapes it across the back of the couch before he sits. All long limbs and height, he looks like a looming shadow among the bright holiday colors. Not that he isn't feeling festive; he just likes black and sees nothing wrong with his ensemble of crisply pressed slacks, a cashmere sweater, and accent of black and silver rings on his fingers.

It isn't long before Cherry rejoins him with his fanciest glass mugs in hand and places them onto a set of coasters on the coffee table.

“Tadaa! Not bad if I do say so myself. I hope it tastes alright though,” he says with a scurry to retrieve Michael's present from under the tree.

It is a standard flat box wrapped in green paper and topped with a stick-on bow– two bows, actually, to hide the corner of wrapping paper that he accidentally tore. Michael would be none the wiser and he certainly isn't telling! Gently carrying it in his arms, he plops down onto the vacant end of the couch, legs folded beneath himself for a bit of a height boost, and holds it out in offering. “Merry Christmas!”

“I’m certain the taste is fine,” he reassures, intrigued by the contrast of dark red wine and the bright skin of orange slices in it. The mulled wine smells divine and he wishes to sample it, but he prioritizes the gift exchange first. Cherry is bubbling with joy and is all too excited to give it to him.

The Archangel receives it with both hands and a grateful bow of his head, “Thank you” softly uttered as he does so. Placing it in his lap, he reaches over to Cherry’s gift and presents it to him in return. “Merry Christmas. I…hope it is to your liking.” A lilt of uncertainty permeates his tone, as if he's choosing his words carefully. Could it be a lack of confidence from the great Michael, or a display of his humility?

“If you picked it, it must be great,” Cherry offers happily, eager to open it.

The box is rather heavy when he accepts it into his lap and he admires the glittering silver and white paper bound with a length of gold ribbon. Slightly embarrassed by his very plastic stick-on bow, He wonders if Michael wrapped the box himself. Whatever the case, it could wait! He wants to see what's inside! “Ooh! It’s so pretty that I almost don’t wanna open it… Butlet’sopenonthree! Ready?!”

His excitement raises Michael's brow before he gives a single nod. The young angel starts the countdown, and on ‘three,’ they begin. Michael is quiet as he opens his gift, reflective and attentive to the process, and neatly removing the paper with the slide of a long finger between taped edges. In contrast, Cherry is unabashedly vocal as he pulls at the ends of the bow, lifts the lid with a pleased hum, and gives a start at what he sees inside.

“Eeeeeeeeh?! We agreed on one present!” he exclaims, not really upset at the three flat black boxes that he removes one at a time and puts onto his lap instead.

“As it came in a single box, it is one gift,” Michael says matter-of–factly. Technically he is right. Bending the rules is not breaking them, at least in this instance.

“Grr! You–!! That’s kinda cheating!” Cherry laughs, putting the larger box onto the floor. Beside himself, he removes the top from the first box and peels back the paper lining with a little gasp. This sweater is a bit on the sexy side; he guffaws because he did not expect the holier-than-thou Michael to pick out something like this. “Oh my goodness, this is positively sinf– I mean, flirty and I love it!” He catches himself before his comment could be misunderstood and drapes the sweater over his chest for a preview of the fit. Michael stops to watch him for a moment, finding this childlike excitement as a sign that maybe his gifts are suitable. Previously pillowed by the sweater is a silver necklace that the Archangel found as a fitting accent to the exposed neckline. Cherry fingers it with an “Oooh, this is prettyyyy,” and places both items on the back of the couch to see them as a set.

“Continue,” Michael urges, nodding at the other two boxes. He slows in opening his gift in favor of observing the reactions to his choices. What an interesting social experiment this is.

“Oh, I’m gunna!” Second box in hand, Cherry removes the lid and finds yet another sweater, this one able to be worn with or without an under layer and a set of earrings to match the shape of the sweater’s fasteners. “This is stylish! The clasps are a nice detail. I can’t believe you even managed to match them. How did you even do that?”

“I have an eye for detail,” he says absently as he lifts the top from his box. “And arrowheads.” A jab from the first time they met. He hasn’t forgotten.

“Awh, come on,” Cherry laughs. “That was soooo long ago.”

It wasn’t long ago at all, actually. Michael’s raised brow says as much.

“You can’t still be mad about that, right? It’s Christmas and– look how cute I’m gunna look in my new stuff!” When in doubt, distract, distract, distract! He holds the sweater to his chest and poses with his sweetest expression; it is a powerful magic this one yields.

“Mh-hm.” The Archangel doesn’t fall for it but he huffs a soft laugh through his nose and turns back to his own present. Cherry’s satisfaction with two out of the three gifts is enough for him.

With the elder angel now off his case, the cherub focuses on his final box. Top off, he coos at the sheer softness and gradient color of the fabric as he runs his hand over it. Yet again, it is not something that he expected Michael to pick, but it is lovely. Lovelier still is the set of stack rings wedged firmly inside a small jewelry box to complement the main gift. Cherry is impressed by the differing aesthetics and the number of presents he receives. He utters a soft “wow” under his breath and immediately starts to fit the rings onto his fingers to try them out and see them under brighter light.

