Chapter Text
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“…Michael?”
Barely above a peep, his voice sleep-ridden and hoarse, William called out for his roommate into the cold air of the unfamiliar setting.
He blinked himself awake, just barely propping himself up to sit upright. His hands grasped the surface around him, exploring the cold expanse of the silk sheet under his sweaty palm.
A strange meshy fabric material pinched tightly around his upper bicep, nothing like the comfortable muslin he was used to wearing most nights, having the nightwear hang so loose around his torso most nights it slipped off his shoulder, the neckline hanging comfortably low.
This is definitely not his bed, neither were the clothes he wore in it his.
The young man rubbed his eyes, dazed from his deep slumber, entirely unaware of the danger behind the sheeted curtain of the four poster bed he lay on.
Panic soon settled into him as he gradually assessed the situation. He was in a bed that he did not recognize. His companion and flatmate, Michael, was entirely absent from this nightmarish scene, and the gilded topper of that rotten cake was that he’d been dressed in strange attire that suited him horribly and was to him so very itchy.
Frantic, he whipped his head around, taking in his surroundings with clouded eyes. The bedcurtain, made out of a silk-translucent material, allowed pale lines of escaped moonlight to seep onto the surface of the mattress.
There are no blankets on this bed, nor were there any pillows. It was as if this stupidly massive bed itself were mere decor for the room it occupied, its purpose not for sleep.
Where could he possibly be? Better yet, how would he get out to return home? What happened to him to place him in such an opulent bed anyway? Had he fallen while out in the streets with Michael and taken refuge in some strange high-class hospitial? Was he dying or dead—if so, was this heaven or hell?
Before he could continue on in his panic, he heard a door creak open from somewhere far to his right.
He gasped, hands rising to his mouth instinctively. On his fingers was residue of a peculiar stickiness.
Stickiness? His brain supplied, bringing his palm toward him for better view, shuffling on his knees to catch the pale moonlight and see what substance might contribute to the strange, unexpectedly adhesive sensation. God—could he be bleeding? Perhaps he was hurt.
But of course wasn’t injured. Not at all. No scrapes, no cuts, no anything could be felt on his face. Even if he was cut, he did not sense any pain or particular numbness in his body.
He pulled his hands back from where they’d press against his face and under the illumination of the moonlight. On the skin of his index and middle finger—a place the skin of his lips had touched, no doubt—was a crimson mark, its blurred shape reminiscent of the bottom of his lip.
William was wearing rouge.
This makeup was not a tolerable clear balm, nor a moisturizing simple finish either. This entirely wasn’t something meant for men. Certainly not men in his society, at least.
It was not a mother’s neutral brown or beige color either, and it was far from a debutante’s usual dusty pink or shy coral’s.
This rouge was red.
Across all social classes, the color in itself was wildly controversial to be worn and thus looked down upon, even among the married women in society it was seen as improper and suggestive.
Likely, it was something stolen from a faraway court. Something expensive. Something you’d get in trouble for having in your possession. The color on his lips was evidence of a forbidden item. Something you’d buy in the darker corners of city streets from a gangly smuggler, smelling of contraband, pennies and smog.
Suddenly, he had an epiphany. Brightly lit fireworks went off in his head, crackling and burning, intensely exploding.
He swiped his hand against the sheet as if its mere presence lit his hand aflame, searing his skin like a brand would.
It was a whore’s color, this red.
His gaze fell to his legs. He caught a glimpse of the bottom half of his odd dressing.
He wasn’t wearing his usual muslin nightwear. The most telling signs of this were of the tightness at his arm, where the muscle was more built, and of the digging cinching at his waist. He knew it had to of been a woman’s outfit he was in.
And it wasn’t a nightgown either, as he earlier thought. He’d seen many a nightgown throughout his life and this was not one of them. His mother and his step-sister, the clothes he once laundered for Mrs. Wheeler and her two daughters… he’d seen all these women in nightgowns before and not a single one of them were ever of such ridiculous quality.
This wasn’t usual, day-to-day women’s attire either. Not even for the rich and wealthy. It couldn’t be if it tried.
This was a ceremonial dress.
