#distortion michael is lopsided

[undeadgoonie]

more tma doodles …. theyv been very fun to draw as a break from trades

DOORKEAY BEAM GO !!!!!!!!!!!!!

[holysheeptree]

more tma doodles …. theyv been very fun to draw as a break from trades…(Read More)

[jellydishes]

a big chunk of the next chapter of a Gerry/Michael Distortion ""meetcute"" i uploaded to ao3 forever ago, which is hopefully still good out of context for the hungry masses:

One thing Gerry hadn't expected when beginning caring for this eldritch fish out of water was just how strange the simplest aspects of it were.

Michael seemed bound by the physical rules of reality up until it wasn't funny anymore, from what he could tell. It never seemed to move from it's customary boneless lounge to anything faster than a walk, and yet it was never where you expected it to be. If you'd left it in the bunk that had been designated yours to share, it of course turned up on topdeck on the completely opposite end of the ship, staring raptly up at the auroras. It had to have run to get there, but it wasn't out of breath or seemed exhausted at all, the way Gerry was.

He came up beside Michael and mirrored it's posture by crossing his arms on the safety rails, and looked up at the shifting green and purple lightshow. "Beautiful, isn't it? Ribbons of light no one could string together and all that. The Inuit who live in the area probably have stories about it, but," he added with a sidelong glance, "I'm guessing you have your own thoughts on it."

"It isn't random."

Gerry paused in the middle of thinking fondly of the clove cigarettes stashed back in their bunk, and blinked at it. "What?"

"Madness isn't random and without purpose. You were thinking the lights were like The Spiral, like the shape you imprisoned it in, and you are wrong."

"But…" Gerry said slowly, gloved fingers feeling the bite of cold metal even through layers of fur and leather.

"The aurora is reacting to magnetism and solar winds, and you are reacting to your attempts to define the greatest lie of all."

"And what is the greatest lie?" Gerry's voice felt thick with a strange mixture of awe and the purest dread, the sort that rooted him to the spot as surely as those mismatched eyes when they settled upon him.

"All of your natural laws can be broken on a whim. The madness lies in convincing yourself they were ever true at all."

"...Like what?" The words almost felt dragged out of him unwillingly, pulled by the intensity of it's gaze.

"Like this ship. Your skin. The delicate rattle of your heart thundering behind it's gossamer cage. They could be unraveled at any moment, and yet you walk about as if that wasn't true at all."

Gerry's vision was beginning to swim disconcertingly, but he refused to drop his eyes away. "You just described the human fuckin condition," he managed after a few moments. "Lying to ourselves about death being far away, or…" he surprised himself with a grin, "Wearing it pinned to your chest through art. Make it yours, and it can't control you anymore."

"Is that what you are doing, Gerard Keay?"

Gerry finally looked away, and opened his mouth to reply.

***

"This is delicious!" Gertrude said, though Gerry couldn't help but notice how she always said that when she was reading while she ate.

He furrowed his brows down at the congealed, overcooked noodles he'd been served, then flashed a lopsided grin at the sailor who'd brought him his plate. "It's distinctive, is what it is. Did you tell the cook where to dig it out from, again?" He was gratified when the sailor coughed up a laugh. He'd never been very good at figuring out how or when to interact with other people, and he hadn't been sure if what had in truth been a tentative joke would land as well as he'd hoped.

The sailor went away, and so did Gerry's smile. Across from him, Michael stared down at the food on it's plate with an expression that was about as easy to parse as the battered old maths textbooks his mother used to force him to squint at. Every now and then those mismatched brown and black eyes would flick to those eating nearby, watching the back and forth motions of hands to mouths with a strange, off-putting intensity. Gerry wanted to laugh, but the sound caught behind his teeth when Michael's eyes found his, next. Meeting those eyes was as uncomfortable as it had always been with anyone, but with an added layer to it that felt as dark and swollen as a migraine.

He looked away first, down at his own plate. He watched through his peripheral vision as Michael began to dig into its own pile of macaroni and bring a loaded spoon to its mouth. In went the spoon, out went the spoon. It chewed slowly and thoroughly, then swallowed without any apparent difficulty. "Distinctive is an odd word to dig up," it said as it brought up a second bite and chewed. Gerry had stopped eating. It wasn't copying just his words, but his tone and the posture he'd had when he'd said it, too. Even brought up one hand to fold beneath it's chin. He didn't dare glance around in case that would bring attention to them, but his grip tightened on his spoon until his knuckles turned white.

"Why?" was all Gerry could manage to work out past the knot in his throat.

"Distinctive," it said in a completely different tone, one that he only slowly realized was in imitation of Gertrude. She made no move at all except to turn her page and chew her food. She didn't even look up. "Adjective. A characteristic serving to set one apart, such as the stripes on a zebra." It gently set it's spoon down across the rim of it's plate in a way that his mother had always chided him to do, and turned slightly towards him. He didn't look at it. "You used it as an insult. Decided it was bad, and if it wasn't before, it is now. Why does it matter? It is food. It exists to be destroyed."

A chill ran through him at those words. He had to force his next words out. "It matters. How and why things exist before… that matters."

"You think it is playing with it's food," Michael said. "Prove to it why you exist and it will stop."

Gerry didn't know what to say. The words had dried up in his mouth, and he could only stare as Gertrude closed her book neatly on her index finger and smiled between the two of them. "Oh dear, getting into philosophy over dinner? You truly do sound like the son I never got to have, Gerard. Next you two will be bickering over the fine line where optimism meets nihilism, and it will be time for breakfast before you even get to the halfway point."

Michael's expression turned puzzled, and for a moment all Gerry could think of was how easy it was to distract a toddler from throwing a tantrum by bringing something unexpected into the mix. Except that this was no child, no matter how surprised it sometimes seemed to be when caught off guard by some side of humanity, and any tantrums it threw would be very, very dangerous for the toys.

***

Michael often spent a great deal of time on the topdeck, spinning in place to watch the deceptively soft snowflakes scatter, or simply staring up into the sky with an expression that always made Gerry turn away with a cough. He had to repeatedly remind Michael that human beings couldn't take the cold as well as it had used to, and that expression would inevitably turn to one of irritated resignation. "No wonder you're all so afraid," it said as it started towards the stairs, "every little thing is seen as a potential threat, whether or not it is."

"Yes, yes, we're delicate, you've said that already," Gerard replied tiredly.

"What sort of delicate are you?" Michael had stopped, but hadn't turned around. "You are aware of these things, but push them away. What sort is that?"

"The sort that wants to be back under the covers with a book," Gerard muttered, but his brows had drawn down as he honestly considered how best to answer the question. After a pause, he tilted his head with narrowed eyes, because upon thinking about it he was getting rather tired of pointed questions when he hadn't asked to be assigned to babysit a very dangerous, yet newborn, know-it-all. "What about you, then?"

Michael still hadn't started to walk again, but was swaying slightly in place. "What about it?" it asked.

Gerry spread his arms wide. "Here you are living as a human now, having to eat and shit and breathe like one of us crawling little cockroaches. Don't you feel delicate?"

Michael very slowly turned its head to look at him. The expression on its face was a strained thing, twisting with what could almost be uncertainty if it wasn't for the pure rage flashing in those mismatched eyes. "I have never felt delicate," it said. "I have never felt anything, except hunger. Before the eyes made me feel everything. Stop looking at me."

"And there we are," Gerry said with grim satisfaction, not even blinking as Michael turned and started towards him. "Me. You're a 'me.' A person. That must really itch under that new skin of yours, doesn't it?"

Michael started to grab for him, but something made it hang back and answer him instead, hands hanging outstretched towards his neck. "It does, it- I hate it, I hate it! Stop looking at me!" With that, it lunged forward to close the distance between them, but this wasn't like the first time around. Gerry was angry too, now, and he slapped a visibly startled Michael's hands away. "We have to set some ground rules, and we have to set them now. You don't touch me. You try this again, and I'll make sure you find out what pain is."

Michael's lips peeled away from its teeth in a sneer. "You think that will compel me? A puny, tiny shudder of a thing that passes in a blink of an eye?"

"Funny you should mention eyes," Gerry said, stepping up in Michael's space this time, forcing it back on its toes. When he spoke again, his voice sounded different, heavier, textured over itself in layers that made Michael go stock-still. "Tell me what you're scared of."

Michael looked back at him. The flecks in those wide eyes were swallowed up by reflected stars as it answered despite a visible struggle to do anything but, "I shouldn't be here."

"Why does that frighten you?" Gerry said in that same tone, weighty and ringing out in a way that made Michael actually flinch back from him. It stood wavering in place as if it were building up to something that took more strength than it had left, or had ever had, before it spoke again.

"What if I forget?" It stopped again, face twisting as it struggled against the force of Gerry's compulsion, so he repeated himself.

"Why does that frighten you, Michael? Answer me."

Michael's hands curled and uncurled at its sides before it sagged in place. "I don't want to forget what it felt like to be… myself. A being as large as creation and small enough to work it's way inside every crack and crevice of the lies you all fear have been true all along. Every-" it grasped at its own chest with a sudden desperation. "Every single heaving, mewling grip for oxygen anchors me into this dying lump of flesh more and more and more, and I can feel it. Can you, Gerard? Do you feel yourself dying?"

A normal person would say something comforting right now to another normal person, but neither of them fit that description. Instead, he lied. "No. You are alone."

[heliophaestus]

day 9: the new door

[ID: a drawing of michael shelley as the distortion in MAG47, it is standing with one hand behind his back and the other reaching out to a bright purple door outlined in yellow with a yellow spiral shape on it. he has three different mouths of sharp teeth, two on its face and one on its neck, all grinning. he has two eyes at lopsided angles/levels, one cyan and the other hot pink, both with spirals in them. the colour is messy and goes outside the lines, and his hands are long and end in sharp points. /End ID]

[tazzytypes]

Apocalypse: Sanctuary - Chapter 16

Hey guys! So sorry for the delay -- if you follow me on Tumblr, you know that it has been a battle trying to get time to work on this next chapter. Between school and work, the burnout is strong this semester and the senioritis definitely doesn't help. Is it just me or are teachers putting a lot more on our plate than they did last semester? Anyways, here's chapter 17 -- This chapter is shorter than usual, but I hope you enjoy it!

Read more on AO3 or find more chapters on the Masterpost!

Stevie’s voice echoed throughout the salon, the woman standing on the same part the brunette witch had once laid. Emily had yet to decide which was more improbable, Stevie Nicks serenading them or the fact that she had gone to hell and back. She stood on her own in the corner of the room in an attempt to ease her nerves. Having something at her back was reassuring, similar to huddling under your sheets as a child. She wasn’t sure, however, which boogeyman she was hiding from.

They all seemed so unfazed. Hell was but a mid-week grocery run. Stevie singing more akin to listening to your sibling practice for an upcoming recital.

Myrtle, Zoe, and Queenie sat poised in the corner of the room, so still that she might have mistaken them for an oil painting. Cordelia and Madison were similarly stationed on the other side of the room, Madison standing by the staircase and Cordelia standing by the door. Misty sat on her own, directly in front of Stevie with tears brimming in her eyes. It wasn’t hard to see that the woman was obsessed. In fact, it quite surprised Emily that Misty had yet to faint.

Stevie Nicks — The White Witch — sang Gypsy. Emily had heard it a thousand times before in her car, in her room, in supermarkets over the intercom, and she was listening to it yet again. Emily was a witch, she had been to hell, she had fought a demon, found out that her dreams were never really just dreams, and now she was watching Stevie Nicks sing. The fever dream continued and the young witch was just along for the ride.

So still was everything that it was hard not to doubt her own mind. Even the warlocks were perched with bated breath, Behold on the stairs and the others above them. Pennypacker was the only one in motion accompanying the siren that was Stevie fucking Nicks. It was impossible not to stare at her. Still, Emily’s eyes couldn’t help but flicker up to the new Supreme. Blue eyes met hers before flicking away. Michael’s expression was firm and stoic. Her friends back home would have called it “resting bitch face,” but she felt there was more to that expression. However, Emily didn’t know him enough to quite define what.

He had been quiet since Cordelia awoke — not that he was particularly chatty to start with. Michael and Ariel were perched above them on the balcony. The Chancellor’s gloating had yet to clear from his face, his eyes flickering to Cordelia again and again. The former Supreme did not indulge him, keeping her eyes firmly set on Misty as if she might disappear. They must have been close, Emily concluded, for her to look like that.

“I knew you for such a short time, but I have missed you forever,” Cordelia had said. It almost made Emily feel bad for doubting the headmistress — almost.

Emily looked around the salon and grabbed a glass of wine. She doubted anyone would comment on her underage drinking. It was the least she deserved after the day’s events.

The distorted voice of a thousand tongues still rang in her ears and her desire for answers burned her with every breath. Grabbing a second glass, she gave into the fire. Her feet were light as she made her way towards the stairs. No one noticed her leave… all except one.

Michael’s gaze was nothing short of sharp, but there was something else to them. She had seen it in hell, reflected a thousand times over in the mirrors that lined the halls of purgatory. It only flashed across his face for but a moment, but she had seen it clear as day.

Michael Langdon was afraid.

Even now, his back to her as she came to the top of the stairs, she could feel that fear. It was anxious and tense, always on alert. The kind that kept you from everyone and everything. It was a fear Emily was all too accustomed to.

“It’s hardly fair,” She spoke, Michael turning only slightly towards her in acknowledgment of her presence. Holding out one of the glasses, Emily came to rest beside him. Stevie continued to sing and the others continued to watch, unaware of their conversation or pretending it wasn’t happening. “This should be for you. Celebrating your success. They usurped your victory with a victory of their own.”

Michael accepted the glass of wine, nursing it in his hand as he leaned on the railing. “I have a feeling this won’t be the last celebration we’ll have. No offense to you witches, but I’d much prefer something with my fellow warlocks.”

He watched her carefully. What had his father meant? A gift? He was supposed to wipe out the witches, not join hands and sing kumbaya. Her eyes focused on him but quickly flitted away back towards the revelry.

Emily shrugged. It was a fair point. She assumed celebrating with strangers wasn’t anyone’s idea of a good time.

“Still,” she said, doing her best to pretend she couldn’t feel his eyes on her, “Enraging, isn’t it… or, at the very least, frustrating.”

“How did Cordelia find you again?” he asked.

Emily pretended not to notice his once-over. Ignoring the question told the young witch all she needed to know. She chuckled and shook her head. “Someone left an anonymous tip. Apparently, there’s a hotline or something… 1-800-is-this-a-witch.”

Michael smiled, a lopsided expression more to signify that he heard her than out of actual enjoyment. Emily’s hazel eyes once again flickered away from his and to the floor before gazing out at Stevie once more. Michael followed her gaze and they rested in a brief, comfortable silence.

“You should be more careful about who you stare at,” She said, so low that the boy-wonder barely heard her speak. Her eyes flickered back to him, the light of the fire accenting a ring of gold around her pupil. “and who sees you doing it. Especially in a crowded cafeteria.”

Zoe had told her about the tip, naturally. It had been one of the many things that ran through the brunette’s brain since she arrived at the academy. A normal person wouldn’t have a good enough sense of witchcraft. Hell, Emily hadn’t even heard about Robichaux before her sudden transfer. Thus, the only logical conclusion was that the anonymous tip was also a witch… or a warlock.

Emily would be lying if she said that the look on Michael’s face didn’t amuse her. She hadn’t been sure at first, but now there was no doubt. Names were something she had always been bad with, but faces? Faces she always remembered. Especially when they were pointed out by a friend as, “that boy who keeps looking at you.”

Michael’s lips twisted and his brows furrowed, his eyes immediately going to survey the witches below. They remained unmoving; eyes fixated on the performance. No one's gaze flickered upward. There were no poorly concealed whispering.

“Do they know?” He noted.

“No.”

Michael finally turned to look at her fully. Either she had something up her sleeve or had yet to learn of the safety that came with dishonesty.

“Why?”

Emily thought for a moment. It was a good question. The coven had been nothing but kind, but something in her gut twisted whenever she thought about baring all her thoughts out to them. She wanted to call it intuition, but it wasn’t as if she could ask Cordelia or even Zoe to confirm that particular assumption.

“They’re very opinionated,” She finally decided,” Everyone is. I need to come to my own conclusion.”

“And what is the question you are trying to answer?”

“What game you’re playing,” she said, surprised when the thoughts spilled past her lips. It was the wine, she imagined. “It’s akin to chess, but I can’t quite place the name of it.”

Michael simply smiled, a detached and unemotional expression. “Maybe one day.”

“Maybe, but for now… congratulations.”

Once again, her words made him pause. She was the first to congratulate him… even among his fellow warlocks. He quickly spoke to hide his surprise.

“To surviving hell,” he said, holding his glass out for a toast. Emily cautiously clinked her glass against his own, the action just as hesitant as when she had taken his hand.

“Did you know,” She spoke again after taking a sip and trying to hide the grimace the bitter drink provoked, “historians speculate that toasts were once used to check for poison?”

“Last I checked you brought the wine, not me.” Michael said, “unless this is a confession to attempted murder.”

Emily looked at him for a moment as her mind comprehended what had just happened, mouth opening and closing like a gaping fish. Michael felt almost proud of the result.

“No, that’s not—” She let out a sigh and pinched her brow, “I ramble when I’m nervous.”

“You’re nervous?”

“I just got back from literal hell. My nickname in high-school was Satan, but that was just a joke.”

