#michael I will always rage at them on your behalf | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shebeafancyflapjack · 3 years ago

Text

Eavesdrop

A quick alternate to Earshot, but set in canon S2 rather than NPL, where the demons focus on Michael for their taunting.

Second book in on the top shelf. That’s the one to pull to unlock the secret door hidden in the wall behind Michael’s desk. She’s supposedly the only other being, besides Janet, in this micro-universe privy to that bit of info. It leads to a hallway that extends to a secret chamber filled with a bunch of Earth collectables along with, recently added on her suggestion, a mini-arcade with classic game machines and a karaoke stand. The walls were sound proof, obviously.

She’s not here to escape a lecture from Chidi about messing up the laundry by hanging out in her demon pal’s very own ‘bud hole’ this time. Her ear is pressed to the closed panel after sealing herself in, waiting for the big Satanic tree to arrive.

To her surprise, and slight annoyance, he hadn’t arrived alone.

“You shouldn’t be getting drunk like this. What if the humans saw you? Everyone here is supposed to be abstinent of all vices!” Michael had grumbled, a ruckus of giggles behind him.

“That’s the point, dummy! It’s a ‘Purge’ night!” Vicky cackled; “Tell ‘im again, Gunner!”

“I got the idea off this human movie - one night, we’re allowed to do any shirt we wanted without consequence! We can drink, smoke, do drugs, stab and bite to our black hearts content!”

“NO! Definitely no stabbing! Or hurting any of them...Physically!” He’d struggled to make that last detail sound natural.

Good save, bud, Eleanor had thought.

Another demon, Petra, Eleanor thinks, had groaned; “Ugh, you are such a buzzkill lately. Can’t you see how awesome this idea is? Think about how wasted Eleanor is gonna let herself get! That dork, Jason, is gonna be high as a kite and it will make Chidi and Tahani wanna cower inside their homes! It’s genius!”

Eleanor had almost let herself be excited for the idea of trying to make the most of this supposed ‘torture’, similar to the one at Tahani’s party, which even Michael had said she hadn’t done too bad at acting and preparing the chaos sequence the next morning. She could hear the worry in Michael’s response though, being surrounded by three hundred demons, losing their inhibitions and wanting to let off steam in the most ‘passionate’ way possible, had the potential to go very wrong. For all of them.

As she listened, Michael’s attempts to reign in his rogue employees soon descended into outright pleading, which only gave him more scorn in return.

“Look just...remember what our goal is here. I get that you’re all frustrated but we’re doing so well and all I ask is that you don’t go too far on the humans, please.” He’d tried to ask, nicely. Wrong move.

The laughter nearly shook the building.

“Jeez! If you love these humans so much, why don’t you fork them?” Bambadjan teased.

“Nah, let’s face it, not even those cockroaches would wanna go near that disgusting skin suit with all it’s musty folds.” Vicky responded; “...Oh, what’s wrong, Mikey? It’s not like we’re insulting ‘you’ after all...Unless you’re starting to feel a little too cosy in that costume of yours.”

Eleanor’s stomach twisted on his behalf. She knew how much he loved that suit; he was so forking vain, after all. But then again, is it vanity if it’s not really his body? He just wishes it was.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Michael responded, quietly.

“Then prove it, dude! Take it off! Strip! Todd goes streaking every night.” Gunner encouraged.

“You know I can’t! It’s not the same for me.”

“Maybe I’ll take mine off tonight. Imagine how much Mendoza will freak out when he sees a giant acid snake coming for him after too many mushrooms!” Vicky joked; “It’s still ten times better than any torture method you’ve come up with for them, Mike. Maybe melting their brains by revealing your demon form will provide us some results.”

Is it really that bad? Eleanor was naively hoping there was some sexy bald goat-man underneath that suit. Dude was so shifty about it, like he didn’t wanna spoil the mystery. Was it more than that? Was he ashamed?

“You’ve all made your point, have your Purge and I’ll clean up the mess tomorrow. Just go easy on the humans - I insist.” Michael sounded so tired.

“Oh he ‘insists’!? Did you hear that guys? Mikey, who failed his own experiment over eight hundred times, wants to ‘insist’!” Vicky sneers.

“Well I insist that he shuts his fugly food hole and leave the masters to our job!” Petra cackled; “And he gets back to trying to fork his paperclips or whatever shirt you get up to here.”

That sounded painful, Eleanor couldn’t stop herself picturing it.

“Jeez, Mike, you always were a loser but there’s really no hope for you, is there. Before you were just the quiet nerd no one wanted to hang out with because of your weird fixation with Earth-people. Soon you’re gonna be known as the idiot who failed his first experiment; even if the rest of us do manage to salvage it for Shawn, we’ll all know the truth about how badly you suuucked!”

It took all of Eleanor’s strength not to shove the panel open, stomp over and grab Vicky’s hair to slam her face into the desk. They all just followed him in there to bully him?! They were the losers.

“C’mon, guys! We should have known he wouldn’t have wanted to join our party, it’s not like he’s used to being invited to any.” Bambadjan added, inciting more giggles.

“See you in the morning, dumb-ash. Be up bright and early to clean up our shirt, as you say, chop chop!”

Counting to ten to contain her rage luckily meets up with the sound of the door closing, the demons exiting the building.

She carefully opens the secret door, seeing Michael sat in his chair, hands folded on his lap, eyes cast down. When he hears her soft footsteps, his head turns, expression shifting to try to cover the wobbling lip she’d briefly caught sight of. He sniffs and rubs his upper lip with his hand.

“Eleanor!” Michael straightens up; “Were you there the whole time? What if they’d seen you or...sensed you were there?”

“Relax, man, they didn’t see shirt, it’s cool.” She puts her hand up; “...You okay?”

He looks to the side, forcing his ‘superior’ smirk, “Uhh, yeah, of course! Why wouldn’t I be? Just...having a bit of workplace banter, as they say.”

“Didn’t sound like ‘banter’ to me, dude.” She edges closer, slowly, knowing that if he’s as much like her as she knows, he’s gonna be like a wounded tiger right now.

Getting too close, too quick, is gonna get her eyes clawed out. She would know, she’s swung a few claws herself.

Michael sniffs, struggling to keep his mask on; “M’fine, Eleanor, really. You better go prepare for this Purge or whatever they were talking about, go enjoy yourself or...make sure the others are safe-.”

His words are cut off by her weight falling down onto his lap, arms looping around his neck as she embraces him. Fork it. Screw being slow and steady; the demon was about ready to cry.

“Wha....What are you doing?” Michael stutters, stiffening.

“Hugging you, idiot...Sorry, I mean that affectionately,” She says against his ear.

“W-why?”

She shrugs, still hugging him tight, shuffling on his knees; “’Cause you need it. ‘Cause it’s the quickest way to let you know that all those things those demons said was garbage. Fork, have they always talked to you like that?”

His silence answers her question.

She squeezes him again; “Damn, no wonder you’re as new to this whole friend thing as me.”

“Demons insult each other all the time, Eleanor, it’s how we compliment each other. We’re meant to enjoy it.”

That made zero sense.

“But you don’t....do you?”

Michael breaths in deep against her. Then she shakes her head, leaning into her shoulder.

“That’s ‘cause I’m a freak...I’m wrong, just like they say...like Shawn says...I’m just a failure of a demon.”

“That’s a good thing in my books, man.” Eleanor pulls back, looking at him, admiringly; “You might be failing as a demon but, I have it on good authority, you are rocking it as a newbie human. And I know you think we’re all gross and stupid but...I know you love us.”

He wrinkles his nose, trying to look as though he denied it, yet refusing to. His eyes gaze into hers, a rush of color brightening his cheeks.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to say it, I know you’re not quite ready there yet.” She knows herself how difficult it is to say those three words, to anyone; “But we’re your friends. We want you on our team, Michael, not just ‘cause it stops you torturing us but...Because you’re a cool guy to be around, when you’re not giving paperclip showers or putting us in purple space bubbles.”

A smile threatened to crack on Michael’s face as he squirmed beneath her. Was it really this easy to make an all-powerful being look so shy and bashful? It was adorable.

She moves her hand up to his cheek, thumb stroking below his eye, reddened with unshed tears.

“Also...I feel kinda obliged to confess something.” She says, “This skin-suit? Your skin-suit? What Vicky said was bull-shirt. All of it. Not only is this suit as much you as whatever demony essence you got going on underneath...But it’s also not bad looking either. I might even go as far to say ‘handsome’. In like a Richard Gere in Pretty Woman way.”

“R-really?” He looks hopeful for a second; “I mean...I know it’s gorgeous, but I wouldn’t expect...I mean I wouldn’t want you - or any human - to ever wanna-.”

She cuts his babbling off again with a kiss on the cheek.

He’s frozen now.

Eleanor grins; “That prove it for you? You know me, I don’t give out pity kisses.”

Michael squirmed again, biting his lip, mumbling something which might have been ‘gross’ or ‘weird food holes’, but he doesn’t move his hands away from where they’ve found the small of her back.

“Hey...how about we do one quick bit of karaoke before we go brief the others on tonight. You can pick the song.” She says, giving his bow-tie the smallest tug.

He smiles, touched, then nods; “Sounds good...”

“Cool. Also, don’t open that drawer on your desk until you’ve properly cheered up - I rigged it with a pie to get thrown in your face as revenge for cheating off my paper earlier!”

“Oh, pies are the best prank! I wish you hadn’t told me now, you’ve spoiled the surprise.”

Eleanor giggles as she takes his hand, leading him to his bud-hole; “You know me, demon buddy. I’m always full of surprises.”

His fingers squeezed hers; “That you are.”

#hellstrop minific #michael x eleanor #fluff #emotional hurt/comfort

8 notes · View notes

prophecy-is-inevitable · 4 years ago

Note

Would you be willing to do a Michael x Plus Size Reader? I feel insecure sometimes, especially thinking of how perfect he looks and I worry I would be too needy for him considering he called Gallant out for his neediness. I also feel like I would call him out for his neediness too since he wants someone who understands him, assuming we knew each other well enough. Can you do something with all this? 👉🏻👈🏻

Ooph. This one is really hard for me since it’s very far out of my comfort zone, but you don’t get better without practice, right? I hope that this has turned out in a way that you like! 100% yelled at Michael when I saw that shit, too. Like, YOU KNOW ALL ABOUT NEEDINESS DON’T YOU MICHAEL LANGDON?! HUH?! Anyway...fully agree. I think it might have been a little hard for him to see his neediness mirrored in someone else and that set him off. He can be the ONLY needy one. Disclaimer: Please don’t drink antifreeze to experience Michael Langdon. Thank you!

The Two Instances of Neediness

He’d promised you safety. Above all else, he had promised that he would keep you safe and make sure you were cared for when he couldn’t be with you. It seemed only half of that promise came through.

For the last year and a half, you’d been diligently waiting for him to retrieve you from Outpost 3. Safety had been provided, as promised. The white stone and dark wood walls were kept warm for the dozen or so people that resided inside the structure. There were enough rooms and beds for everyone to have their own space. A small mercy in the grand scheme of things.

When you finally saw Michael Langdon again, he had certainly changed. The way he carried himself, the exquisiteness of his clothes, the length of his hair… Everything looked and felt different. He looked and felt like everything he was meant to be. Divine yet deadly, comforting yet cruel. He was the sweet taste of antifreeze coating your tongue, euphoric and paralyzing all at once as he snuck into your system and shut you down from the inside out.

You watched him with a wondrous smile as he strode into the library. Your teeth sank gently into your lip in an attempt to keep from crying out his name. Surely he would still remember you. He surveyed the room with a self-satisfied smirk upon seeing the entirety of the Outpost gathered for him. When he spotted you, though, the smirk morphed into a painfully familiar look.

Eighteen months ago, you stood inside of Outpost 3 clad in nothing but your underwear following the mandatory decontamination process all new survivors had to undergo. A redhead with a pinched, strict face stared at you with a sneer, her eyes taking in every extra curve and flaw of your body. You stared right back at her with a smirk, daring her to make a single comment, when you both knew why you were there. Michael’s own people had brought you here on his behalf. Whatever this woman thought of you? It mattered for nothing in comparison to him.

Now, Michael stood at the center of the main library floor below you, gazing at you with the same sneer and furrowed brow that Venable bestowed upon you that first day. Your grey dress was plain and ill-fitting; at least if you’d been able to fashion some sort of belt or tie it could have almost looked appealing. The high bun was ridiculous and hurt your scalp something awful. Every night you let your hair out felt like a thousand bees stinging the follicles. Any alterations to the servant uniform you had been given were strictly forbidden. As was everything else.

You had been given safety, yes, but cared for? No. And now you stood there, eyes brimming with unshed tears, as he scowled hatefully at you and you could feel your heart crumbling piece by piece. Maybe he’d sent you here as a way to get rid of you. Maybe he’d found someone else, someone smarter, stronger, more conventionally beautiful. Perhaps his gaze would have been different if you had been granted the elegant drapery of the Purples. The corsets that cinched their waists and lifted their breasts gave them the perfect hourglass shape of a goddess. Your full figure would have been the very image of voluptuous and desirable then. There was no way you could bear to look at him now.

Days went by without seeing Michael. Between your work around the Outpost, your blatant avoidance of him, and his nonexistent attempts to reconnect, the opportunities were--thankfully--sparse. Conflict raged inside of you. Part of you wanted to confront him, to see what the fuck he thought he was playing at with your life and your feelings. The other part was happy to live in the questionable bliss of ignorance. You didn’t want to hear of whatever new love he’d found that superseded the love he’d claimed to have for you.

While it was easy to avoid his person, it was much, much harder to avoid his name.

“Langdon” was all anyone could talk about. How handsome he was, how skillful he must be in the bedroom. Gallant was certain that Langdon had his gorgeous blue eyes on him, and you’d never hated the hairdresser more. You hoped he choked on his cube. When his grandmother revealed that she had seen him having sex with someone, you resigned yourself to the fact that you had lost Michael for good. If he was interested in lean blond men, he certainly wasn’t interested in you anymore.

Venable assigned you to keep tabs on Gallant while he was strung up awaiting punishment. Once a day, you would throw a bucket of water over him to keep him clean. He still received his daily rations that you had to feed to him yourself since his hands were chained up. All you would have to do was shove the fork a liiiittle bit too far down his throat, and all the disparaging words he’d whispered just loud enough for you to hear behind your back, all of the times he’d tried to make you doubt your worth would all be over. There was only one man that you allowed to sow seeds of doubt in your mind. You froze mid step when that man’s voice drifted under the closed door of Gallant’s “cell”.

“I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on Earth,” his sweet voice dripped with contempt, “and you almost are.” The slow drawl of Michael Langdon’s voice continued inside of the room, bouncing tauntingly around the circular walls. “It’s not because you’re not physically attractive. It’s your neediness.” His tone of voice shifted dramatically from dulcet and slow to cutting and cold. It made you shiver, even as you felt the anger burning inside of your skin. It wasn’t for Gallant. Oh no, he could mock that shallow, conceited man all he wanted. “You’re desperation to be seen and loved. The hole you need filled isn’t in your face or your ass--it’s in your heart.”

No, your anger wasn’t on behalf of Gallant. You couldn’t help feeling he was also talking about you. How you’d often sought reassurance in him, and hoped to feel loved to validate the feelings that you felt for him, too. Above all, you were angry because you knew his words would have cut himself deeper than any other before he’s become this...this creature. Where was the man you knew and loved before the bombs fell?

“You’re pathetic.” Your lips trembled and tears burned in your eyes. The words, while not directed at you, punched the air from your lungs. Is that how he felt about you? Was that why he was avoiding you as if you had radiation sickness? The footsteps and the opening of the door didn’t register through your self-imposed turmoil. Before you knew it, the man that had been on your thoughts stood before you.

“No.” The word left your mouth before you could stop it. Your eyes narrowed at his and you stepped up, toe to toe, with his immaculately polished shoes. “You’re pathetic, Michael Langdon.” For the briefest moment, his glacial eyes melted and looked from your tears to the anger and hurt in your eyes. “You forget that I know you, Michael. Or at least I did once. No one needed love more than you, and now you weaponize that fact against someone else? Is that how you feel about everyone?” You bit into your lip as your entire body shook, the water you carried in your arms sloshing against the sides and mimicking the raging sea of emotions tearing you apart. “Is that how you feel about me?”