He wondered to himself, what good am I, an impotent man of twenty and one years, a young man who’s suffered well enough by the cruel hands of god, doing in a woman’s gown, adorned in a prostitutes rogue, laid in a bare bed?
He felt the muscle of his brow cramp, having furrowed it for so long without notice. This made no sense.
Lost in thought, he would’ve forgotten about the creaked door if it weren’t for the hesitant footstep that came soon after it, becoming louder and louder as it approached.
Williams heart beat several volumes louder, quickening with each heavy step this strange entity took. He threw his hand to his mouth, a desperate attempt to muffle the terrified whimpering escaping from his mouth.
Not confident enough to flee or fight, he laid with his back flat on the bed. His hands clasped tightly at his mouth, eyes squeezed tightly shut in fear.
The footsteps stopped. Will opened his eyes for a moment. A dull, grey silhouette of a large, beastly figure made itself welcome on the lit white billowing surface of the draped curtain in front of him. He stilled entirely, frozen with fear.
The figure walked along the outer parameter of the bed. Playing with him in a way, except this was no fun game to William. This was a game of play dead or die.
From his peripheral, a shaky hand emerged from the slit of curtain, trailing a finger along the hemmed line, its nail running along a seam.
“William,” The figure whispered, it's voice low and ancient, echoing off into the enclosed space of the bedroom.
Will did not dare respond. He flexed his calves and curled his toes inward, pressing his teeth together to keep his jaw from shaking.
“…Tell me, who am I?” The figure pulled the curtain open. A gust of cold wind sent a spilling shiver to crawl up Williams nape, causing him to arch instinctually.
He felt the bed dip over added weight. His stomach did flips. He could feel the clatter of his teeth chime in his mouth, his ears turning strangely itchy as a result.
A hand stretched outwards, the nail of this figure coming to maliciously caress the side of his cheek. Will’s body shivered, readying to seize.
“Tell, me! Now!” The voice commanded, it's tone foul and teasing all at once.
He felt so trapped. He needed help. He wanted comfort. He wanted to flee. He wanted—No, he needed the arms of an angel to sweep him up and deliver him home. He wanted—
“…Michael!” William wept, his lips quivering, hushed and desperate, he said the name of his friend like a prayer.
Hesitantly, the hand withdrew from his scrunched-up face. The mattress creaked as the human figure settled elsewhere, its footsteps backing away.
Then, a booming laugh erupted, falling on Will’s ears like fierce thunderclap. A noise from the darkest ravines of hell.
“You—you little thing! You call upon the archangel Micheal to stop me? As if that’d work!” The nameless figure hissed, angry. “No guardians, no spirits, nor any heavenly forces can help you here, William! It is you and I alone—as it always was and always shall be!”
William grit his teeth, feeling his stomach churn, overwhelmed with disgust, he cried once more the name of his dear friend, seething with rage. “…M-Michael!!!”
“Cry louder, I dare thee!” The figure spat. “Call upon your angels and your puny god! Soon, you will see the uselessness of your efforts. In this chamber, God is dead! Only death prevails! Death is absolute!” The figure yelled, his voice so violent it ought to make Will’s ears bleed.
William's breath violently hitched, now finding himself sobbing. “M-Michael!” He wept, louder than ever before, as if it repelled the devilish apparition.
“You need not of your precious 'Micheal', nor any of the broken pieces of what is left of your life! Nothing will ever be as it was. Surrender yourself to me, at once!”
With bravery unearned and wholeheartedly uncharacteristic, Will sat up to face the figure. He opened his eyes turned his head toward the sound of this angry demon, but to his surprise, nothing was there.
He blinked, frightened and confused, convinced for a moment that he might’ve hallucinated it all. That this was another episode.
Then, a warm hand came to the small of his back. He turned his head and there he stood.
"Will!” This vision of Michael breathed, his eyes open wide, his face the very portrait of concern. Having come to him from the other side of the bed, Michael wrapped his arms around the middle of his shaken companion's torso, his grip tight.
"M-Mike?!” Will jolted, quick to return the embrace, letting himself be taken into Mike’s arms.
“Michael, please, I need help!” He screamed, his face blotchy and red, tears running down his cheeks. “Please, I need you, I need you!”