Michael laughed. A genuine laugh, not just the ones you did to fill the awkward silence. He tried to hide the expression, but his lips couldn’t help but twist into a small smile.

“Think of it this way,” he said, leaning a bit towards her as they continued to talk, “you’re prepared for the day your time comes.”

“That’s hardly reassuring.”

She took another drink, not bothering to hide her expression of distaste. Emily leaned back on the railing so that she was facing the stairs as if she were expecting someone to sneak upon them. Looking over her shoulder, she stared at her new Supreme and waited for his rebuttal.

“They all have the power to escape their hell,” he said, looking back at the festivities below, “they just choose not to.”

Emily’s brow furrowed, “How do you know that?”

“Call it a gut instinct.”

A silence lapsed between them, both observing the people around them. On this balcony, everything felt so detached. They were but spectators in their own lives, barely retaining control.

“Hell’s personalized, yeah?” Emily finally noted. Michael didn’t look at her, but she could feel his eyes boring into her. He was probably annoyed with her, but for once she couldn’t bring herself to care. “What do think your hell would be?”

“What would yours?”

“I have a few ideas.” The brunette’s lips twisted a bit, a purple hue now forming on them from the wine. “The never-ending hall was close.”

“What was that about, anyway?” Michael found himself asking before he could think. “You said it was purgatory.”

She could only sigh, her eyes bugging a bit as she tried to think. How crazy was crazy? She didn’t even have a basis for comparison anymore. Better yet, how did she even begin to answer?

“I had a dream once. There was a never-ending hall filled with beings that hadn’t been human for so long that they now looked more like shadows. I had to walk down that hall with a basket of… something.” Emily explained. The glassy fog seemed to appear for a moment in her eyes, but she quickly shook it away. “I’d rather dissect a frog for eternity.”

“You have a surprising lack of sympathy for a witch.”

“I don’t know whether I should take that as an insult or a compliment.”

Michael laughed and shook his head. Emily mirrored his expression for a moment, but it quickly fell as her eyes settled on the stairwell. She must have only been in that hellish void for a moment, but it felt like she had been writhing in it for eternity — screaming bloody murder for someone to save her. The shadows of this place taunted her, a predator that could consume her at any moment. Sleep was not going to come easy that night.

“Pain is relative and so seems is hell,” She said, voice detached and distant once more. The change made Michael perk up, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. “She was in pain… I will be in pain. I am simply jealous of the outlet in which that pain comes in.”

“Envy is surprising as well.”

Emily smiled, wry and humorless. “What can I say? We can’t all be perfect.”

Michael didn’t respond to that, his eyes narrowing onto movement below them. He couldn’t see Cordelia from this position, but he could see Madison. The witch looked back with a confused expression as if someone had thrown something at her back. Her eyes flickered back to Stevie for a moment before she took a few steps back and disappeared out of his view.

Emily followed his gaze, seeing the tail end of Madison disappearing below them. “What do you think they’re plotting?”

“You don’t trust your own kind,” Michael said. A statement. Not a question. Emily simply shrugged.

“I’ve known this world for two months,” She said, “I don’t trust anyone.”

“Yet.”

“Yet,” She agreed with a crooked grin, “Though I suppose not leaving me there in hell earned you a few points in the right direction.”

“Witches zero, warlocks one.”

Emily made a face, lips curling and head cocking in contemplation.

“You’re about an even tie at this point.” She said.

Once again, the silence consumed them. They had gotten used to it, she presumed. Emily wondered how time worked in hell - things had certainly felt like an eternity. It was enough time to make her feel different, somehow. Her eyes flickered to Michael as he stared into the distance. That was a better question for Cordelia, she presumed.

With a sigh she turned back towards Stevie, allowing herself to be serenaded once more. The song came to an end and they watched as Misty shot up and began clapping. Stevie smiled at her and held out a hand which the woman gratefully took, practically skipping towards the singer.

“You think she’d let me take a photo with her?” Emily asked. Michael gave her a befuddled look, brows knitted and nose scrunching. She didn’t notice the look at first, too focused on the scene below them. When she turned, her face immediately mirrored the boy-wonder’s.

“It’s Stevie fucking Nicks,” she said, tone defensive, “My mom was a huge fan of hers.”

Michael simply rolled her eyes and Emily scoff at his ignorance. Bringing her glass to her lips, she tilted her head back and downed the rest of it. She grimaced and shook her head before placing the glass on a nearby table.

“Come on,” she said, nudging his arm a bit and making her way towards the stairs, “you should get one, too. Hang it in your office when you become Supreme.”

Michael turned around to look at her. “You really have no idea of how things work, do you?”

“A month ago, magic was a distant dream of childhood,” Emily spoke, giving him a pointed look and gesturing to the room around her, “I’m in the midst of a train wreck which is my reality.”

That was enough to make Michael chuckle.

“You’re quite the poet.”

Emily could only laugh at that, rolling her eyes for good measure, “Whatever you say, Mr. Supreme.”

The girl’s change of personality was enough to give one whiplash. She had been so timid before they performed Descensum, barely able to meet his eye and cautious as a mouse. Then again, the drinking probably had something to do with it. Michael wondered what she saw in those few moments she had been alone in hell.

Emily waited expectantly. With a sigh, Michael gave in to her demands. Behold looked to them as they descended the stairs. He had seen the brunette pass him on the way up. The suspicion he had before was still evident in the way he looked at her, but now it was accompanied by a hint of surprise. Witches and Warlocks were natural enemies, after all.

Misty’s back was to them as they approached, the only thing visible of the woman being her curly hair and flowery shawl. She and Stevie seemed to be in a serious conversation. Everyone seemed to be in serious conversation, talking to one another in hushed whispers.

Michael followed after Emily, hands behind his back. He regarded the room, eyes scanning over the occupants as their eyes flickered towards him. It would be harder to sneak around now given his new position. He’d have to adapt. Sparing a look back towards the balcony, he found Cordelia settled into her corner of the room once more. Madison was nowhere to be seen. Whatever conversation they had concluded. His expression soured ever slightly. Emily must have been a diversion.

“Excuse me,” the brunette witch spoke. Stevie Nick’s presence seemed to have sobered her somewhat, timid nature returning. Michael turned his gaze back towards her, feeling the eyes upon them. “I don’t mean to be rude, but could we get a picture with you? My mother is a huge fan — practically grew up with your songs as lullabies.”

Misty was beaming, whatever conversation she had with the White Witch obviously going well. She bit her lip as Emily came to stop beside her as if it was the only way to keep herself from spilling every last detail.

“Anything for a fellow witch,” Stevie said happily. Emily reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Misty happily took it from her as Michel awkwardly stood to the side. With a sigh, he shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced to his shoes then back up to the balcony. Ariel smiled at him and rose his glass. Michael offered a strained smile in turn.

His attention was pulled away by movement out of the corner of his eye. When he turned, he found Misty waving him over.

“Your turn, Mr. Supreme!”

Michael could only sigh at the nickname but still walked towards Stevie with a strained smile. He was stiff next to the woman, something that seemed to amuse Emily.

“Congratulations on the promotion,” Stevie said as Misty directed them into place, her eyes focused on the camera, “Descensum is a dangerous spell. The last time I visited this coven, it didn’t end well.”

Misty turned to Emily as she took the photo, showing the results to the brunette who smiled and thanked the woman. Michael pulled away from Stevie, the forced smile quickly leaving his face and into something more amicable. Misty showed him his pictures and he just offered a smile and nod before the woman handed the phone back to Emily.

“Where are my manners,” Misty said with an awkward chuckle, motioning to Stevie as she realized the awkward silence building up, “This is Stevie, of course. And Stevie this is—”

Misty paused for a second as she looked to Emily, “Well I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Emily,” The brunette introduced, holding out a hand to Stevie, “I’m new.”

The musician smiled and took Emily’s hand.

“You have a musician’s fingers,” Stevie noted.

“Oh, I’m not—”

“Can’t lie to me, child. Not only am I familiar with these things, I’m a witch as well. What do you play?”

“Only a few things,” Emily admitted, pulling her hands away and allowing them to settle at her side.

“What was your first?”

“Violin,” she said, “tried piano, but couldn’t quite catch on.”

“You’ve certainly fiddled with the devil today,” Stevie noted, turning to smile briefly at her biggest fan, “You were one of the ones who saved our Misty, weren’t you?”

Emily glanced towards the boy-wonder before returning to the woman, “Actually, I was just an unintended side-effect. Michael did all of the work.”

The brunette stood back towards the man as if to guide Stevie’s eyes, biting her lips and looking to him in apology. His eyes flickered from Emily to the other two women, noting their hesitation.

“In that case,” Stevie said, ignoring the way Misty looked between herself and the new Supreme, “Thank you very much. You have done a great deed for this coven. Misty is one of the most powerful witches I know.”

Her tone was cool and icy. Emily couldn’t help watch the two as the tension was drawn between them. It was as if the witches knew something she didn’t. It was infuriating.

“The pleasure is mine,” Michael said, articulate and direct as if he were giving a speech instead of a conversation. The whole interaction felt like a bravado, an act. “Such is the job of the Supreme.”

Emily was pulled away from the conversation as Misty linked their arms together. “So, you’re a fan of Stevie?”

The brunette allowed herself to be distracted, “Not as avid as you — or so I’ve been told.”

“Oh she’s—” Misty said. Her eyes darted once more to Stevie, then Michael, then back to Emily. She squeezed the brunette’s arm for emphasis. “you know how some songs just make you feel like dancin’? That’s Stevie for me.”

Another glance was given towards Michael, Misty’s ever-present smile faltering for just a moment.

“How are you feeling?” Emily asked.

“I’ll be better once I see the sun,” Misty said, pulling her shawl tighter around her, “Anything’s better than this damn candlelight.”

“If I stay down here any longer, I may just go blind,” Emily agreed, doing her best to be reassuring. She tapped the rim of her glasses with her free hand. “Not that my sight was great to begin with.”

Misty smiled at her and squeezed her arm once more.

“So where did Miss Cordelia find you?”

“Georgia.”

“You’re used to the humidity, then.”

Emily nodded, “Too familiar. You from Louisiana?”

“Born and raised,” Misty sang, “Spent most of my life living off the grid in the swamp.”

“Is it more peaceful?”

Misty smiled awkwardly and gave a nod towards Michael and Stevie. The pair were still talking, Stevie leaning back ever slightly and Michael standing with his hands behind his back.

“Certainly has less politics,” The swamp-witch said, earning a small smile from Emily. The two lapsed into silence. Emily was quickly overwhelmed by the sounds around her, head turning a bit to break free of the crackling fire and roar of whispers in every corner of the room.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Misty spoke, pulling Emily from the chaos, “What was your hell like? I’m assumin’ it's different from everyone. I mean, there was a boy in my chemistry class that seemed to enjoy… well, you know.”

“Do they have dissections in chemistry?”

“He was an avid learner.” Misty said, “or, at least, that’s what his parents called it.”

If the horror of childbirth wasn’t enough to dissuade Emily from having kids, Misty’s comment was enough for her to swear them off entirely.

“It’s all a blur, honestly,” she said, returning to Misty’s question, “All I remember is a door by the River Styx then—”

“Styx?” Misty asked, nose crinkling and brows knitting. Emily opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by a boisterous voice from above.

“I believe this would be a good time to make a toast,” Ariel spoke from above them, clearly enjoying the control he had over the room, “In celebration of old friends and new…”

Emily found her mind wandering as the man spoke. Misty hadn’t known what she spoke of. Was it because of descensum? No, it couldn’t be. From the bits and pieces she had been able to collect from her fellow witches, Misty had lost her life performing the same task they did.

Hazel eyes flickered back to Michael only to find him staring at her in turn. Emily didn’t know how to feel about that look in her eyes. She had seen fear, but that was the most dangerous expression a person could wear. It meant they would do anything to get themselves out of a corner. Michael was a snake sizing her up. Was she a threat or his next meal?

.

.

.

Madison awoke in the night to muttering. In all honesty, she hadn’t had the chance to fall asleep in the first place. While she wore the title of “cold bitch” with pride, the fact that Cordelia looked to her for such a monumental task was suspicious at best. Well, she was a powerful witch — powerful enough for Fiona to think she was supreme.

Her hand went to her neck instinctively. The swamp-bitch’s shit was enough to remove all signs of trauma, but some days Madison swore the gaping wound was still there. Being strangled to death the second time probably didn’t help the fact. Neck-related trauma seemed to be her shit.

With a sigh, Madison tossed and turned, throwing her sleep mask off the side of the bed. This place was darker than fucking night, anyways.

She had just settled back to sleep when the muttering came again.

“Can you can it, Persephone?” Madison snapped, “Some of us want some fucking beauty sleep.”

“Finis venit,” she heard again, somewhat slurred and groggy, “Ante infinitium.”

“Look, Satan,” Madison snipped once more, pulling her phone off the bedside table and turning on the flashlight, “Go the fuck to sleep before I shove my foot up your—”

Madison wasn’t scared by much. She had been to hell where she worked in customer service and given a hand-job to Harvey Weinstein. However, when the light landed upon her temporary roommate, she was, at the very least, startled.

Emily was almost going full exorcist. Sitting straight up from the blankets in which she had made her bed, her eyes stared lifelessly ahead.

“Fenis venit,” she said again, a drunken-like slurring to her voice, “Ante infinitium.”

Then she fell back and resumed snoring.

“Fucking freak,” Madison scoffed, turning off the light and pulling the covers up.

She should have roomed with Zoe.

.

.

.

“How’d you sleep?” Zoe asked Emily as they all stood outside the academy. Two bodyguards packed their things into the car and Emily could only shift from foot to foot as she watched them.

The younger witch’s eyes flickered between the bodyguards and her mentor. Why did they need bodyguards, anyways? “Fine.”

“With Madison?” Queenie said, letting out an incredulous laugh on Emily’s left, “yeah right. She had you sleep on the floor, didn’t she?”

Emily’s eyes flickered to the ground and her lips pursed together.

“… Maybe.”

“Girl, you went to fucking hell, but you’re going to let a blonde bimbo push you around?”

“It kind of worked out,” Emily said, “She snores.”

Madison, only a few feet away from the trio, scoffed loudly and rolled her eyes. Queenie could feel the starlet’s eyes boring into her back.

“How loud?”

Emily’s eyes flickered back to Madison whose nostrils were flaring as she glowered. She expected the look to silence the girl.

“Like a bear.”

Queenie laughed and even Zoe couldn’t help but snort. Madison crossed her arms and huffed, stomping her heel into the ground in protest. She looked like that dog in 101 Dalmatians — the one in the beginning with its snout in the air pompously.

“At least you don’t have to share a room with her,” Zoe said, leaning in close but not bothering to lower her voice, “Did the earplugs help?”

“Very.”

“Whatever,” Madison snapped, “at least I don’t talk in my sleep.”

“And?” Emily said, finally turning to look at the woman, “that’s quiet… and amusing, if you think about it.”

Madison’s eyes narrowed and she took a few steps towards her. Emily sighed as she recognized the signs of a square-up, the woman coming until she was barely a foot away from the brunette.

“You know they have a saying about bears and sticks,” Madison said.

Zoe took a step towards the two, “C’mon Madison. Can’t you just chill for like five seconds?”

“That you should wave one around at a black bear, but not a brown bear?” Emily asked, crossing her arms and ignoring Zoe entirely, “Really important distinction, I’ve heard.”

Madison frowned and narrowed her eyes. The next thing Emily knew, the end of her skirt was on fire.

“What the hell, Madison!” Zoe yelled, quickly moving to perform a counter-spell. However, as soon as she began to cast it, the fire was gone. Emily hadn’t moved an inch, her eyes still firmly set on Madison. She didn’t… she couldn’t… could she?

“Consider it a lesson,” Madison said, crossing her arms and smiling smugly.

“In what,” Zoe exclaimed, “bitch-craft?”

Myrtle’s voice silenced any further retorts, coming to stand with the group with Cordelia at her side. “Can we wait to start the petty squabbles once we get out of this damnable place?”

“Whatever,” Madison said, clipping Emily’s shoulder as she pushed her way towards the car, “I call shotgun.”

Cordelia spared a glance at the other three witches and they followed Madison’s lead obediently. Zoe squeezed Emily’s shoulder as she passed, offering a reassuring smile.

“How are you feeling?” Cordelia asked once the women were out of earshot.

Emily didn’t have a snappy response for that one.

“Different,” she finally decided after a few moments of consideration.

Cordelia patted her cheek. Her eyes were sad as if she knew what the girl had gone through. Emily didn’t like when people presumed things like that.

“The pain will fade.”

“It’s not the pain I worry about.”

“Then what is?” Cordelia asked, brows furrowing.

“The fact that everything made sense there.”

Cordelia opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by a shout from the car.

“Come on, Delia,” Myrtle called, “The plane takes off in two hours.”

Smiling and nodding, Cordelia squeezed Emily’s shoulder. “We’ll talk more later.”

The brunette had barely a moment to think before she felt a weight over her shoulder. Jumping a bit, she turned to find that Misty had swung an arm around her. The girl was all grins, constantly looking up to the sky and spinning around as if she were dancing from the second they stepped outside.

“Don’t worry too much about Madison,” She said as the two sauntered towards the car, “She’s always mean.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Wonder what her hell was.”

“Retail,” Emily said, “or so she said. Kind of generic, don’t you think? Then again, generic would probably be an insult to her. Irony, I guess.”

