#arcade date

[lulipoparts]

Drew this for Toast_soba's 17k dtiys on Instagram 💖

Close ups:

The original:

[achiepy]

[hanawoof]

ARCADE MADNESS

boyfriend!yuji x partner!reader

the annoying ‘dings!’ and stupidly cartoon-ish sound effects coming from the machines were starting to get to you, especially how it was getting late!

you mentioned it once. a glance at a cute stuffed plushie, a lift of a finger, a grin on your face, and a squeal— you blinked and he was gone.

“yuji? yuuuujiiiii!” eyes darting everywhere as you rounded every corner, narrowly dodging kids running about the place in which they probably hit a sugar rush with the amount of sweets they offered in this place, arguing couples but what could they seriously be arguing about? you’re in a arcade just spend your tickets and leave!, kids play fighting— okay, can someone get these kids on a leash?!

everywhere you looked was hopeless. until, that stupidly-cute plush flashed your mind.

of course.

like you thought, your boyfriend was hunched over the machine. a tongue stuck out of his mouth in concentration, along with furrowed brows. you let out a loud sigh, here the cycle repeats.

“Itadori!” you groaned, leaning against the side of the machine. his delayed gaze to you made you roll your eyes. “we have enough stuff, come on! you’ll be walking out with a wallet of cash that spews out moths if you keep this up.”

that made the boy pause, thinking you had hope you cracked a smile. “i was thinking some late night mcdonal— YUJI!”

cutting you off, his hands started flying around the machine once more.

the claw machine dropped the plush.

again.

again.

and again.

at this point you gave up, a headache was starting to form, you couldn’t keep up with the amount of times yuji cursed under his breath, or how much bucks he was putting into this money grabber.

sinking down against the box with your knees pulled up to your chest, you decided just to spend some bonding time with your trusty phone.

…

BANG

the claw machine shook, making you jump up. “babe, what the hell was that?” placing a hand on your hip as you complained.

yuji’s eyes widened and brows flew up to his hairline. “fuck.”

“fuck wha- oh,” your eyes dragged down to where he was staring, at a very obvious and large cracked dent at the side of the arcade cabinet, tickets and money spewing out as the music box of the game disorted.

“ummm, yea let’s just go mcdonald’s, kay? i’ll find that plush on amazon probably.”

the pair of you quickly gathered your belongings, nearing the exit as shoes scuffed against the sparkly carpet.

he let out a sigh, “you think they’ll know we did it?”

“nah.” you shook your head, munching on some left over snacks.

…

“well… i’ve got no money left for mcdonald’s.”

“it’s fine.”

…

“YOU TWO!” a sharp bark was heard,

“shit.” you whispered, though yuji grinned.

messily hoisting you up and into his arms, he started dashing down the dull streets. “cant catch us man!!” he called out with boyish giggles.

his sprinting was then stopped by the staff catching up to him and pulling on his hoodie, chucking quick sentences to whoever was on the walkie talkie.

“okay shit.” yuji deadpanned as he gently placed you down, making you giggle.

all of this for a stupid plush, but you’re lucky to have him.

a/n ; ok this is so bad but PLZZZ my first ever real post and req by my lovely moot!!! it didnt go completely my way because its liek… 1am and it dragged on so bad but WHATEVEr i enjoyed making it sm!!

[orangecatauthor]

Under The Neon Lights || Michael x Gf! Reader ||

@ambercraft09 (˶˘ ³˘(´͈ ᵕ `͈˶)

Synopsis: a very 90s fun date with Michael at the arcade!

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

The neon sign of the diner buzzed with a low, comforting hum, casting a warm pink and turquoise glow across the vinyl booth. Outside, the night was cool, but inside, the air smelled of sizzling burgers, toasted bread, and sweet milkshakes. Tucked away in the furthest corner booth, shielded by a large jukebox and a decorative privacy divider, sat the King of Pop.

Michael had his classic blue button-down shirt unbuttoned halfway over a stark white tee, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His signature curls were a little wild tonight, a few damp tendrils framing his face and catching the soft neon light every time he moved. He looked incredibly relaxed, a stark contrast to the global superstar the rest of the world knew. Here, tucked away in the back of your favorite retro diner, he was just Michael, your incredibly attentive, deeply playful boyfriend.

The waitress had just dropped off the drinks, placing them down with a friendly smile before heading back to the counter. Michael immediately reached for his glass, his large, slender fingers wrapping around the condensation-beaded glass of orange juice. He took a sip, letting out a satisfied "Ah," before looking across the table at you.

"You're not going to try yours, Applehead?" he teased, pointing his straw toward your glass.

You smiled, pulling your own glass of apple juice toward you. "I’m pacing myself, Michael. We have a long night of gaming ahead of us."

"Oh, please," Michael scoffed playfully, a brilliant, white-toothed smile breaking across his face. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his eyes dancing with mischief. "You talk a big game for someone who's about to lose. I've been practicing my reflexes. You don't stand a chance tonight."

"We'll see about that," you laughed, taking a refreshing sip of your apple juice.

Before Michael could counter, the waitress returned with a massive platter. The club sandwiches were towering masterpieces of toasted sourdough, crisp lettuce, juicy tomatoes, and layers of turkey and bacon, all held together by festive frilly toothpicks. A mountain of golden, perfectly salted french fries occupied the center of the plate.