“Oh, Will…” Mike sighed into Will’s shoulder, his hands coming to cup the back of Will’s head, lifting his head so Will could meet his eye.
Will scanned his face, and his stomach sank.
Mike’s eyes were darker than dark, so much so that no light reflected off of them, his pupils enveloped in black. The chocolate brown of his irises, now a deep maroon red, nearly purple.
Will jolted, desperately trying to wriggle himself out of the hug.
Mike did not fault his grip. Will remained caged in against his wishes.
“No..."
His eyes shot wide open with fear, made glassy with tears.
“Y-You aren’t my Michael, are you?”
The mouth of this devilish apparition twisted into a wicked smile, eyebrows rising in amusement. There, William noticed something unbelievably strange. His whole body shook with fear, mingling with something else entirely, deep inside his stomach. He would not dare name it.
The canines of Micheal's teeth were noticeably elongated, the end tips of the ivory bone unusually sharp, as if he were a sort of beast and not a man at all.
He licked them, gliding the tip of his tongue along his left one.
"...You—you've stolen my entire life from me, and now you steal his face!" William wailed, sick with distress, his entire body vibrating with terror. The face of the person he trusted most, now turned against him by this foul apparition. "Get away from me!" He thrashed his shoulders, doing his best to pry himself from the death-grip.
The mirror image of his Micheal laughed maliciously, nodding his head, inching his head closer and closer to Will's own.
"Heed me, William! I shall take more than his mere face, so long as you so stupidly consider yourself his to belong to!" The mirroring apparition spat, growling an ugly howl.
Will opened his mouth to refute, but as he did so, the mouth of this devil dove into his neck, piercing skin.
Screeching like a banshee, William shook his head left and right with vigor, doing his best to buck off the hungry mouth.
This was blasphemy of the highest order. This mirror image insulted him deeply. The true Michael—his Michael—would never dream of doing such inappropriate acts unto him. Not ever. He would never violate him so.
His Michael could never make him feel as this devil did. Not if he tried.
...
Bit by bit, as he protested, he felt a burning fire crackle underneath the skin of his belly. A restless pulsation, blood flowing and ebbing, controlling the rise and fall of his heaving chest.
He was, without a doubt, inexcusably aroused by the actions of this foul beast...
Are these the feelings of carnal, sinful desire that society speaks so insistently of? He wonders, his conscious growing faint, drowned out and far away.
Who would be tempted by this? This is terrifying! This is torture! How could anyone ever commune with such ghastly, horrific thing?
Never would he desecrate the holy image of his caretaker, of the dearest friend he had on this earth. His Michael. Never would this scene service him so lewdly. For Christ's sake, he has a suckling demon attaching itself on his neck, draining him of his life force, of his blood! He'd never!
And yet, ever so quietly, a gasping "Ah...!" escaped from parted, rouged lips. His mouth flew open on its own, as if possessed. The pleasure he tried so hard to hide escaped from him, slipping from his tight hold.
This vampiric mirror image of Micheal drew his head off of Will's neck, allowing his face to be seen again once more. His mouth, misted in red, curled upwards into a sly smirk. He licked his lips, slurping up the clotting liquid of Will's red blood. The dark red of his iris, now eaten up by dilated black pupils. His hair, frizzy and undone.
"Say you'll have me, William." The spirit commanded, mimicking the real Michael's own manner of speech. Stealing his voice. His cadence. "Surrender to me, and on this very bed we'll wed."
For a moment, in a lust-borne second of weakness and hypersensitivity, Will could feel his resolve crack under the weight of desire. Of this thing. This inescapable, all consuming fire.
No matter how hard his heart wracks itself against his ribs, no matter how loudly his conscious stabs itself in protest, he cannot help what he does next.
William swallows, feeling the heat between his legs multiply, his blood b-lining towards his hardening manhood. He croaks another moan in surprise, tilting his head back into Micheal's cupped hand. He's never felt this before. Not in his twenty and one years, has any feeling consumed him so.
Weakly, he nods his head up and down, eyes fluttering shut. His body, pliant under the devil's hold, relaxes.
"You will never be alone again."
Will's face, once scrunched and the very picture of discomfort, gradually eases.
"...I will never be alone again?"
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