Misty laughed, “I like you. You’re funny.”

The ride to the airport was eventful. While all the girls were tired and ready to go home, a playfulness emerged from their delirium. Cordelia sat near the front of the car, talking in hushed whispers to Myrtle as the rest of them held an avid debate in the backseats. She would glance back at her girls now and again via the rear-view mirror.

“You should really get that checked out,” Emily said, turning back to the starlet, “Snoring is usually a sign of breathing problems.”

Stationed at the center of the car, the newest addition to her family seemed to be blooming. Cordelia had never heard the girl speak so much. She had worried, naturally, the effects hell would have on the girl's psyche. However, her instincts had been right. Giving the girl something to conquer had done Emily some good and revealed more of the magic in her bones.

Madison huffed. “I don’t snore.”

“Like sleep apnea or something?” Zoe asked, clearly reveling in any conversation that pissed off her former roommate.

“Kind of,” Emily said, “when you snore it's because air can’t get through your air passages properly and causes the surrounding tissue to vibrate… or floppy airways.”

“Hey, Madison,” Queenie shouted between chuckles, looking back to the tiny back seat the starlet had been shoved into, “You got floppy airways!”

“At least I don’t have floppy skin.” Madison snapped before grumbling, “Will probably live longer, too.”

“The fuck did you just say?”

“Actually, the belief that weight is correlated with health is inaccurate,” Emily said, “Correlation does not equal causation. Also, haven’t you died three times already?”

“Here’s a question for you,” Madison said, “Do you know how to mind your business?”

“Depends — Do you know how to not be a bitch?”

Queenie let out a barking laugh. Misty giggled a bit as well, leaning into Emily with a smile.

“Almost always,” She whispered to the brunette.

“What did you say, swamp rat?” Madison demanded, taking off her sunglasses just to glower at the pair. She much preferred it when Emily was nearly mute.

“Girls,” Cordelia finally sang, feeling a headache coming on, “can we please save the bickering for when we get back to the academy?”

“Sorry, Miss Cordelia,” Misty quickly apologized, shrinking in her seat.

Madison was anything but apologetic. “Emily started it!”

“Like hell I did!”

“Girls!” Cordelia exclaimed, the whole car falling into a tense silence. If not for the gentle rumble of the engine, one could hear a pin drop. The silence was quickly interrupted by a nearby car slamming into their horn.

“Still quieter than Madison’s snoring,” Emily muttered quietly, a chuckle leaving Cordelia despite herself. Looking in the rear-view mirror, Cordelia watched as Misty leaned into the brunette and whispered something in her ear. Emily smiled and whispered something back, Madison loudly scoffing in response.

She made the right choice, letting Emily into the academy. Still, something the girl had said was stuck on repeat in her head, “…everything made sense there.” Misty had said the girl had used powers in hell. Emily had told the headmistress of her dreams, but Cordelia had also been to hell. It was no dream, not in the slightest. It was real as anything.

Cordelia’s eyes flickered to the back seat, watching her girls. She couldn’t help but wonder if Michael was the one truly rising or if fate had a different future in mind.

[spacestationdaedalus]

Happy late Christmas to @malevon!! I might not be able to throw you a party but at least I can give you a fic to read to celebrate the last day at your job. This is the longest single piece I’ve written in a long time and my first time writing injury/whump, so I hope it’s comprehensible, at least. It was SO much fun to write, thank you for the lovely prompt <3

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28435182

...

She's coming apart, now. 

I’m not scared of you.

Helen...was that...a lie?

Once he heard it, Saw it, Jon knew it was over. Her doors and hallways bend and creak under the weight of the Watcher’s gaze, and she herself is twisting. She’s always twisting of course, but this is different. It’s uniform, too comprehensible for the incarnation of lies and deceit. She’s screaming, crying out-

- it’s me, it’s Helen -

Channeling the power of the Eye comes a bit easier each time, which Jon registers in the back of his mind as vaguely concerning. The corridors are crumbling, colors blending into each other as Distortion and Spiral become indistinguishable. Jon staggers as the walls and floor shift, disorienting still even with the Eye staring down at them. It reaches out, then, a last-ditch effort to save itself. Stretching and warping with hands, sharp fingers that don’t belong to Helen or Michael or anyone with a name. Jon doesn’t stop talking.

He registers a pain, vague and far-off. Everything warps into red and a million colors all at once, and then he's nowhere.

Dry grass crunches under his feet, and icy wind cuts through him. He can’t actually hear it over the ringing in his ears, but he can definitely feel it, bracing and whipping the dark strands that had come free from their bun. There’s a ringing in his ears; it travels into his jaw, rattles his teeth. There's a coppery taste in his mouth and warmth trickling down his face. Another nosebleed. Great.

"Christ, Jon!"

Martin's voice comes from behind, and Jon sags with the relief of it.

"Oh, Martin! Good." Jon turns to greet him. His words sound strange to his own ears. Slippery and lopsided and wrong. The ringing in his ears is replaced with the dull roar of rushing blood. Accented by a rhythmic thud - his heartbeat, surely. Was it always so loud? He can feel it behind his eyes, and with every beat it hurts just a bit more.

"Wh-what happened? There was the hotel and then..." Martin's voice trails off, eyes widening.

Jon laughs, bringing a hand up to wipe his face. His fingers are cold. Which is strange because the rest of him is light and warm. He shivers. "Oh calm down Martin, it's just a nosebleed." He can taste the copper, still.

Martin rushes toward him. He's saying words that Jon desperately wants to hear, but he can't. Not over the roaring in his ears, or the blur of color and static. He can feel Martin's hands on his arms, his shoulders. Jon reaches up, tries to grasp one of his hands. Has his arm always been this heavy? He feels a pulling, sudden and deep - his abdomen. And it hurt.

He blinks. He's on the ground, half kneeling. Martin's arms are around him.

"-my god, what happened? Oh god Jon-"

His head is heavy, eyes tired. He looks down. And there's blood. His blood?

Oh.

He opens his mouth to tell Martin that it's alright, it's ok, it's not as bad as it looks. He makes a sound, he thinks. He hopes, desperately, that Martin understands.

A wave of dizziness overtakes him, followed closely by darkness.

Without himself to talk to, the dismal weather is a bit distracting.

Martin braces himself against the wind and the light pattering of rain. There’s hardly a way to tell if he’s walking in the right direction, or if there even is a right direction to begin with. He’d simply picked the way that felt right and began the trek, hoping he’d meet Jon along the way. Which isn’t an outstanding plan, sure, but Martin has a hunch that wherever the fog of the Lonely ends is where he’ll find Jon. Or, where Jon will find him - not that there’s much of a difference. Regardless, Martin hopes it’s sooner rather than later. His other self had slipped away into the fog long before, with all the fanfare of a breath dissipating into cold air. At the very least he’s walking with the wind instead of against it, though it doesn’t stop the minuscule droplets from painting his glasses. He’s already given up on cleaning them, resigning himself to the rivulets that form and drip down the smooth surface.

When the rain lets up and the fog clears just enough to catch a building crest over the horizon, the relief marginally outweighs the apprehension. The sight of something other than gray mist and dead grass is promising that he’s reaching the boundary of his domain.

Hidden horrors beyond comprehension aside, at least he can get a break from the damn wind.

It’s a hotel, Martin realizes, one of the old kinds you see in travel magazines and history shows. It’s weather-worn and outdated in a way that might have seemed charming at one point, but now practically oozes terror. The wind dies down as he approaches, for which Martin is grateful.

And in a matter of moments, it’s gone. 

Although "matter of moments" might be pushing it. One second it was there, and then Martin blinked, and then it wasn’t.

And Jon is there.

"Christ, Jon!" Martin says, half startled-fear and half relief. The wind picks up again in the hotel’s absence, but it seems more tolerable, now.

"Oh, Martin! Good." Jon turns, a dazed look on his face to match his tone. There's a thin trail of blood dripping from his nose. Overusing his powers again, Martin realizes with a bolt of apprehension.

"Wh-what happened? There was the hotel and then..." Martin looks to the space the hotel once occupied, and back to Jon, who’s facing him now. His voice trails off as slow sinking horror creeps in its wake.

Jon's shirt is ripped open, tatters fluttering like wind chimes in the frigid breeze. Four gashes, deep and red, run diagonally across his torso, from mid-rib cage to just above the waist. Blood is coating his stomach, his clothes-

Oh, god

Jon's wiping the blood from his face and laughing - why is he laughing? - as Martin closes the gap, heart lodged and hammering in his throat. He grabs Jon with shaking hands, holding him, steadying him when he sways back. Martin’s vaguely aware that he’s speaking, words and half-formed questions rattled off rapid-fire.

What happened where were you when how oh god fuck fuck-

Jon's knees buckle. Martin brings him into his arms, supports his weight as he lowers them to the ground. Jon is dead weight at this point, head falling to rest on Martin's shoulder. He brings a shaking hand to Jon's hair, then his neck. He can feel his pulse against his palm, light and fast and as frantic as the beating of Martin's own heart.

 He lays his down, gently, as gently as he can with how bad his hands are shaking. He rips the backpack open and grabs the first piece of cloth he sees. It's an old t-shirt, one of the few Martin brought with him from the safehouse. A faded band logo adorns the front. Jon had been pleasantly surprised to find Martin wearing it, since he was a fan of the same group. They’d laughed and sang their favorite songs together-

“I can’t believe I didn’t know you could sing!”

“I can’t really sing, Martin, it’s a functional skill more than anything-”

“Bullshit! You’re good! Like, actually good.”

“Is now a good time to mention I used to be in a band?”

“What?!”

Martin crumples the old shirt and presses it to Jon’s bleeding stomach.

That pulls a low moan from him, eyes closed and face screwed up against the pain.

"Sorry, sorry, I know," Martin placates, high and strung thin. Out of the grab-bag of work experiences Martin had gathered over the years, anything tangentially related to health care was nowhere to be found. Everything he knew came from corny 90’s job safety trainings and overly-dramatic television shows. 

He wants desperately to check the wounds - how deep are they? Will Jon be able to heal them before he, he bleeds out or something?! - but his arms are locked at the elbows, fists clenched in the white fabric ever-so-slowly seeping with red. He fears that if he were to move even a millimeter, everything would slip between his fingers.

A touch, feather-light on his arm, feels like a shock. It’s Jon’s hand

"I-it's fine, it's ok-" Jon's voice is soft and ragged.

"It's-it’s really not, actually," Martin replies, and it might have come across as playful if it didn’t crack so deeply through the middle. He sacrifices a hand to grasp Jon's. It's ice cold and small and thin.

Martin uses his other hand to gingerly lift the shirt. The bleeding is slowing now - thank god - and Martin is sure the edges have closed ever so slightly. Not that he had gotten the best look before. He remembers how quickly Jon’s leg healed after Daisy-

It wasn’t a miracle though, his mind supplies.

He throws the bloody shirt aside and digs through the backpack once more, Gauze, some tape, a knife, a bottle of water. There’s only a half-roll of the gauze left, and it’ll have to be enough. With a jittering determination Martin uses the water to clean away some of the blood, cutting away the remains of Jon’s shirt as he goes. As the red washes away, the wounds don’t look quite as deep, quite as awful as they did before. He feels the smallest sliver of panic leave him and he draws in a deep breath to calm himself. Martin notices, really notices the wind for the first time in minutes - or hours, how long has it been? It burns the tips of his fingers numb, slicing through him like the knife in his hands. They don’t have anything in the realm of antiseptic, because of course they don’t, and Martin desperately hopes that Jon can heal himself before it becomes a problem. He gently wraps Jon’s middle with fumbling hands, placating as best he can when Jon winces against the movement.

They aren't in the Martin's domain anymore, technically. Just on the edge between Lonely and god-knows-what. But the open, gently rolling hills and vestiges of fog sends his spine tingling. Like a rabbit with no cover, and a hawk circling overhead. Not to mention the wind - now that Martin’s brought attention to it, he can’t stop shivering.

There’s a cobblestone wall, maybe twenty meters away. Left over from the perimeter of the hotel, if Martin had to guess. Wedging themselves into a corner to block out some of the wind is probably their best - only? - option.

Martin leans forward, brings his hands to cradle Jon's face. For as frozen as his fingers are he can still feel the chill against Jon’s skin, which isn’t the most comforting sign. He caresses his thumbs against Jon’s cheekbones in an attempt to coax the barest bit of attention out of him. Jon hums as he opens his eyes, slowly, foggy and unfocused. Whether it’s blood loss or pain or the after-effect of using his powers, Martin isn’t sure. Probably all three.

“There you are,” Martin whispers, and as small as it is he can’t hold back the relieved smile. He presses a soft kiss to Jon’s forehead. “We need to get out of the wind, love. I’m going to pick you up, alright?”

“I can walk.” Jon murmurs, almost lost in the air between them.

Idiot man .

“Not a chance.” Martin kisses his forehead once more, the comfort at the sound of Jon’s voice, ragged as it is, bringing tears to his eyes. He re-positions the backpack and slips his arms under shoulders and knees, rising to his feet with only a slight stagger. Jon cuts off a cry with his teeth, and Martin whispers apologies once more.

The stone wall on both sides makes more difference than Martin had dared to hope. He sets Jon down delicately on the grass, followed by the backpack with a bit less care. As he rummages through it once more - he’d packed that blanket, hadn’t he? - Jon shifts, raising himself on shaking arms.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Martin starts as Jon leans himself against the cobblestone, arm wrapped gently against the new bandages.

“It’s ok, I can manage it,” Jon replies in between deep breaths. He’s shaking, Martin can tell, pale and drawn. Martin grabs the blanket from the bottom of the pack at last, crawling to kneel next to Jon.

“Alright, alright, just stay there now, will you?” Martin chides as he leans against the stone, dragging the blanket over them. He was starting to think they’d never need it, but with the cold air still biting against them he was more than grateful they’d kept it around. “It’s not like we can give you, y’know, stitches or anything, so try not to move around so much while it’s healing.”

Jon leans his head - and most of his weight - against Martin’s shoulder with a hum, eyes sliding shut. They sit in a not-uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Martin takes a breath to ask-

“I killed Helen.” Jon speaks, soft and half-muffled by the sleeve of Martin’s jacket.

“...oh.” Martin says, quietly, because what else is there to say? Then, louder: “Wait, did- did she do this to you?!”

“Not her fault.” Jon takes a breath, slowly. Martin thinks he’s about to fall asleep. Or pass out, but he certainly hopes it’s the former. “It was self-defense.”

Oh.

Martin’s not exactly sure what to do with that, and by the time he figures it out he’s sure Jon won’t be conscious anymore. Jon’s breathing evens out into something resembling sleep - or rest, at least, since he can’t really sleep anymore - and Martin resigns himself to his thoughts and his still-slowing heartbeat. The feeling of Jon’s breaths against him are enough to dispel the last dregs of his panic, leaving exhaustion in its wake.

Jon couldn’t have been asleep, because he didn’t dream.

The sensation is similar though; the lost time, the panic, the awareness that comes back to him with all the subtlety of a freight train. The headache isn’t exactly new, but the deep ache that sinks its teeth into his bones is an interesting touch.

He’s against Martin, still - Martin it’s Martin he’s safe you’re both safe - who’s breathing is slow and deep. He’s not dreaming, though. The last dream he had, at the safehouse, was about his mother-

Jon sits up, sudden, fast. He didn’t know that. Not before. But now he Knows.

Knowledge; a familiarity, awareness, or understanding of something-

Stopstopstop

The knowing pushes against him, against the back of his eyes that throb in time to his heartbeat. It’s hard and fast and it hurts -

Fever causes and increase in heart rate, breathing rate, and blood circulation to the skin-

Temperature is considered elevated when it is higher than 38 degrees Celsius, or 100.4 degrees Fahrenheit-

(32°F − 32) × 5/9 = 0°C

He brings his hands up, foolish to think he can force the onslaught back with the heels of his palms against his eyes. His hands are frigid and damp against his face, or is it his face that’s burning against his hands? The movement of his arms tugs against his chest, his stomach, and folding in on himself only makes it hurt more but he can’t stop-

You think you could be saved without paying the price?

T̶h̵i̷s̴ ̵i̷s̷ ̷h̸e̶l̴p̵i̴n̸g̶ ̶y̸o̵u̴.̴

Ỳ̶̧̮͎͔̇̑o̷͚̖̬͈̙̽̅̆̕u̷̢̙͍͙̅̽̌̂́ ̸̯̈̓͠ͅs̵̙͇̗͠͝ȟ̸̩̝̗͚͓̈́͒̈͑o̸̢͉͎̯͒u̸̬̩̯͇̿̿̍͛͝l̶͇̗̮̦͒̾d̴̠̪̰͉̉̃̈́ ̵͍̙̺͖̮̒̊b̵̡̯͕͕̘̑e̶̫̹̒͊ ̴̬͑̓g̸̟̝̻͕̣͊͠ ̶̞̰̯͍̟͌̑̌ṛ̶͍̹̀ ̴̲̭̚͜ã̸͎̼̥̜̦͆͝ ̵̝̺̈̿t̴̢̛͗͝ ̶̺̝̂͛e̴̙͆̆̉̚ ̶̜̦̮͓̱̓̒f̶̢̗͓̥͗ ̷͓̾͜ụ̵̭͋͛ ̵̝̪̃̋͗͘l̶̨̥͈̼̝͂͘͝

He tastes copper again. Copper and static and paper and magnetic tape pooling on his tongue. He clenches his teeth against the need to vomit every bit and piece of knowledge and horror he’s ever known. The door in his mind is cracking now, buckling and splintering with the pressure and the weight of it all. 