"Thank you so much," Michael said politely, offering the waitress that gentle, breathy voice that could melt stone. As soon as she walked away, his inner child took over. He rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Alright, a fair trade. Half for you, half for me."

Because you two always shared, you spent the next minute carefully navigating the toothpicks, swapping halves of the sandwich, and sliding the fries into a perfectly equal pile between you.

For a few minutes, the only sound was the quiet crunch of toast and the distant pop music playing from the jukebox. Michael ate with genuine enthusiasm, his eyes closing briefly as he enjoyed the savory crunch of the bacon. He was in the middle of chewing when his gaze locked onto your face. A soft, incredibly tender look took over his features, replacing his previous competitive smirk.

"Hold still," he murmured softly.

"What?" you mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich.

Before you could grab a napkin, Michael leaned across the table. His thumb was incredibly gentle as it brushed against the corner of your lip, catching a stray crumb of toasted sourdough that had hitched a ride on your cheek. His touch was warm, lingering for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary as his thumb stroked your cheekbone. He looked down at the crumb on his finger, letting out a soft, melodic giggle that made his curls bounce. "Got it. Can't have my top competitor looking messy before the big match."

Your face flushed warm under his gaze. Wanting to deflect the sudden wave of butterflies in your stomach, you decided to play it cool. You reached into the pile of fries, grabbing a particularly long, golden one. You swirled it heavily through the pool of ketchup you had poured on the side of the plate, turning back to him with a triumphant grin.

"Oh yeah? Well, you missed a spot too," you said, reaching across the table to jokingly point the fry at his face.

"Wait, no, don't—" Michael laughed, trying to duck his head back, but he wasn't fast enough.

Your hand slipped slightly as he moved, and instead of just teasing him, the ketchup-soaked tip of the fry smeared a bright red streak right across the center of his chin.

Michael froze. His eyes went wide, staring at you in absolute, comical disbelief. For a second, the King of Pop looked like a deer caught in headlights, a perfect dot of red contrast against his flawless skin.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, your shoulders shaking as a massive laugh escaped you. "Oh my gosh, Michael! I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to actually hit your chin!"

Michael slowly reached up, using the back of his hand to wipe away the ketchup, looking down at the red smudge on his skin with a look of pure, exaggerated betrayal. A slow, wicked grin began to spread across his lips, his eyes locking onto yours with a dangerous, playful glint.

"Oh, so it's war then," he whispered, his voice dropping into a dramatic, mock-serious register. "You did not just deface the captain of Player One."

"Michael, wait, it was an accident!" you giggled, backing up as far as the vinyl booth would allow.

"Accident? There are no accidents in the arcade world!" Michael suddenly slid out of his side of the booth with lightning-fast agility. Before you could even slide to the opposite exit, he was on your side, blocking your escape.

"Michael, people are going to see!" you hissed, though you were laughing too hard to sound convincing.

"Let them see," he chuckled, his high-pitched, infectious laugh echoing in the quiet corner.

Without an ounce of mercy, his large hands descended upon your waist. His long fingers began to dig lightly into your ribs, finding your ultimate weak spot with practiced accuracy.

"Michael! Stop! No!" you shrieked, collapsing against the vinyl backrest as waves of intense tickles washed over you. You tried to swat his hands away, but he was too quick, his fingers dancing along your sides, making you squirm and gasp for air.

"Say it! Say I'm the master of the arcade!" Michael teased, his own face bright red from laughing so hard as he kept up the gentle assault. His curls fell completely forward, obscuring his eyes, but his brilliant smile was completely visible.

"Never!" you gasped, tears of laughter pricking your eyes. "You're a... you're a cheater, Michael!"

"A cheater?" he gasped theatrically, pausing the tickling for just a second, his hands still resting warm and heavy on your waist. "That's it. Maximum penalty."

He wiggled his fingers warningly, threatening another round, and you immediately held your hands up in absolute surrender, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath under his fond, adoring gaze.

"Okay, okay! Mercy!" you gasped out, your voice cracking slightly from laughing so hard. You grabbed his wrists, your hands feeling tiny against his as you tried to hold his fingers still.

"You're the master of the arcade! You're the captain of Player One! Just please, no more!" Michael let out another high-pitched, melodic giggle, the sound pure and triumphant. He didn't pull away immediately, though. He left his hands resting lightly on your waist, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles through your shirt to help you calm down from the tickle attack. He leaned in a little closer, his eyes sparkling with absolute delight as he looked down at your flushed face.

The playful assault finally slowed, leaving you breathless and melting into the plush cushions of the booth. Michael’s hands migrated from your ribs to your wrists, pinned gently but firmly against the vinyl seat on either side of your shoulders. He leaned over you, completely blocking out the rest of the diner.

Outside, the darkness had fully settled, turning the world beyond the glass into a midnight canvas. The only illumination came from the vibrant, buzzing neon tubes outlining the diner’s windows. Hot pinks and electric blues washed over the booth, casting deep shadows across the sharp planes of Michael’s cheekbones and highlighting the wet gleam of his curls.

His chest heaved with quiet, breathless laughter as he looked down at you, his eyes incredibly dark and heavy under the neon glow.

"You still think I'm a cheater, huh?" he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, velvety register that always made your heart do a backflip.

"Maybe a little," you whispered back, a teasing smile playing on your lips despite how fast your pulse was racing.

"Mm, maximum penalty it is, then," he whispered.