The answer never came. His arms remained, as always, clasped behind his back. Wide eyes narrowed dangerously to scan the surrounding halls to see if anyone was there to witness your outburst. His head bowed to yours, forehead to forehead and nose to nose, before he spoke.

“I will be conducting your interview this evening. Ms. Venable is already aware that you will not be attending dinner.”

With that, he turned on his heel and made his way down the hall in perfect, casual strides. You turned and let your back thud against the wall. The stone was cold against your back as you slid, shaking, to the floor

“What the fuck was I thinking?” You muttered to yourself several hours later when it came time to make the journey to Langdon’s office. You dreaded hearing whatever he had to say. Now he would be in the privacy of his own rooms and be able to rage against you however he saw fit.

“Come in.” Michael’s voice beckoned you before you could even lift your hand to knock. You opened the door slowly, heart heavy with dread, and kept your eyes down. Movement from his desk let you know where he was. “Now, now. No need to look so shy.” He approached you slowly, a smirk on his lips, and reached out a hand to cup your chin. “You forget that I know you, too,” he threw your words back at you.

You finally managed to lift your gaze to his and found it resting on your lips. The hardened ice of his gaze dissipated with an inquisitive tilt of his head, and your heart skipped at the familiar gesture. His warm hand on your skin, gently holding your face, brought back so many memories. The next thing you knew, he was stepping back from you and scanning your form from head to toe. The same glare and curl of his lips appeared as the first night he had arrived. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around yourself and attempted to shrink away as much as possible. He exhaled in a heavy, aggravated sigh. So he did think of you that way, too, then.

“She is going to pay for this,” he growled. Your head shot up in confusion. She who? Pay for what? Michael pressed his lips into a thin line of displeasure. “I specifically ordered that your position within the Outpost be among the elite. This is a blatant disregard for my commands. If I had known sooner… Take it off.” Mind still muddled in confusion, you simply blinked up at him. Michael gestured with his elegant, jeweled fingers curling into his upturned palm. “That ridiculous uniform. Take it off. And let down your hair. I can only imagine how uncomfortable that must be for you.”

This had to be some form of trick. You were supposed to have been a purple all along? He’d promised that you would be safe and cared for... No, he was using any trust that you had left in him against you--just like he had toyed with everyone else in the Outpost. The realization made you quickly shake your head. You were not going to expose yourself to him just so he could mock you and hurt you any further. His face fell at your refusal, and his brow furrowed.

“Please. It’s been so long. Knowing you’ve been right here with me the last few days without being able to truly speak to you has been excruciating. Please let me see you.” Oh, how you wanted to believe him. How badly you wanted to think he had missed you and desired you. When you still didn’t move, he came towards you again and forced you to back up against the door. “Perhaps you need a bit of help.”

Michael stooped down and gently captured your ankle in his grasp. He removed your shoe with the effortless tug of his hand to toss it behind him and repeated the process on the other. Next, his hands ran up the sides of your legs. Gentleness was a foreign display from this new Michael, but it was one that your Michael had used often in ascertaining his feelings for you. A soft whimper slipped past your lips from the way he carefully gathered the fabric of your plain dress.

“Look at me, my love.” The command was a gentle one that you couldn’t help but to obey. His eyes mirrored the soft, passionate pleading of his words, and the feeling in the room shifted to something much more in your favor. “How I have missed you.” Several silent tears dripped down your cheeks. It would only be a matter of time before things came crashing down. You could feel it. “Now, take your dress off for me.”

He sat back on his heels and waited, smirking up at you quite happily. Every bit of you screamed no, to remain still, not to become so vulnerable in front of him. Yet, you could still see a part of the man you knew in those glistening blue eyes. A renewed determination filled you, and you removed his hands from your dress to tug it over your head. You tossed the dress into the corner and held your arms out to him in a show of exposure so against your usual nature it was painful. If you were lucky, a pit to hell would open up beneath you and save you from the tragedy. Or perhaps you were already there.

“Is this what you wanted to see? So you could mock me for my appearance, for my neediness to be appreciated and loved for more than what everyone sees? Fuck you, Michael. There was a time that you needed to be loved more than anything. That you wanted to be loved more than anything.” Your legs shook slightly from the willpower it took not to crumple in on yourself.

“Yes.” The words came from Michael as a hiss. Still it seduced you to him like the snake of the Forbidden Tree. His eyes appraised you as he stood, wide and remembering, taking in every curve and dip of your body that made you so scared and so uncertain of anyone’s affection. “This is what I wanted to see. To see you.” Michael’s smirk grew and he placed his hands on your waist. “There are only two occasions in which neediness is not a thing to be mocked, but to be adored.” The hands on your waist pulled you against him. Another whimper blended into a moan at the feel of his warm body against you.

“The first instance is the neediness for me that drips off of you. The second,” he pushed to sigh, “is how badly I need you. To see the image of perfection that I have dreamt of every day for the last 18 months. The warmth that has been absent from the bed beside me for too long.” The gentle pressure of his hands on your sides softly moved upwards over your breasts, along the tops of your shoulders, fingers dancing along your throat, the final destination being your cheeks. Love spread over every inch of your body. His words to you were nothing but the truth. A slight tremble to his lips broke the calm composure of the man the outpost knew as Langdon, Cooperative Agent. In his place stood Michael Langdon, your Michael Langdon, and he very eagerly captured your lips in his.

Everything was conveyed in that one embrace. He still needed you as much as you needed him. It would be your little secret.

#IT IS DOONE #Michael Langdon x Reader #Michael Langdon x Plus Size!Reader #Plus Size! Reader #Michael Langdon Prompt #My writing #Michael Langdon Fanfiction #Again DO NOT DRINK ANTIFREEZE TO EXPERIENCE MICHAEL LANGDON

100 notes · View notes

mermaidcashton · 4 years ago

Text

i hate to admit it

author: claire (@mermaidcashton) ship: michael clifford/reader prompt/AU: this is a gift for the wonderful @h0tsos who wanted soft, subby Michael in an enemies to lovers capacity (and i snuck some coffee shop!au in there as well, and some weebness because, well, it’s Steff and Michael) wordcount: 4k+ warnings: swearing, alcohol mentions, explicit sexual content a/n: • written for @maluminspace & @h0tsos ‘s 5sos fic writers collab (which was a gift exchange this time around) • i do not give permission for this (or any of my writing) to be reposted, by anyone, on this or any other website. please don’t do it! • title from ‘this means war’ by mariana’s trench • ‘my hero academia’ is a manga/anime series. there are references to it and a few of the characters in this but you don’t need to know anything about it to understand what’s going on.

i hate to admit it *** “So, they’re like...superheroes?”

Luke sipped on his glass of rosé, nodding like he understood whilst making a face that showed he absolutely did not.

“Yeah, dude, pretty much!” Michael nodded along with your co-worker with so much enthusiasm he looked like one of those dogs people put on their dashboards. Except less cute. Wait, no - not cute. Definitely not cute at all. Good save, you. Couldn’t have your own internal monologue thinking you felt anything for the moron you were forced to work with 3 times a week was anything more than an annoyance you had to endure. With a butt that wouldn’t quit. Dammit, self!

Michael took advantage of Luke showing an interest in his (and yours) favourite anime, and began bombarding him with half baked theories, predictable favourite scenes and shitty character analysis. He nearly knocked his own hat off as he flailed his hands around in an attempt at explaining the dynamics of a battle from the second season. Luke smiled politely.

You snorted into your drink as you drained the last of it; you were definitely going to need another. If Michael started fanboying over Deku again, you were going to scream.

As you placed the empty bottle onto the wood of the coffee table, you took another glance around the apartment you were in. You’d never been up here before, despite spending a minimum of 20 hours a week in the coffee shop downstairs. But after this evening’s staff meeting tackling such issues as ‘who forgot that milk needs to be kept in the fridge overnight’ (Luke), ‘who is putting too much whipped cream on hot chocolates’ (Michael), and ‘who wrote ‘THIS COFFEE IS HOT, BUT U R HOTTER ❤ ) on a customers caramel macchiato’ (Luke again), Ashton had invited you all upstairs for a ‘employee chill’. You had been surprised a week or so into your employment when you had found out that the manager was also the owner who lived in the apartment above Screamin’ Beans; he was only in his mid twenties, but the more you’d experienced his drive and determination, the more your surprise had dwindled. Ashton really was a great guy, with one big flaw; Michael. They had been best friends for years, hence him moving into the apartment when he came back into town and the job Ashton had given him; which in your humble opinion was the equivalent of setting a monkey loose on the milk frother.

Michael had sealed his fate with you the same day he’d started work. He arrived 10 minutes late (from upstairs), sleepy eyed and shy smiled. His fluffy blonde hair was spilling out of his beanie, and he kept biting his very pink lip bottom with sharp little teeth. The way he pronounced your name was adorable. You’d burned your hand on the espresso machine. Strike one. Things unravelled quickly after that. He was ‘too shy’ to take orders and work the register so you were stuck there all day talking to goddamn customers about why it wasn’t a good idea to have 3 pumps of every syrup while he hid behind silver machinery and dirtied way more jugs than you deemed necessary. Strike two. And then he’d dropped a latté into that ladies bag - sorry, very expensive bag. Michael had let out a ‘uuuhhh’ sound like a malfunctioning robot without moving for so long that the furious customer had stopped trying to yell at him and focused her rage on you instead. When he had eventually come to whatever passed for his senses, Michael had power walked into the employee bathroom and didn’t return until Calum arrived to join the shift and assured him the woman had left, twenty minute later. You were beyond strikes. You’d been so sure you could talk Ashton into scheduling you together as little as possible. There was no reason to put you down to work nearly every shift together, especially shifts where only two staff were on! Except, apparently there was because he kept fucking doing it. Every time you pressed Ashton on it, he’d say something about how he needed Michael ‘trained by the best’, or ‘matching availabilities’, or he thought their ‘energies combined well; auras are meshing, y’know?’ The one might have been on you for catching him as he was returning from his Vibe Check Yoga class at the studio down the street.

He’d also emphasised that Michael needed more friends now he was back in the city, and you two had loads in common! You both liked pop punk! You’d rolled your eyes. And Italian food! A ‘tch noise. And anime! Okay, you’d bite.

The next time you’d gone into work, you’d engaged Michael in a conversation about ‘Tokyo Ghoul’ and recommended ‘Demon Slayer’; things started to pick up. You didn’t fantasise about locking Michael in the walk-in fridge the whole shift. And then…

“You watch ‘My Hero Academia’, right?” “Uh, yeah! I love it.” “Me too! I just ordered a Todoroki tee yesterday. And another Deku one, of course; gotta rep my main man!” “Oh..cool! He’s your favourite?” Of course Michael was a basic bitch. But hey, that’s fine. Deku was fine. He was the main character, after all. And he’s a little less whiny in the recent manga issues, you guess. And the way Michael’s face was right now - open, comfortable, lit up like the 4th of July? That was good, too. His eyes were so green. “Yeah! Who’s your favourite character?” “Well, I would die for a bunch of ‘em, but I’m a Bakugou girl at heart.” You laid a palm flat on your chest, choosing to ignore the feel of your heart beating faster than it had been five minutes ago beneath it. Michael wrinkled his nose. “Bakugou? But he’s like...he’s so mean! And angry!”

Oh no. You’d had this conversation before. You locked eyes with Michael, hoping he could see the warning in your eyes. Don’t do it, ho.

“Like, he’d probably make a better villain than hero!”

“You okay, boo?” Calum slid into the space on the couch beside you, holding out a fresh beer for you to take. “You look deep in thought.”

You hummed and accepted the bottle from him, letting go of your train of thought as you caught sight of Luke trying to prove he could get his overly long leg behind his head. Michael and Ashley F. were both actively trying to avoid getting kicked in the face with a sparkly boot, whilst Ashton was just monitoring the situation very intently; you’re not entirely sure when he last blinked.

You snorted again as Luke’s foot slotted into place in a position you were 85% sure he would not be able to get out of again without assistance, possibly from the emergency services.

“I’m fine. Gotta be one of us capable of thinking here, y’know.” You teased, looking sidelong at Calum. He laughed, rubbing a hand over his freshly shaved hair; he’d always been as easy to get along with as he was obnoxiously handsome. “Hey! You’re lucky I know you’re talking about the human pretzel over there! And I guess, your boyf-” Big brown eyes glittered at you over the hand you’d slapped over his mouth. “-fwendth.” Narrowing your own eyes at your friend, you hissed. “Shut up! I would rather die.” Calum waggled his eyebrows incessantly at you until you relented and dropped your hand. “You knew who I was talking about, though.” Ugh. Smug was not a good look on Calum. “You know, smug is not a good lo-oh fuck, is that the time?” The clock behind Calum’s head showed 8:58; your auction ended at 9:00. You fumbled into your bag for your phone, unlocking it and flicking straight to the app you needed. Phew - still the top bid. “Whatcha doin’?” Calum hooked his chin over your shoulder, blowing your hair out of his face before settling down.

“Bidded on a really cool, limited edition figure. One of my all time favourite anime characters. The auction is about to end.” You explained, making sure Calum could hear you other the cacophony of sounds associated with Luke trying to get his other leg behind his head. You both watched the seconds tick down, your username sitting securely by the words ‘Winning Bid’. At two seconds to nine, the page refreshed, then refreshed again; it was over.

‘Winning Bid: BIGRED69’ “Uh...what happened? That’s not you, right?” Calum asked, tilting his head to look at your face, and the rage it contained. BIGRED69. He’d done it again.

“Uh oh, Y/N - what’s wrong?” Ashton’s voice pulled you out of your internal screaming, and you looked up at him.

“She’s losing her weeb shit at a heavy eBay loss” Calum answered for you, nodding solemnly as he pulled away from you, giving you room to bonk him with a cushion. “Oh! That’s too bad, but that’s another thing you and Mikey have in common!” Ashton beamed. “Mikey!” Oh no. Oh no, no.

“Yeah?” Michael sloped over, getting his black boot caught on the corner of the leopard print rug as he did. Ashton caught him with an ease you suspected (knew) came from practice. “Why don’t you take Y/N to see your anime dolls? She collects them, too!” Ashton looked so pleased with himself and his suggestion for further ‘bonding’ for you and Michael, and Michael looked like he’d been force fed raw lemon at the phrase ‘anime dolls’, so you let it go on your own behalf. Except now Michael was waiting expectantly for you to follow him to his room and Calum was shoving you off of the couch to get you moving. Fuck your life. You sighed as you got up and started walking. “Fine, let’s go; you can show me your Todoroki body pillow and then we can get on with our lives.” Michael let out a small hiss like an angry kitten, his cheeks colouring a pretty pink. He spared a glance at everyone left in your wake. “I, um, don’t have a body pillow, you guys.” “Suuuuure!” You rolled your eyes, waiting for Michael to enter his bedroom so you could follow. The blonde flicked the light on and moved slightly further in so you could pass him, before shutting the door with a small ‘click’. You decided not to comment on this action, looking around at the posters on the walls and figurines on the shelves instead. You were undecided on whether or not you were going to comment on how cool a lot of Michael’s shit was. A ‘Full Metal Alchemist’ poster over his bed, a full shelf of Funko Pops from movies you loved, framed prints of album artwork by Waterparks and The Maine. Fuck. You were really aware of Michael staring at you with an almost hopeful (?) look on his face as you let your eyes travel around his room before he could show you his ‘anime dolls’. Fuck. Your stomach felt fluttery, and you thought you might have a serious problem here, before you caught sight of a very different problem on Michael’s desk.

A rare Kirishima Eijirou statue - box signed by the voice actor - you’d been outbid on last month. By BIGRED69. What were the chances a different one was sitting by Michael’s laptop?

“So,” You said, trying to keep your voice neutral and non-murderous. “Where do you get your collectibles from?” “Forbidden Planet, Tokyo Toys, eBay…” Michael rattled off, until you interrupted him. “Where did you get that one? Looks rare - it must have been difficult!”