It was a small, unremarkable door, painted dark yellow, with a matte-black handle.

Something touches his shoulder and he would scream if he could open his mouth. The same something - hands hands two hands - touches his face, his hair-

And he had long, straw-coloured hair that fell onto his shoulders in loose ringlets-

“Jon,” someone says, and it’s Martin because of course it’s Martin. He’s kneeling in front of him, blessedly cold hands cradling his face. One hand brushes his hair back - had it come undone again? - resting against his forehead. It’s so soft and cool and comforting Jon can barely hold back the sob against his throat.

I felt the cold night air on my face and, and wet tarmac under my hands and knees.

“Good lord, you’re burning up!” He sounds frantic and Jon wants to comfort him, but he doesn’t know how. Martin starts on about medicine and things they don’t have and things that Jon knows, Knows can’t help him. He Knows it’ll pass and he Knows it won’t kill him, but in the moment that doesn’t feel like the mercy it should.

Jon shakes his head against Martin’s hands and tries, really tries to tell him it’s ok -

I decided to come to you and tell you my story.

“ I- ” The one syllable is jagged and dripping with compulsion and tellmeyourstory . Jon clamps down on it with a whine, shaking his head again. He brings a shaking hand to touch Martin’s on his cheek. He meets his eyes for the first time, wide and searching. Jon realizes he must look as wretched as he feels for Martin to have that look on his face.

I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry

“Oh, Jon.” Martin must understand, at least some of it, because his face softens. He pulls Jon to his chest - Jon would put his arms around him if they weren’t so heavy-

-held up my arm for a handshake, but he just looked at it, and laughed-

-but he settles for burying his face in the crook of Martin’s neck, eyes shut.

...felt like I couldn’t trust my eyes.

Her statement echoes in his ears and on his tongue. He remembers her face, her real face, before Helen twisted it into endless, sickening spirals. The bounce to her hair, the odd way she held her pen, the bags under her eyes that mirrored his own. He wasn’t mourning her. He certainly wasn’t morning Helen . She didn’t deserve that. He wasn’t mourning the woman he’d never known, a woman he probably wouldn’t have liked anyway , a woman that he let walk through that fucking door -

There has never been a door there, Archivist.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until his next breath catches in the middle. It’s silent because he makes it silent, because the second he opens his mouth the words will come spilling out and they’ll never stop. So his shoulders shake and his chest heaves from the force of it, and it hurts . His tears drip down the collar of Martin’s shirt, and Martin - god Martin - has one hand on his back and another in his hair, making soft circles with the pads of his fingers. He’s talking to him, and Jon can’t hear the words over the static and statement pulsing through his eardrums. But the vibration of his voice is gentle, comforting, and it makes breathing just a bit easier. His face is hot and he shivers against the chill creeping up his frame, but Martin is here and warm and safe and Jon hopes that he never has to leave.

“Here,” Martin says - and Jon hears - after who knows how long, shifting slightly but never taking his arms away. He repositions himself, back against the wall, and lowers Jon by the shoulders until his head is pillowed on his lap. The motion hurts, Jon knows, but it’s muted and far away against the burning of his skin and how cold he is in spite of it.

Later they’ll talk, when he’s better, about Helen and friendship and other things. Jon will say I’m sorry for worrying you and Martin will say it’s ok and they’ll both say I love you . But for now, Jon drifts off to Martin’s hand resting on his head, his whispered reassurances reminding him that he’s safe.

“Rest, love.” Martin presses a kiss to his forehead and brings the blanket over him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jon can’t stop himself from Knowing that, not now, but he doesn’t need the Eye to know that it’s true.

[mrs-jake-blues]

"The distortion on the left side of his face made him more native. It was the kind of disfigurement common in Sicily because the lack of medical care. The little injury that cannot be patched up simply for lack of money. Many children, many men, bore disfigurements that in America would have been repaired by minor surgery or sophisticated medical treatments....Dr. Taza always kept after him about getting surgery done for his lopsided face, especially when Michael asked him for pain-killing drugs, the pain getting worse as time went on, and more frequent. Taza explained that there was a facial nerve below the eye from which radiated a whole complex of nerves. Indeed, this was the favorite spot for Mafia torturers, who searched it out on the cheeks of their victims with the needle-fine point of an ice pick. That particular nerve in Michael’s face had been injured or perhaps there was a splinter of bones lanced into it. Simple surgery in a Palermo hospital would permanently relieve the pain...Michael refuses. When the doctor asked why, Michael grinned and said ‘It’s something from home.’...And he didn’t really mind the pain, which was more of an ache, a small throbbing in his skull, like a motored apparatus running in liquid to purify it."

[vagrantblvrd]

Aces Up Every Sleeve (1/1)

Summary: The thing with Michael is this ongoing...Thing in Jeremy’s life.

Notes: Companion piece to Coming in Like Lightning from Jeremy's POV based on a comment thread with Miss-ingno that got away from me. /o\

(Read on AO3)

The thing with Michael is this ongoing...Thing in Jeremy’s life.

It’s been years since they met and he still doesn’t know what they’re doing aside from running into each other in the same dive bars and acting like it a weird coincidence.

It’s ridiculous, and confusing as hell, which is why he calls Ryan for advice because he’s terrifyingly smart when he’s not being an idiot.

“Jeremy,” Ryan’s saying, voice muffled and distorted because he has Jeremy on speaker as he moves around his apartment gearing up for a job. Metallic clinks and clunks and one alarming  thunk that may or may not be that new grenade launcher he just bought. “Why don’t you just tell the guy? How’s that for an idea?”

Ryan doesn’t know the details, specifics, when it comes to Michael because along with being terrifyingly smart, Ryan’s also just kind of terrifying in general.

Jeremy’s been careful to be vague and unhelpful when he talks to Ryan about his Michael Problem. Knows it would be easy for him to piece together Michael’s identity and track him down to have a little chat about things.

“Ryan, no,” Jeremy says, because that is not a thing that’s going to happen.

Michael’s a great drinking buddy and the few times they’ve worked together he’s been a solid teammate. Jeremy doesn’t want to ruin things between them because he’s got some stupid schoolboy crush on the guy.

There’s an odd silence on Ryan’s end, and at first Jeremy has no idea what’s caused it when he hears Ryan take him off speaker.

This pause, and Ryan’s “gentle” voice, like that time Jeremy took a few rounds to the gut and they thought he’d bleed out in a fucking jungle miles from home.

“Jeremy,” Ryan says, and Jeremy closes his eyes. Waits for some trite platitude that should be stenciled on a piece of wood salvaged from a barn or whatever is trending these days. Maybe fancy calligraphy in gold ink in a tasteful frame positioned where it will be noticed all the goddamned time for inspiration. “You’re kind of an idiot.”

Jeremy cracks open an eye, because that wasn’t quite was he was expecting.

“I mean,” Ryan says, and the asshole chuckles. “I thought I was bad, but you- “

“Hey,” Jeremy cuts in, this overwhelming gratitude for Ryan being the asshole he is hitting him hard. “Fuck you. I’d like to see you do better in my position, asshole.”

Ryan chuckles again, like he’s forgotten he’s worse at this kind of thing than Jeremy, and that’s saying something.

“Not going to happen, Jeremy. I’m not that bad.” Ryan says, like a goddamned liar.

“Ryan,” Jeremy says, hand over his face and so exhausted. “Do you not remember how we met in the first place?”

An awkward first meeting in a bar with terrible pickup lines and both of them laughing about how pathetic they both were.

That even more awkward moment a few days later at HQ when they realized they would be partnered together, and go easy on the kid, Haywood, he’s new to the agency.

Years of the two of them being clueless about the fact they were flirting (badly) with one another.

The “will they get their shit together to put everyone around them out of their misery or won’t they?” bullshit a terrible television show would pull to drag a series out long after it should have ended, because they’re just that hopeless.

At some point they settled into a deep, unbreakable friendship stronger than anything the world threw at them.

And then they realized how stupid they are. (Hearty chuckles all around and this solemn vow never to tell anyone because talk about embarrassing.)

Kind of painful to look back on, because yeah, wow, they’re real fucking dumb. The worst part is that they haven’t learned a damn thing since then.

“Touché,” Ryan says, as though he forgot just how dumb they are, and Jeremy starts laughing.

========

Jeremy didn’t quite wash up on Los Santos' polluted shores as he drifted in like a piece of...driftwood. (Seaweed? Scuzzy sea foam? Something.)

Point is, he showed up in Los Santos two years after the shitball mission that put an end to the Battle Buddies because that’s where people like him end up when the dust settles.

Down on life and not feeling charitable to the establishment after it fucked him and one of the best goddamned friends he’d ever had over, and hey.

Someone’s always willing to pay a guy like him to shoot a guy, so that was that -

Or should have been, if he hadn’t run into Ryan again.

Found him putting that theater background of his to work with the whole Vagabond...business.

Panicking when they ended up working together in the early days. (Because really. What were the odds they’d meet like that after Ryan went to so much trouble to fake his death leaving Jeremy in the dark for his own protection?)

Ryan shying away from Jeremy every time he tried to strike up a conversation him when they got hired on for the same jobs because he knew Jeremy would figure it out before long.

Acted cool and aloof, no time for the new guy and if Jeremy thought the Vagabond was an arrogant prick all the better. Like Jeremy wouldn’t recognize the same damn mannerisms and quirks Jeremy knew like breathing. Little mistakes no one else seemed to catch, too in awe of the man and his reputation to notice.

The way he’d slip and leave his back wide open sometimes like he still forgot there wasn’t someone there to watch his back when he pulled one of his stupid stunts. Told Jeremy and whatever other dipshits to take off, he’d hold the cops or gang members or whoever else off long enough for them to escape. Like he thought Jeremy would let him get away with it even before he realized Ryan was the Vagabond. (Jeremy’s good running solo, but he does so much better with a team, a partner.)

So, yeah.

That was another thing that happened. Discovering that Ryan hadn’t died, was in sunny Los Santos living his best life (if that’s what he wanted to call it) being a fucking idiot.

Thinking Jeremy wouldn’t realize. Wouldn’t care.

Thinking Jeremy had gone through the mandatory mourning period for him like it was just that simple. (Tick off a box and get cleared by the shrinks so they’d let him back in the field, and no lasting trauma from losing his best friend.)

Thinking Jeremy hadn’t missed the idiot after he “died”. Didn’t have nights where he couldn’t sleep reliving that final mission over again and wondering what he could have done to change things so Ryan lived. What he did to fuck up so badly it got Ryan killed, but whatever. Ryan’s always been an idiot like that.

And even when Jeremy knew Ryan was the idiot in the face paint and mask, it took time for Ryan to realize Jeremy wasn’t about to give him up again without a fucking fight. Wouldn’t let him run off and start a new life somewhere else again without so much as a goodbye. (Took even longer before Ryan stopped looking sideways at Jeremy. Like he thought the two of them getting this second chance was a trick the universe was playing on him.)

Not...great times, but they did what they always did and pushed through. Sheer bullheaded stubbornness and a refusal to roll over and die.

Never the same people they were back then, the days where they thought nothing could bring them down as long as they were together. Invincible Battle Buddies who survived the worst the bad guys could throw at them and too stupid to see the fuckers with the knife about to stab them in the back.

Jeremy lets Ryan have his paranoia, and Ryan lets Jeremy have everything else. (Smile on his face and this fallback plan that’s more or less salt the earth if someone fucks with them, wreck their shit, and this is what happens to people who fuck with his family.)

An unexpected bonus to all of this is hearing the way people talk about the big bad Vagabond like he’s this terrifying urban legend. The thing that goes bump in the night and took you away if you were bad.

All-seeing and all-knowing and about a billion times cooler than Ryan will ever be and they both know it.

It’s always hilarious watching Ryan stride into a room in full Vagabond getup and seeing the way people react to him. Assholes who have no idea what a handful Ryan is when he gets frustrated with something. The way everyone seems to think he’s death personified when Ryan has strong opinions over fucking pie.

Jesus.

But then there are times when things go to shit and Jeremy will look over and see Ryan. Cool and competent and watching Jeremy’s back the way he always had. Grin in his voice because he’s always had best/worst ideas, and deadly as hell when he’s properly motivated.

New and improved Battle Buddies, and it’s a hell of a thing to see in action. (Jeremy would know. Matt likes to send him the footage he pulls from surveillance cameras and newsroom servers, sticky fingers all over the place like it’s the easiest thing in the world.)

========

Jeremy will never forget Ryan’s little shrug when Jeremy put the pieces together and let Ryan knew he knew.

Jeremy feeling angry, hurt, that Ryan lied to protect him but he got it, understood where he was coming from. The odds against them and this one desperate gamble to protect Jeremy, never expecting to see him again and if he did, that Jeremy would hate him for it, and doing it anyway. (So fucking relieved Ryan was alive. That Jeremy hadn’t gotten him killed.)

The lopsided smile and tentative fist bump he offered, like he thought Jeremy would leave him hanging after all the shit they’d been through.

“Bring it in, idiot,” he’d said, blood in his mouth and busted ribs, but fuck it because they’d made it, hadn’t they?

Survived the assholes who tried to take them down all those years ago, and then he’d yanked Ryan into a hug because they’d fucking earned it.

========

Jeremy and Michael have been doing this dance of theirs for years now. Long before Ryan came back into Jeremy’s life and it’s -

Ridiculous, is one way to put it. Pathetic would be another.

The whole one step forward, two steps back thing they have going on because they’re idiots. (Recurring theme in Jeremy’s life.)

Went from being friendly rivals to teammates to whatever the hell they are now. Seeking each other's company after a long day or one close call too many. Competitive fucks who bicker like an old married couple over a game of darts or another arm wrestling match.

Michael coming off gruff and surly like an old junkyard dog, sure, but this gleam in his eyes that belied the bite to his bark.

Jeremy the idiot in the Rimmy Tim getup because he loved seeing people’s reactions to it. Bland expression on his face and a raised eyebrow daring them to comment on it like there weren’t more outrageous figures running around the city.

Stupid, terrible flirting that would have gotten them punched in the face if it was anyone else. With Michael, though, it just caused him to giggle helplessly or make Jeremy wheeze with laughter as they tried to outdo one another.

So, yeah.

Human disasters and heartbreak in the making, but damned if Jeremy could walk away from it any easier than he could turn his back on Ryan.

========

Matt’s always good for news, all his computer and tech wizardry and oddly soothing apathy. (Well, not apathy so much as Matt very much being Matt, but sometimes it’s hard to tell the two apart.)

He’s the one who gives Jeremy and Ryan the heads up about the Roosters coming to Los Santos with intent this time around. None of this quiet poking and prodding their support team’s been doing, but one of the Founders and his right-hand man.

“They’ve got Brownman,” Matt says, headphones around his neck as he digs into the food Jeremy brought him because otherwise he’d most likely starve to death. “And they’re looking for a demolitions guy.”

Matt gives him a look, because he thinks the thing between Jeremy and Michael is high entertainment.

“Well, shit.”

The Roosters don’t do things by halves, and the city’s been restless, antsy, since Ramsey and Patillo came to town. Everyone eyeing each other up trying to determine who’s siding with the Roosters and who isn’t.

“Shit.”

Matt hums, slipping his headphones back on to give Jeremy a semblance of privacy as he calmly freaks the fuck out.

========

Ryan’s on one of his murder breaks so Jeremy doesn’t see him as often as he normally does, but he’s up to something.

“He’s up to something, Matt,” he says, and Matt rolls his eyes at him because there is rarely a time Ryan isn’t up to something.

“It’s Ryan,” Matt points out. “That’s like. His whole reason for being.”

Not untrue, but yeah.

========

Ryan’s up to something and whenever Jeremy asks about it, he gets this little laugh and an all too familiar, ”Don’t worry about it.”  from him.

Which means contrary to belief Ryan either has everything under control or the city’s going to end up on fire by the end. (Most likely both, though, because Ryan.)

Jeremy drinks to the memory of Los Santos before it burns to the ground around him thanks to Ryan when he spots a familiar figure sitting at the bar. Slump to his shoulders like it’s been another long day. (There are a lot of those in this city.)

“Hey,” Jeremy says, taking a seat next to him.

Michael glances over, and it’s clear he’s had a few drinks already because the smile he gives Jeremy is this wide, delighted thing that’s a little goofy around the edges.

“Jeremy!” he yells, throwing his hands up, like he’s just been waiting for Jeremy to show up. “Am I glad to see you!”

Jeremy laughs, and listens to Michael spill this story about the crew he’s working for in between drinks, things getting...fuzzy. That weird place between tipsy and shitfaced he’s been way too many times before to count.

Jeremy’s used to Michael being a tactile kind of guy when he gets like this.

Face squishes and arm over his shoulder dragging him in close. Careful not to stumble over his words, get them mixed up too much, but then he’ll get exited about something and off he goes. Less of a disaster than Jeremy when he’s drunk, but only just.

Michael leans in, ignores the whole personal space bubble ting people have and there’s a hand around his bicep to give it an appraising squeeze, this this sly smirk on his face and ridiculous eyebrow waggle – and okay, yeah.

Jeremy’s kind of gone for the guy because he flexes, heat high in his cheeks when Michael laughs again.