Michael leaned down, closing the remaining distance between you. His lips met yours in a kiss that was supposed to be a "punishment," but felt entirely like a reward. It was soft, warm, and deeply affectionate, tasting faintly of the sweet orange juice he’d been drinking. The sheer warmth of him pressed against you in the dim, neon-lit booth made your head spin.

You couldn't help it, the lingering adrenaline from the tickle war bubbled up, and a quiet, breathy laugh escaped you right into his mouth.

The vibration of your laughter broke the kiss. Michael pulled back, but only by a fraction of an inch. He didn't lift his head; instead, he stayed hovering close, his lips brushing against yours every time he spoke, keeping the moment intensely intimate.

"Laughing during a penalty? You really have no respect for the champion," he teased, his warm breath fanning across your skin. His thumb traced a slow, soothing circle against your wrist where he still held you pinned. "I can prove it, you know. I don't need to cheat. I can win any game in that arcade tonight. Every single one."

"Is that a challenge, Michael?" you mumbled against his mouth, your hands flexing against his grip.

"It's a promise, Applehead," he whispered back, his lips lingering on yours for one more slow, bruising second before he finally let go of your wrists and slid back onto his feet, adjusting his blue shirt with a triumphant, breathless grin. "Now come on. Let's go see who's buying the milkshakes."

You scrambled out of the booth after him, your face burning a shade of pink that perfectly matched the neon sign glowing above your heads. Michael was already a few steps ahead, his long legs moving with an easy, rhythmic grace as he headed toward the back exit that led directly to the arcade next door. He threw a playful look over his shoulder, his curls swinging across his eyes as he held the heavy glass door open for you. "Last one there has to pay for the whipped cream and the cherries!" he called out, his voice a bright, musical melody.

The cool night air hit your face for just a fraction of a second as you sprinted across the small concrete alley separating the diner from the neon palace of the arcade.

Michael, of course, let you win the race by a hair, slipping in right behind you just as the heavy bass and electronic chimes of the arcade washed over you both.The atmosphere inside was electric. Rows of vintage cabinets blinked and flashed in the dim lighting, casting a kaleidoscope of greens, reds, and yellows across the floor. The arcade was blissfully empty for a Friday night, giving you two free rein over the entire room.

He led you out into the cool, midnight air, his fingers intertwined tightly with yours.

Tonight was special. He had personally called Bill and the rest of his security detail, telling them to take the night off. He wanted to be truly alone with you, free from the crowds, the flashing cameras, and the watchful eyes of bodyguards. He slid into the driver's seat of his car, flashing you a proud, boyish grin as he started the engine. For a little while, he wasn't the King of Pop running from the world, he was just a guy taking his girlfriend out on a proper date.

The drive was filled with the sound of the radio and Michael tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, humming along to the rhythm. When he finally pulled up to the arcade, the exterior was practically vibrating with energy. Giant neon signs flashed in shades of purple and green, and the muffled sound of electronic bleeps and synthesized music leaked out into the parking lot.

Stepping inside was like walking into a different dimension. Rows of flashing cabinets lined the walls, throwing a kaleidoscope of colored light across the dark carpet. Michael pulled his fedora down a bit to shadow his eyes, but his excitement was impossible to hide. He squeezed your hand, leaning in close so you could hear him over the arcade noise.

"Alright, Applehead," he murmured, his eyes scanning the flashing screens. "I said I could beat you at any game. You get to pick. Choose your weapon."

You looked around the neon maze until a massive, dual-cabinet machine caught your eye. The plastic marquee above it read Alien Invasion in jagged, glowing letters. Mounted to the console were two heavy plastic laser blasters—one bright blue, one neon red.

"That one," you said, pointing at the extra-terrestrial shooter. "Whoever shoots the most aliens wins. No cheats, Michael."

"Oh, you're on," he chuckled, pulling a handful of shiny tokens from his pocket and slotting them into the coin doors. The machine wailed to life with dramatic, sci-fi sirens.

You both grabbed your blasters, stepping back-to-back for a brief, dramatic second before facing the screen. As the countdown hit zero, a swarm of pixelated green monsters flooded the display.

The competitive challenge was instantly intense. Michael was dead serious, his tongue poking out slightly between his teeth as his thumb hammered the trigger. He was moving with his natural, rhythmic agility, hip-firing his laser blaster like a movie hero. "Got that one! Ha! Take that, alien!" he shouted over the game's sound effects, his high-pitched giggle echoing every time he cleared a wave.

But you were in the zone. Every time Michael moved to blast a high-value boss creature, you pulled your trigger a microsecond faster, stealing his kills right from under his nose. You blocked his line of sight with your shoulder, making him gasp in betrayal as your score soared. He tried to lean over and poke your waist to distract you, but you dodged him seamlessly, keeping your eyes locked onto the screen.

The final boss appeared, a massive flying saucer. You let out a triumphant yell as you landed the final, rapid-fire sequence of shots, blowing the spaceship into a pixelated explosion just as the game over screen flashed.

The final scores tallied up across the monitor in bright, glowing red numbers.

PLAYER 2: 234

PLAYER 1: 120

You let out a massive, unbridled laugh, pointing at the screen. "Look at the numbers, Michael! Two hundred and thirty-four to one hundred and twenty! I absolutely crushed you!"

Michael stared at the screen in complete, comical shock. Then, the sheer ridiculousness of the gap in your scores hit him. He dropped his laser blaster, his knees giving out as he literally crouched down to the carpeted arcade floor in absolute defeat. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking violently as that famous, breathless, high-pitched laugh tore out of him.