“Oh! eBay! It was, but I have an app for it, so…” Michael grinned, looking pleased with himself. An app? “An automatic bidding app? You sniped me?! That’s cheating!” You squeaked; you could not believe this. It was unbelievable.

Michael blinked at you, head empty. “BIGRED69?!” You managed to make the world’s stupidest screen name sound like a terrible accusation. Which it was.

Comprehension dawned on his stupid, beautiful face all at once. “Oh my God! That was you that I’ve been fighting for this stuff? No way! But you didn’t know it was me?”

“Why the hell would I know it was you!” You threw your hands up, and Michael just stared dopily back at you.

“‘Bigred69?! Obviously I assumed you were 12!” Michael let out a squawk of protest, before folding his arms defensively across his chest.

“Clifford!” “What?” Michael’s tone became more insistent. “My last name! Clifford!” You pulled an exaggerated ‘so?!’ face, throwing your hand in the air again.

Michael had the unmitigated gall to huff, like you were the biggest idiot in the room; like he wasn’t always the biggest idiot in every room, all rooms, ever, in the history of rooms. “Clifford the Big Red Dog!” He said, insistence heavy in the words.

You often swore you could almost hear the old internet dial up tone trilling inside Michael’s brain when customers at the coffee shop asked him such difficult questions as “What dairy alternative milks do you carry?”, “Where is the bathroom?”, and even once - you swear - “What’s your name?”. In Michael’s defence, that last one had been asked in more flirtatious-than-not tone by a brunette who clearly had some kind of vision problem (he’d been dressed more horrendously than usual that day beneath his uniform apron; was that a utility vest?!), but had fluttered her eyelashes at your idiot colleague so hard, for so long, you’d been concerned she’d be leaving without what little vision she’d arrived with. But still. Idiot. Michael, not you. And yet, now it was you with your brain puttering through the information you had with the shrill electronic sound of the 90’s in your head. “Clifford the- are you for fucking real?” This could not be real life.

“It’s totally clever!” Michael asserted, continuing in earnest once you scoffed in reply. “No, listen! Because of Clifford, and also, I had red hair when I made it, and 69 is funny - it is! - and, well-” His face flushed slightly before he puffed his chest out a little, apparently deciding to commit to his defence of his screen name. “I’m big, so it works on like, loads of levels!”

This could not be happening to you. You were decidedly not standing in the bedroom of a coworker you simultaneously couldn’t stand and also couldn’t stop thinking about kissing as you restocked the counter fridges in the evenings, as he explained that his auction site handle was a combination of a previous dye job, an insinuation about his dick and a massive fucking dog. You could not let Michael have the upper hand here, but you were floundering. So you fell into more familiar, more pathetic territory.

“If you were called something like ‘deku-loving-loser’, then, sure - I would have known it was you!” “Who’s 12 now?!” “Uh, still you!” Okay, so this wasn’t your finest moment, but you were in it now. And you’d really wanted the Kaminari figure tonight. Michael didn’t even like him that much!

“The point is, you totally sniped me! And you get stuff about basic canon wrong! And your understanding of the characters is one dimensional! And, and...your hat is stupid!” Well, shit. In your defence, Michael’s hat was stupid. You could feel how hot your face was, and Michael’s eyes looking right at it was only making it worse. You couldn’t read his expression at all; he looked like he was searching for something, and you didn’t know what it was, or if he’d find it. You could only assume he had when he took the most decisive steps you’d ever seen him take, reaching you in two huge steps and cupping your face with both hands. Michael kissed in a way he didn’t do anything else; he felt sure and certain as he pressed his lips to yours, moving them with intent. Your brain became overtaken with television static almost immediately as you moved your mouth in time with his, opening your mouth immediately at the questioning press of his tongue. You had enough of yourself left aware to yank his stupid fucking hat off his head as you tangled your fingers in his blonde hair, Michael’s hands sliding down to clutch at your waist as you swayed with the kiss. As Michael pulled back ever so slightly, you took the opportunity to press your teeth into his plush bottom lip, the way you’d thought of doing in afternoon slumps on shift. The whine that came from deep in Michael’s throat made a split second decision for you.

You pulled back further from Michael, yanking your top off in one go and starting in on the buttons of his black shirt before he fully registered the sight of your bra and the top of your full breasts.

“Shit, Y/N, are you…” Michael trailed off as you pulled his sleeves down his arms, and the shirt off this body. Your eyes met his as you popped the button on his black jeans and placed your hand on his zipper. “Do you really want me to overthink this, Michael?” A moment’s pause, then he shook his head vigorously, leaning down to pull his boots off once you’d yanked his jeans to his knees. By the time he was left in his (funnily enough, black) boxer briefs, you’d discarded your own jeans and were knelt at the foot of his bed in your soft, lilac underwear. Michael’s breath hitched as his gaze drifted down your body, taking it all in under the artificial light of the room. “Get over here, Clifford…” You teased, trying not to second guess what was happening. Michael broke out of his trance and more or less threw himself onto the bed, settling his head on the pillows and pulling you on top of him for another kiss, and then another, and another. By the time you pulled back to catch your breath, your head was spinning. You braced yourself on your forearms on the bed, taking the time to admire Michael’s body beneath you.

You’d seen the tattoos on his pale, strong arms before, but they looked different in this context; the contrast between the milky skin and dark ink made your stomach swoop. The blonde hair on his head is also a contradiction; to the dark hair on his chest and the hair trailing down his stomach and disappearing under his waistband. Your mouth felt very dry as you let your gaze continue downward, to the straining bulge beneath the fabric.

You flicked your eyes back to meet Michael’s in question, your fingers suddenly resting on the waistband of his underwear. Michael swallowed thickly, and then nodded once before fixing you with a gaze of pure anticipation.

No use waiting around. You propped yourself up onto your knees over him and pulled on the fabric decisively, not stopping your motion until his underwear bunched up at his ankles. Holy shit.

You always knew Michael had to have at least one redeeming quality, and you’d finally found it. His cock was huge, hanging heavy and hard between his fuzzy thighs. The head was flushed the darkest pink you could ever remember seeing, and the slit was already shiny with precum.

If a voice in your head that sounded unfortunately like Calum pressed that Michael had lots of qualities you secretly found redeeming, you ignored it in favour of getting straight to business.

“FUCK! FUCKIN-”

Apparently, Michael hadn’t been prepared for you to take half of his impressive length into your mouth in one go. You sucked with intent, casting your eyes up to take in the sight of him. His pupils were already starting to blow, and you’d barely done anything. God, that was so sweet.

But then Michael threaded his fingers through your hair, his hand pressing ever so slightly into your scalp. The blonde wasn’t pushing down, but his grip was firm. You could feel the weight of his hand on the top of your head as you held his cock in your mouth, and that shit? Would not stand.

You grab the wrist brushing your hair a second before your other hand finds his idle one, fingers twisted loosely in the sheets. Once you’ve captured both wrists, you guide both to the same point above Michael’s hips, before slamming both into the mattress with purpose.

If you’d had time to think about it, you’re not sure how you would have expected Michael to react. He didn’t really put out the energy of a man who’d properly fight you for control, either in a domineering way or with more of an air of fragile masculinity. Perhaps a bit of questioning but ultimately compliant as long as he got his dick sucked. But the wanton moan that kicked out of Michael’s chest as you settled into a tight grip on his wrists where you had them pinned on the sheets with intent? That was unexpected. That was interesting.

Your mouth had remained still on his cock whilst you got his wrists pinned down, more cockwarming him than blowing him. But now you had him so pliant and under your control, it was go time. You pulled back up his cock, wrapping your lips tightly around the head of Michael’s cock, and sucked with gusto. Another groan from above you. You worked your tongue all the way around the head before pulling back enough to flick it into Michael’s sensitive slit. “Oh my fuuu- Y/N, God, I-” Michael was starting to writhe, his hairy legs rubbing into the sheets beneath you. You could feel his wrists moving along with the rest of his body, but you knew you’d made it clear you’d wanted him pinned, and he made no move to get his hand free. Good boy. You sank steadily back down Michael’s length, at least to the six inch mark, before pulling back up, hollowing your cheeks as you went. Back down a little further, then up, back to teasing the head, using your tongue. Michael couldn’t predict what you were going to do next, and it was clearly pushing all of his buttons. You could taste the precum that his cock kept kicking out into your mouth and throat, and see the flush spreading down his neck. By the time you’d pulled, drool beginning to build at the sides of your mouth, Michael was a mess, moaning as much as he was breathing. This could get addictive, you thought to yourself as you let your mouth drop to his balls, and your thumbs press into the pulse points on his wrists. You hummed before you released his left ball from your mouth with a wet pop, and that’s when Michael started begging. “Please, please, Y/N, I wanna-” he panted, cutting himself off over and over. “You’re so beautiful, lemme- God, fuck, it feels so amazing, you’re- I’ve been good, I’ll do anything, please…”

You pretend to consider his pleas as you dragged your tongue over his right ball, dipping into all the creases and leaving them wet behind you. Drawing back up onto your knees, you released one of his wrists so you could push his sweaty blonde bangs back from where it was plastered to his forehead, drinking in the vision before you. His green eyes were nearly completely black, blown out with arousal. The sheen on the skin of his face and body made him glow. His lips were chapped from his teeth tugging on them, and the pink of the matched the flush spread from his cheeks down his chest. And the wrist you were no longer restraining hadn’t moved a centimeter, still pressed firmly to the mattress. Michael was a good boy. And you knew how to treat good boys. With no preamble, you took Michael back into the wet heat of your mouth, relaxing your throat and not stopping until your nose was buried in the soft thatch of trimmed hair on his crotch. You took a moment to situate yourself and enjoy the deep whines bursting out of Michael’s throat into the quiet of his bedroom, before you began to move again, swallowing around his cock. You saw his thighs begin to tremble to the side of you before you heard him speak. “Fuck, fuck, Y/N, please, I’m gonna-” You hummed as hard as you could, pushing Michael’s wrists with that little bit more force into the bed as you did. Michael let out his loudest whine yet - bordering on a sob- as he came, shooting down your throat as he writhed beneath you.

You swallowed everything he gave you, and when you were sure he was finished, you pulled off slowly, and gently, releasing his wrists as you stood back up on your knees.

Michael looked blissed out, staring dreamily up at you with bright, adoring eyes. He still was yet to move his hands. “Hey.” “Hi.” You smirked down at him. “I believe I heard something about you’d ‘do anything’?” You shot a quick glance at the figurine on his desk, and down at yourself. “I had some ideas…”

collab masterlist • my masterlist

#5sos writing collab #my writing #mermaidcashton #5sos fic #5 seconds of summer fic #5sos #5 seconds of summer #michael clifford #michael 5sos #michael clifford x reader #michael 5 sos x reader #5sos x reader #michael clifford fic #michael 5sos fic

53 notes · View notes

scottybrock · 5 years ago

Text

Petty & Pettier - Colby Brock

A/N: Requested by a lovely anon: “arzaylea rodriguez saying something online or in an interview about reader thus starting a feud between them and the whole gang not really knowing whose side to take? maybe arzaylea is threatened by reader and colbys friendship? ohhh and maybe to add fuel to the fire reader might befriend one of arzayleas exes? just a whole bunch of drama cause I’m in a dramatic mood “

You usually weren’t a petty bitch.

Okay, so you were. There was absolutely nothing wrong with that, especially because you used your powers for good, for your friends, rather than yourself. When it came to defending yourself, you didn’t really care for it. People could think whatever they wanted about you; you knew what was true and what wasn’t. It didn’t bother you. You didn’t really give a flying shit if anyone said anything about you. You were used to it- you hung out with some pretty big content creators, and you were just a lowly nobody, according to what people said about you. You weren’t a Youtuber, and you kept yourself out of the spotlight. People didn’t understand how you became friends with the people you were friends with, but it was really no one’s fucking business.

However, when it came to defending your friends, you were a shark that had caught a whiff of blood- earnest to draw even more, if need be. It was something your friends loved about you- how much you cared about them, loved them. Colby, especially, appreciated your fierce and unyielding devotion to your friend group. You loved your friends, and you would do anything for them. Putting a few bitches in place was the very least of what you would do for them.

The bitch in question this time around, was none other than Arzaylea Rodriguez. You knew all about her. She went for the clout chasing option when searching for future boyfriends. Unfortunately this time, she had her sights set on none other than Colby Brock.

You had heard about what she had done to Luke Hemmings, lead singer of the band 5 Seconds of Summer. She had gotten him into harder drugs, tried to isolate him from his best friends and his fans, and nearly succeeded. Luckily, Luke pulled his head out of his ass long enough to finally dump the clout-chasing parasite on her ass.

Arzaylea prided herself on chasing after boys who had a following, a steady fan base. Colby was too big-hearted to really notice Arzaylea’s true intentions. His heart was too kind, too pure to be able to really see what a horrid person she really was. She was nothing like the flower of her namesake. The rest of the group had seen the destruction she left behind from all of her exes.

Tara was all for the speedy destruction of the possible blossoming relationship between Colby and Arzaylea. Sam, being the sweetheart he was, wanted things to end as peacefully as possible. Jake seemed torn between wanting you to end her, and wanting things to remain as un-messy as possible. Corey and Devyn seemed indifferent, but also displeased with the blossoming relationship, especially because it involved Arzaylea. Katrina seemed to want to give her the benefit of the doubt, but was leaning towards discovering that the she-devil was trash. Kevin, Mike, and Reggie point-blank didn’t like her, which was where Aryia, Xepher, and Cassie stood.

“Dude,” Sam’s voice was one of shock. His bright blue eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, his jaw hanging slack. “She just roasted you.” Arzaylea, threatened by your friendship with Colby, had taken to Twitter as usual. She sent out a slew of defamatory tweets, bashing not only your character, but your looks as well. She called you an attention-seeking whore. “Pot, meet kettle,” You scoffed in response when you saw that particular tweet.

“It’s not like any of those tweets are true!” Tara protested vehemently, fuming on your behalf. Jake just stared at his phone screen, his jaw clenched with anger. Katrina seemed to be near-tears on your behalf, her lower lip quivering with indignation and hurt. Her glassy eyes rested on you, and she offered you a shaky half-smile.

You just shrugged, nonplussed with the tweets. As long as she wasn’t going after your friends, you didn’t necessarily give a flying fuck. Suddenly, the door burst open, revealing a rather disheveled looking Colby on the other side. His bright blue eyes were aflame with complete and utter rage. He stalked across the room and plopped down on the couch next to you, his handsome face set into a fierce scowl.

“She tried to make me choose,” His voice was gruff, and quivering with barely suppressed anger. “She told me to choose either you or her, and I chose you.” His eyes settled on your face, some of the anger leaving it. He offered you a strained smile. “Obviously, I chose you.” His voice softened on the word ‘you,’ Your cheeks flushed, and you ducked your head. “Clearly, she didn’t take it so well.” Colby’s smile dropped, his scowl replacing it.

You shrugged again. “As long as she doesn’t say anything about-” Tara cut you off, her big brown eyes wide with fury on your behalf. “She’s not going to get away with this,” Her voice was sharp, tight with anger. Jake piped up, “Aren’t you still friends with Luke?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “Fight fire with fire, just this once.” He begged, clasping his hands together and tucking them under his chin, wide eyes staring at you.

Your lips curled up into a smirk. If Arzaylea wanted to play dirty, you could play even dirtier. Katrina beamed, her tears disappearing. “Call him,” She instructed. Sam watched you, looking nervous, but excited. You reached for your phone, your smirk never leaving your face. “That’s your murder-face,” Colby observed, raising his eyebrows. “What exactly is your plan?”

Your smirk just grew wider, to the absolute delight of Tara and Jake. “You’ll see!” You sing-songed. The glint in your eyes spoke volumes. You were getting ready to win the fucking war.