Starts to say something, but that’s around the time some asshole bumps into him and doesn’t apologize, no.

Of course he doesn’t.

What he does is sneer down at Michael, lip curling as he glances at Jeremy. Takes in how close he and Michael are and his expression goes ugly, mean.

“What are you and your little boyfriend going to do about it?“

Michael blinks up at him, angry scowl smoothing out into this blank expression. Like his brain’s rebooting, nothing going on upstairs, please wait.

And then he smiles, this slow crawl over his face. Haha, funny joke, buddy. Loved it.

Has the asshole giving him this confused look, unsettled at his reaction.

Jeremy sighs, and throws back the last of his drink because he knows what’s coming.

Michael’s a brawler, not much finesse to his fighting style.

Goes from zero to trying to rip the guy’s bones out and beat him to death with them in the blink of an eye.

Just lunges into action, wild grin on his face and fists slamming into the asshole’s jaw this laugh that always gets to Jeremy.

Jeremy fumbles for his wallet and tosses down what he’s got on him to help cover the damages. Knows Michael will come up with the rest later because they like this place, would hate to be banned from it for life.

“Sorry about this,” he tells the tired looking bartender who comes over too late to stop the fight - “You know how he gets.”

And then he’s wading into the fight because the asshole has friends, and Jeremy’s not about to let Michael go it alone.

========

It’s not a pretty fight, bunch of drunk idiots doing their best to beat the shit out of each other, but Michael and Jeremy have been through this song and dance enough they come out on top.

Michael laughing wild and free as Jeremy drags him away before the cops someone called arrest them for drunken disorderly and discover they’re wanted for other crimes.

They end up in an alley a few streets over, beat to hell and a little bloodies, adrenaline singing through them and Michael bright and shining the way he gets after a fight. (Hard to look away from, and Jeremy’s fucked over him, is willing to admit it to himself.)

Jeremy watches Michael call a rideshare for them, careful enunciation and still drunk as hell. Turns to tell Jeremy their ride is on their way once he hangs up, and overbalances.

Trips over his feet and Jeremy catches him, grins down at Michael who blinks at him like he has no fucking clue how they even got here.

“Smooth,” Jeremy laughs, does his best to keep Michael from falling on his face.

Michael growls. Frustration or something else, and Jeremy’s back is against rough brick wall and Michael is right there. Spark of something in his eyes as he meets Jeremy’s, hands coming up to cup his face and Jeremy -

“Been meaning to do this for a while,” Michael mumbles, and then he’s kissing Jeremy, which nice, but also -

They’ve done this before, the two of them. Drunken fumbling in one alley like this before they head back to either of their places because it seems like the best idea in the world.

- and then one or both of them end up falling asleep before they make it past the heavy petting stage of things and it turns into a bizarre sleepover and mature idiots who don’t talk about it in the morning.

Because morons.

Michael's phone dings, and he pulls back to frown down at it.

“Ride’s here,” he says, pushing away from him and for a moment Jeremy thinks that’s it. Just another Thing that happened, but Michael stops to look back at Jeremy.

Pins him in place with this heated look and darts in for another quick kiss and a breathless ”I’m notgoingtoforgetthistime,” before he’s dragging Jeremy out of the alley where a car’s waiting.

Michael gives the driver an address Jeremy’s never heard of before, and when they get there he just stares up at a very nice apartment building.

Fancier than anything either of them can afford, unless Michael’s been pulling jobs he hasn’t mentioned to Jeremy.

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael says with this grin, as if Jeremy’s not hardwired to respond with a fight or flight instinct just hearing that phrase after knowing Ryan for so long.

“Oh, God,” Jeremy says, while Michael cackles as he buzzes the shit out of some poor bastard.

“C’mon, c’mon, fuckin’ let us up, you dick,” Michael mutters, and misses when the intercom flicks on.

“Someone better be dead,” someone says, sounding sleepy and annoyed and Jeremy clears his throat because Michael looks like he’s gearing up for one of his legendary rants -

“Let us in, you fuck,” Michael says, and there’s this long pause before an even longer sigh and whoever the guy is buzzes them in.

Michael snorts, and drags Jeremy through a shiny apartment building lobby into the elevator. His eyes drop to Jeremy’s mouth and makes this slow, meandering journey back to his eyes, corner of his mouth twitching up into a smile.

“Hey,” he says, and lets Jeremy’s arm go to tangle their fingers together instead. “Don’t run.”

“What?”

Michael holds up their clasped hands and waggles them in Jeremy’s face like it’s supposed to mean something.

“Don’t run. Fucker’s old, but he can still smell fear.”

Jeremy stares at him because none of this makes sense, and he’s starting to wonder why the hell he just let Michael drag him out here. (Alcohol, a shit-ton of it, and Jeremy being an idiot.)

“That is the most terrifying thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Michael grins at him, sharkish, and then he’s dragging Jeremy into the lion’s den.

========

So, they’ve just woken up Geoff Ramsey - The Geoff Ramsey - up in the middle of the night for Michael to babble something about muscles and Jeremy and a job offer?

Also, what the hell is up with the décor?

“Michael,” Ramsey says, sounding very tired, and very fond. “What the fuck.”

Michael grabs Jeremy by the arm and points at his biceps.

“Muscles, Geoff! Muscles!”

Jeremy stops studying the random bits of horrible décor choices around the room – cannot fathom what’s going on with the wall clock – and meets Ramsey’s eyes.

Smiles, because friendly, and Ramsey sighs.

Claps Michael on the shoulder.

“Why don’t we talk about this in the morning, okay buddy?”

Michael tries to protest, but Ramsey gently bulldozes right over him, hand on his shoulder to lead him down the hall to what seem to be spare bedrooms. Gives him a little shove into the room and starts to show Jeremy the other one, when Michael’s hand snaps out and latches onto Jeremy’s wrist.

“We’re good,” he says, some teeth to it when Ramsey’s eyebrows go up. “Really. Now fuck off.”

Ramsey shoots Jeremy a little look to see if he agrees with Michael's assessment on the matter, but Michael's making these small sweeps with his thumb over Jeremy’s pulse point and it’s distracting.

Really, really distracting and Jeremy’s weak for Michael, what he’ll allow Jeremy.

As confusing as his night’s gotten, it brings back that moment in the alley too damn fast, and Jeremy’s only human and he’s been gone over Michael for a long, long

“What he said,” Jeremy says, bright grin on his face and a thumbs up as he lets Michael lets Michael pull him into the room.

========

It’s a repeat of the alley but with a twist to keep things fresh.

Jeremy’s back against the door and Michael in front of him and all these bad decisions about to be made. (Not to brag, but Jeremy’s a pro at those. Ask anyone.)

Michael’s hands hovering over his hips like he’s not sure he’s allowed, frown between his eyes.

“Michael?”

“You can say no,” he says. Close as he is, he still isn’t touching Jeremy. Careful about that, the way he is with the important shit. “To this. You can say no and things will go back to the way they were and it’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

For a moment Jeremy isn’t sure what he’d be saying no to, but then Michael gets this look on his face. The fuck it, I’m fucked anyway one Jeremy's used to seeing before Michael pulls the two of them into a bar brawl or something else that ends with them running from the cops, and then he is most definitely touching Jeremy.

Because kissing.

And his hands slip under the hem of Jeremy’s shirt hot against his skin, rough callouses from the kind of life that’s done its best to grind him under its heel, and just made him even more dangerous for it instead, and Jeremy is fucked.

Michael breaks off, breathless and watching Jeremy carefully like he’s expecting him to respond negatively.

Push him away, smack him down for unwanted advances or something, Jeremy doesn't know.

What he does know is they’ve been dancing around one another for a long, long time. Remembers Michael’s blurted declaration in the alley, the way he’s watching him now.

“Okay,” Jeremy says, and pulls Michael in for another kiss before he can misunderstand because Jeremy’s a pro at bad decisions, sure, but this doesn’t feel like one.

========

Jeremy wakes up first, head aching and very, very naked, which is cause for this completely reasonable moment of panic.

...and then a second one when Michael snuffles in his sleep and rolls over, curling an arm around Jeremy’s as he does, because reasons.

He stares up at the ceiling for a long, long time and doesn’t know whether or not to be thankful that he can remember everything that happened the night before. (Well, that's a lie because he knows the answer, he just. Doesn’t know what Michael’s will be.)

It’s a little bit of cowardice on his part that has him slipping out from Michael’s arm and out of bed to get dressed. Sticking his head into the hallway before scurrying to the bathroom to clean up and then-

He has no idea what to do next.

Doesn’t want to face Michael just yet, and doesn’t want to just leave, so he investigates his surroundings.

Still fancy as hell, though.

Minimalist décor with a few incomprehensible pieces of artwork that Jeremy is absolutely not judging, no. (It’s the hangover, really. Killer headache and all that.)

He dithers for a bit before deciding to make breakfast to look like a good guest.

Regret comes knocking when he pulls the bacon out of its packaging and the first twinge of nausea hits, but it doesn’t get going until it’s sizzling in the pan, but by then it's too late to back down.

He glances up when Ramsey walks in, self-conscious as he adjusts his shirt and has this moment of fuck, fuck, what the fuck because he wasn’t paying attention and that’s Michael's shirt he’s wearing, what the fuck.

“Good morning,” Ramsey greets, voice pitched low.

Jeremy looks up at him, and it’s like the combination of the damn headache, nausea he’s been pushing off for too long and morning after panic because Michael, and he rushes for the closest bathroom to puke his guts up, because that’s sure to make a good impression.

He gets himself cleaned up enough to pass at being presentable and heads back out and discovers he’s been booted from cooking duty because Ramsey points at a char at the kitchen bar.

Jeremy stands there like an idiot – smooth, Dooley, real fuckin’ smooth – and takes a seat. Doesn’t fidget like a dumb kid because he’d like not to be a complete disaster for once, okay.

“Uh,” he says. “So that could have gone better, I guess.”

Ramsey gives him this look, wry, amused, and Jeremy can feel himself blushing like an idiot.

Christ.

“Nah,” Ramsey says, the same way other people say yes, and it’s fucking hilarious. “You’re doing great.”

Awesome.

“There’s aspirin the cabinet over there if you want any,” Ramsey says, pointing at the cabinet in question.

Jeremy hesitates. Wouldn’t want to look more of a mess than he is, but there’s this headache clamping down on his skull, totally did not drink enough water the night before, so.

He can feel Ramsey watching him as he goes to the cabinet and pulls the bottle of aspirin out. Eyes the dosage recommendation and decides he’s already living life on the edge doing what he does for a living and throws back a couple of the bastards.

Thins about Michael who’d been drinking before Jeremy showed up and shakes out a couple for him and goes looking for a glass for water.

“The one to your right,” Geoff Ramsey says, sounding pleased about something, but Jeremy’s busy filling the glass with water to wonder what that’s about.

He sets the glass down on the table along with the aspirin for Michael when he wakes up, and feels like an idiot because he can’t for the life of him think of what to do now.

Ramsey’s taken over cooking duty and the whole situation is awkward as hell, and Jeremy feels painfully out of place here.

“Michael seems pretty insistent you’ve got muscles,” Ramsey says, back to Jeremy and no tell to his voice to know what he’s thinking.

Jeremy stares at Ramsey, trying to figure out what he’s angling for. Cannot for the life of him figure it out and feeling wrong-footed about the whole thing.

“...I mean yeah?” he says, and then his brain catches up. Bits and pieces of meeting Ramsey the night before coming back to him.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, horror dawning as he runs a hand through his hair to straighten it, because wow, what a great first impression to make. Thinks he might be sick again, because Ramsey. Sort of a big deal, and Jeremy’s never been more of a mess than he is now. “He was telling the truth, you really are looking for more people?”

Ramsey snorts, siding a plate of food in front of Jeremy. Hesitates before he pats Jeremy on the shoulder awkwardly.

“Relax, Li’l J,” he says. “We can have the proper job interview some other day.”

Jeremy stares at him.

“Okay,” he says, certain Ramsey’s letting him down gently, will go to Michael later and tell him it was nice to help with the recruiting process but maybe not this asshole, and runs of the room to throw up again.

Because Jeremy’s life.

========

Somehow, Jeremy didn’t completely fuck up his opportunity to join the Fakes.

Ramsey – no, Geoff - makes it clear from the start it has nothing to do with Jeremy’s relationship with Michael, that it’s a chance. See if he fits in with the crew, works well with them and if he feels the same he’s in.

If not, it was nice to meet you and don’t be a stranger. (That last bit is to do with his relationship with Michael, which. Kind of nice.)

Geoff sends him out with Michael since they’ve worked together in the past. Has them deal with squabbles here and there. Remind people the Fakes aren’t pushovers while he and Jack work with B-Team to set up bigger jobs. Later on he brings Jeremy with him to meetings with allies, or watching Jack’s back while he sees to other matters.

And then Geoff decides they need to make a little noise, draw attention away from what B-Team’s up to and that’s when things get interesting.

They start small.

Go for convenience stores first and get more ambitious, move on to jewelry stores, banks.

Geoff comes up with a plan for a heist and holy balls do they go big with it. Insane scheme that has Jack in a Cargobob and the most convoluted route to a hefty payday for them Jeremy’s ever seen.

Michael shrugs and tells him that’s just how the Fakes operate, the crazier the better,  and drags Jeremy in for a kiss because they do that now.

The kissing thing isn’t new, but being sober while it happens is. Seeing the crooked smile on Michael’s face when he pulls back for air is nice too, hint of color to his cheeks and this look on his face like he can’t believe Jeremy lets him, like he didn’t know.

And then Jeremy pulls him back in for another kiss because this is a thing they do now, and goddamn does he love it.

========

Ryan’s still on his murder break, still up to something.

Smoothly changes the subject when Jeremy tries to puzzle out what the hell he’s up to and asks after Michael when Jeremy calls him up. Regular check-in to make sure Ryan hasn’t gotten into trouble without Jeremy there to watch his back.

...It’s just one of those things friends do and not heightened paranoia after the fuckery they’ve been through. (The very idea.)

God love him, but Ryan’s an asshole who knows too much about things. Jeremy fumbles his way through explaining why he'd love it if Ryan could not scare the shit out of Michael in the name of looking out for Jeremy’s oh so fragile heart

Or try to, anyway, because God knows it wouldn’t work on Michael.

“Just. Don't,” Jeremy says. Tries not to imagine the clusterfuck that would result if he did. Michael’s bullheaded stubbornness and sheer cussedness versus Ryan’s protective streak and twisted sense of humor and oh, God, please no. Los Santos would never recover. “Please. Consider it an early birthday present if you want to.”

(Ryan laughs it off like it’s a joke, but he doesn’t say he won’t, and Jeremy has the horrible feeling he’s living on borrowed time.)

========

Geoff gets taken.

========

Geoff gets taken, and they all knew something was Going On with Geoff the past few months.

Things that started long before Michael dragged Jeremy to Geoff’s penthouse in the middle of the night and everything in Jeremy’s life got weird again.

But Geoff kept insisting everything was fine, don’t worry about it and oh, hey, we should get someone in here to fix up that collapsed duct shouldn’t we?

So.

Yeah.

Jack’s got this look to him, tight-lipped and strain around his eyes. Anger humming through him as he gets B-Team on finding out what the hell happened.

Ray goes quiet.

Quieter.

Tap, tap, taps away on the handheld he keeps with him when shit gets boring. Acts like Geoff just went out for an errand, he’ll be back soon and why is everyone so worried?

The moment he can, though, he slips out of the penthouse. Tugs up the hood on his hoodie, tucks his hands in his pockets and wandered off all casual-like as though he’s not going to hit up his not inconsiderable list of contacts and informants, reliable sources of information.

Jeremy keeps an eye on Michael when they follow up on whatever leads come their way, but eventually those dry up. Jack calls them back to the penthouse until B-Team digs up news on Geoff.

Michael pauses in his relentless pacing when Jeremy comments about it – tiger in a cage, restless energy and no outlet for it just yet – and shrugs.

“It’s Ray, he says, and shrugs again because Michael might get how he works, but like hell does anyone understand it.

Michael -

Well, there’s the restlessness. The anger. The yelling.

Waiting on Jack to give the word, set him loose on whatever stupid fucker made the biggest mistake of their life. (Not yet, though, gotta wait for B-Team’s findings.)

And Jeremy?

He watches.

Tightness in his chest that’s this mix of all the anger and frustration, fear, the others show in their own ways and more. (Doesn’t let it show, because Jack doesn’t need that from him on top of everything else, and it would just set Michael off.)

Geoff gets taken and they all go a little crazy trying to find him.

Jeremy calls Ryan. The only problem with that is the fact Ryan’s Up To Something and Jeremy gets his voicemail. So then he calls Ryan’s other number, one they set up after finding one another again in case decides it hasn’t had enough of fucking them over.

Gets to listen to Ryan reassure him he’s not in trouble, but he is Doing Something. Leave a message and he’ll be there to back Jeremy up, no questions asked.

Jeremy leaves a message, because Geoff’s in trouble. Tells Ryan what’s going on and hey, buddy, hey friend, he could use some help if you’re in town, but it’s not an emergency. (Not yet.)

No idea when he’ll hear back from Ryan, and he decides if he’s going to bring Ryan into this, why not go all out? (Worlds he’s been very careful about keeping separate for good reasons colliding, and no way things could possibly go wrong.)

“Hey, Michael,” he says, catches Michael’s eye when his pacing brings him closer to Jeremy. “I have an idea.”