"Two hundred and thirty-four?!" Michael shrieked from his spot on the floor, looking up at you through his messy curls with a face bright red from laughing. "Oh my gosh, you didn't just beat me, you destroyed me! One-twenty?! I'm supposed to be the champion!" He stayed crouching there, rocking back on his loafers, completely helpless to his own giggles as you stood over him, basking in your absolute arcade victory.

"I told you I was pacing myself, Jackson!" you crowed, resting your plastic blue blaster against your hip like a victorious space marine. "Who's the master of the arcade now?"

Michael just stayed down on the carpet for another moment, his hands gripping his knees as he rocked back and forth, completely overtaken by a fresh wave of breathless giggles. The neon green and purple light from the Alien Invasion marquee washed over his shoulders, catching the wild, damp tendrils of his curls. Every time he tried to pull himself together to answer you, he’d look back up at the glowing red numbers—234 to 120—and let out another high-pitched, musical shriek of laughter.

"Okay, okay, you got me!" he finally gasped, pushing himself up from the floor with that effortless, dancer agility. He adjusted his fedora, tilting the brim down just a bit to shadow his eyes, though the massive, white-toothed grin on his face was impossible to hide. He stepped close to you, his eyes dancing with a mix of mock defeat and genuine adoration. "You stole all my bosses! That was a tactical ambush, Applehead. Pure robbery."

"It's called strategy, Michael," you teased, leaning against the cabinet and crossing your arms. "And I believe the loser owes the champion a milkshake. With whipped cream and a cherry."

"Oh, a deal's a deal," Michael murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, velvety register. He stepped entirely into your space, his chest nearly brushing against yours as he trapped you against the side of the alien machine. He reached out, his long, slender fingers gently catching your chin and tilting your face up to meet his gaze. The playful competitive spark in his eyes softened into something intensely warm. "But a true champion always gives the runner-up a chance to win his dignity back. One more game. Double or nothing on the milkshakes."

Before you could answer, the electronic chimes of the arcade were cut through by the sound of the front glass doors swinging open. A loud burst of chatter and teenage laughter echoed into the room. Michael froze, his hand instantly dropping from your chin.

Through the dim, flashing lights, you saw a group of four teenagers walk in, clutching cups of tokens and looking around for a game.

Michael didn't panic, but his posture changed instantly. He swiftly pulled his fedora down lower, shielding his face completely, and subtly shifted his body to step in front of you, using his broad shoulders to block you from their view. He reached back blindly, his large hand finding yours and squeezing your fingers tightly.

"Shh, stay close," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned down. "Let's slide over to the back corner. I see a Pac-Man machine in the shadows."

The group of teenagers drifted toward the racing games, completely oblivious to the fact that the biggest star on the planet was standing just thirty feet away. Michael let out a quiet, relieved sigh, his shoulders relaxing under his blue shirt. He didn't let go of your hand, though. He kept his fingers locked with yours, guiding you to the glowing yellow marquee of a vintage Ms. Pac-Man cabinet tucked away in the dimmest part of the arcade.He dropped two tokens into the slot, the machine emitting its classic, chirping melody. But instead of pressing the start button, Michael turned his back to the game, leaning his hips against the control panel. He tilted his fedora up just enough for you to see the wicked, intensely affectionate glint in his eyes."Since you’re the reigning alien-slaying champion, the stakes need to be higher than just whipped cream," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, velvety register that made the neon lights around you feel completely irrelevant. He stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder, trapping you in the cozy darkness of the corner."What do you have in mind, Jackson?" you whispered, your heart doing a familiar, rapid flutter."A secret wager," Michael purred, a slow, beautiful smile spreading across his lips. He reached up, his long, warm fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, his thumb lingering at the corner of your mouth. "If I win, I get to hold your hand for the entire drive home, and you have to let me pick the music. No arguing.""And if I win?" you challenged, leaning into his touch."If you win..." Michael leaned down, his breath warm against your lips, his voice barely a whisper. "...you get to kiss me wherever you want, for as long as you want, the second we get back to the car. And I won't say a single word."He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and heavy with playful anticipation. "Do we have a deal, Applehead?"

"I dont want a kiss...i want the chessy bacon jalapeño fries"

Michael froze, his thumb still resting against your jawline. He blinked once, then twice, the intense, romantic look on his face completely shattering into a look of absolute, pure comedic bewilderment."Cheesy... bacon... jalapeño fries?" he repeated slowly, his voice lifting into that higher, incredibly expressive register.He stared at you for a beat, processing the fact that his incredibly smooth, high-stakes romantic wager had just been completely shot down in favor of diner appetizers. Then, his shoulders started to shake. He let out a loud, breathless shriek of laughter, dropping his forehead right onto your shoulder to hide his face as his body racked with giggles."Oh my gosh!" Michael gasped, his voice muffled by your shirt as he kept laughing. He pulled back, his face bright red under his fedora, his eyes watering from the sheer hilarity of it. "I’m giving you my best material, trying to be all suave, and you're thinking about cheese sauce! You are something else, Applehead!"He rocked back on his loafers, shaking his head in absolute disbelief, his curls bouncing around his face."Alright, alright," he chuckled, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye with his thumb. He leaned back against the Ms. Pac-Man cabinet, a deeply amused, affectionate grin spreading across his lips. "If that’s what the champion desires, that’s what the champion gets. New deal."He tapped the arcade joystick pointedly. "If I win, I get to hold your hand all the way home and control the radio. But if you win... we go right back to that booth, and I will personally buy you the biggest, messiest, most loaded plate of cheesy bacon jalapeño fries on the menu. Deal?" He held out his hand, his long fingers waiting for you to shake on it, his eyes dancing with a fresh competitive spark.