Sure enough, Luke had seen the tweets. He was just as angry as your group of friends, and you watched him bemusedly as he threw things around his hotel room, shouting obscenities about what a rat Arzaylea was. He yeeted yet another pillow across the room, storming around like a tornado. Finally, you held a hand up and let out an ear-piercing scream. Luke stopped what he was doing immediately, and turned to face you. His bright blue eyes reminded you of someone else, and your heart panged in your chest.

“I have a plan,” You announced. Luke stood in the middle of the room, his gorgeous face untwisting from the scowl that it was previously set in, to a lovely smirk. “I’m in,” He replied. You wrinkled your nose at him, smiling amusedly at him. “I didn’t even tell you what it was yet!” You protested playfully. Luke grinned, and his dimples deepened. You stared at him, transfixed. Your heart was set on someone else, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t admire the work of art standing in front of you.

A few days later, several demands from your friends on when you were going to strike, and a few dozen mysterious smirks from you later, your plan was revealed. “Turn on channel six,” You instructed Sam, who immediately scrambled for the remote. The television flickered to life, and Sam immediately hit the number six.

Sure enough, Luke was sitting on a plush chair, looking somber. He was sans bandmates, even though Michael begged him to let him come along, so he could roast the absolute shit out of the Krusty Krab. Luke denied his request, ignoring your hysterical laughter in the background during the phone call.

“So,” Ellen Degeneres began, looking sympathetically at Luke. “You’re here to talk about your toxic ex-girlfriend today?” Luke nodded, his somber expression intensifying. You stifled a laugh. “Yeah,” Luke replied. “Because it’s not only me, that she’s hurt. It’s been several people, and she won’t stop until she’s called out, like she likes to do to so many other people who frown upon her actions.” You bounced on the couch gleefully. Sam was stifling his laughter from behind his hand. Katrina and Tara were outright cackling. Colby looked impressed.

Luke went on to detail his relationship with Arzaylea, explaining in detail the way she would cheat on him with someone else who she thought had a bigger following, and the way she would beg herself back into his life. The way she urged him to try cocaine, and got him hooked. He went on to detail the way she chased after attention, the way she had left him as soon as there was someone else higher on the food chain.

Colby’s eyes were wide when Luke was finished with his story. The room was silent, and you swore you heard some sniffles from the audience. You mentally applauded Luke for not only his bravery, but his willingness to do this for you. It was something he’d wanted to do for years, but never knew how to go about it. You hoped that he felt freed from her now.

You silently clicked the television off, then turned to face your friends. The instant you moved, you were engulfed in Colby’s arms, and he was hugging you tightly. “Thank you,” Colby’s voice murmured softly. “For looking out for me.” You snuggled into his embrace, melting against him. “Always,” You replied, your voice just as soft. “I’ll always look out for you, Colbs.” His arms tightened around you in response.

You pulled back and looked at him searchingly. “I’m sorry if you really did like her,” Your voice remained soft. “I just didn’t want you to get sucked into her cycle, like Luke did.” Colby’s eyes met yours, and his expression warmed instantly. “It’s whatever,” Colby shrugged. “She wasn’t the one for me. But she helped me pull my head out of my ass, and made me realize that the one for me is closer than I think.” His gaze was meaningful, and you grinned in response. Colby’s lips curled into a soft smile. “In fact, she’s sitting right in front of me.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you nodded, a sweet smile gracing your face. “Yeah,” You replied softly. “She is.”

#colby brock fanfiction #colby brock #colby brock imagine #Sam and Colby #colby brock fanfic #xplr #traphouse #tara yummy #katrina stuart #sam golbach #jake webber #luke hemmings #cole robert brock

149 notes · View notes

alexandermanes · 4 years ago

Text

halloween week, day two - the hunt

hi! welcome to day two of my halloween week fic! This one is a werevolf au, tw for blood, graphic descriptions of gore and werewolf transformation

IT BELMANES CENTRIC OK BC I ALWAYS WRITE MALEX

summary: the pod squad is a wolf squad and jesse manes hunts them down

ao3

The moon was set high in the sky as six pairs of legs galloped on the sterile sandy soil in Roswell, New Mexico; soft thick fur dancing in the wind. Usually people steered clear from the desert once the sun had set. Tonight was a full moon which always meant agonizing metamorphosis, bones cracking, nails and fur growing, eyes glowing, teeth piercing through flesh; blood, so much blood. With every full moon came the reminder of their curse, but it also brought a foreign sense of freedom, such as running through the desert as a wolf, something so primal and common amongst various animals, something that ordinary human beings could never experience it.

Freedom wasn’t something Michael, Isobel and Max ever experienced since their conception; the lack of freedom was passed down from generation to generation. The curse was bearable, despite excruciating, but it had its perks, though the witch that cursed their bloodline could have never predicted that once their ancestors set foot in a supposedly uninhabited “new” land they’d be persecuted by men. Not just any men, men from the same bloodline. Man who they came to know as Manes men. Maybe the witch had predicted their fate after all, an addition to their misery. With each generation of their family the tale of their curse became more and more unclear, trapped in a fog set by time, the story’s veracity crumbled; instead of a single myth there were many and each family knew a tale that diverged slightly or enormously from the original one. However, the witch’s name or her family’s name were unknown, the only common denominators in all versions of the story of the family’s curse.

For years the Manes have hunted them and for years they traveled through the country, hiding and never staying in one place for too long yet here they were, back in Roswell after all this time. The Manes were relentless, always somehow one or two steps behind, breathing down their necks even if indirectly, they were powerful people, hunters nonetheless. And hunters, like beasts, were drawn to the smell of shed blood. Though their families vowed to never harm a hair in a human’s head the target in their heads never seemed to waver, not to the Manes.

Soon, it would be dawn, and they would morph into their human form again, and the cycle would repeat itself for other five days until the full moon would transitioned to a quarter moon. Feeling the soothing approach of dawn, Isobel directed her pack, her brothers to the nearest cave, a cave they strategically left clothes and blankets in for once they were back to being bipeds again.

“So, what’s the plan, Iz?”, Michael asked as he put on his shirt, his back to his siblings, as they had their backs turned to him too. The bare minimum of privacy.

“Survive the week, move the next”

Once the rustling of clothes ceases silence settled, an indication they were all decent, Michael looked at his siblings, something dark settled in his features

“Y’know, this would all be done with if we got rid of them”

“All of them?”, Isobel asked pointedly, her tone imbued in annoyance

“Well-“

“Well, all of them except your precious Alex, that is”

“He is not like them”, Michael remarked wearily and slightly offended on Alex’s behalf

“They are all the same. They are all monsters”

“Izzy-“

“Michael, please. I get it, okay? You’re in love”, her brother chocked on air as if her words were some kind of revelation, “doesn’t automatically undo all the things his family did to ours”

Michael and Isobel were tied by blood, but not like her and Max, Michael was her cousin but in every way that counted he was her brother and despite being a thick-skulled, one-track minded asshole sometimes, he was and forever would be her brother. Even if he fell for a Manes man, the same men that-

No, she was not going there.

“Let’s go have breakfast”, she offered and both brothers nodded, acquiescing silently

Sunlight streamed through The Crashdown’s window’s, soft and feather-like warmth enveloped the siblings. The diner was mostly empty given the fact that it was early in the morning, before seven o’clock. They were greeted by a smiling and antennae-wearing Liz Ortecho, who seemed genuinely glad to see them after so many years, and it had Max blushing just by being the receiving end of her smile.

After ordering their morning coffee and skimming through the pages on their menu, finally they ordered their breakfast food.

“It’s good to be back”, Max sighed into his coffee

“Is it though?”, Isobel muttered under her breath, still analyzing the menu, her light brown wig looking a bit more like her actual hair

“Okay, Izzy. I’d get the morning crank, if it was all that this”, Max zig-zagged his finger in her direction, looking suspicious under his baseball cap, “was about. Which it ain’t, so talk to us, Izzy”, he looked at her with his puppy hazel eyes earnestly and all her irritation melted away and grew subsequently like a cart on a rollercoaster ride.

“Fine”, she squinted her light green eyes and glared at her brothers, “I’m tired of running”, she says matter-of-factly, “if they want to come for us I say let them try to take the first swing”

“Wait”, Max says at the same time Michael chokes on his omelet

“Isobel are you sure this isn’t about -“

“Don’t”, she interrupts him menacingly, green eyes sparkling with rage and something else entirely “don’t start, Max”

“Isobel”, he tries again

“Please”, she pleads a bit too loudly earning a concerned and quizzical look from Liz and Arturo

“Okay”, her brother relents, “but we still need to talk about this”, his voice is soft but his eyes are stern, nothing short of determination, “we’ve let you call the shots, wherever you pointed to we just followed behind. Now though, staying here? With the Manes around, in their hometown? We at least need to talk about it”

Michael and Isobel nod in acquisition knowing this problem will resurface sooner rather than later.

In the afternoon, Isobel and her brothers plopped down and huddled together on the small sofa inside the Bunker beneath the Sanders Auto, ready to discuss what they’d postponed for too long.

“So”, Max started, “why are we here?”

“Uh, we can’t exactly go outside and walk around like actual p-“

“Enough with the games, Isobel”, uttered wearily

“Fine”, she shouted, she adjusted her posture, back straight, predatorily so, like a snake about to lunge at its prey

“I meant what I said when I told you I was tired of running”, Isobel explained more calmly, “So I said fuck it. We can start over here and if they try anything, well”, her unfinished sentence hung threateningly in the air.

After a couple of seconds, Michael spoke: “Then what?”

“You said it yourself, Michael”, her reply is devoid of any emotion except determination

“What? We kill them?”, disbelief embedded in his query

“You were right”, she turned her body towards her brother, assessing him with her piercing gaze, “This went on for far too long and I’m done with fleeing from a place to another, never settling down for more than a couple of months then moving across the country. I mean don’t you want more from life?”

“Listen, I’m all for killing the Jesse Manes and his minions. But don’t you think we need a plan? We can’t go in bearing our canines and growling, it’s gonna get us killed”

“Since when do you plan for anything, Michael?”

“Since it comes as a matter of life and death, Isobel!”, he screams, scrambling to his feet

The youngest fits the eldest, Max, a worried glance, prompting him to chime in, to say anything about their sister’s all but suicidal plan if you could call that a plan really. Max suddenly looks at both his feet and exhales deeply and turns to Isobel, his voice barely above a whisper:

“This is about Noah, isn’t it?”

Immediately, her eyes fill with tears at the mention of her ex-fiancé, she turns away and starts pacing, meanwhile Michael and Max stare at her, the first wide-eyed and mouth slightly agape, the other unfazed.

“Iz-“

“No, Michael. You don’t get to say anything!”, she points her wavering finger to him as tears pour out of her very soul, “You get to be happy, you get to be have the person you love because that person can protect you. I don’t”

In truth, Isobel loved Noah, she really did, though it might not have been the constant butterflies and fire in her belly like she imagined romantic love to be. In all her years, the constant moving and fear that permeated her life, no partner ever stood by her side like Noah did, not that she had had many, she never needed to, she had Noah, and he was loyal and understanding of her wishes, until he wasn’t. Not that blame fell upon him for their failed relationship, but neither did it fall on her: it wasn’t her fault. Eventually the lack of stability conjoined with lack of explanation as to why they had to move at all took a toll on their relationship and it came to bitter end. And Isobel, always fierce and defying, couldn’t find it in her to confess her secret to her, at the time, partner, because it meant risking the lives of everyone she loved. And it’s not like she had any friends, she had none, haven’t been able to keep people that aren’t related by blood to her.

Hopeless, Isobel lived her everyday trying to convince herself she wasn’t meant to find any happiness in this lifetime. Despite knowing not to risk the lives of her family, she yearned for something and as that struggle grew tenfold, she faltered and here they were. She tried to find happiness in anything else in her life but without Noah, her life seemed ever bleaker than before and something inside her cracked, like a clock’s engine giving out and suddenly she was unable function properly. Thus, she decided to drag her brothers back to Roswell in a moment of weakness.

“It’s not fair”, she croaks, “This curse, it took everything from us”

“Not the curse”, Michael corrected her gently and squeezed her shoulder tenderly, “The Manes”

“What’s the difference at this point?”, she sniffled, and fit her head on the crook of Michael’s neck, burying her woeful face

Max finally stands and trudges towards his siblings and puts his hands on the shoulder that’s not embraced by Michael

“Iz, you can’t. I know you miss him, but if you see him again you might break and he can’t know”, Max explained

“I just need to see him again, please”, she sobbed desperately

Max just looked at Michael, desperation creeping, he was out of ideas, and as for his brother, he just shrugged jerkily, already feeling desperate himself.

As dusk approached, and the colors of the sky grew colder and darker, the three sibling where once again in the middle of the sterile soil of New Mexico, which stretched out to the horizon and all around them, which meant they were away from humans, from their peering gaze and fragile bodies. Good, she thought, face stained with tears.

They stood there in their underwear in a circle, waiting for the moment the sun excused itself to give the moon space to make an appearance in the sky.

“Iz”, Michael tried meekly, “we’re gonna figure this out, okay?”

Isobel smiled at him weakly, as if mustering a smile was the most difficult task ever, and took his hand. Her brother, for all his confidence and snark he was one soft man.

Max took her other hand and declared it was almost time. Soon enough, they started to feel the effects of their transformation, the vibration beneath their skin, their molecules rearranging themselves, the hum in their ears growing louder. If only it was just vibrating into a wolf. If only. Their bones moved as if they had a life of their own, which in nights of full moons they did, it was a kind of pain you had no words for, their organs squished between their bone structure as their whole body shifted to a new form. The cracking and moving made an awful noise especially with their heightened senses. They fell to the ground, body accommodating their four-legged body. They’d scream if they could, but only whimpers come out. Blood streamed out of their ears, eyes and noses, and once their teeth sharpened and pierced their gums, blood poured out of their mouths as well. The hairs on their body grew, itching, long and thick as they became fur. Though the pain was excruciating, they stood in their wolf bodies for the sheer power of magic that coursed through them.

Fully transformed, they shook their bodies like a dog dripping with water would, shaking the after-effects of the metamorphosis. They assed each other, making sure they were okay. Isobel went in front of them, pearly white fur bouncing under the moonlight, her eyes emerald green, and Max followed behind, velvety black fur and honey eyes and finally Michael, golden fur and golden eyes, queued behind. They didn’t explore by themselves tonight, nor did they run free, they simply strolled aimlessly. Wandering. They roamed through the desert for what it felt like hours.

Something in the distance caught their enhanced hearing: a car, and it was speeding closer and closer, instead of running and hiding in the nearest cave they stood still. Something, instinct if you must label it, told them this was no ordinary vehicle filled with curious tourists or bored and unruly teens; this was deliberate, not an accident. So they braced themselves for the fight, knowing full well it was Jesse Manes and whoever planned to exterminate them specifically. Yes, them, their family, because even when they kept their noses clean, keeping a strict non-human (as food) for diet, the Manes were still relentless, with the exception of one Alex Manes who was disgustingly head-over-heels in love with Michael.

So they stood still, predatory stance and unyielding focus, and waited. A couple of minutes later, small spheres of yellow gleamed in the darkness of nightfall. They grew bigger and bigger until the trio saw them for what they were: headlights. A black SUV, menacingly approached them rapidly until it stopped about seven feet away from them. Out of it jumped, expectedly, Jesse Manes and someone else, someone who looked awfully similar to Alex but wasn’t. In their hands they wielded glistening silver guns which were probably loaded with silver bullets. How convenient. Arms steadily pointed at them, the siblings would have to prepare an attack that’d be quick and unexpected. No one moved, not even by inch, time seemed to have stilled and the air was as thick as their wolf fur, it was harder to breathe.

Then, something different filled the air. And of course, Michael smelled him before he saw him, his siblings who followed closely behind. The wolves’ laser-focus wavered, ears moving in a way that allowed them to pick out the sound of another car more efficiently. Noticing the distraction that took over the wolves, Jesse Manes looked at the other man questioningly who shrugged equally confused until the other SUV was parked behind Jesse’s. And out of it climbed none other than Alex Manes who without second thought shot who they realized now was his brother sided with Jesse. The shot was aimed at his knee, and he fell to the ground with a shout. Jesse had barely any time to react when a bullet pierced his chest, a clean shot to his heart and as he fell to the ground kneeling and before him stood a man, as tall as Max, maybe taller, dark hair and dark eyes, strong clenched jaw. His smelled like sweat and something incredibly sweet. He was the most beautiful thing Isobel had ever set eyes on. The clink of metal being hit brought Isobel out of her daze and she snapped her attention to her brothers seemingly unharmed. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw movement, she braced for an attack momentarily only to realize it was Alex, moving closer to them.