“Ooooiiii, Michael, I said one present. Why did you get me so much,” he mock whines. “But… thank you. Everything is amazing.”

When he looks to the other, he falls speechless, arrested by Michaels beauty.

“I could not decide on one, so I chose them all,” he replies simply. Not choosing is always an option, and he will never mention how much he frustrated himself into that realization before a display of clothing.

Cherry hears him speak but the words don’t register. Instead he is taken with the sapphire blue scarf now looped about Michael's neck and draping over one of his broad shoulders. It contrasts deeply with the angel’s black attire and rivals only the vividness of his eyes. He'd made an excellent choice, as this blue is the color most strongly associated with Michael's being.

Then he recants and thinks that maybe his gifts were too good, for now he fixates on how the Archangel intensely focuses on fitting into the accompanying gift.

Solemn and elegant as he moves, Michael slips his long fingers into a cropped glove and gently tugs it into place. The soft sheepskin embraces each of his digits and just barely covers the heel of his hand– it fits him, of course, like a glove. He overturns his palm and the black leather cuts an arch across the back of his hand, flesh exposed to where the cuff of his sweater stops at his wrist. He holds both hands out this way and admires the comfortable fit. At first he thinks these gloves impractical, but they instantly grow on him. He clenches his hands into fists, each finger falling gracefully one after the other from pinky to thumb. Those powerful hands raised to smooth the neck of his scarf before he turns to Cherry with a pleased smirk that borders on sultry.

“I like these… Thank you, Cherry.”

So this is the angel of fire, great general of God’s army who blazes brightly even in his subdued glory.

Cherry stares.

This is supposed to be a silent and holy night, yet his thoughts are anything but.

He really needs a drink and reaches for his mug.

#Meme | Asks #Merry Chrihmuh #it's fashion sweaty #one day these will be short #but today is not that day #Michael || Cherry

5 notes · View notes

listenheresweaty · 9 months

Note

Ok uh here goes

Can I get revivedbur headcanons for a reader who was very hurt by his betrayal? Like all rev wants to do is be nice to reader and love them but they want nothing to do with him?

-roses 🥀

ohhh boy my first ask

first off i wanna say that i absolutely love this idea. perfect angst fodder mmm

im not that great at writing angst. when im not sure what to write i add a lot of insignificant details until i get motivation. so hopefully this is satisfying :) If not, i'll try to come up with some more concise headcanons for wilbur trying to regain the reader's affections.

-----

First off, I'd like to point out that Wilbur right after revival and Wilbur a couple days after revival (especially after the events of hitting on 16) are quite different

When he's freshly revived, Wilbur is ecstatic. He's alive, rejuvenated, and ready to cause mayhem in every conceivable corner of the server.

Ever the ambitious man, his first concerns are with gaining power--- or, rather, interfering with power. He wants to become relevant, involved in the incessant, political push-and-pull of mankind that has interested him since a young age.

Eventually, though, the adrenaline wears off and he starts thinking about the people in his life. Tommy, who he had immediately recruited for his expeditions to Las Nevadas. Phil and Technoblade, who he visited gladly. And you. You're there, just a short 5 minute walk from Technoblade's house.

Wilbur's sitting at the table with Phil, making small talk about the weather or something when you walk in, throwing open the door with a huff and brushing the snow out of your hair. You look a mess, hair wet and plastered to your cheeks and your nose red and sniffling.

God, how he's missed you.

You freeze when you see him, your voice dying in your throat.

Wilbur smiles oh so sweetly, opening his mouth to speak.

Phil accidentally interrupts him, standing up and explaining the situation to you--- yes, the rumors were true. Yes, Dream is on his necromancer arc. No, he's not Ghostbur.

Wilbur tries his best to speak with you, but it's hard with Phil and Techno there. And for some reason you won't speak to him directly, asking all questions about him to Phil, such as "When was he revived? Was it really dream who revived him?"

When you do address him, your answers are clipped, polite but distant.

He figures it's just because it's awkward with Phil around.

But even when he manages to catch you alone, you try to push him away, glaring at him before stalking off with your jaw clenched and your face hidden from his view.

ouch.

That doesn't deter him for long: Quackity had brushed him off with an eye roll and a dismissive wave of the hand, and yet their rivalry is still underlined by a vague sense of respect and friendliness. (keyword: vague). So, he'll just act the same as he does with Quackity!

But as soon as he starts pestering you too, popping up in your house to nick a few items and smirk at you, the look in your eyes stops him dead in his tracks.

"Get out of my house, Soot!" Your tone of voice catches him off guard. There isn't a trace of amusement or playful exasperation. Your annoyance is so profound it borders on disgust.

All the lighthearted mischievousness that had been previously dancing in his rib cage is extinguished in a heartbeat. His smirk fades, and he stands in silence.

"Didn't you fucking hear me? Get out!"