"Deal," you grinned, slapping your hand into his to seal the wager.Before Michael could even grab the joystick, a sudden burst of loud laughter erupted from across the room. You both glanced over. The group of teenagers had abandoned the racing simulators and were now drifting directly toward your dark corner, arguing loudly about who held the high score on the classic cabinets."They're coming over here," you whispered urgently.Michael’s eyes went wide. The time limit had officially begun. If he got recognized now, your quiet, perfect date night would turn into a chaotic media frenzy. He didn't hesitate. He grabbed the joystick with one hand and slammed his thumb onto the Player One start button with the other."Okay, quick game, quick game!" Michael hissed in a panicked, high-pitched whisper. His tongue immediately poked out between his teeth as the yellow Ms. Pac-Man icon started chomping through the maze on the screen.He was playing like a man possessed. His long fingers flicked the joystick with rhythmic, lightning-fast snaps, guiding the pixelated character through the corridors, expertly dodging Blinky, Pinky, Inky, and Sue. He was racking up points at a terrifying speed, completely in the zone."Michael, they're getting closer," you warned, glancing nervously over your shoulder. The teenagers were only about fifteen feet away now, staring at a nearby pinball machine."I've got this, I've got this, don't rush the master," Michael muttered, his eyes wide and unblinking as he cleared the second board.

But the pressure was visibly getting to him. His shoulders were tense, and his breath was coming in short, excited gasps.Seeing the teenagers take another step closer, you decided it was time for a tactical intervention. You didn't want him to get caught, but you really wanted those cheesy bacon jalapeño fries.

Leaning entirely into his space, you pressed your shoulder against his chest, your face inches from his jawline. "Are you sure you've got this, Michael?" you purred, blowing a soft breath against his neck.

Michael gasped dramatically, a high-pitched "Hee-hee!" escaping him in a panicked squeak. His hand slipped on the joystick. Ms. Pac-Man veered sharply into a dead end, running face-first right into Pinky.The tragic, descending digital wail of the game over screen echoed from the cabinet.

GAME OVER.

SCORE: 14,200

"You distracted me!" Michael shrieked in a silent, breathless whisper, his jaw dropping in comical betrayal. He quickly checked over his shoulder, the teenagers had paused, hearing his squeak, and were now looking over at your dark corner with raised eyebrows.

"Did someone just say 'hee-hee'?" one of the kids asked, squinting through the neon gloom. Michael didn't waste a single second. He grabbed your hand, spinning you around and pulling you into the deep shadows of the back exit corridor before the kids could get a good look at his face.

You burst through the heavy back exit door of the arcade and into the cool midnight air, your hands still locked tightly together. The heavy door clicked shut behind you, cutting off the arcade sounds and the curious teenagers just in time.

For a second, you both just stood in the dark alleyway, listening to the quiet cricket chirps and your own racing pulses. Then, Michael let out a loud, breathless shriek of a giggle, burying his face in his hands as his shoulders shook violently.

"I cannot believe you did that!" he gasped, looking up at you through his messy curls, his eyes watering from laughter. "Blowing on my neck? That is a highly illegal arcade maneuver! I was about to break the high score!"

"There are no rules when cheesy bacon jalapeño fries are on the line, Jackson," you laughed, pulling him toward his car. "And you ran face-first into a pink ghost. The score stands. I won."

"Cheater," he grumbled playfully, though the massive, white-toothed grin on his face totally gave away how much he loved it. He unlocked the car, and as you both slid into the warm leather seats, he pointed a finger at you over the center console. "I am paying for the fries under protest. Extreme protest."

Instead of going back into the crowded diner, Michael decided to order the fries to-go at the drive-thru window, keeping your private night safe from any more close calls. Within minutes, the heavenly, spicy, savory scent of melted cheese, smoky bacon, and fresh jalapeños filled the entire car, making your mouth water.

Michael drove you both back to Hayvenhurst, his childhood home and sanctuary. The drive was peaceful, the radio playing softly while Michael kept his word from the arcade, his large, slender fingers stayed intertwined tightly with yours the entire way home, his thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of your hand.

When he pulled up the secure driveway of the estate, the property was blissfully quiet. He turned off the engine, grabbed the warm to-go container, and led you by the hand up to his private room. It was your favorite place to escape, filled with his favorite memorabilia, plush couches, and a giant television screen.

You both kicked off your shoes and curled up back-to-back on his massive, comfortable bed, propping the white styrofoam container right between you.

When you popped the lid open, a cloud of delicious steam escaped. The fries were a masterpiece: golden, crispy, buried in a thick blanket of gooey cheddar, a mountain of crispy bacon bits, and bright green jalapeño coins.

"Alright, the champion's bounty," Michael murmured, leaning over the box with wide, hungry eyes. He had unbuttoned his blue shirt just a bit more, looking completely at ease.

You reached in and picked up a perfect, cheese-laden fry. But before it could even reach your mouth, a pair of long, slender fingers darted into the box with lightning-fast, dancer-like agility.