“Is he dead?”, Alex breathed out

“Yeah”, the other man whispered, his voice made Isobel shiver

“Can you take Flint to the hospital? I can take it from now, Greg”, Alex came closer to him and patted his shoulder, “Thanks for helping. You didn’t have to do that”, he pointed to their father’s lifeless body

“It’s fine, Alex. I should’ve protected you from him sooner”, Greg replied

Alex nodded in thanks and as Greg moved to assist Flint, who resisted the help accusing them of treason, he spared a glance to Isobel whose heart thumped so fast she thought she might have a heart attack. Then he turned back, hauled Flint up and sat him on the passenger’s seat then jogged to the driver’s seat. He drove away and took a piece of Isobel’s mind and her with him.

“It’s over guys”, Alex announced, “He is dead, and you’re safe now. My brother and I will handle Flint but we won’t let him close to you. I’ll protect you from now on”

Michael, the sap, galloped towards him, and wrapped his body around him, and rubs himself onto him like a house cat, leaning his very wolf weight on him and earning a startled laughter from his boyfriend, Alex, tumbled a bit but did not fall. Alex, who a moment before shot his own brother to keep them safe and now was gushing over Michael’s domesticated feline behavior. And Isobel knows she should feel guilty for judging her brother’s boyfriend so harshly, she should also feel relieved for being set free from the Jesse Manes’ claws. Except she feels confusion and longing directed at a man she’d just met.

She hoped she could introduce herself properly to Alex’s brother and she desperately hoped her feelings would be reciprocated. And the very least, possible she hoped she’d see him again.

#roswell new mexico #alex manes #michael guerin #isobel evans #max evans #jesse manes #werewolf au #belmanes #background malex

7 notes · View notes

orthodoxydaily · 4 years ago

Text

Icon, Saints&Reading: Sat., Oct. 24, 2020

Commemorated on October 11_JuIian calendar

The Monk Theophanes the Confessor, Composer of Canons, Bishop of Nicea (850)

The Monk Theophanes the Confessor, Composer of Canons, Bishop of Nicea, was the younger brother of the Monk Theodore the Lettered-Upon (Comm. 27 December). The brothers received an excellent education, and were particularly involved in philosophy. Striving towards knowledge of God, they settled in the Laura monastery of Saint Sava. Here the Monk Theophanes was tonsured, and after a certain while became a presbyter. The holy brothers were famed as advocates of icon-veneration. They boldly fulfilled the mission entrusted them by the Patriarch of Jerusalem and set off to Constantinople to denounce the iconoclast emperor Leo the Armenian (813-820). And afterwards they denounced also the iconoclast emperors Michael Balbos (820-829) and Theophilos (829-842). The saints had to endure imprisonment, hunger, even tortures. The emperor Theophilos gave orders to inscribe upon their faces with red-hot needles a phrase insulting to the glorious confessors (wherefore they are called "Lettered-Upon"). "Write whatever thou dost wish, but at the Last Judgement thou shalt read thine writing", – said the agonised brothers to the emperor. They dispatched Theodore to prison, where also he died (+ 833), but Theophanes they sent into exile. With the restoration of Icon-veneration the Monk Theophanes was returned from exile and ordained bishop of Nicea. The saint wrote about 150 canons, among which is a beautiful canon in defense of holy icons. The monk died peacefully in about the year 850.

St. Philotheus (Kokkinos) of Mt. Athos, patriarch of Constantinople (1379)

He was born in Thessalonika around 1300; his mother was a convert from Judaism. He entered monastic life, first at Mt Sinai, then at the Great Lavra on Mt Athos. The so-called "Hesychast controversy" was then raging, And St Philotheos became one of the firmest and most effective supporters of St Gregory Palamas (November 14) in his defense of Orthodoxy against western-inspired attacks on the doctrines of uncreated Grace and the possibility of true union with God. It was St Philotheos who drafted the Hagiorite Tome, the manifesto of the monks of Mt Athos setting forth how the Saints partake of the Divine and uncreated Light which the Apostles beheld at Christ's Transfiguration. In 1351, he took part in the "Hesychast Council" in Constantinople, and wrote its Acts. In 1354 he was made Patriarch of Constantinople; he stepped down after one year, but was recalled to the Patriarchal throne in 1364. He continued to be a zealous champion of undiluted Orthodoxy, writing treatises setting forth the theology of the Uncreated Energies of God and refuting the scholastic philosophy that was then infecting the Western church. Despite (or because of?) his uncompromising Orthodoxy, he always sought a true, rather than political, reconciliation with the West, and even worked to convene an Ecumenical Council to resolve the differences between the churches. This holy Patriarch was deposed in 1376 when the Emperor Andronicus IV came to the throne; he died in exile in 1379. St Philotheos composed the Church's services to St Gregory Palamas. He is not listed in the Synaxaria, but is venerated as a Saint in the Greek church.

Remembrance of the Miracle from an Icon of Our Lord Jesus Christ in Beirut

This is not the Icon from the story. This illustrates how the profaners of the icon of Beirut were treated and the priceless spiritual gifts they receive.

Remembrance of the Miracle from an Icon of Our Lord Jesus Christ in Beirut: At the fourth session of the Seventh OEcumenical Council (year 787) Sainted Peter, Bishop of Nicomedia, in evidence of the necessity of icon-veneration, presented an account of Saint Athanasias and about a miracle, which occurred in the city of Berit (now Beirut). In this city lived a Christian near the Jewish synagogue. Having moved off to another place, he left behind at the house an icon of the Lord Jesus Christ. The Jew, who moved into the house, paid no attention to the icon. One time his friend took note of the image of Jesus Christ on the wall, and said to the home-owner: "Why dost thou, a Jew, have in thy house an icon?" He then went to the synagogue and reported about this transgression of Jewish law. The Jews cast out from the synagogue the owner of the house, and they took the icon from the wall and began to scoff over it: "As once our fathers mocked at Him, so we also mock at Him". They spit at the face of the Lord, lashed at the icon, hurling abuses, they thrust thorns about the head, and put a sponge with vinegar to the mouth. Finally, they took a spear, and one of the Jews thrust with it into the side of the Saviour. Suddenly from the opening, pierced by the spear in the icon, flowed blood and water. The Jewish rabbis, seeing the miracle, decided: "The followers of Jesus Christ affirm, that He could heal the sick. We shall take this blood and water into the synagogue and we shall anoint those afflicted with infirmities, and then we shall see, whether this be spoken truly of Him". A vessel with the blood was put in the synagogue. Having learned about the miracle, the inhabitants of Beirut began to bring and to lead into the synagogue those suffering from various illnesses, and they all were healed, having been anointed with the blood from the icon of the Saviour. All the high-priests, priests and Jewish people believed in Christ and exclaimed: "Glory to Thee, O Christ, Whom our fathers crucified, Whom we also crucified in the guise of Thine icon. Glory to Thee, O Son of God, for having worked such a miracle! We believe in Thee, wherefore be Thou merciful to us and receive us!" The Jews went to the bishop of Berit and, having shown him the wonderworking icon, the blood and water having flowed from it, they told about their misdeed. The bishop, seeing their sincere repentance, accepted them, chatechised them for many days and then baptised them, and then consecrated the synagogue into the church of our Saviour Jesus Christ. At the request of the Jews, he consecrated also other synagogues into churches, dedicated to the holy martyrs. And "there became great joy in that city, not only that many people were healed and quickened, but that many souls passed from the kingdom of the dead unto life eternal".

Acts 8:26-39

26 Now an angel of the Lord spoke to Philip, saying, "Arise and go toward the south along the road which goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza." This is desert. 27 So he arose and went. And behold, a man of Ethiopia, a eunuch of great authority under Candace the queen of the Ethiopians, who had charge of all her treasury, and had come to Jerusalem to worship, 28 was returning. And sitting in his chariot, he was reading Isaiah the prophet. 29 Then the Spirit said to Philip, "Go near and overtake this chariot." 30 So Philip ran to him, and heard him reading the prophet Isaiah, and said, "Do you understand what you are reading?" 31 And he said, "How can I, unless someone guides me?" And he asked Philip to come up and sit with him. 32 The place in the Scripture which he read was this: He was led as a sheep to the slaughter; And as a lamb before its shearer is silent, So He opened not His mouth. 33 In His humiliation His justice was taken away, And who will declare His generation? For His life is taken from the earth." 34 So the eunuch answered Philip and said, "I ask you, of whom does the prophet say this, of himself or of some other man?" 35 Then Philip opened his mouth, and beginning at this Scripture, preached Jesus to him. 36 Now as they went down the road, they came to some water. And the eunuch said, "See, here is water. What hinders me from being baptized?"37 Then Philip said, "If you believe with all your heart, you may." And he answered and said, "I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God." 38 So he commanded the chariot to stand still. And both Philip and the eunuch went down into the water, and he baptized him. 39 Now when they came up out of the water, the Spirit of the Lord caught Philip away, so that the eunuch saw him no more; and he went on his way rejoicing.

Corinthians 1:8-11

8For we do not want you to be ignorant, brethren, of our trouble which came to us in Asia: that we were burdened beyond measure, above strength, so that we despaired even of life.9 Yes, we had the sentence of death in ourselves, that we should not trust in ourselves but in God who raises the dead,10 who delivered us from so great a death, and does deliver us; in whom we trust that He will still deliver us,11 you also helping together in prayer for us, that thanks may be given by many persons on our behalf for the gift granted to us through many.

#orthodoxy #orthodox christianity #ancientfaith #originofchristianity #holyscripture #gospel #spirituality #wisdom

3 notes · View notes

lady-divine-writes · 5 years ago

Text

Crowley’s Safe Space (Rated T)

Summary:

When Crowley is upset or angry or scared and needs his husband's comfort, he conjures up a storm as a wordless way of telling his husband that he needs him. ... And this one's a doozy. (1617 words)

(AO3)

“No, no, no! Absolutely not! I have no idea why you would even entertain such a ludicrous proposal!” Aziraphale slams a book down on a stack in haste, then pauses his rant to double check that he didn’t accidentally dislodge the binding.

“It’s one and done, angel,” Crowley says, snapping his fingers and miracling the antique book back to mint condition. “After that, they’ll never bother us again.”

“They don’t bother us now!”

“Yeah, but they’re planning on it, aren’t they?”

“After ten years?”

“They say they’ve got us figured out. How we slipped past getting executed? They’ve gone back to calling me a traitor, but they say they’re going to make you pay!”

“And you believed them!?” Aziraphale walks over to his desk to fetch another book, shaking his head the entire way. “Crowley, they’re demons! They lie! That’s what demons do!”

“Whether they are or aren’t won’t matter because they’re coming back with Hellfire! They’re going to burn your bookshop to the ground with you in it, and this time, we don’t have the Antichrist to miracle everything back together!”

“I’ll set up protections. Blessings. I’ll hose the walls in Holy Water if I have to ...”

“Great. That’ll definitely keep me out!”

“… then we’ll go to your place. Hide out there.”

“You don’t think they won’t look there the second they don’t find you here?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale snaps, turning on his demon with fire in his eyes. “I refuse to bend to the will of hooligans, whether they’re demons or not! I’ve been threatened before! I’m an angel! I can look after myself!”

“Not against this, all right?” Crowley closes the gap between them, itching to touch him, to hold him, to shake him, to make him see … but he keeps his distance. “We’re not talking about one demon, Aziraphale! They’ve got your number. They’ve been watching us. They’ll wait us out, find a time when you’re alone. And then ...” His lower lip wobbles. It’s obvious to Aziraphale that there’s more he’s not telling, something worse than Hellfire they intend on unleashing “… they’ll come for you.”

“Then don’t you think it would be stupid to go off on some foolish caper and give them the chance? Maybe this is all a set-up! Did you ever think of that? Maybe they’re planning on getting you out of the way so that they can enact this plan, and you’re playing right into their hands!”

“I have to try,” Crowley says, nearly pleading. “I have to take that chance. Can’t you just … pop back up to Heaven for a spell till it’s over?”

“No!” Aziraphale’s eyes nearly dislodge from their sockets at the suggestion. “No, I can’t! That’s part of what leaving Heaven and Hell meant! We left! Maybe you can go back, but I can’t! Michael will have me in chains before I’m off the escalator!”

“I can put you outside of time! I’ve done it before.”

“That might be an even more insane idea than me going back to Heaven!”

“There has to be some place you can hide while I suss this out!”

“There’s no place, Crowley! There’s no place to go, so I’m going to stay right here!”

“Grrr!” Crowley throws his head back, hands in his hair, ready to pull it out at the roots. “You’re not listening! Why can’t you just listen to reason for once!?”

“Start talking reason and I’ll listen! Till then, I can’t give you my blessing to do this! We’ll think of something else! Anything else!”

“There is nothing elssse!” Crowley growls, storming down the hallway to Aziraphale’s back room. “You’d know that if you were lissstening! If you weren’t ssso … ssso … damned ssstubborn!”

“That makes two of us then,” Aziraphale mutters, going back to his books. He stares at the cover of a particularly pricey novel and wonders if he shouldn’t start packing some of them away in his safe for the time being. Hellfire can probably incinerate a mortal made safe, so he’d need to bless it to be sure.

He tuts and sets the book aside. He refuses to have his life upheaved, to live in fear because of this silliness. It’s ridiculous to think that after all this time Hell would want Crowley back. He and Crowley have managed to stay low key, keep out of everyone’s hair. Why now? Why after all this time?

Possibly because, since Aziraphale has started working on the angelic projects he’s always wanted to work on and not the trivial things Gabriel drudged up for him, church attendance has started to go up in London and crime has gone down. Gang violence in particular is at an all-time low. Gabriel would never admit that it had anything to do with him, of course, but Aziraphale read all about it in the Celestial Observer. It even referred to him, covertly, as Rogue Angel A.

He kind of liked that. Wanted to get business cards printed up.

But that’s probably why Heaven doesn’t send him memos regarding frivolous miracles anymore, seeing as he’s become their secret weapon on Earth.

Crowley, in contrast, has backed off on his demonic temptations. He still does the odd one or two, but not at the level that he used to. He’s also had a hand in thwarting several demons who have tried to move in on, what he sees as, his territory.

As far as their little area of the world is concerned, Hell isn’t getting the numbers it used to.

And apparently they’re getting desperate.

A crack of thunder sounds outside, loud and close – too close for comfort. Aziraphale looks out the window. The sky is blue and clear. Cloudless, even. It’s a picture perfect summer day. Nevertheless, people are running into shops and down the street, trying to avoid the sudden unseasonal rain. A bolt of lightning streaks overhead, turning the sky into a blinding flash of gold, followed by another clap of thunder so loud and so close, people start screaming. Car alarms go off.

Aziraphale sighs.

He flips the sign on his shop from open to closed. He throws the locks and shuts the blinds.

Then he walks to the back room.

He finds his demon on the sofa. He’d expected him to be drinking, but he’s just sitting with his head in his hands; his long, fire-red hair fallen in front of his face. He sniffles and another clap of thunder sounds overhead like a cannon shot, powerful enough that it shakes the bookshop.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Can you please stop? You’re scaring the mortals.”

“I don’t give a shit about them,” Crowley grumbles into his palms. “I’m trying to protect my husband.”

Aziraphale joins him on the sofa. He takes the chance that Crowley might scoot away, but he doesn’t. That, of course, was the purpose of the storm all along.

To draw Aziraphale in here.

Their first meeting in the Garden of Eden has always remained, in Crowley’s mind, a turning point. He counts Aziraphale shielding him from the rain as the first time anyone has ever performed a selfless act on his behalf. He doesn’t even consider his own creation a selfless act. Quite on the contrary. He was created for a purpose, and when that purposed changed, he wasn’t given any say in the matter.

