#psychicskulldamage

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The man smirks, the corners of his mouth curling just slightly as he raises an arched eyebrow.

He looks familiar and Ian’s mind races trying to place him. How does he know him? Why does he know him? His eyes grow wide when he figures it out and he swears that the man breathes out the slightest laugh.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” Ian asks in disbelief. “You’re… you’re Mickey, the Goblin King.”

What the fuck is he even saying? The Goblin King? This is a dream, it has to be a dream. The result of exhaustion and fantasy stories before bedtime. He shuts his eyes, breathing in deeply and counts to ten, a stupid suggestion his therapist made once.

“Okay, Ian,” he whispers to himself, slowly opening his eyes.