"Hey!" you gasped.

Michael had expertly snatched the absolute best piece from the pile, a deeply crispy, perfectly golden fry that was drowning in cheese and held a massive piece of bacon right on top. He popped it into his mouth, his eyes closing in pure, blissful satisfaction as he chewed.

"Mm," he hummed, a wicked, triumphant smirk spreading across his lips as he looked at you. "A tax for illegal arcade distractions. The runner-up gets a taste test."

"You are unbelievable," you laughed, throwing a loose bacon bit at his chest.

Michael shrieked with laughter, dodging the bacon and immediately reaching back into the box to go for seconds.

Before the styrofoam lid could even close back over the remaining fries, your eyes caught a tiny flyer crumpled on his bedside table, reminding you of the machine right by the arcade's front entrance.

"Wait, Michael, we have to go back," you said suddenly, setting the fries down. "I forgot about the bat."

Michael blinked, a half-chewed fry still in his mouth. "The... bat? Like, Bruce Wayne?"

"No, the little purple bat plushie in the giant claw machine by the door! It had the cutest little stitched fangs and oversized ears. I looked right at it before the teenagers walked in."

Michael’s eyes lit up instantly. The sleepy, relaxed posture vanished, replaced by a surge of absolute, unwavering determination. He swallowed his food and sat up straight, his jaw setting into a dramatic, heroic line.

"A bat plushie? With fangs?" he asked, his voice dropping into a serious, mock-epic whisper. "Why didn't you say so, Applehead? No girlfriend of mine goes home without her requested nocturnal mammal. Come on, put your shoes back on!"

He scrambled off the bed, grabbing his fedora from the dresser and tossing you your jacket. Security risk or not, Michael was on a mission. He personally called the arcade's manager, a trusted contact who occasionally hooked him up with private tokens, and within ten minutes, you were pulling back into the alleyway. The manager had quietly unlocked the back door just for you two, leaving the arcade entirely empty, dark, and beautifully silent except for the humming neon.

Michael marched straight past Alien Invasion and Ms. Pac-Man, his loafers clicking purposefully on the carpet until he stopped dead in front of the towering, glass claw machine. He leaned his hands against the glass, his eyes scanning the mountain of neon teddy bears and cheap stuffed animals until he spotted it. Wedged tightly between a green dinosaur and a giant fuzzy dice was the little purple bat.

"Oh, he is cute," Michael murmured, his face softening completely as he stared through the glass. He patted the side of the machine. "Don't worry, little guy. We're going to get you out of there."

He shoved a token into the slot, and the claw machine chimed a dramatic, carnival-like tune. Michael grabbed the metal joystick, his fingers incredibly precise. He didn't rush. He moved the claw back and forth, squinting from the front, then stepping to the side of the machine to check the alignment from the angle.

"Left... a little bit to the left," you whispered, leaning over his shoulder.

"Shh, let the crane operator work," Michael teased, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in deep concentration.

He lined it up perfectly, took a deep breath, and slammed his palm down on the big red drop button. The claw descended, its metal prongs opening wide. It dropped right over the bat's head, clamped down around its chubby purple body, and began to lift.

You held your breath. Michael froze, his hands clenching into fists.

The claw carried the bat halfway to the prize chute, wobbled slightly, and then

click

its grip relaxed. The little bat tumbled backward, flipping through the air and landing even deeper into the pile, completely wedged beneath the dinosaur's tail.

"No!" Michael shrieked theatrically, dropping to his knees and clutching his chest as if he’d been physically wounded. "The betrayal! It dropped him! Did you see that? The claw turned into spaghetti fingers!"

"It's rigged, Michael," you laughed, leaning down to pat his shoulder. "The grip strength is totally random."

"Rigged?" Michael scoffed, pushing himself up and dusting off his blue shirt, a dangerous, competitive fire back in his dark eyes. He yanked his fedora down a little tighter. "There is no machine built by man that can defeat me. Give me another token."

For the next fifteen minutes, it was an absolute war of attrition. Michael went through a small fortune of tokens. He tried angling the claw to dig the dinosaur out of the way first.

He tried using the claw as a hook to drag the bat closer. He even tried a tiny, rhythmic hip-shake right against the side of the cabinet to see if the vibration would loosen the plushie, making you laugh so hard you had to lean against the wall for support.

"Michael, it's okay, we can just look for one online," you giggled, wiping a tear from your eye.

"Never!" he gasped out, his face flushed pink from the effort. "I am the captain of Player One! I don't buy plushies, I win them!"

He dropped his final token into the slot. The music started up again. Michael closed his eyes for a brief second, taking a dramatic, grounding breath like he was about to hit the final high note of "Billie Jean."

He opened his eyes, snapped the joystick forward, and hit the button without a moment's hesitation.

The claw dropped like a stone. It wedged itself deep into the crevice between the toys, the metal prongs completely disappearing under the dinosaur. It clamped shut. With a loud, mechanical groan, the crane reeled upward, dragging the little purple bat out of the wreckage by its giant, stitched ear.

The claw glided across the top of the machine. It hovered over the prize chute. It opened.

Thump.

The little bat slid down the plastic ramp and popped out into the bottom tray.

"YES!" Michael screamed, his high-pitched cheer echoing loudly in the empty arcade. He did a lightning-fast, celebratory spin, landing perfectly on his toes before dropping to his knees to snatch the plushie out of the bin.

