sacrilege [michael langdon x reader]

iii. curiosity

"I believe we haven't been properly introduced", you said, extending your palm, trying to will your voice into a mask of confident nonchalance. "I'm Y/N L/N- and you are?"

You slumped down into the seat in front of him, using your elbows to prop yourself up. With the inclination of your head, you drew circles on the sticky metal table stained with centuries worth of terrible food.

He was watching you, that small, taunting half-smile still on his plump lips as he closed the notebook abruptly before leaning back, his piercing gaze still resting on your face. You could see the play of his muscles when he brought up his arms to cross them confidently, the way they contracted and moved. In a way, he reminded you of a cat watching its prey, content, already relishing in the mere possibility of a successful hunt; or a spider in its web, waiting for a single misstep, the slightest mistake- for a chance to strike, to tear through flesh and bone, to get high on the blood and the carnage.

"I'm Michael Langdon. And you're my new neighbor. Did that old hag leave you the house?" His voice was raspy but confident- and felt like honey to your ears.

You smiled, well aware your words were dripping with sweet poison. "The 'old hag' was my grandmother." You bent forward, pursing your lips. "You knew her well?"

People were watching now, their wide-eyed stares burning holes into your back.

"Not really. I didn't find the old occupants of the house interesting."

There was something in his voice, a hint of sincerity, that made you pause.

"The old occupants?" You leaned forward even more, now face to face with him. "What about the new ones?"

His smile widened as he took in the sight of you, on the edge of your seat, curious; and you had the impression that he was savoring the moment, quickly, before he exhaled, moving forward so he was face to face with you.

"I haven't made up my mind yet. But I'm intrigued."

Now it was your turn to exhale the air you'd held trapped in your lungs, unbeknownst to yourself. You saw something move in your periphery vision; Michael had moved his hand slightly so it hovered mere inches above yours, and he made to touch it- when your phone rang. He winced, pulling his hand back in the blink of an eye and sat up straight, as if nothing had happened, as if the tension that had filled the air to a breaking point mere seconds ago had never existed.

Muttering an excuse, you turned away slightly, now facing Chanel who was staring at you, her mouth a gaping hole as she blinked in confusion. She was mouthing something that was followed by an obscene gesture, gesturing for you to come over when the hand that had been holding the phone went completely numb.
It was a strange sensation, as though you were gradually losing control, and terror filled your heart when the feeling, like poison, crawled up your arm and into your torso, pushing against the insides of your veins, the feeling causing your gut to twist and revolt, vision blurring as your eyes watered.

There was a pressure on your chest, heavy and unyielding, building up until you felt like it was unbearable, as if your ribcage was going to combust under the force. Something, someone, was doing this to you, some part that was more instinct than conscious thought told you.