========

Matt pulls the whole supervillain shtick when they get to his little lair.

Spins around slowly in his computer chair, cat in his lap with his hands steepled in front of his face.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he says with all the dramatic flair of a complete nerd. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

It’s a shitty apartment in a shitty building in a shitty neighborhood.

Humble doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface.

“That’s great, Matt,” Jeremy says, shaking his head at Michael because yes, yes Mat is crazy. The best kind though. “You know why we’re here, right?”

Matt hmms, and strokes his beard like a movie villain and Jeremy knows it’s going to be one of those days.

“Alright, let’s go,” he says to Michael, “we’re done here.”

Michael snorts, falling into step with Jeremy because no thank you, not today -

“Fuckin’ - Oh I see how it is,” Matt grumbles, just loud enough to carry. “You get to run around like an eyesore with a dumb name but I do one quirky thing and it’s too much?”

There’s more in the same vein and an indignant little mew from the cat – where the hell did he get a cat on such short notice?

“Fine,” Matt huffs, irritated and a little disappointed his theatrics aren’t appreciated. “Not like you guys are the first ones to come to me about it, but fine. Sure.”

Jeremy’s about to tell Matt to quit whining when his words register.

“What?”

Matt’s still bitching, but he stops when he looks at Jeremy, hears the what the fuck are you talking about tone in his voice.

“Uh,” Matt says, frowning at Jeremy. “You-know-who stopped by earlier to ask about the same thing? Said you called him.”

It’s this unspoken agreement Jeremy has with Matt.

A holdover from the days after Jeremy found Ryan again born of paranoia and the fiercely protective streak in Jeremy has for the important people in his life.

It’s why Jeremy hasn’t mentioned Ryan to the others when he knows they wanted him for the crew. (It’s not distrust for Geoff and the others, just. Old wounds and scars that didn’t heal right, and Matt  understands.)

Michael’s watching Jeremy and Matt. Knows something is going on, but letting Jeremy call the shots because he trusts him.

“He did, did he?” Jeremy pulls his phone out as though he could have missed a call or text from Ryan, as if he would after what happened to them. Not a damn thing. “Huh.”

Matt makes a face, and looks down at the cat. Scritches its ears -

“Matt,” Jeremy says, because Matt has a cat.

Matt’s been talking about getting one for ages now, but hasn’t had the time to do it. Busy guy, Matt. Lots of work on his plate.

And Ryan, okay.

Fucking real life Disney princess when it comes to animals. Always stumbling over half-starved strays and nursing them back to health before finding them a forever home. Breaks up animal fighting rings with extreme prejudice as a hobby.

Had this alarming habit of befriending the local wildlife on missions back in the day. (Exotic animals some of their targets kept as pets and baffled look on his face when Jeremy would ask where the fuck he got the tiger that was following him around like a puppy that one time.)

Ryan being Up To Something, and him and Matt being squirrely as hell about it.

The theatrics, Matt being an annoying prick?

He’s stalling.

Buying time.

For Ryan.

Knew Jeremy would come here, and whatever Ryan’s been up to this last little while involves Geoff. (Or whoever took him.)

And Ryan knew Matt was looking into getting a cat, fuzzball to keep him company and pamper the hell out of. Would think to bribe him with one of the strays he picks up, hit him with an offer he couldn’t refuse to keep Jeremy from figuring out what he was doing just long enough to get away with it.

A stretch, maybe, but Jeremy’s known these to idiots long enough to know how they work.

“Matt,” Jeremy repeats, looking up to meet his eyes. “Where did you get the cat?”

========

They get to the warehouse too late to put the fuckers who grabbed Geoff down themselves, because of course they do.

Stay behind the police tape watching the spectacle, and close enough to overhear shit they shouldn’t have. (The LSPD is notorious for being lax about that though. Let a lot of things slip they shouldn’t, their own worst enemies that way.)

It’s Michael’s idea to check the area around the warehouse, ducking uniforms and a couple of K-9 units, and almost shoot Geoff when he surprises them. Drops down from a fire escape ladder right next to them.

Looks like shit, but more or less in one piece.

“Hey, assholes,” he says, tired smile tugging at his mouth and this fondness to his voice. “What brings you to the neighborhood?”

========

Michael yells.

A lot.

Because concern and worry and Geoff being the kind of asshole who’s more annoyed about his suit being ruined than the deathtraps the guys who grabbed him set up.

Not a peep out of him regarding how he got out of there, but Jeremy has a good idea about that one. (About yea tall, dramatic fucker with a worrying love of masks.)

Geoff just gives them this cocky little grin, and tells them he has his ways, which.

Yeah, okay.

They leave Geoff in Jack’s hands while they go see what B-Team’s wants them to do about these assholes.

========

There’s a lot of shooting. Things on fire. Some screaming. Explosions.

(The usual.)

========

Things pick up for the crew after that. B-Team busy dealing with the stragglers involved with taking Geoff, and Gavin comes to town. (Jeremy still has no idea what to make of him, but Michael and the others like him so he can't be all that bad. (Probably.)

Ryan doesn’t answer Jeremy’s calls, but it’s not as worrying as it was the last time he tried to get in contact with him.

For one, the voicemail message on his second line is different. Ryan’s voice this time, not an automated recording, and something to it Jeremy knows well.

Up to something (trouble), but he’ll explain later and maybe, if it’s not too much trouble, don’t be (too) mad at him about it?

For another, Geoff strolls into a crew meeting with the Vagabond at his back and this smug grin on his face as a startled ripple moves through the room.

Jeremy though.

Jeremy looks at Geoff.

At the mark peeking on his neck almost hidden by the collar of his shirt.

At Ryan.

Big scary bastard in his Vagabond getup, but to the trained eye he looks sheepish. Embarrassed. (Guilty as hell.)

Doesn’t take a lot to put two and two together, what with the weird shit around Geoff the past little while and Ryan being Up To Something in the middle of his murder break. (A Ryan on a murder break turns into a bored Ryan fast, and a bored Ryan is a goddamned menace of a human being.)

“You son of a bitch!” Jeremy yells, jumping to his feet because that son of a bitch!

Geoff’s head snaps around, and Jeremy’s aware of the others at the table sitting up in alarm. Aware of Michael turning his attention to the Vagabond and how he might react. (Big scary bastard, Los Santos' very own bogeyman.)

Jeremy’s never had to worry about that though, not with his Battle Buddy.

No.

Jeremy is annoyed, because this – Geoff – is what Ryan has been up to this whole time.

Sneaking around behind Jeremy’s back to deprive him of the opportunity to give Ryan shit for his terrible life choices. (No offense to Geoff, just. Ryan’s terrible life choices.)

Ryan holds his hands up, backs away as Jeremy advances on him

“Okay,” Ryan says, trying to placate him. “So, I know how this looks - “

Oh, Jeremy bets he does.

“Yeah, buddy? Do you?” he challenges, watches the way Ryan winces. The way he backs up another step, two until there’s nowhere for him to go. “Interesting.”

Ryan stares down at him. Looks tall and intimidating – big, scary bastard – but Jeremy knows Ryan.

He stares back, knows everyone’s watching them – can almost guarantee Gavin’s filming this, because Gavin – and then he snorts, because Ryan.

“How’s your murder break going by the way?” he asks, light and airy and laughing at Ryan because the man is an idiot. Stupid-smart and real dumb about a lot of things. Shitty liar, or maybe Jeremy knows him too well. Whichever. “Do anything interesting?”

Ryan blinks, cocks his head.

“Not bad,” Ryan says. And then – because this is Ryan – he shoots a look at Geoff, and Jeremy can hear the smirk in his voice with his next answer. “And yeah, I guess you could say that.”

It takes a moment for the others to connect the dots, realize what Ryan means, and then it gets real loud real fast as the yelling starts.

========

“So,” Jeremy says, nudges Ryan with his elbow. “Geoff, huh?”

They’ve escaped to the balcony just off the penthouse’s living room. Have a nice view into the briefing room from here, can watch the chaos unfold while the others (continue to) yell at Geoff for so many reasons.

Ryan shrugs, crooked little smile on his face and this air of...contentedness to him Jeremy hasn’t seen in far too long.

It’s...nice to see. Reassuring, easing some of the worry for Ryan that’s always there these days, just another part of Jeremy’s life now.

And Geoff -

Jeremy wants to think he’s someone Jeremy can trust with Ryan.

“I guess,” he says, and slants a look at Jeremy as Michael's voice reaches them, louder than the rest. “And that’s the Michael I’ve heard so much about?”

Jeremy eyes Ryan because he knows that tone of voice. Too casual by far, and wonders if Ryan has the slightest idea what he’s about to get into here with this crew since it seems like he’s thinking about giving the Fakes a try.

He’s not just talking about Michael. He’s talking about this crew, the Fakes. (Everything.)

Fucking weirdos every one of them, and not shy about it. (They could do worse for themselves, is the thing. So much worse.)

Jeremy mimics Ryan with an easy shrug and wry smile.

“Yeah,” he says, warmth in his chest that feels a lot like happiness. “Yeah it is.”

[blueyedcas]

Wings Like Midnight (Ch.6)

Can also be read here in AO3

Chapter 1    ->    Previous Chapter    ->     Next Chapter

Fandom: Supernatural

Relationships: Gabriel and Castiel, Angel Family, Anna and Gabriel

Warnings: None

Summary:

An angel’s wings are a beautiful and unique thing, their colour supposedly signifying their owners personality and temperament. But when an fledgling is branded an ‘abomination’ the moment he’s created, will Gabriel find it in himself to help the little one? And is it possible that Heaven’s new angel could help him back?

(I promise the story’s better and more complex than the summary)

Hello guys! I'm so so sorry about the long wait, I realise it was 4 weeks instead of 2 like I said... All I can do is apologise, I have tonnes of college work and my time table has changed so i finish later every day, meaning I'm usually exhausted by the time I get home and don't feel like writing.. I'll talk more about scheduling chapters at the end but yeah, sorry!! With that out the way, I hope you enjoy!! I would just like to thank my lovely beta once more bushdana, you've helped me so much <33 Happy reading :) Sophie xx

Gabriel’s laugh chimed through the air as he flew above Heaven’s bustling streets, twisting and somersaulting all the while. Some angels looked up as they heard the archangel’s fledgling-like giggling, smiling to themselves as they watched him do another flip. Others looked on in awe, staring as the sunlight reflected off his golden wings, raining flecks of light on their enthralled faces.

The archangel took pleasure in their fascination, enjoying the feeling of being great and majestic, a grand demonstration of power and splendor. He ducked and dived in between Heaven’s uniform, cubic buildings, loving the way their plain, white bricks seemed to glow, casting more light on his shining feathers.

Looking around, the feeling of wonder and revere rose inside him, widening the grin that was already etched on his face.

Heaven was just so.. Perfect. There was no other way to describe it. It’s linear streets, glimmering buildings and harmonious atmosphere made it paradise. Truly one of his father greatest masterpieces. He batted the small, niggling feeling of loneliness and betrayal at the thought of his father.

Dad will have his reasons for leaving, he reasoned with himself. Give him time.

Gabriel continued to fly, the heavily populated part of Heaven becoming smaller and smaller, a miniscule dot on the horizon. He glided steadily, allowing the wind to guide his path, content in whichever direction it chose to take him.

Looking down, he found himself hypnotised by the way the ground seemed to move beneath him. It was like a gigantic river, flowing in the direction he’d just came, steadily raging faster as he urged his wings to beat quicker.

It was then that he heard it. A soft, sniffling noise.

At first, he put it down to the rustle of his feathers as they were tossed around in the breeze. Or, perhaps, he had just imagined it. Maybe it had just been the wind in his ears as he soared by, distorting his hearing.

Then the sniffling was replaced with the tender, aching sound of sobbing, forcing Gabriel to conclude he had not imagined it. A few small lines appeared between his eyebrows as he frowned.

One of his siblings were in pain and it was his duty - as an archangel, a brother, the son of his father - to help them.

He slowed the beat of his magnificent wings until he eventually came to a stop, hovering in the air as he tried to locate to source of the sobbing. Closing his eyes, he focused entirely on what he could hear.

The sound of the wind as it breezed passed leisurely. The distant hum of his brothers and sibling as they went along with their went along with their day to day business.

Ah! There it was.

Gabriel turned mid air, eyes still closed, and dived in the direction of the distressed weeping. He followed it, every so often opening his sparkling amber eyes to make sure he hadn’t passed the source of the noise. Where were they?

Then, out the corner of his eye, he saw a blur of pale pink for a split second before it disappeared behind another one of Heaven’s white, square buildings. Smiling to himself in victory, he followed the pink, flying above the building to gain a wider view. He saw the pink again and inhaled in surprise at what he saw.

It was a fledgling with fiery red hair and a small, slight stature. The wings protruding from her back were small and tinged with a beautiful, pastel pink that seemed to suit her perfectly. Tears were streaming down her reddened face as she raced through the collection of tiny paths that ran between Heaven’s many buildings. Gabriel’s heart cracked as she blundered into yet another wall, her hysteria growing with every wrong turn.

He heard Michael’s voice in his head, a memory from many years ago.

“We were not meant to interact with fledglings, little brother. We were born to lead, not wipe the snotty noses of whining infants.”

But how could he leave her? Surely it was not against the rules if he were to just help?

“Hiya,” he called softly, descending slowly from the sky. The fledgling visibly started, her eyes wide and mouth open in a wordless cry for help. Gabriel lifted his hands, palms outstretched in an open and calming gesture.

“Woah there, I’m not gonna hurt you,” he soothed, using his best ‘reassuring’ voice.

For a few moments she said nothing, just stared at him through bloodshot, thunderous grey eyes. Then her bottom lip started to tremble and she broke into a fresh wave of tears. Before he could react, she ran at him, latched her arms around his waist and sobbed into his stomach.

Gabriel froze, his inexperience with fledglings, particularly crying ones, rendering him apprehensive and agitated. Hesitantly, he lowered his body and wrapped his arms around her shaking body, patting her uneasily on the back.

“Shhhhhhh, you're okay,” he mumbled, stroking her hair gently with his thumb, “You’re okay, sweetheart.”

Eventually, after lots of soothing words and awkward back rubbing, she let go, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. She was still sniffling slightly.

“Sorry, s-sir,” she said in a small voice, her bottom lip wobbling precariously as if she were about to start crying once more.

Gabriel frowned, looking at the small fledgling who now seemed more scared of him than her situation.

“You can call me Gabriel, pink,” he said while crouching down to her level. He rested his large golden wings on the floor in an attempt to look less intimidating. “Why are you apologising? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I-I shouldn't b-be troubling an archangel with-”

“What?” Gabriel interrupted more harshly than he meant to, instantly regretting it as the little fledgling flinched and looked down ashamedly. Her small wings were hanging down in a submissive fashion, their pale pink seeming to dull as her fear grew.

“I-I’m s-so sorry-”

“No, it's me who needs to apologise, I shouldn't have raised my voice,” he said softly, a small twinkle of kindness in his eyes. The twinkle dampened slightly as he saw the little one was trembling.

“What's your name, sweetheart?”

Her fierce grey eyes widened as she looked up, and her mouth opened and closed a few times before she answered, surprised by his request.

“Anna, my lord,”

“Hiya, Anna,” he said, giving her a lopsided grin and internally celebrating as she seemed to relax slightly, “I’m Gabriel.”

Anna bent her knees, lowered her back and cast her head downwards, small strands of red hair falling over her face. It took Gabriel a moment to realize she was curtsying.

“Hey, Anna, no,” he said, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She flinched and he quickly retracted his touch, not wanting to distress the fledgling any more.

“I’m not going to hurt you and you certainly don't need to curtsy,” he said softly before adding, “It makes me feel like Michael.”

He shivered dramatically while pulling a horrified face and, to his delight, Anna’s lips curved into an almost-smile.

“So, what are you doing, running around like dad on creation day?”

He inwardly kicked himself as Anna’s smile wilted and her head bowed remorsefully. He was just about to apologise when she began stuttering out her reply.

“I-I wanted to ex-explore but N-N-”

“-Naomi?”

The little fledgling nodded in reply, a few tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

“S-she’s my guardian and she s-said I’m n-not allowed to g-go anywhere without her b-but I ignored her and n-now I’m l-lost.”

Moisture dripped from her eyes more rapidly as she mistook Gabriel’s sympathetic expression for a judging one.

“I-I didn’t m-mean to, I j-just w-wanted to s-see what the r-rest of H-Heaven was like,”

“Sweetheart, I’m not angry, please don’t cry-”

“Don’t tell her!” she interrupted, her fierce grey eyes widened with terror, “P-please don’t tell her, she’ll p-punish me.”

Gabriel couldn’t hold back anymore, pulling her tiny body to him. He mumbled comforting words, chin resting on top of her head, stray hairs tickling his lips.

“Does she know you’re gone?” he said after a while, pulling her away so he could see her face clearly. She frowned with confusion, biting her bottom lip to keep it from wobbling. Hesitantly, she shook her head.

“Perfect,” he smirked before straightening up and offering his hands to her, “let’s go for a fly.”

After a few moments of hesitation Anna took his hand, a hopeful glint appeared in her eyes and her cheeks tinged a rosy pink to match her wings.

There was a few minutes of awkward shuffling before Gabriel realized the best way to carry the fledgling was on his back, her arms gripped around his chest and legs digging into his waist.