He held it up in the air like a trophy, his brilliant, white-toothed smile lighting up the entire dark corner. He scrambled up and marched over to you, proudly tucking the soft, purple bat right into your arms.

"For the champion," Michael murmured, his voice dropping back into that gentle, velvety register. He reached out, his thumb affectionately brushing against your cheek as he looked down at you, his eyes brimming with absolute fondness. "Told you I'd get him. Nobody beats the king."

You clutched the purple bat plushie tightly against your chest as Michael grabbed your hand, pulling you out of the dark arcade and back into the cool night air. The heavy glass door clicked shut behind you, sealing away the chirping cabinets and the empty neon maze.

Above you, the massive arcade sign buzzed with a low, comforting hum, casting brilliant ribbons of electric purple and vibrant green light across the concrete alleyway. The night was dead silent, save for the distant rush of the highway and the soft sound of your own synchronized footsteps.

Michael stopped right in the center of the glowing wash of light. He turned to face you, his chest heaving slightly from the excitement of his grand claw-machine victory. The colorful neon tubes illuminated the sharp, beautiful angles of his jaw and sent a wet, glittering gleam through the wild curls framing his face.

"See?" Michael murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, velvety register that completely stole the breath from your lungs. A slow, deeply affectionate smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "I told you I wouldn't let you go home empty-handed."

"You really are a magician, Jackson," you whispered, looking up at him over the top of the plushie's oversized ears.

Michael let out a soft, breathy giggle, but the playful competitive spark in his eyes quickly melted away, replaced by a gaze so warm and heavy it made your heart do a frantic backflip. He didn't say another word. He reached out, his long, slender fingers gently sliding behind your neck, his thumb caressing your cheekbone as he tilted your face up.

He leaned down, pulling you flush against his chest, and captured your lips in a kiss that was a thousand times sweeter than any arcade reward.

It was soft, lingering, and deeply passionate, tasting faintly of the cool night air and the lingering sweetness of the evening. The intense warmth of his body shielded you from the midnight chill, and you could feel the rhythmic, steady thud of his heart against your ribs. You melted completely into his touch, your fingers tightening against the soft fabric of his blue button-down shirt as the world around you dissolved into a blur of purple and green light.

When he finally pulled back by a fraction of an inch, he didn't let you go. He kept his forehead rested gently against yours, his warm breath fanning across your skin as his high-pitched, melodic chuckle vibrated against your lips.

"Now," he whispered, his eyes sparkling with pure adoration as he squeezed your waist. "Let's go home and eat those cold fries before I have to win another war to get a bite."

"Oh, no, no, no," Michael laughed, his voice lifting into a panicked, high-pitched giggle as you gripped his hand and pulled him right back toward the heavy glass door of the arcade. "Applehead, what are you doing? We just made a clean getaway!"

"You don't get to be the only champion tonight, Jackson," you declared, using your badge of victory, the purple bat tucked securely under your arm, to nudge him back inside. "You won me a plushie. Now I'm winning you one."

Michael’s jaw dropped in absolute, theatrical shock. He let you lead him back into the neon-lit sanctuary, his large hand squeezing yours as a massive, white-toothed smile broke across his face. "You're going to win me one? Oh, this I have to see."

You marched right back to the towering crane machine. Michael stepped back, folding his arms over his blue button-down shirt and leaning against a neighboring pinball machine. He tilted his fedora up, his dark eyes dancing with pure, amused anticipation as he watched you step up to the controls.

"Alright, let's see the master strategy," he teased, rocking back on his loafers. "Show me your panther reflexes."

You scanned the colorful mountain of toys through the glass until you saw it: a small, incredibly round gray mouse plushie. It had oversized, pink-lined ears, a tiny stitched pink nose, and a face that looked so utterly sweet and innocent it practically had Michael’s name written all over it.

"That one," you said, pointing at the little mouse. "That's you."

"A mouse?" Michael squeaked, letting out a delighted, breathy chuckle that made his wild curls bounce. "Why a mouse?"

"Because it's cute, it's small, and it looks like it hides in corners just like you do," you joked, dropping a token into the slot.

The carnival music chimed to life. You grabbed the metal joystick, suddenly feeling the intense weight of Michael’s unblinking, hyper-focused gaze on the side of your face. You lined up the claw, checking the front, then stepping to the side just like he did.

"A little to the right," Michael whispered, suddenly leaning over your shoulder, his chest pressing against your back as he hovered close. His warm breath tickled your ear. "No, wait, back up a millimeter. The claw has a lazy left prong, remember?"

"Michael, stop backseat driving, you're ruining my focus!" you laughed, elbowing him lightly.

"I'm helping! I'm the co-captain!" he insisted, his high-pitched laugh echoing in the quiet room.

You took a deep breath, ignored his playful distractions, and slammed your palm onto the big red button. The metal claw dropped down like a stone, plunging deep into the pile. The prongs wrapped perfectly around the fat, round middle of the gray mouse.

Clank.

The claw snapped shut with a surprisingly strong grip, lifting the mouse effortlessly into the air. Michael gasped dramatically, his hands flying to his mouth as he watched the toy hover. The crane glided smoothly across the top of the cabinet, paused over the chute, and dropped the little gray mouse right down the ramp.

Thump.

"You got it!" Michael shrieked triumphantly, dropping to his knees on the carpet faster than lightning. He shoved his long arm into the prize chute and snatched the mouse out, holding it up like a priceless treasure. He scrambled back to his feet, his face absolutely radiant with a brilliant, proud smile. "Oh my gosh, first try! First try! You're a natural, Applehead!"

