Was rereading 'Pressure' god I love the fact that one of Chloé's genuine question when she realizes Sublime has prosthetic legs is 'Will you have them long?'
Girl is innocent in some ways while worldly in others.
I used a translator because I wrote it in my first language and honestly I can't write in English... so if there are confusing or unclear parts, that's why lol
Michael really liked to talk, he loved talking about the things he liked, about the things he would have liked to do. He used to spend endless hours talking with Doc, about everything and nothing, just chatting. The others in the group weren't exactly... thrilled to have a pair of magpies who could go on and on about why the sky was blue for at least a few hours. The ones who were the least okay with it were Mack and, of course, Murphy.
Murphy hated that little magpie; he was the definition of a chatterbox. Whenever he saw him moving his mouth, he knew he wouldn't have a single moment of silence for the rest of the trip.
Unfortunately for him, the kid seemed to have some twisted fascination with zombies. Which worked against him—Murphy had literally proclaimed himself the messiah of the Church of the Resurrection, that damn sect Michael belonged to.
Now he seemed to worship him, almost as if he saw him as a deity. The only advantage to this behavior was that Murphy could ask him to do anything, and he'd do it without complaint. He liked that—knowing he didn't have to make some concoction to have him at his mercy.
Plus, he was pretty... helpful. And he seemed to have an innate talent for finding supplies. He seemed... like a dog.
Murphy let out a low chuckle at the comparison, which only made Michael's attention turn completely toward him.
He used to be scared of those eyes that stared at him so intensely, but now, seeing him for what he was—a dog—somehow he found it almost endearing.
"Come here," Murphy ordered, gesturing for the boy to come closer.
Michael followed the order, scooting a bit in his seat until he was close to his... messiah?
"What's up?" The boy's almost innocent voice made something stir inside the half-zombie, who let out a snort and placed his hand on his head, ruffling his hair.
He couldn't help but lean into the touch, which only reinforced the older man's belief that the teenager looked like a puppy.
He let out a small mocking laugh, then pulled his hand away and motioned for him to back off, with a certain disdain.
Michael moved away, but his expression showed that the gesture had made his day; he seemed more animated, talking even more enthusiastically, which made Murphy question whether it had been a good idea to give him that... "reward."
•
•
•
"And what's your name?" he asked one night in a low voice. They had set up a small camp by the side of the road; 10k was on first watch, but Michael usually kept him company, saying he wasn't very good at sleeping at night. Murphy, for his part, had slept all afternoon, so unfortunately he had plenty of energy and couldn't fall asleep.
"Murphy," he replied in a sharp tone.
Michael let out a snort, shifting a little on the log they were sitting on. It was a cold night.
"I mean your first name, not your last name." The young man's tone had a hint of amusement.
"That's none of your business."
"But I'm curious."
"I don't care about your curiosity, brat."
Michael pouted slightly at Murphy's refusal, then let out a soft sigh.
"Do you want to know my full name?" Michael asked, just wanting to keep the conversation going a little.
"No."
"Since you insist, I'll tell you."
"I just told you I don't wa—"
"My name is—" he interrupted, with a big teasing grin. "Michael Jackson de la Sagrada Concepción, grandson of Viscount Charles the Third."
Murphy stared at him directly, with a look full of mockery, exasperation, and disbelief.
"What...?"
At Murphy's expression, the boy couldn't help but let out a small laugh, modulating his voice so as not to wake the others.
"It's a joke. My name is Michael Angelo Kirk, though I don't like being called Kirk—I hate it, that's why I introduce myself by my first name."
The older man just rolled his eyes. He should know better than anyone that he could never have a serious conversation with that bundle of energy.
"Okay, Kirk. You're right... that's a shitty last name," he mocked a little, nudging his shoulder.
"See? That's why I don't usually say it," Michael replied, returning the nudge in a friendly way, feeling like he was finally making a real connection.
They fell into a somewhat comfortable silence; the crackling fire accompanied them for a while. The starry sky let them appreciate the horizon a little. It was even... peaceful for the apocalypse.
"Alvin Bernard Murphy," the older of the two admitted in a low voice.
Michael turned to look at him almost instantly, his eyes glinting a little in the starlight.
But then Michael burst out laughing, covering his mouth and holding his stomach. The half-zombie just shot him a look of hatred and embarrassment, watching him writhe until he fell to the ground, choking on muffled laughter.
He lifted part of his body, coughing a little and trying to compose himself as much as possible, panting and wiping the tears that had escaped from his eyes.
"I don't know... I don't know what's worse... the fact that your name is... A-Alvin—" He could barely speak, between choked laughs and gasps, visibly amused. "Or that your name is... B-Ber... Bernard—" He expelled the name with another laugh, which earned him a "SHHH" from a drowsy Warren. "I'm sorry..."
Murphy just had a grimace on his face. He didn't know how he had opened up to this idiot.
"Shut up, Kirk," he replied with a slight growl.
Michael leaned back against the log, still letting out small gasps and giggles, recovering from the big laugh.
"You can't blame me when you're literally named Bernard," he snorted with amusement, earning another look of contempt.
"I was starting to like you, but now I despise you even more."
They fell silent for another moment, until Murphy looked back at the boy, who was still looking at him with a slightly teasing smile.
"Why the hell did your parents name you Michael Angelo?"
"Well, since you asked..."
And so, Murphy completely regretted asking that kid anything. Spending about five hours listening to a long story about religious things and cults. Although it was... kind of fun hearing the kid ramble on, he'd never say it out loud, but... he kind of liked listening to him.
A return to form and a break from the formula all at once. A short, fluffy, single-scene one-shot scribbled out in the span of only two days, like I used to do. But for a fandom I've never written for.
Did somebody say cunty Mondstadt witches? No? Too bad, you're getting them anyway!
The first interim fic for the Teyvat Pulse Initiative AU is up! Behold, The Hexenzirkel!
grace shelly @/draperarchive • Sep 02 2026
things that jack draper has worn during a match that used to be jannik sinner's—a thread
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