“Ready?” he asked the little fledgling, whose face was buried in his shoulder. She shook her head, tiny fingers latched onto the golden edges of his robe, wings pressed flat to her back.

“I’ve never flown before,” she admitted in a trembling voice.

Gabriel gave a sympathetic grimace, remembering his first time flying. He’d been the last of the archangels to learn and father had been getting angry. He could still remember the way he had shouted, the way he’d called him names and shamed him in an attempt to jolt his wings into action. Gabriel couldn't really blame him. How could they have beaten the darkness with an archangel who couldn't even fly?

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said, his wings rising like a gigantic golden wave, “I’m a professional.”

With that he brought his wings down with a enormous swoop, pushing them into the air and whipping the wind around them into a tiny tornado. He felt the little one whimper into his shoulder and planted a quick kiss on her head.

“Don’t worry, we’re nearly there.”

He urged his wings to move quicker, his golden feathers looking like lightening in the air. He was concentrating so hard he failed to notice Anna’s head peek out from his shoulder, her mouth gaping with awe as her red hair whipped around her.

Soon, they were over some of Heaven’s busiest streets once more. Angels looked up and rolled their eyes as they saw a streak of gold, unable to spot the fledgling as the archangel darted past.

“There! That’s my nest!” Anna yelled above the wind, brave enough to extend her arm and point for a few seconds. Gabriel hummed in reply when he saw the box-like nest Anna had been pointing at, slowing the beat of his wings until his feet met the ground. He slanted all three of his left wings, creating a slide for the fledgling to slip down, squealing as she went. Opening his mouth, he was about to ask if she would like another go when he heard a yell from within Anna’s nest.

“Anna! Anna, where are you?” screeched the voice, making Gabriel’s mind up for him.

“I gotta go now, Ann-” he started, cut off as the little one ran forward, tackling him in a hug. The archangel reached down and hugged her back swiftly, aware of the shouting that was getting ever closer.

“Thank you,” she whispered. He gave her a crooked grin and ruffled her hair in reply in reply before extending his wings high into the air, casting the wide-eyed fledgling in gold-tinged light.

“I’ll be seeing you round, pink.”

He only just managed to fly onto the roof of a neighbouring building as the door of Anna’s nest was flung open.

“Listen here, if you don’t come out immediately I will be forced to-Oh,” said Naomi, stopping in her tracks as she saw the young one.

“Hello, Naomi,” Anna mumbled, shifting from one foot to the other. Naomi’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and Gabriel held his breath.

Fortunately, she didn't seem to be in the mood for questioning, grabbing Anna’s wrist and yanking her along behind her as she strode back to her nest.

“Come along, Anna. You have your studies and you’ve wasted enough time already.”

Anna followed her, limbs falling limp as she was dragged back towards the nest. Just before she was pulled through the door she turned round, fierce grey eyes meeting Gabriel’s gentle golden ones. A small, soft smile lit up her face, igniting a spark of warmth in the archangel’s chest. He had just enough time to wink and wave his goodbye before she was pulled from view, leaving him with a strange sensation of... loneliness.

|/#~#\|

It was that small, soft smile Gabriel hung on to as he readied himself for a flight back to Heaven’s centre.

...She would help, wouldn’t she?

He pushed away his doubts, attempting to tuck a wriggling fledgling into his robe. The little one had been crying since he woke up and his high-pitch wailing was beginning to grate on the archangel.

She would help. She has to help. Otherwise Heaven knows what would happen to him and, more importantly, his fledgling.

I really, really hope you enjoyed, especially after that long wait! Thank you for being so patient. As to scheduling, I'm afraid I probably wont be able to post every two weeks like I said I would be doing. It will probably just turn into a "post when its ready" kind of situation. However, if you feel I'm taking a while and want to ask about the progress of the chapter, you can leave a comment or send a message to my tumblr (sassmycroft) and I'll reply as soon as I can (I will probably reply within a day at the very least) Thank you so so much for reading and I appreciate all the comments/kudos/bookmarks I've had so far, you're absolutely amazing!! Sophie xx

[theconservativebrief]

A US district court ruled earlier this week that North Carolina’s partisan gerrymandered congressional districts were unconstitutional, raising the very real possibility that new maps might need to be drawn mere weeks before the 2018 House elections.

New districts would likely be a boon for Democrats: Though North Carolina is evenly or nearly evenly divided between Democrats and Republicans, Republicans currently hold 10 of the state’s 13 House seats. In their quest for a House majority, even one or two newly competitive seats in North Carolina would be a major boost to Democrats’ chances of taking over at least one chamber of Congress.

But first, state officials and the courts need to figure out if drawing new districts is even possible in such a short time and whether the congressional elections might need to be delayed in order to accommodate the court-ordered redistricting. Looming over all of it is the US Supreme Court, which could put a stay on the lower court’s decision and bring the whole mad dash to an end very quickly.

North Carolina Republican leaders accused the federal court’s decision of introducing “unmitigated chaos” to the state’s 2018 elections — and while they are surely peeved at the thought of losing congressional seats, they aren’t wrong in thinking the court has upended the 2018 landscape in North Carolina and nationwide.

As Vox’s Ella Nilsen previously explained, North Carolina was already forced by a 2011 Supreme Court decision to redraw its congressional districts because they were found to be illegally gerrymandering the state’s maps along racial lines.

The Republican-controlled legislature’s solution? An explicitly partisan, but not racial, gerrymander that packed Democrats (but, ostensibly, not black North Carolinians) into as few House districts as possible.

From Nilsen:

North Carolina is a purple state. Politically, the state is about 50 percent Democrat and 50 percent Republican — it went for Barack Obama in 2008 but for Republicans in 2012 and 2016 (although voters elected Democratic Gov. Roy Cooper). In a competitive election year like 2018, Democrats should have the opportunity to pick up plenty of congressional seats.

But if you look at its congressional maps, Republicans have an incredibly lopsided advantage. That’s intentional; Republican state Rep. Dave Lewis admitted as much in 2016, during the redistricting process.

“I propose that we draw the maps to give a partisan advantage to 10 Republicans and three Democrats, because I do not believe it’s possible to draw a map with 11 Republicans and two Democrats,” Lewis said at a state House hearing.

Common Cause and the League of Women Voters NC sued again over the new maps, arguing that the new districts still represented an unconstitutional partisan gerrymander. The Supreme Court had previously sent the case back down to the lower courts, stating that the plaintiffs needed to show they had standing to sue over the maps.

A divided three-judge federal panel found this week that the plaintiffs did have standing and the North Carolina districts were unconstitutional. (Notably, the standing issue is what caused the Supreme Court to throw out a partisan gerrymandering case in Wisconsin this year.)

“The Constitution does not allow elected officials to enact laws that distort the marketplace of political ideas so as to intentionally favor certain political beliefs, parties, or candidates and disfavor others,” the judges wrote in their ruling. “It runs afoul of the Government’s constitutional duty to ‘treat its voters as standing in the same position, regardless of their political beliefs or party affiliation.’”

“That is precisely what the Republican-controlled North Carolina General Assembly sought to do here,” the district judges ruled.

The district court did not offer a specific prescription to fix the constitutional problem. It floated the possibility of having the state redraw new maps ahead of November or having a third party do so. It also indicated that North Carolina could forgo primary elections for the new districts and simply hold a general election with a runoff if no candidate received 50 percent of the vote.

The first question is whether the Supreme Court will allow any redistricting to go forward. North Carolina GOP leaders told WFAE that they expected to ask the nation’s high court to stay the district court decision, which would postpone any further litigation and allow the 2018 elections to go forward with the current maps.

With Justice Anthony Kennedy having vacated his seat and Trump nominee Brett Kavanaugh not yet confirmed, the Supreme Court is currently evenly divided, 4-4, between liberals and conservatives. In the event of a 4-4 split at the high court, the lower court ruling would stand and new districts could potentially be drawn if the district court so orders.

Rick Hasen, an election law expert at UC Irvine, noted, however, that liberal justices Stephen Breyer and Elena Kagan might be receptive to the argument that it is simply too late in the election season to draw new maps before the general election. From Hasen:

Justices Breyer and Kagan could agree that it is too late and agree on an order to delay this until the Court can consider the issue as a whole next term and before the 2020 elections. So the key to this is Breyer and Kagan, I think, and I’m not sure how they will go.

It is also possible the district court itself decides any redistricting should be postponed until after the November elections, Hasen told me. While the judges raised the possibility of ordering new maps ahead of the upcoming elections, they have yet to actually issue an order for North Carolina to draw them.

In the meantime, state officials are scrambling to figure out how they would draft new maps and set up elections for new districts in a matter of months.

“We are still working through what scenarios would require special federal intervention,” Joshua Lawson, an attorney for the state elections board, told WFAE.

The state Democratic Party chair suggested postponing the elections. Others have raised the possibility of holding new primary elections in November and general elections in December.

The truth is, as the calendar prepares to turn from August to September, we don’t know what’s going to happen with North Carolina’s congressional districts. But we can guess that if new maps are drawn, they will benefit Democrats. FiveThirtyEight’s Nate Silver suggested that one or two new seats would be in play with new districts.

If North Carolina were required to redistrict, would be worth another ~2 seats or so for Democrats. Although with a high margin for error because of all of this happening at such a late date. https://t.co/uSQZ9IsPyX

— Nate Silver (@NateSilver538) August 27, 2018

“The great unknown is, how are the maps drawn? I think certainly Democrats can pick up more seats than their current three, but the great mystery is how will the districts be drawn and which areas are included?” Michael Bitzer, who leads the politics department at Catawba College, told me. “In general, though, I do think Democrats would benefit greatly from new maps.”

Cook Political Report already rates four of the North Carolina House races as competitive. With new maps, North Carolina would quickly become one of the most critical states in the Democratic pursuit of a House majority. Democrats need to win 24 seats to win control of the lower chamber from Republicans.

Original Source -> The North Carolina gerrymandering chaos that could upend the midterms, explained

via The Conservative Brief

[tinymixtapes]