He squeezed the round little mouse, looking down at it with an expression of pure, unadulterated fondness. "He's perfect. Look at his little ears."

Michael stepped close into your space, holding the little gray mouse in one hand while his other hand gently found your waist, pulling you against him in the neon purple gloom. He leaned down, his eyes dark and meltingly soft as he looked at you, his thumb tracing a slow, warm circle against your hip.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, velvety register that made your knees go weak. "Nobody ever wins things for me. I'm keeping him forever."

He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, holding you tight against his chest as the arcade sign buzzed softly outside.

The quiet serenity of the midnight drive back to Hayvenhurst was broken only by the soft hum of the tires against the asphalt and the warm glow of the dashboard lights. Michael drove with one hand casually on the steering wheel, his long fingers occasionally tapping a rhythm, while the other hand held tightly to his new prize, the little gray mouse plushie resting on his lap. The purple bat sat securely in your arms.

As the secure iron gates of the estate parted to let the car through, a sudden, heavy shift took over the atmosphere inside the vehicle.

The playful hum left Michael’s throat. His posture stiffened, his shoulders squaring beneath his blue button-down shirt. He pulled the car up the long driveway, threw it into park, and turned off the engine, plunging the interior into a deep, shadowy quiet. He didn't move to get out. Instead, he stared straight ahead through the windshield, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"Hey," you murmured, the sudden shift making a knot of anxiety tighten in your stomach. "Michael? What’s wrong?"

Michael didn't answer right away. He let out a long, heavy breath, a sound so weighted with stress that your heart instantly began to hammer against your ribs. He slowly turned his head to look at us, his dark eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his fedora, completely devoid of their usual mischievous sparkle.

"There's... there's something I need to ask you," Michael began, his voice dropping into a tense, strained whisper that practically vibrated with nerves. He swallowed hard, his gaze locking onto yours with a level of intensity that made you want to shrink back into the leather seat. "It’s really important. It’s been on my mind all night, and honestly...it scares me to even bring it up because I don't know what I'll do if the answer isn't what I hope."

Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands tightened around the purple bat, your mind racing through every worst-case scenario. Was something wrong with his music? Was the media tracking you? Was he about to break things off? "Michael, you're terrifying me," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Just tell me. Please."

Michael leaned in closer, the shadows of the car wrapping around him, his expression deathly serious, almost grim. He took a sharp, dramatic breath.

"How good..." he paused, his eyes unblinking, "...are you at Super Mario Bros. 3?"

You froze.

Michael held the deadpan, intensely serious face for exactly one more second before his facade completely shattered. A massive, brilliant, white-toothed grin broke across his lips, and he let out a loud, triumphant, high-pitched shriek of a giggle, throwing his head back against the headrest as his shoulders shook violently with breathless laughter.

"Oh my gosh!" Michael shrieked, his voice climbing into the rafters as he rocked back and forth, completely helpless to his own prank. "You should have seen your face! You looked so scared! 'Michael, you're terrifying me!'" he mocked in a high-pitched voice, practically crying from the sheer hilarity of it.

The sheer rush of adrenaline turned into pure, unadulterated exasperation.

Smack!

You swung the purple bat plushie forward, bringing it down squarely against his shoulder, followed immediately by a firm swat from your open hand right against his arm.

"Ouch! Hey!" Michael squeaked, wrapping his long arms around his head to shield himself, though he was laughing far too hard to actually defend himself. He curled up against the driver's side door, his wild curls bouncing everywhere as he shrieked with a mix of tickled terror and pure joy. "Applehead, stop! Abuse! Domestic abuse!"

"Michael Joe Jackson, I swear to layout your arcade career permanently!" you yelled, laughing despite yourself as you gave him one last indignant nudge. "You are an absolute monster! I thought the world was ending!"

"I had to know!" he gasped out, wiping a legitimate tear of laughter from his eye as he straightened his crooked fedora, his face bright red and radiant with happiness. He looked over at you, his eyes brimming with a depth of love and comfort that made the entire fake scare worth it. He reached over, grabbing your hand and squeezing it tightly. "Because if you're good, we're staying up until dawn. Come on, champion. Let's go eat those cold fries."

Holding your prizes tight, you both scrambled out of the car and ran into the warmth of the house, the echoes of his infectious laughter following you into the quiet night.

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So much longer than I planned it to be...

[glockenspiel267]

Cloudmic based on a roleplay where Yamada wins Shirakumo a cat keychain that looks a lot like Sushi!

Yamada had his sunglasses on during the scene but his eyes are too pretty not to draw 🥹

I LOVE CLOUDMIC YIPPEEE

If anyone is down to Roleplay erasermic/cloudmic feel free to message me! I’m always down for a super fun Roleplay

There’s also a close up photo below!

[morenalafresa]

My boyfriend is the reason why I ship Amy x Shadow

[cherry-dr0p]

ARCADE🕹💕

VVV

Silly mini comic

(This is a game of guess where I just gave up because Im very tired </3)

An extra Brialice doodle I did :3

Hello hello! Apologies Im slightly late for this post. I have admittedly procrastinated a lot this weekend in terms of finishing this drawing, but alas! It's done!

I love these two so much QuQ

[karmasuccubus]

The arcade goddess blessed our date today 🙏🙏🙏