The only being who has ever done Crowley a kindness with no concern for themselves has been Aziraphale.

But from that first day forward, storms have always reminded him of Aziraphale, no matter where he was, no matter how long it had been since they’d seen one another.

Aziraphale is Crowley’s safe space. Even now, when Crowley is frustrated with him, furious with him, he needs him.

He needs his shelter from the storm.

So he created a storm to remind him.

“That’s funny,” the angel says, wrapping Crowley up in his snowy white wing and drawing him closer. “I’m doing the same thing.”

“I won’t let them get to you,” Crowley whispers, on the verge of frustrated, heartbroken tears. “I don’t care what they do to me. I won’t let them lay a finger on you.”

“Well, how about we take a page from your old contingency plan and leave for a little while? Together?”

“And go where?” Crowley asks sarcastically. “You said there was nowhere to go.”

“I seem to remember someone mentioning Alpha Centauri as a good place to hide. Lots of spare planets up there. No one would even notice us.”

“Are you … are you serious?” Crowley says with a giddy hiccup. “You … you mean it? You’d go?”

“Would you come with me?”

“Of course, I’m coming with you! What kind of stupid question is …?” A heavy sob cuts Crowley short. He buries his face in his angel’s chest, shaking arms wrapped around his torso, anchoring him to hope. The storm continues to rage outside as Crowley cries but Aziraphale doesn’t mention it – doesn’t mention the terrified populous running for cover as a tree down the block gets struck by lightning and goes up in flames, doesn’t mention the news trucks gathering down the street to record this phenomenon since the storm seems to be centered over Soho and Soho alone, doesn't mention the fish and the frogs that have begun to fall from the sky. He simply holds his demon, wraps him in his warmth and his love, and lets him cry until the rain dries up and the sun shines bright again.

“There, there,” Aziraphale says softly. “It’ll be all right. We’ll escape this strange weather as soon as possible. I promise. I hear Alpha Centauri is positively lovely this time of year.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #frankie writes

228 notes · View notes

nightofthewerehunty · 4 years ago

Text

So I’ve forgotten how to use tumblr on my iPad and I can’t do the cut for a read more. Sorry, guys. But here’s my Peaky Blinders fanfiction on the relationship between Thomas and Ada. I’ve given the link to AO3 above so use that if you’d like to comment. Cheers!

Rot

When she’s feeling unkind towards herself, she thinks there’s a rot somewhere hidden, festering and spreading through her veins. Soon it’ll reach her heart. Or maybe that’s where it was hidden. Where it started, her black heart. Ada would know if she ever payed attention to that particular organ. Kidneys? Sure, have a look. Liver? Yes please, she needs it to drink. But her heart? Well, does it matter where the rot came from once it gets there? Ada doesn’t think so. And she feels it, burning and burning and burning away inside her chest until its all she can do not to cut out the charred organ herself. She thinks of Freddie, not out of love which may seem cruel, but out of curiosity. Would the infection have spread if he was alive? If she was a romantic, which she’s not, she’d have said that she doesn’t have a heart to infect. Buried it long ago with her husband, and then again with her morals, and then again with Grace so maybe Freddie’s death started something but it was something that would have happened even if he lived. Taken a little longer, maybe, but happened all the same. When she’s feeling kind towards herself, she gives the rot a name; she calls it Thomas.

Ada spends her life reading the moods of Thomas Michael Shelby and she’s perfected it after the war. She’s learned to hear the unspoken in his words. The threats behind his whims. It’s business, Ada. That’s what she tells herself and that’s what he says. It’s all just business. Legal. Illegal. On the books or off. It doesn’t matter. It’s just business. But that was before Grace, before the Russians. Tom’s different now and all her hard work of understanding him is thrown to fucking shit. How can she hear his unspoken words if he doesn’t fucking talk anymore? It’s all just lists now. Pieces of paper she has to burn when she’s through and it takes everything inside her not to chuck Tommy into the flames with his small written words. Did you get my list, Ada? Did you make your list, Ada? Have Arthur and John got their fucking lists, Ada? And Pol says he’s grieving, to give him time and he’ll be back. Back with the family where he belongs and Ada thinks while Polly drinks that Tom’s never belonged anywhere. At least, not after France. Not after the mud and the blood and the fucking bleak midwinter that the brothers always reference as if she doesn’t know what it means. As if it was something far removed from her. As if she wouldn’t be losing her entire fucking family if the bleak midwinter where to rear its bloodied, muddied head.

Ada knows about grief. She’s studied it her whole life. First with her mother and then with her father. Then Freddie and that took more than she cares to remember to make it out the other side. But she had Karl and that was important. Tommy has Charles and that’s good, but what Tommy needed was Grace. Ada won’t speak to love on another’s behalf, but if she was forced to, she’d say that Tommy belonged with Grace. And if she was drunk, like proper drunk and asked, she may even say it was Grace who lifted Tom out of the mud and the tunnels and the blood. Then Polly would roll her eyes while sipping her whiskey and Ada would remind her that she’d already said she didn’t want to talk about love while she fills her glass back to the top again. Back to the top, Ada thinks and swirls the contents of her glass. Tommy’s always trying to get back to the top. Top of the business. Top of the family. Top of the earth and tunnels and mud and fucking everything else he was before he was buried in France.

“What if you don’t get back?” She finds herself asking him one evening after too much wine and too many cigarettes and then a few more whiskeys to remind herself why the wine was too much.

“Back where?” He says after a pause to light his cigarette and he stares. His eyes catch the light of his flame and the gold of his whiskey, and for one moment, for one short, tiny, little fucking moment, he appears as a man. Just a man with his vices.

“I don’t know, Tommy. Wherever it is you need to get back to.”

Thomas puts out his cigarette with force; it’s his favorite thing to do when he doesn’t like the direction of a conversation. When it feels out of his control. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Thorne,” he says and his contempt rolls off his tongue into her ears. She’s not Ada tonight. She’s a stranger sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. And if she wasn’t so angry at being shut out, she might revel in the idea that she understands him again. That he’s back to speaking words and not writing them.

“What I mean is, Mr. Shelby,” she spits, “will it be worth it? All this? All you’ve done?” Ada watches the questions roll off Tommy’s face as he reaches for his cigarettes again. He slips one between his lips with an upward tilt of his mouth; it’s the sorta expression he wears when he finds things funny.

“I don’t know, Ms. Shelby.” So she’s back to being a Shelby now. Tommy always did like it when she fought back. That’s our Ada, he’d say when she’d come home with her bloody lips from her scraps by the cut. What poor soul crossed you today, he’d joke as if he didn’t know the reason for her bruises. As if they could pretend in that one childish moment that they weren’t scum. The lowest of the low. Poor and Gypsy and fatherless and motherless. Our Ada, he’d say as if they didn’t all spend every fucking second of their lives outside their home fighting because the world picked the fight first. “Is it worth it?” Tommy muses while he lights the tip of his smoke and stands. “You tell me,” he says and walks to the cabinet to pour himself another drink. “Those furs, that wine, your home in London. Is it worth it, Ada?”

“I’m not talking about me, Thomas,” she says angrily while sloshing some whiskey from her glass. She wasn’t expecting him to ease back into his gentle threats as soon as he began speaking again. But that’s her fault. Tommy’s a cornered beast. She knows that. Grief can make an animal still but it’ll never defang it.

“And what are you talking about, eh?” He asks louder than her outburst without turning away from his liquor cabinet. “You talking about business?”

“Fuck the business, Tom! For fucks sake!” She yells. “When was the last time you saw Charlie? You spend ten minutes with him every morning and night, that’s it,” Ada takes a pause to sigh and sip her drink. Tommy won’t look at her. He sinks his head down to rest by his glass. “He asks for you, Tom. And that’s so important right now, that he’s asking for you.” He raises his head to down his whiskey. She’s pissed him off; she can tell by the slam of his glass and the jerky motion of him refilling it. She’s too close to saying what Tommy won’t allow to be said. Grace may be dead, but God help you if you acknowledge it.

“And what does it matter to you? Eh?” He stalks towards her and points, his full glass held in front of him as if it were a bayonet at the end of his loaded words. “What is it you fucking want, Ada?” The hardness of his face makes her tense more than his volume. And then she understands his words and they pierce her skin like little needles all over. The words travel up her veins and through her blood. There it is, she thinks. The fucking rot. That he really believes this to be a transaction. That Ada would ever use his pain like that. “Please fucking tell me,” he continues, “so’s I can give it to you and you can get out of my FUCKING HOUSE.”

“I’m here because you asked me to watch your son while you were away, you fucking asshole!” She’s had too much whiskey to handle Tommy unhinged. She’ll just make it worse, she knows that. She should stop talking, go to bed, but she’s so angry and it’s that fucking infection. That rot spreading out through her heart. Tommy’s a curse, she thinks. “I tell you there’s a child up there asking for his father and the first thing you think is ‘what’s my angle?’ It’s love, Tommy. And children need it.”

“Don’t fucking tell me how to raise my son, Ada.” He lowers himself down with his words and she finds herself inches from Tommy’s wide-eyed rage. “I love him,” he says, “And I would do fucking anything for him so don’t fuckin’ talk to me about love.”

Now she needs to be quiet. Tom’s one of those wire-trapped rooms he talks about from France. And right now, in this exact moment, he’s handed her the wire cutters. Ada knows to stay still in these situations but the whiskey, or maybe it’s the wine, makes her clumsy.

“She’d want you to spend time with him,” she says and she can see the explosion in his eyes before he turns and throws his glass at the wall. She found the fucking grenade alright. Tripped right over it. He grabs her chin with his now free hand and Ada thinks about the days when he just wrote fucking lists. How could she be so naive as to think talking with him was better?

“She’d want a lot of things, Ada, so many fucking things. And the first thing she’d want would be to not be fuckin’ dead.” She’s aware of the pressure from Tom’s fingers but it doesn’t bother her as much as the difference between Tommy’s face and his voice. He’s so pale and still with his wet and red-rimmed eyes. He barely moves his lips while speaking and he looks hollow. Looks dead. But his voice shakes over every word, every syllable. She can feel the grief and anger settle between the centimeters that separate their faces. He’s losing to it. Or maybe he lost long ago and she never wanted to admit it. Tommy tightens his grip on her. “So don’t sit in my fuckin’ house, drinking my fuckin’ whiskey and tell me what Grace would want.” The second he spits out the words, he pushes her face back and lets go of her chin, but it takes days for Ada to forgot the feeling of his fingers digging into her jaw.

There’s so much to do in London and Ada needs to feel alive. Being surround by death her whole life, she thinks she deserves it. And todays version of life is in a pub with a man and lots and lots of gin. He’s a foreigner, an American, which is better for her since he doesn’t know what her last name means.

“Your drink, Ms. Shelby,” the barkeep says while setting her gin and tonic in front of her. He spares the American a nod and moves on.

“He didn’t ask you to pay,” notes the yet unnamed man.

“Got a tab,” Ada shrugs. “But more importantly, have you got a room?” The American returns her flirtatious smile.

“Of course,” he says,”Would you like to see it?”

The act is enjoyable enough and the American, named Frank she’d learned, is a generous lover, but once it’s done, she just wants to be home. Take a bath, have some tea, maybe read a little and then go to bed. She tells herself it’s late, and it is, but she knows that’s not why she wants to go. Poor Ada, she thinks. Wants so bad to feel alive but gets tired of it after only four hours.

“I’m here until Thursday,” says Frank. “Will I see you again?”

“Doubt it,” Ada says while fixing her stockings, “But you’re a good man. You’ll be alright.”

She turns the key to her door and steps into her home already warmed by a fire. She hadn’t done that. Cautious now and wishing she’d let Arthur give her that gun Monday, she sets her purse on the table near the door. For’s protection, he’d tried to tell her. Just in case, but ya don’t need to worry, Ada. We got men out there, he’d said, we’ll keep ya safe. Safe, she thinks now as she creeps down her hallway. She’ll never be fucking safe, not with family like hers. Not with her last name - either of them.

“Whose there?” She calls out before she gets closer to the drawing room.

“Hello to you too, Ada,” comes Tom’s reply. He stands by the fireplace, a glass of Ada’s whiskey already in his hands and a smoke hanging from his stern-set lips.

“Fucking Christ, Tommy,” she snaps while pulling off her gloves and tossing them onto the chair. “I locked the door. You said there weren’t anymore spare keys.”

“I lied,” he says, “Where’s Karl?”

“With Pol, but you already knew that seeing as how you know everything.” She hasn’t spoken to Tommy since she set off the bomb back at his place. That was almost three weeks ago.

“I know you wouldn’t take the gun from Arthur,” he says after a sip of his drink. Ada walks over to pour one for herself and snatches the offered cigarette from Tommy’s outstretched hand. “It makes me uneasy, Ada,” he continues, “You out there, unarmed.” He motions towards the outside with his drink.

“He says you’ve got men watching the house.” She stops to drink and smoke.

“We do,” he agrees and clears his throat, “But it still makes me uneasy.”

“Imagine that,” she scoffs, “Thomas fuckin’ Shelby, uneasy.” She turns from him to sit on the couch. She’s too tired for this. To decipher the meaning behind his words.

“Yeah,” he nods, “It makes me uneasy. You walking around unarmed, meeting with foreigners, going back to their hotels.” So that’s what this is, she thinks. He’s not uneasy. He’s mad. But Ada’s mad too. Fucking enraged, actually. The audacity of Tommy, thinking he can come into her home and wait up for her like she’s some fucking child who snuck out the house.

“Why don’t you just say what it is you want to say, Tommy,” she says. “Because if it wasn’t a foreigner, it be some man from London, or some poor soul from Birmingham. Or maybe it’s that I was out at pub? You think that improper now, is that it?”

“You usually stay out this late, Ada?” He asks without answering any of her questions.

“No,” she bites out. He nods and turns from the fireplace to sit in the chair across from her. He sets his drink on the table between them and leans back in his seat. So self assured. So fucking full of himself in her home at two in the fuckin’ morning. She hates him and with that hatred she feels the heat of that festering rot closing in around her heart, making its beats wild and bucking like a untamed stallion chained in her chest.

“That’s good,” he says. “Good it’s not a habit for you to be stepping out with American men named Frank until two in the morning.”

“Oh my god,” she sighs while she hangs her head low into her hands. “He’s not important, Tom. He’s here on holiday. He doesn’t know shit.”

“I know,” he says after a pause and sip. “I know a lot about Frank as it is. I know he arrived Sunday. He’s leaving Thursday. And he’s got a room down at the Richmond.” He stops to clear his throat and put out his cigarette. “He’s a banker,” he continues, “Works with Fryman’s Investors. Divorced. His ex-wife lives in Vienna with her bohemian lover. The bohemian’s a painter.” She can feel him watching her. Seeing if she’ll react to his words. She doesn’t want to look up. To see the smug expression he’s wearing. She’s so fucking tired, so fucking tired of this. And of him.

“I can do what I want, Tom,” she says, “I can see who I want, and I can fuck who I want.”

“Can you?”

She jerks her head up at his question. “Yeah, I fuckin’ can,” she says while staring into his cloudy blue eyes. If their not clear, his eyes that is, it means he’s drunker than he acts. Damn the Shelby men and their fucking alcohol tolerance. How long had he been drinking her whiskey waiting for her to get home? “So is that it, then? Are we done now? Can I go to bed like I wanted to when I got back to my fucking house?” She finishes her words with the last of the whiskey in her in glass. Tommy shifts in his seat to bring out his cigarette holder and lighter before he stands and grabs the whiskey off the mantle. He fills his glass, then Ada’s, and he sits back down while straightening out his jacket like a fucking king.

“No, we’re not done,” he says and lights up a smoke. “There’s some business.”

“I don’t give a fuck about business, Tom!” She snaps. “I want to go to bed.”

“There’s some business that you need to know about,” he continues as if she never spoke. “It’ll affect the family, and that includes you, no matter how much you fight it.” He points at her with his cigarette. “So from now, stay away from London pubs. Stay away from foreigners. And get back home before ten.”