Feature: 2017: Second Quarter Favorites

Half of the year is over, and we have done absolutely nothing with our lives. Very pathetic. The good news is that we use our ears to listen to music, so to celebrate, the TMT staff has once again come together to share our favorite releases of the last three months (give or take), compiled in the best format known to humankind. This time around, we were outside the club (Jlin), in the Devil’s book (Sarah Shook & The Disarmers), and on Google Hangouts (Kendrick Lamar), broadcasting live using algorithm-free YouTube (Future City Love Stories). There was glittery slime (cupcakKe), naturalistic abstractions (Lieven Martens), and condensed chunks of cut-open human organs (Pharmakon), with a range that went from pop (Lorde), narkpop (GAS), and contorted pop (Laurel Halo) to rock-star rappers (Playboi Carti), airbrushed nightcrawlers (99jakes), and mutilated tunes on the DAW floor (Khaki Blazer). Check the full list below, and as always, please take note of the shortlist, as these particular releases either weren’t heard enough yet to make the list or just fell short for various reasons. All worth a listen. Shortlist: The Caretaker’s Everywhere at the end of time: Stage 2, Upgrayedd Smurphy’s HYPNOSYS, Actress’s AZD, Slowdive’s Slowdive, $3.33’s DRAFT, Perfume Genius’s No Shape, Peace Forever Eternal’s Nextcentury, Cloud Rat & Moloch’s split, Babyfather’s Cypher, Russian Tsarlag’s Gel Stations Past, Ducktails’s Daffy Duck In Hollywood, Jefre Cantu-Ledesma’s On The Echoing Green, Elysia Crampton’s Spots y Escupitajo, RITCHRD’s GREATEST HITS, and Tara Jane O’Neil’s self-titled album. --- Laurel Halo Dust [Hyperdub] Dust’s single “Jelly” was a surprising teaser for fans of Laurel Halo, soberly announcing her return to vocal music with a big result. As the song resembles and contorts pop product, it’s vocoder — emblematic of 2012’s viscous and spacey Quarantine — serves the punctuated delivery of a funky Parliament-esque hook (“You don’t meet my standards for a friend…”), while collaborators Klein and Lafawndah deliver the remainder. The far-reaching influences found on “Jelly” came to be representative of Dust at large, an album that moves through its vibrant landscape of sounds and grooves in a way new to the artist behind it. “Moontalk” delivers a second blast of lopsided feel-good pop, Sam Hilmer’s saxophone rips on “Arschkriecher,” Michael Salu takes the stage on “Who Won?,” and the album ultimately subsides, taking space to explore old territory with the help of composer Eli Keszler. Dust is an exciting and adventurous release that couldn’t be more matter-of-fact. –Ben Levinson --- Playboi Carti Playboi Carti [Interscope] “I’m a rockstar” asserts Lil Uzi Vert in the intro to “wokeuplikethis,” the collaborative lead single off of Playboi Carti’s self-titled debut. Given the Atlanta native’s penchant for distorted, guitar-like synths and driving rhythms that often exceed 160 BPM, it wouldn’t be a stretch for us to extend the title to Carti, too. While “wokeuplikethis” is undeniably a track indebted to early rock & roll’s chugging groove — although one could even deem it pop-punk, taking its sparkly lead melodies and raspy, slacker vocals into consideration — Playboi Carti is evidence that its creator is something even greater. He’s sedimentary rock, a walking pastiche, the zeitgeist. He culls the best of 2016’s SoundCloud wave — its gravelly basslines, its chiming riffs — and blends it with well-curated bits of other subcultural ephemera. The transcendent beatswitch midway through “Location” integrates Macintosh Plus’s sloppily chopped aesthetic. “New Choppa,” featuring A$AP Rocky, delves into its own dark interpretation of chiptune. “Lame Niggaz” feels like a barebones deconstruction of PC Music’s unbridled optimism. Cash Carti’s everything that’s cool. He’s everything that’s ever been cool. –Jude Noel --- GAS Narkopop [Kompakt] Whatever happened to program music? We tend to think of the entire instrumental-pop umbrella, typically cast over both ambient and techno, as purely abstract. Wolfgang Voigt’s marriage of the two styles as GAS has especially been painted as a project concerning itself with the musical absolute. And yet, when you put your ear to the impenetrably thick walls built around Narkopop’s heartbeat-like low-end and contemplate the album’s wandering melodies and swift, unpredictably-resolving chord progressions, it’s hard to shake the feeling that there’s a story there. Not just the depiction of emotions or a mood, not just the aural rendering of “a nightclub in a forest,” but a plot, a character, and a conversation (or their multitude). Is it the movement of people through the European continent in its war-ridden past (or equally foreboding present)? Or is it more of a personal strife, the tale of a human struggling and succeeding, to various degrees, at finding solace? He would likely respond that there is none, but my question stands: What’s the story, Wolfgang? –Patryk Mrozek Narkopop by GASNarkopop by GAS --- Khaki Blazer Didn’t Have to Cut [Hausu Mountain] Pat Modugno when donning his Khaki Blazer is most known for his juddering, hypercaffeinated cut-ups and off-the-grid percussive discursions (scope the contemporaneous Speed Rack Willy), but on Didn’t Have to Cut, he seems to be taking our boy Gotye’s words to heart. Not only do we choose when and where to cut, but we could also decide not to do it at all. Modugno, thinking of all those tunes left mutilated on the DAW floor, must’ve had a change of heart, a turn away from the neo-dadaist massacres he seemed to so gleefully perpetuate. He still collages with the best of ‘em, but Didn’t Have to Cut gives each sound a little more room, a little more time to express itself. From the complete wheezer of “Comfortably Grey” to the slow-tone torture of “Saturn Rings” to the sheer psychic insinuation of “Hold Your Breath and Count,” everyone swarms and squiggles and sighs and squawks a little more thoughtfully. Still, the crowning achievement is the strung-out electric allolalia of “Death Bedhead,” featuring some famous singer I used to know. Didn’t Have to Cut is perhaps the most truly strange thing of 2017 so far, a melted, lopsided chimera roaring, bleating, and hissing its way into our hearts. –Cynocephalus Didn't Have To Cut by Khaki BlazerDidn't Have To Cut by Khaki Blazer --- Félicia Atkinson Hand In Hand [Shelter Press] Hand in hand, I’m watching the places where fingers tip into edges where I end. The fingernail barriers blood vessel and lymph and nerve from the wilderness. The fingernail keeps the self-stuff safe. Keratogenous upkeep is self-atomizing with clipper and file, a breaking for building to remind us that split bone is trauma but broken nail is health. All sounds are found in the breaking. All found breaks are Hand in Hand, the discarded sounds we shed to be. Voice is a buzz a bass a kiss a house a dance a poem. It sounds in slivers, these uncovered discards, this mode of droned bone jutting into distal digits. Dis-uncovery is wiping it away while rubbing it in. It’s in us. Félicia splints (our) nervous material like steel kissing keratin. Slip pinches hangnails. Bones break flesh, in-grown you. Infections are plausible. Fungi whine in crevices. In clips. Is imperfect. She skitters. We whisper. Listen. I’m following you. Take care. –Frank Falisi Hand In Hand by Félicia AtkinsonHand In Hand by Félicia Atkinson [pagebreak] Ryuichi Sakamoto async [Milan] When Ryuichi Sakamoto was diagnosed with throat cancer, no one knew how long he had to live. After around 40 years with Yellow Magic Orchestra — as well as many years as a solo composer — Sakamoto didn’t know if it’d be possible to ever make music again. “My faith in ‘health’ was crushed… I could have lost my voice, so I feel very lucky that I didn’t,” he shared with The New York Times. But with time, the 65-year-old composer slowly returned to the piano to give us async, 14 tracks of sobering reflection that meditate on the underlying grief at the heart of his health. Pooling influence from Andrei Tarkovsky and the piano meditations of Claude Debussy, async is about as uncomfortably intimate as instrumental music can be. Tracks like “walker” and “disintegration” feel of a certain post-Cagean tradition yet bask in a crushing fragility that borrows more from the emotive terrain of film composition than it does from art world experimentalism. “Ff,” “stakra,” and “ZURE” offer warm synths with a harrowing sparseness, while “fullmoon” includes a quote from Paul Bowles, one that’s light, yet aching in their harrowing detail. For all of its baggage in personal narrative, async continues much of what makes Sakamoto’s film work breathtaking with a handful of rich pieces at the height of the emotional spectrum. –Rob Arcand --- Jlin Black Origami [Planet Mu] The outward expansion of footwork has yielded many meta-narratives, all inextricably bound by a sense of propulsive energy — be it a frantic release schedule, marked by a saturation of physical releases and SoundCloud drops, or the will to stretch and mutate the methodological lexicon for the circle beyond. Never created, never destroyed; Jlin taps into the latter impulse once again with Black Origami, a renegotiation of the truncated vision of footwork posited by Dark Energy. Between percussive modes via India and Africa, and the divergent compositional methods of Basinski, Herndon, and Fawkes, these dark energies are (as the title suggests) continuously folded and refolded, enveloped and developed, resulting in one of the densest and most challenging sets of footwork yet. Wordless coos (“Enigma,” “Calcination”) pierce the void; meanwhile, “1%” quite literally dials up the madness, interjecting samples amongst characteristically throttling drum hits and transmuting bass. Make no mistake, Jlin is operating way outside the club here. Questions of identity and psychogeography aside, the pull of Black Origami lies in the physicality of its Delphic complexity — a kind of corporeal braindance — so consider it a sizable gauntlet to body music hereafter. Oh, and good luck dancing to the next one. –Soe Jherwood Black Origami by JlinBlack Origami by Jlin --- Future City Love Stories Future City Love Stories [BLCR Laboratories] The BLCR Laboratories debut of Future City Love Stories (a.k.a. Dream Catalogue CEO, a.k.a. HKE, a.k.a. [every last a.k.a. imaginable]) finds spectacular foundations for the self-titled release’s existence on the audible milieu of atmosphere. There is no “real” rhythm or reason unfolding within the chapters of Future City Love Stories, just architectural patterns. Existence as lingering footsteps in the background. Haunting echoes vibrating throughout empty alleys and alcoves. The sound of rain down the road turns out to be televisions left on static in a storefront window. Explanations withdrawn with, “Neverminds.” A voice intentionally lost in translation. Blurring lights that even up close hum a glow of aura. Dumpster fires. Pockets of wafting smells entangle the senses. Enough narrative imagination in ethereal splendor for listeners to create their very own Future City Love Stories. Come out and play forever. –C Monster Future City Love Stories by Future City Love StoriesFuture City Love Stories by Future City Love Stories --- Sarah Shook & The Disarmers Sidelong [Bloodshot] “What kind of music do you usually have here?” Country AND western, honky AND tonk, punk AND queer… wait, what? Sarah Shook plays smoky raw alt-country that contrasts a subtle defiance of gender stereotypes with a proud and triumphant embodiment of another trope, the country legend on a path to hell paved with bad intentions and slippery with moonshine. Country may be the music of pain, but if you need something to rile you up, the driving outlaw rhythms here’ll get the job done too. Shook’s voice is an extraordinary instrument — rough-edged and velvety by turn, with a rattling quiver and a broken lilt that’ll break your heart right along with it. Sidelong inscribes her name, alongside Lydia Loveless and Hank Williams III, in the Devil’s book. –Rowan Savage Sidelong by Sarah Shook & the DisarmersSidelong by Sarah Shook & the Disarmers --- Arca Arca [XL] Electronic music has an odd relationship with vocals. They’re polarized along the spectrum of directness, either fully obscured or so loaded with emotional cues as to seem heavy-handed. The notion of the electronic singer-songwriter is nearly extinct, word to James Blake. Arca found a way to bridge that gap, speaking both through his production and his own voice, and transmitting gripping affect on two levels: the pure sound of his voice, a universal language, and the massive (but nuanced) emotional conveyance of the lyrics themselves, sung in his native Spanish. Whether you speak the language or not, Arca seizes control, making himself clearer to the listener than ever before. –Corrigan B --- Lieven Martens Gardens, Fire and Wine (A Compilation) [Edições CN] Quietly, he picks out postcards under a bright moon. The street murmurs, the water laps. Slowly, softly, a certain psychedelia seeps in, of the visitor, in transit, appearing, displacement. And the words come, briefly. In summary. To try to speak to transitory and totalizing experiences. Swaths of moments, and to honor them, particularly. Moods, tones, warped glimpses. A gesture. Plus all that’s ungraspable, well-traveled. I picked this one out just for you. Wish you were here. Signed Lieven Martens, who equates the seven soundscapes on Gardens, Fire and Wine (A Compilation) with a set of seven postcards. They go around the world; it’s a miracle. Delivery, like a whisper. Words laid bare for you, again, actually, as many of these tracks were previously released on 7-inches and cassettes between 2012-15. Compiled, they span from documents of live performances to naturalistic abstractions. But, again, in the wonderful words of Martens, they’re not quite that. More, “a series of images, not reissues yet self-captured.” Words touched heart. Simply. What did he write? He wrote of all sorts of good soil. Thank the glaciers, the volcanoes. –Cookcook Gardens, Fire and Wine (A Compilation) by Lieven MartensGardens, Fire and Wine (A Compilation) by Lieven Martens [pagebreak] cupcakKe Queen Elizabitch [Self-Released] Saying that this [title with a strong female lead] is anything like MC Lyte or Lil Kim would be as lazy and as sexist as it is glaringly false. Elizabeth Harris (nope, not this one) is a motherfucking kraken on Queen Elizabitch, spitting glittery slime from her furry pink tentacles until you submit. Straight up, Queen Elizabitch is filthy as fuck, hilarious as Hell, and hard as a dick while she’s rapping. Put squarely, this shit is BOLD, and it’s not lost on us that being a female MC in this context requires an impossible balance between class and crass. I can’t deny that cupcakKe’s notorious guttermouth is what pulled me in, but in all honesty, what has kept me coming back is her unmatched consistency in a game dominated by warbling cocks. This shit slays on a Blueprint level. That it would probably still slay on a Kingdom Come level is a reflection of her unsolicited ferocity. However we heard it, I’m glad we listened. –Jackson Scott --- Chino Amobi PARADISO [UNO NYC/NON] Tiny Mix Tapes has been covering Chino Amobi since at least 2012, when he was known as Diamond Black Hearted Boy. As it turns out, 2012 also was the year yours truly started writing for TMT — and my last name really is Diamond, by the way; it’s not a moniker like C Monster. Fun fact: C got me this gig. He was listening to Chino back when Chino was Diamond Black Hearted Boy. I faintly remember him telling me about Diamond Black Hearted Boy, and my reply being something like,”’Diamond Hard Blue Apples of the Moon?’ Dope song, bro.” He definitely told me about Chino Amobi later too, but I just thought he was talking about the guy from The Deftones. The point is, not all of us TMTers are in-the-know experimental music scholars with master’s degrees, and some of us who are are secretly borderline illiterate, but most all of us thoroughly enjoy Chino Amobi’s PARADISO and its arcane references, sudden outbursts, and the way those elements play off of one another, like close friends with similar interests and backgrounds but little else in common. Cages this weekend? –Samuel Diamond PARADISO by Chino AmobiPARADISO by Chino Amobi --- Richard Dawson Peasant [Weird World] The curtain rises; before us, a paddock of aged grass, overcast with swelling clouds, while somewhere nearby, there lays a whimpering collie “under a whining bush… seized by a fit.” A house sits in the corner of the enclosure, steam escaping through the windows — inside, there keeps “a cauldron of pummeled gall-nuts afloat in urine/ add river-water thrice-boiled with a bloodstone.” On the wall, a painting has begun to drip from the humidity, its seaside pastoral molting into something almost unrecognizable, as if suddenly one can see “in the face of the cliff/ a ghastly doorway.” Beyond the doorway lies a kingdom of gold, a place where “a child can be bought for a year’s worth of grain,” and “fortune wags its tongue along the walkways of the bathhouse.” Innocents lay lifeless on the street corner, and as the music of war begins to stir once again, somewhere far away, “the rolling fields grow dark as the grave/ and I am fleeing for my life.” –SZG --- Pharmakon Contact [Sacred Bones] Shortly before the release of Contact, Pharmakon played a memorial show for those who lost their lives in the Oakland Ghost Ship fire. The show was also a fundraiser for the Trans Assistance Project in honor of Feral Pines, a transwoman who was among those who died. I didn’t know Feral personally, but many of the people I went to the show with did. Pharmakon played a short set, a single song off Contact. A great chunk of the audience cried. Contact is an industrial-noise record, a condensed chunk of materialized, cut-open human organs, a manifestation of pain and fury and sadness. Terribly abrasive, yes, but it reminds us that such horror-totems are also a locus for contact. There’s a great deal of space in this record, gaps between aural saturation, pockets to curl up and gather and weep in between sheets of oblivion. We can gather around a shared wound. We can hold hands. Contact is an assault and an opening-up. –Jeffrey Dunn Rovinelli Contact by PharmakonContact by Pharmakon --- 99jakes Birthday Party (Not Our Birthday) [Self-Released] “You would cry too if it happened to you.” INT. MOTEL ROOM — NIGHT. SALEM and GFOTY moved into a vacancy together at the edge of town, a few miles past the last gas station but before you get to the cornfields. It always looks red in their room, because they keep a neon sign glowing all through the clear-blue night. We’re throwing a birthday party for their overdue baby, and we just had to book 99jakes, the holy sacrilegious DJ broadcasting live from the forest using algorithm-free YouTube. The party is for jakes only, sorry, but you’re a jake. You might’ve RSVPd “Going” on Facebook high as fuck at 2:35 AM, but you were not ready for this party. Airbrushed nightcrawlers are scurrying on the walls, moms and ravers are talking Yu-Gi-Oh!, and one of the jakes keeps trying to start a food fight with this cardboard cutout of Magneto. Another jake is genuinely sobbing about their weekly horoscope. It’s a new moon and the party is over, but after the afterparty, we’re playing 7th Guest. For keeps. Watch it, dude. –Pat Beane --- Aaron Dilloway The Gag File [Dais] Cigarette butts litter the floor. Empty beer bottles are strewn across the room. The walls in the house are that dark-brown, stained-wood paneling of which the 70s were so fond. The carpet might as well be orange if it actually isn’t. Remnants of paraphernalia are on a glass-top table in front of a couch. There’s a stale smell in the air. A low thud lopes along in the background. You can vaguely make out that music is playing, but you don’t know what it is… there’s mostly muddy bass frequencies. Random conversations are taking place in this room, but you’re not really a part of any of them. You’re just observing. Down a hallway and through a bedroom door is a familiar smile. A kind of vaguely eerie, expressionless smile that you pull a string to animate. While pulling the string, a busted speaker inside of it creaks to life, announcing “kill away” with a cackle. You ghost this scene immediately. –Joe Davenport The Gag File by Aaron DillowayThe Gag File by Aaron Dilloway [pagebreak] Chief Keef Thot Breaker [Glo Gang] When I reviewed Two Zero One Seven in January, I felt obligated to excavate a rough sketch of Chief Keef’s disperse, ephemeral, and notoriously leaky catalogue, ending with the question of whether Thot Breaker (which had already been suspended in the limbo of hypothetical Keef releases since 2015) would ever come out. So in a surprise befitting Sosa’s winking demeanor, it makes a kind of cosmic sense that Thot Breaker would not only be released, but also that it would be an actual album, delicately mastered and thoughtfully sequenced, showcasing the evolution of Keith Cozart’s blossoming vision as a full-throated producer of singular and ambitious pop music. And the music is what shines: falsetto, autotune harmonies hang in the nausea of drum-barren and baroque lean-scapes, where the absurd poignancy of Keef’s lyricism glimmers, finally equilibrated to the left-field intuitions of his own production style (aided here by resident team Young Chop and CBMix, as well as a lone Mike WiLL Made-It spot). Standouts like “Alone (Intro),” the drumless ballad “Slow Dance,” stadium-dubstep barnstormer “Whoa,” and the inevitable lean-sipping ode “Drank Head” are legitimate ruptures in the Keef canon and, if we are to take the artist at face value (which we should), aesthetics more generally — they only require the audience to unsee a false history, and to accept the psychedelic, finessed vulnerability being offered on Thot Breaker. –Nick Henderson --- Nkisi Kill [MW] The only voice you hear on Kill bellows at the beginning of “Can You See Me,” asking with force, “Can you hear me? Do you know who I am? Can you see me? I live in the dark.” Brief and deliberate, the first official record by Nkisi, a co-founder of the explosively influential NON collective, somehow gets right up in its listener’s face while retaining its basic anonymity. The title track opens the record in a rolling, percussive euphoria, giving way to a kind of double-bridge in which manic beeping morphs into a dramatic trance arp. There are more shades of trance in the emotional denouement of “Parched Lips,” while both “Can You See Me” and “MWANA” rely on their nervous, nonlinear ascent toward climax. These are unique, collage-like tracks that still fit well within the massive, oddly shaped space Nkisi and associates have carved for themselves, blending a familiarly frenetic swing of snares into conversation with some evocative and incidental techniques of composition. Living in the dark, Kill offers a few scattered rays of light. –Will Neibergall --- Lorde Melodrama [Republic] Lorde is one of those ultimate artists who has achieved both top-level mainstream cred and top-level indie cred. You really can’t dislike her from any angle or you risk being seen as uncool, a fate truly worse than death. This is because, in contrast to most other pop today (most of which is pure garbage), her music is emotionally intuitive and refreshingly honest, with interesting insights into her social life and her love life. The production is airy, crisp, and occasionally sparse, giving the feeling that each sound and gesture was thoroughly considered and chosen for good reasons. These are true reflections of a partier, singing about the feelings that drive her to party and the feelings she’s left with when the party ends. That’s where Lorde transcends most pop music today: where most music regresses into trite politics or benign observations about life, her music is fairly particular and contains powerful ruminations that all people can relate to, because partying rules. Life is about the balance of partying and being sad. --- Ace Mo Black Populous [Bootleg Tapes] In any true Catholic family, there are over four aunts or uncles and subsequently dozens of first and second cousins who get placed in three categories: often, sometimes, and who? The “oftens” are there every holiday whose birthdays you’re dragged to; the “sometimes” are out-of-state cousins who you see enough to consistently dislike and/or smoke weed with in the alleyway; and the “whos?” are the reason why you address everyone as “bud” or “friend.” Ace Mo and the entirety of Bootleg Tapes have quickly risen from a “who?” to the highest ground of “often”: the sitcom best-friend cousin, transcending the ranks into a must-see, need-to-chill-with cousin. Can there be a brightest-star, favorite cousin within Bootleg Tapes? We refuse to answer that. But damn: as of this writing, he is the face off/banner kid of their Bandcamp, and Black Populous is bringing in a whole new appreciation for the label. So, what we’re saying is, Ace Mo, I have the dro, and we’re eating heavy always; see you at the next major holiday, and an AFX-style-remix-fanboy thanks to you. –Monet Maker Black Populous by AceMoBlack Populous by AceMo --- Medslaus Poorboy Self-Released If the most boring drums a rap producer can program go boom boom bap boom boom boom bap, then the second most boring drums a rap producer can program go ticka ticka ticka ticka ticka ticka ticka ticka ticka and the third most boring go ticka ticka boom bap ticka ticka ticka ticka bap, and so on. If I’m oversimplifying, I apologize — the point is: Slauson Malone doesn’t make beats you’ve heard before, and on the occasion that he employs a familiar sample, like on “Follies (P.M.W.),” the sumbitch gets turned out. Melodics become riddims and vice versa such that no two tracks ever sound the same. As for Slauson’s vocal counterpart, the first time I heard Medhane, I thought he was alright but steadily overshadowed by his producer. Post-Poorboy, I’m starting to think that’d be like saying Guru was overshadowed by Premier. And this is after just their second project together!? If these kids get any better, you’re all going to be out of a job. Chief Keef’s going to need to take a civil service exam or some shit. Rappaz rn dainja and beats are obsolete. Go ahead with that. –Samuel Diamond --- Kendrick Lamar DAMN. [Top Dawg] Okay, so you’re not AIM buddies with Kendrick Lamar, but… doesn’t it feel like you kinda could be? The most over-the-top thing about DAMN. wasn’t that it sounded like the work of some untouchable megastar off on his own trip; it was the feeling that an easygoing, all-around “nice dude” who lives down the hall from you cobbled this shit together on his PC in the lonely-but-spacious hours between night shifts and day jobs. The shots fired on DAMN. didn’t feel so much “shockingly revolutionary” as they did “shockingly relatable.” It pretty much felt like Lamar was sending you a MediaFire link containing the mundane, silly, scared, honest fruits of a secret-hobby on Google Hangouts and then insecurely asking you what you thought of it right on the spot. Then, he anxiously watched the screen as you typed back your near-speechless, one-word response: “DAMN.” –Dan Smart http://j.mp/2tn2dfT