"Darling, I-I.. " He laughs nervously. "I was just joking, you can have your stuff back---"

"I don't care if you steal, leave or burn them. I want you out of my house."

"But--... I don't--"

"---And don't call me darling."

"I don't understand."

"What? What don't you understand?"

"I didn't.. I just want to talk." He raises his hands in surrender, exhaling slowly. "I just wanted to talk."

"I don't want to talk." You say, quiet and composed once more. "You aren't welcome here. Just--- get out. Please."

He wanted to stay and argue, but something about the way you were looking at him was almost more suffocating than Limbo. He turned tail and nearly bolted out of there.

---

He doesn't visit you for a while after that. It's even worse if you had been attached to Ghostbur--- because of course you were attached to Ghostbur.

And after hitting on 16? When he goes on his apology arc?

If people don't accept your apology, Phil had said, you need to let them go.

And so Wilbur does the same thing with you as he did with Tommy: avoiding you like the plague in fear of having to inevitably let you go.

He still spends his time thinking about you, of course. Whenever you two accidentally end up in the same area, he stands to the side, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

The only way he's going to end up talking to you is if Eret sets it up, not revealing it to either of you until you're face to face.

You've calmed down since your last encounter with Wilbur. Although your opinions haven't changed, you willingly sit down to talk with him.

He, too, is less insistent with his apology. "Listen, I-I.. I know this won't fix things. I don't expect them to."

Wilbur pauses, and you raise an eyebrow for him to continue.

"But you-- you mean a lot to me." He says, wincing at the immediate scoff from you. "You do. You mean the world to me."

"Months. Months you lied to me, in Pogtopia. Months we all spent slaving away to get L'Manburg back-- and I did it all for you! I fought for that country because you loved it like life itself. You watched us fight for it, you let us bleed and sweat and shed tears for it, all while knowing all our efforts would be in vain because you'd be blowing it to pieces regardless. And then you up and left! You left us all, left us to pick up your pieces and drag your body to be buried. "

" ______." Wilbur said your name, quietly.

"-- And you proposed to me! The day beforewe were about to fight to get back L'Manburg, you got down on one knee and proposed.--"

"______." Wilbur repeated.

"You promised we'd have a life after the war. You looked me in the eyes and promised me this, knowing damn well what would happen the next day."

Wilbur doesn't say anything. His shoulders sag, deflating.

You sigh too. "And then you're revived. Months go by, I don't hear a word from you--- not that I was asking to--- and now you're apologizing."

Wilbur falls silent. "I'm selfish."

You purse your lips and move to speak, but he cuts you off.

"I'm not saying that to provoke pity or fish for compliments or serve an excuse. I'm just stating the fact. I am, at heart, a selfish person. I-- that's why I proposed to you that day. I-I knew it would hurt. I thought it would.. keep you closer, wanting to avoid you leaving me. Even though I was the one leaving." He exhales, running a hand through his hair.

The brutal honesty has you dumbfounded, searching for any traces of trickery or manipulation-- but not finding any. He seems genuine. Incredibly self-depreciating, but genuine.

"..And that's the reason I haven't apologized to you until now." Wilbur continues, seeing that you weren't going to speak. "I didn't.. I couldn't bear to hear a formal rejection."

You don't know what to do, having exhausted yourself with your outburst earlier. So you just nod in understanding.

"I-I'm going to be honest. I really, really don't want to let you go. But I've promised myself that that's what I'll do if you don't accept my apology. If you want me to leave you alone, say the word. You won't have to see me again. But if there's anything I can do, anything to earn a second chance for myself--- I'll do it." He rambles on. "I don't need you to love me. I want you to--- I really want you too-- but I don't need you to. I just don't want you to hate me."

You chew on your bottom lip thoughtfully. "I don't hate you."

He looks relieved, hope lighting up his features.

"...But I don't know if I'll accept your apology."

His face falls.

"I know I don't accept it right now. And I think that's understandable. I want to accept it sometime in the future, Wilbur, I just.. I need time."

Wilbur nods, mouth twitching as he works up the nerve to speak. "Would you.. prefer if I stayed away, during that time?"

"I don't want you to outright avoid me." You admit. "If we happen to end up in the same place together, I´ll talk to you. But I think some distance would be helpful."

"Yeah." He manages, clearing his throat. "Yeah, I'll... I can wait."

Wilbur looks back up at you. "I'll wait for you." He promises.

and then he leaves for utah

#roses anon #anon ask #revivedbur x reader #c!wilbur x reader #dsmp wilbur #revived wilbur #c wilbur #c: wlbr #dsmp x reader #revivebur #wilbur soot angst #and for anyone who says that c!wilbur doesn't stutter: yes he does. it may be just an effect from his dialogue being mostly improvised #but he does stammer under pressure. not exactly in a shy way. in an excited #impassioned run-hands-through-hair kinda way #the reader is kind of a bitch in this my bad #“bitch” i say in a gender neutral fashion #and then he leaves for utah and you never see him again haha #sweaty “writes”

76 notes · View notes