“I’m not a child, Tommy.”

“Yeah?” He says sharply as he leans forward, “Then stop fuckin’ acting like one.”

She wants to cry. Not because what he says hurts; that doesn’t matter anymore. Ada wants to cry because she’s not allowed to have anything. Her home? That’s Tommy’s and the endless supply of spare keys he seems to have is proof enough of that. Her whiskey? Paid for by the Shelby Brothers Limited. Her time? Well, there’s a curfew in effect for that and watchdogs to enforce it. And now, her body. The last bit of herself she foolishly thought she owned. Tommy’ll decide who she can give it to, and if she’s being honest with herself, although honesty has always hurt Ada, she’s never really believed it belonged to her anyway. His grip on her heart tightens and tightens and tightens until the stallion bucking away inside her breaks under his slip lead. Tommy’s always had a way with horses and apparently that extends to the fucking metaphorical one she invented to justify the wild beats in her chest.

“It’s not fair,” she says, “It’s not right. You can’t control people like this, Tom. You just can’t.”

“Everyone else is following the same rules, Ada.” He breathes out smoke with his words. “And they don’t seem to have a problem following them.”

“Because who can say no to Thomas Shelby?” She shakes her head, and downs her whiskey, and reaches for another cigarette. She needs something in her hands or she’ll be tempted to lay them on Tommy. To make him feel every blow to her ego he’s ever dealt.

“No, because when I tell them to do something,” he says, “They know it’s for their own good. They know it’s for a good fucking reason.” He leans over to fill her glass again. From her bottle. Sitting in her chair and still ruling over every aspect of her small, little life.

“A good reason? Yeah, I bet you’re just fuckin’ full of them, Tommy.”

“Ada.”

“Fuck off, Tom!” She says loudly and drunkenly. If he keeps pushing her, she’ll let go. Just let the gin and the whiskey do the talking. God, how she wishes she would. Someone has too. Someone has to fucking stop him before he breaks everything. Before he breaks her. “I have to be up early,” She says, “I have to get Karl from Polly in the morning. Just let me go to bed, Tommy, please.” It’s the alcohol in her that lets slip the please. She’d never beg sober.

“Alright,” he says as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s alright, Ada. We’ll talk again. Soon.” She doesn’t follow him to the door. She just waits to her the click of the lock before she lets loose her tears.

II.

The restrictions are lifted soon enough when the business is resolved, but Ada can’t stop thinking about it; the chokehold she felt that night. She can’t stay here. She’ll go raving fuckin’ mad. She tries to remember herself. The woman who fell in love with Freddie Thorne. The woman who stood in no-man’s land between two of the stupidest groups of men she’d ever witnessed. Where’d she gone? Ada begins looking for her. In her lipsticks. In her perfumes. In her silk robes. Where could she be, the old Ada? She doesn’t allow herself to consider the worst; that the old Ada died. Succumbed to the infection called Thomas Shelby. She hears Karl waking in the other room and she stands from her kitchen table, silk flowing behind her as she walks through the cold hall towards her son. Sometimes, she feels afraid to love him. Karl’s all she has that’s rightfully hers. And if she acknowledges it, if she makes her claim, she knows Tommy’ll make his. He’s part of the family, Ada, she can already hear him saying it. Ada opens the door to Karl’s bedroom, and her son turns his beautiful, little face towards his mother.

“Good morning, my love,” she says softly and crosses the room to sit on his bed. She smoothes the soft hairs of his head and leans in to kiss his temple. Thomas will never have her son, she thinks with her lips pressed against Karl’s skin. She pulls back and smiles with wet eyes. “Let’s get you some breakfast, yeah?” she says while prodding the boy from his bed. Her son’s a Thorne, not a fucking Shelby, and if Tom ever tries to take Karl from her then God help him. She’ll take his fucking eyes. And it’s with that thought she realizes she knows where to look for the old Ada.

Of course, she still lets Karl see his cousins. It’d be cruel to deny the children like that. Kids are kept far away from the business anyway and that’s all the interaction Tommy gives Ada nowadays. So she gets confused when Tom stays sitting after she gives the name of the Bolshevik agitator. Then he mentions the position in Boston and while he describes it, she knows that he knows how fucking scared she is. And being the gracious man he is, he offers a different continent and a whole fucking ocean to protect her son from him. She knows it’s the closest she’ll ever get to a promise from Tom. Her son’s a Thorne, would say the ocean separating them from him. It’s also the closest she’ll get to acknowledgment from Tommy about his treatment towards her. It means he knows about the slip lead, the infection, and the fucking rot she’s tried so hard to keep hidden. Thomas fucking Shelby knows everything and still nothing matters to him.

She gets closer to Lizzie then she ever thought she would. Ada tries hard to not judge others, but Lizzie’s reputation had stood between them so long that she forgot. And it’s not until late one evening at the Shelby Brothers Limited almost four hours after close that Ada realizes she thinks of Lizzie as a friend. She watches the tall, dark haired beauty pour herself a drink and she sees the tired lines running through Lizzie’s face and the way her body struggles to keep her hand from shaking while she pours.

“You alright there, Lizzie?” Ada asks.

“Yeah,” Lizzie chuckles, “I’m alright.” Ada knows that line. Says it herself about five times a week.

“Is it Tom then?”

Lizzie chokes on her drink but Ada can tell it’s a laugh. “Is it that obvious?” Lizzie asks while wiping her mouth. “Of course it is,” she continues, “It’s fuckin’ stamped on my forehead.” She walks back over to where Ada sits and sinks into the chair next to her. “It’s my fault, really,” she says and takes the cigarette offered to her from Ada. “You know, I thought,” she pauses to light her smoke, “Working here, getting paid as secretary and not a whore. I thought it’d make me feel better. So it’s funny, really, how much worse I feel.”

Ada wants to tell Lizzie that she’s not a whore. Not anymore. But she can’t. The words get choked up in her throat and make her want to gag. Because they’re not true, are they? And Lizzie’s past might make it easier for the reformed street-walker to accept Tommy’s treatment. To take his words and actions as the paid wounds they are. And maybe that’s what Ada hates most about him. That he makes her, his sister, feel like a common fucking whore. Every bit of her up for sale.

“Well, you know Tom,” Ada says as she stands and pours herself another glass of whiskey. She holds the bottle out for Lizzie and the beauty leans forward to take it from her hands. “Everything has its price,” she says with a swig from her drink, “And God knows he’s got the money to pay for it.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Lizzie says while holding out her glass with a shake of her head. Ada clinks the glasses together and smiles.

“You’re not alone,” she says softly, “Not anymore.”

“It was simpler when he just wanted to fuck,” Lizzie muses then she looks up at Ada with a slight blush. “Sorry,” she continues, “I know he’s your brother.”

“Me? Related to Thomas Shelby?” Ada asks. “That’ll be the fuckin’ day.” She finishes the brown liquor in her glass and puts out of her smoke. Then she considers Lizzie’s words and she finds herself asking a question before she’s had time to think about asking it. “He doesn’t fuck you?”

Lizzie stops mid-sip to bring her eyes back from their distance and look to Ada. She swallows and sets her glass on the desk in front of them. “No,” she says, “Tom’s been seeking other women these days. Never the same one. Never more than once.” Ada nods as if the information fits into some sorta puzzle she didn’t know she was solving. “They all look the same though,” Lizzie continues, “And I don’t say it meanly, but they all look the fuckin’ same.”

“Like Grace?” Ada asks as she grabs another cigarette and lights it.

“No,” Lizzie says as she pours herself more whiskey. She caps the bottle and pushes it away from her. “No, Ada,” she sighs, “Not like her. None of them look like Grace.”

Ada tucks her conversation with Lizzie away into the cobwebbed corners of her mind. Then she forgets about it and it stays tucked away there for all of about three weeks until she goes to visit John and Esme. It’s a lively household. Makes makes her home feel haunted by comparison. If it’s not the children, running around and yelling at the top of their lungs, it’s Esme and John themselves screaming. And for all the yelling and noise that can be heard at their home, she knows it’s a happy one. They both have tempers, she won’t lie about that, and they both have too much pride. Ada’s been between enough fights of theirs to know that. But they love each other. And she bets Thomas didn’t see that coming when he forced them to get married. But isn’t love always Tommy’s weakness? She sits in the parlor of John’s home and listens to Esme loudly tell him that she didn’t want company tonight. That’s fine, thinks Ada. She doesn’t want to be here either. But Shelby business can’t wait, can it?

“Did you want some tea?” Esme asks with narrowed eyes as she sits herself across from Ada.

“No,” she answers as she takes off her gloves. “But I’ll have some whiskey if you’re pouring.”

“We’re always fuckin’ pourin’ round here,” Esme mutters as she grabs two glasses and a bottle off the mantle. “John’ll be down soon.”

“Okay,” Ada nods as she looks around and then she feels compelled to add, “It’s not just John, you know? Who I’m here to see.”

“Sorry for not jumpin’ for joy at seeing Tommy’s favorite lapdog,” Esme says as she takes a healthy gulp from her glass. Ada sighs and drinks her whiskey. She used to be close with Esme. She’s not really sure where the relationship went sour, but it probably has something to do with the rot. Ada’s missed a lot of things trying to fight the infection. At least the Gypsy will still drink in her presence. “So what were you doing there then?” Esme asks.

“Doing what where?” Ada says and fishes her cigarette holder out of her pocket.

“At the Ritz,” Esme continues, “My cousin says she saw you. Walkin’ arm in arm with Thomas after midnight.”

“I haven’t been to the fuckin’ Ritz,” Ada says. “Tell you cousin to get some fuckin’ glasses, yeah?”

Esme shrugs as if her earlier words didn’t mean anything. “I’m just tellin’ you,” she says, “So’s you can be more cautious in the future. Eyes out there everywhere.” Ada stops before she lights her smoke. She doesn’t understand.

“I’m not lying,” is the only thing Ada can think to say. “I wasn’t at the Ritz.” John walks into the room as she finishes her sentence.

“Fuckin’ hell, Esme,” he says as he grabs a glass from above the fireplace and walks towards the bottle on the table. “I told you it wasn’t Ada,”

“Right,” his wife agrees, “And now I asked her myself so I believe you. Both of you.” Esme stands and finishes her drink. “I trust my ‘usband to tell me whatever it is you got to say so I’ll be leavin’ now.”

“Yeah, fuck off,” John calls over his shoulder as he pours himself a whiskey. “Fuckin’ hell,’’ he mutters.

“Still in the honeymoon period, eh, John?” Ada can’t help but tease.

“Fuckin’ honeymoons,” he says while shaking his head. “You know, we haven’t taken it yet? Our fuckin’ honeymoon. And every time I ask her where she wants to go, she says she wants to go the fuckin’ pastures. Like I want a honeymoon spent in horse shit. Can stay in Small Heath for that.” He tips the contents of his glass down his throat and turns towards Ada. “So what’s he got to say then?” He slams his glass on the table and wipes his mouth. “Another fuckin’ list?” John asks as he holds out his hand.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “It’s another fucking list.” Ada shifts in her seat to bring out the folded piece of paper from her pocket for John.

“Great,” he says as he snatches it from her hand. “I was startin’ to worry, you know? Hadn’t gotten one in the last eight fuckin’ hours.”

“He’s trying his best, John,” and even Ada doesn’t believe the words she says.

“Yeah, I know,” John says as he swipes at his nose. She figures their sibling bond is the only thing that stops him from pushing the lie. He pulls a cigarette out his pocket and sits in the chair Esme left empty. “I believe you,” he offers as he lights his smoke and for one moment Ada thinks John might be stupid. “That it wasn’t you at the Ritz, that is,” he continues, “Not the other fuckin’ thing.” He motions towards Tommy’s list with his words. There it is, Ada smiles to herself. You can’t bullshit John and it’s good to know that hasn’t changed. He reaches for the bottle to pour another drink and sinks back into his chair with his full glass. He looks beyond strained. More like defeated. Not that it’s unexpected given the circumstances, but John’s usually faster to bounce back from Tommy’s callousness. But it’s been going on for nearly four months now so she can’t really blame him. His vest is crumpled under his jacket and it brings out the little boy hiding in his features. Ada knows if Arthur saw him like this, he’d slap his back. Come on now, he’d say. Things to do, Johnboy, ya know how it is. But it shouldn’t be like that, should it? It’s wrong, what Tommy asks of his family. Our Johnboy, she thinks and puts out her cigarette. Boy is right; he’s got too much youth left to let Tommy beat it out of him like this.

“But she did look like you,” he says and his words spark that tucked away memory of her conversation with Lizzie. “And it’s not the first time it’s happened.” He looks to the side as he speaks and lights the almost forgotten cigarette in his hand. “I wasn’t gonna say nothin’ but Esme.” He stops and sniffs before he gulps half the whiskey in his glass. “Well, she’s little rough, I know,” he continues, “but she’s a good woman.” John stops again with a sigh. He shifts in his seat and takes a long drag from his smoke as if he needs to consider his words carefully. As if what he’s got to say is something Ada won’t want to hear and he’s need to figure out how to frame it first. God bless him, she thinks. John may be able to see through bullshit, but he sure as hell can’t hide his. “It worries her,” he says, “that’s all,” and that he ends up on those words after all his seemingly careful deliberation bothers her. How odd. How honest. How like her Johnboy. Ada doesn’t know what to say so she drinks instead.

Regardless of her current standing with Esme, Ada respects her. The woman has intuition and the backbone to defend it. Esme reminds her of Polly sometimes and she wonders if that’s how Pol might’ve been while young. Headstrong, loud, and drunk, but full of the world’s secrets. Ada sits by Polly’s desk at the Shelby Brothers Limited late one evening and watches the older woman write in shorthand, her pen moving like wildfire across the paper.

“What?” Asks Polly.

“Nothing,” Ada shrugs. Pol stops writing and looks up at her. “Really, it’s nothing, Pol,” Ada says. The older woman stares at her a moment too long before she looks back down at her paper and begins her furious writing again.

“Sure,” Polly says, “It’s always nothing, isn’t it?” Ada rolls her eyes at Polly’s words. “This whole family is full of nothing.”

“Don’t take your anger out on me, Pol,” she sighs. “Whatever he’s done now, it’s not my fault.”

“Who said anything about me being angry?” The older woman snaps as she slams down her pen. “And why should I be angry? It’s doesn’t have anything to do with me. Nothing does, nowadays.” She opens her cigarette case and pulls out a long, black smoke before tapping it on the desk. Polly lights her smoke while narrowing her eyes at the flame then flicks the smoldering match to the ashtray. “So you’ve thought about Boston?”

“Yeah,” Ada says after a pause to light her own cigarette, “I think it’ll be good.”

“It’ll be a lotta work,” says Pol, “But that might be what you need right now. God knows a bored Shelby is a curse on the world.” Ada thinks about reminding Polly that she’s a Thorne now, but the words take too much effort so she lets them stay resting under her tongue. Her Aunt has her eyes closed with her head leaned back against the top of the chair. If Ada’s going to ask what she wants to, what she came here to ask, it should be now. While Pol is resting and unawares.

“Has Esme talked with you?” Ada asks.

“Oh god, why?” Asks Polly as she sits up straight in her chair and puts out her cigarette. “It’s not the count, is it?” she continues while standing and turning towards the back room containing the safe. “I swear, the women these boys bring into our home.”

“No,” Ada says before Pol can leave the room. “It wouldn’t be about business.”

Polly stops with her back facing Ada. “Should we have a drink?” She asks while turning towards the draw hiding the always present bottle. “Feels like this is a conversation where we’ll want one.” She pours two glasses of whiskey without waiting for Ada’s reply. Then the older woman walks back to her desk and holds out the glass for her niece before sitting back down. “So what would this talk with Esme be about?” Polly asks after a sip.

“Well, if you haven’t had it yet, you can’t tell me, can you?” Says Ada.

“I thought I was asking you,” says Pol as she slips out another black cigarette to sit between between her lips and then lights it. She sits quietly with her eyes focused in the distance and Ada can see her mind running through all the possibilities. “What’d John do this time?” Polly finally asks.

“Nothing,” Ada chuckles, “At least not yet, anyway.”

“Right, so it’s not about business and it’s not about John,” Polly muses and traces her fingers over her lips. Running more scenarios, Ada thinks to herself with a smile. Then her eyes shift back to Ada’s and Pol drops her hand from her face while setting her glass down on the desk. “Is it Tom?”

Just as Ada is about to nod, she sees a figure in the corner of her eye, watching them both from the doorway; an ember at the tip of his smoke illuminates the face in the dark. “Tommy! Christ!” Ada cries.

“Oh god, is it that bad?” Polly asks while seemingly unaware that the topic of their conversation stands behind her in the doorway. As if his name somehow summoned him like devil he is. He moves silently into the room like a fucking ghost.

“Hello, Pol,” he says but his eyes stay steady on Ada. Polly gasps and puts her hand to her chest.

“Oh fuck,” she sighs and moves her hand from her chest up to her temple. “Lost about five years just now and I don’t have them to lose, I’ll have you know.”

“Have I interrupted something?” He asks as he sits in the empty chair next to Polly and across from Ada. His sister drinks from her whiskey and looks away from Tom’s eyes.

“You did,” says Polly, “but when have you ever cared?” She stamps out her smoke with her words. “So what are you doing here?” She continues. “Arthur said you wouldn’t be in until noon tomorrow.”

“Arthur doesn’t know everything, Pol,” Tommy says and Ada stands to refill her glass. “I’ll have one,” he adds and clears his throat. Ada looks up at the ceiling willing God to give her the strength she needs not to throw the bottle at Tommy’s head before she grabs another glass and fills it. She sets the bottle down harder then she means to and Tom raises his eyebrow at the sound.

“Sorry,” says Ada and hands him his drink before sitting back in her seat.

Polly shifts her eyes back and forth between the two siblings. “Right,” she says, and Ada knows her aunt’s trying to read the unspoken in the room. Well good fucking luck, Ada thinks. Lately, even she doesn’t know what Tommy’s not saying.

“Well, continue your conversation then,” he says before he takes a sip of his drink and fixes his jacket. “What does Esme need to talk with you about?”

“I don’t know,” replies Polly. Ada can feel the older woman carefully measuring out her words. “We’ve only just established it’s not about business, John, or you,” she continues.

“You’ve established that, have you?” Tom asks while staring at Ada. Her pulse quickens under his eyes and she reaches for another cigarette. “I wonder what it could be then,” he continues, “Sounded important, from the way Ada said it.”

Ada’s heart leaps an entire beat and she takes a gulp of her drink. He’d heard her. He’d heard the whole fucking thing. Does he already know? Did John tell him? It doesn’t seem like something John would share with Tommy, but maybe he didn’t have to. Tom’s smart. He could figure it out on his own. Then Ada has a thought and she feels herself grow cold as she considers it. What if he hasn’t been trying to hide it? She replays John’s words now. But she did look like you, he’d said, and it’s not the first time it’s happened. Jesus Christ. The whiskey in her stomach makes a jump for her throat but Ada catches it with a small gulp of air.

“You alright, Ada?” Tommy asks and she nods as she leans forward to light her cigarette off his offered flame. She’s thankful she didn’t have to light it herself or else the shaking of her hand would have been made clear.

“It’s just women’s talk, Tom,” Ada says while avoiding his eyes and leaning back in her chair. “It wouldn’t interest you.”

“This is an equal opportunity enterprise, as you both know,” he says. “What makes you think I’m not interested?”

“She just wants to Pol to do her gypsy witchcraft,” Ada says while pointing at Polly with her smoke and she feels her aunt watching her as she speaks. “Tell her the sex of the baby and other mystical unknowns.” Please God, catch on Aunt Pol, Ada thinks. She can’t calm the beats of her heart, not with the infection so close, so hot and burning.

“Of course she does,” Polly says firmly. “Who else would she go to? Doctors?” She laughs with her words and her laughter soothes a bit of Ada’s heart. Her Aunt Polly is such a clever woman. “Those men in white coats wouldn’t recognize a woman’s body if it wasn’t stretched out beneath them.” And even Tommy cracks a smile at Polly’s words.

“I’m here for the ledgers,” he says in answer to Polly’s question asked long ago and puts out his cigarette. Polly nods and gathers the stack together. “I want to look over them before my meeting in the morning,” he says after finishing the whiskey in his glass. He stands and accepts the books that Pol holds out for him. “You leaving, Ada?” He continues while towering over his sister. “I’ll give you ride.”

“I’ll just get a cab, Tom.”

“It’s safer,” he says, “riding with me. Come on, let’s go.” He walks towards the door and holds it open without waiting for her reply. Polly watches Ada with wide eyes as her niece stuffs her cigarettes back into her purse and stands. Her clever Aunt, Ada finds herself thinking again. Of course Polly’s worried too. How could she not be when Tom doesn’t even try to disguise it?

#Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders fandom #peaky blinders fanfic #Ada Thorne #Ada Shelby #Thomas Shelby #Sibling relationship #Gaslighting #Manipulation #Emotional abuse #Incest if you squint

1 note · View note

7-wonders · 5 years ago

Text

Shatter pt. 10

Summary: You thought traveling through time was the hard part of this ordeal? Attempting to stop a revenge-seeking warlock, an angry Supreme, and one emotional Antichrist boi easily tops that.

Word Count: 2840

A/N: Honestly don’t even know how I managed to whip up a chapter in the midst of my life going to shambles, but I did it! Lemme know what you think, feedback is always appreciated, and if you liked this I’d love if you reblogged and left a comment.

The hot sun beats down on the California desert, scorching everything in its wake. Even the wind is hot, whipping sand through the air and placing those grainy particles right into your mouth. It takes both you and Mallory a moment to regain your bearings and get used to being in the past. Mallory looks down at her body before looking at you, a wide grin on her face.

“Thank God, I thought I’d be stuck in that ugly gray uniform for the rest of my life.” Mallory’s back in the clothes that are so familiar, wearing a sheer black gown over a black slip and cinched with a gold belt. Her signature golden headband is nestled in her chocolate locks, and her eyes hold that same spark that they once did before the end of the world.

“I have to agree. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to wear purple again.” The black of the lace tunic that matches the shade of the slip under it is comforting and reminds you of a home you thought had been lost forever. Your ankle boots are already making your feet start to ache after years of not having to wear them and, from Mallory shifting her weight from one foot to the other, you’d assume that she’s feeling the same way in her identical pair. “I forgot we had the same pair of shoes,” you note with delight.

“We shared so much of our wardrobes that I didn’t know we had two pairs of these for the longest time,” Mallory remembers fondly.

“I don’t mean to be rude and interrupt, because I could honestly spend all day just reminiscing with you, but if we want to stop the apocalypse then we need to hurry.” You grab Mallory’s arm and start walking, knowing that your destination is just over the hill.

“And where exactly are we?”

“You said you would trust me, right?”

“Of course I did--I do, but-”

“Then trust me, Mal. I know Michael better than anyone, this is the point of no return for him.” The pieces start to click into place for Mallory. Being in the desert of California, what would constitute a major event for Michael that would only spur him quicker into the arms of his father, and why you’re both here instead of Mallory’s original plan of the Murder House (a conclusion that you had gathered upon learning that Mallory was meant to kill Michael when he was at his most vulnerable moment).

“Is this the day that the coven burnt Ariel and Baldwin at the stake?” You nod grimly.

“They also killed the woman who had taken him in after his family had abandoned him. The coven killed Ms. Mead, which made Michael crazy with the desire for revenge. If we can stop Ms. Mead from being killed, then there’s a good chance that Michael never meets the Satanists that introduce him to the Cooperative. We can work to form an alliance with him and change his plans, instead of constantly running and fighting.”

You know, as well as Mallory, that this plan could easily fail. You’re acting off of a hunch, and it’s a small hunch at that. Michael could still want to slaughter the coven due to their near-burning of his adoptive mother, and all of your efforts could be for naught. Knowing what you know now, however, the immense power that you possess and the depth of your love for Michael (and vice versa), you’re willing to bet your life, and the lives of seven billion people, on this hunch.

“Let’s go, then. It’s-” Mallory pats her sides, eventually pulling a phone out of a pocket, “-eleven fifty, and executions are carried out at noon.” Her doe-eyes light up as she swipes the screen of her device, taking in the magic of electronics for the first time in almost two years. “I’ve missed a lot of things about life before the apocalypse, but electronics and wifi are definitely two of the top things.”

“I’d have to say seeing the sun again.” The warm rays act as an instant endorphin boost, making you tilt your head back in an effort to receive more of its’ warmth. “Remember before our memories got wiped, when Miss Cordelia sent you back to test and see if you could save Anastasia Romanov? Why is staying in the past so much easier for you this time?”

“Because the rising Supreme that I traveled with has enough power to easily keep both of us here until we complete what we’ve set out to do,” Mallory teases with a smile.

“You don’t really believe I’m the next Supreme. I mean, we’ve always operated on the assumption that you would be the next to lead the coven. And your magic’s just so strong that I just..” You trail off, leaving the question hanging. Everybody thought that Mallory was destined to be the Supreme, and you fell in line with that belief. The idea that you’re somehow stronger than a witch who has managed to bring an animal back to life and also restore its youth is hard to grasp.

“My magic is strong, you’re right. It’s light and airy,” she references the ‘feeling’ that all magic has attached to it, a gift that only a few witches possess, “things that Cordelia is highly attuned to. Your magic, however, is something I’ve never felt before. It’s fire and blood, death and destruction. You draw your magic from elements that aren’t of this realm, or any realm that I’ve ever heard of. I don’t know, maybe it’s tied to the fact that you’re in love with the fucking Antichrist.”

“I guess--”

“Sorry, but I just--Cordelia always goes on about how it’s impossible for Michael to love anyone since he’s the Antichrist. That’s the basis of her argument as to why he’s irredeemable; because he can’t love. But, I’ve never seen anyone love more fiercely than how Michael loves you, and vice versa. If you really believe we can change the course of time, then I stand behind you. Michael would do anything for you.” You smile at the mention of your sweet lover, heart aching as you yearn to see him again.

“Michael used to tell me that he believed that, long before either of us were even born, our souls were together in whatever sort of spirit realm there is. I tend to believe him, considering I’ll never love anyone as much as I love Michael,” you say quietly as you coast over the hill, the tops of the stakes becoming visible from where you stand. “There’s this book that I read when I was younger; I didn’t care for it much, but there was always this one quote that stuck with me. After I told it to Michael, it sort of became ‘our’ quote: ‘And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.’ Cliche, probably, but we’re made for each other.”

The sound of a bell interrupts the quiet of the desert, and Mallory grabs your arm and pulls you down among the sand. You watch as the accused are led out by the coven’s stoic guards, the council following along behind them. Cordelia, Coco, Queenie, Zoe, and Myrtle watch as the three traitors are tied to the stakes behind them, delicate black umbrellas shielding them from the sun. You remember this day, how you and Mallory stayed behind in New Orleans as you were given the ‘honor’ of teaching the younger girls while the senior coven members were away. It was actually just a way for Cordelia to make sure that you wouldn’t be able to interfere with the executions, knowing your relationship to Michael would throw a wrench in her plans.

“Ariel Augustus, Baldwin Pennypacker,” Cordelia addresses the two warlocks. “For the murder of your fellow warlock, John Henry Moore, and conspiring to commit treason against this coven, I, Cordelia Goode, on behalf of this council, sentence you to death by fire.” Two of the guards pick up cans of gasoline, emptying them onto the condemned men.

“Should we go?” Mallory whispers, stopping when you hold up a hand.

“Not just yet,” you reply.

“Our people have long stood by an agreement that no witch may kill a condemned warlock. Only your brother may light the flame. I do not intend to break with that tradition today.” You stifle a gasp as John Henry Moore walks out, very much alive and not dead.

“How the fuck…?” You trail off.

“Oh, did I not mention that Cordelia had me bring him back to life?” Mallory says with a sheepish smile on her face.

“May I?” John Henry is handed his own can of gasoline, slowly walking towards Ms. Mead.

You surge forward, deciding that it’s now or never to stop this event and hopefully stop the apocalypse. Grabbing Mallory’s arm, you transmute both of you in front of the rest of your coven.

“Stop!” You yell, John Henry pausing right as he’s about to empty the can onto Ms. Mead.

“(Y/N)? Mallory? What are you two doing here? You were both given explicit instructions to stay with the other girls back at the house,” Cordelia steps forward, the anger in her eyes raging. While you would have been scared of this look years ago, nothing can scare you now.

“You can’t go through with this,” you plead loudly, voice carrying across the expanse of the execution area.

“(Y/N), I have forgiven your prior relationship with Michael, but coming here in direct defiance of my orders is enough to have you burnt along with the others.”

“Cordelia, I’ve seen the future. If you do this, there will be no stopping the apocalypse.”

“I don’t recall clairvoyance as being one of your gifts.”

“It’s the Sight. At first, I wasn’t sure if what I was seeing was visions or really vivid dreams, but I’ve started having them when I’m awake as well. I saw it all; the slaughter of our coven at the hands of Michael, the apocalypse, what is to become of the world after it ends. If you kill Ms. Mead, you will lose any chance you have of working with Michael to devise an alternative solution.”

The Supreme stares at you for a long moment, trying to discern whether or not you’re lying. Technically, you’re not. You did develop some sort of Sight before Cordelia wiped your mind, and the dreams about Michael that plagued you for the entirety of your memory loss years were just an extension of that Sight.

“She’s telling the truth,” Mallory speaks up, sensing the head witch’s hesitation. “I was with her when she had this vision.” Cordelia, who has always trusted Mallory more than almost any other witch, looks at her skeptically for a moment before slowly nodding.

“You’re sure of what you saw, then?” You nod.

“More sure than I’ve ever been of anything.”

“Ariel and Baldwin still must face some sort of retribution for the murder of John Henry…”

“I’m not saying that they should escape punishment. You can do with them whatever you want. Ms. Mead, however, can’t be killed.” When no one goes to stop you, you undo the ropes that restrain Ms. Mead. John Henry, desperate for some sort of revenge, lifts his hand and engulfs his fellow warlocks in flames as you drag Ms. Mead away from the carnage. The stout woman, who has caught Michael sneaking around enough to have met you a couple of times, clutches your hand tightly when the ropes fall to the ground.

“My dear child, Satan will surely reward you for this!” She declares.

“I’m not doing this for you. You killed a warlock, one of my people, in cold blood. I’m only doing this because I care about Michael too much to let him ruin the world,” you say with a grim look on your face, turning to face Cordelia. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“And what do you suggest we do with her? Surely, we can’t just let her go,” Cordelia says.

“That’s for you to decide, Miss Cordelia. You’ve already shown me enough mercy, and I don’t expect you to show me any more.”

“Ms. Mead!” A voice shouts in the distance, your heart racing as you hear the familiar voice.

Michael walks towards the small group, eyes moving back and forth as he scans the scene. Suddenly, he’s not the suave, confident man you had been with less than an hour ago. This Michael is wearing a version of his Hawthorne uniform, messy blond curls short and smooth. His eyes brim with tears of emotion, and he clenches his fists at his side to keep from exploding. This is the Michael that you fell in love with, the boy that will always hold such a special place in your heart. A little messy, a little ruined, a little shattered: just like you.

“Michael,” you can’t stop yourself from calling his name, running into his arms before you can even think. He wraps himself around you protectively, kissing your forehead and brushing the hair off of your face.

“What’s going on here?”

“Ms. Mead killed John Henry, and she was going to be executed for what she did. I stopped Cordelia from going through with it, though.”

“Why? Because it’s illegal to burn humans at the stake?” Damn, hadn’t thought of that.

“I couldn’t let her die, not when I know how much she means to you.”

“Thank you,” he pulls you impossibly closer, burying his head in your shoulder. “I love you so much, (Y/N).”

“I love you too, Michael.” You get a little choked up at the sudden nostalgia you feel for this Michael. You can only hope that some of this boy will remain in whatever Michael you encounter when you go back to your time.

“Cordelia,” Michael says loudly, walking hand-in-hand towards the Supreme in a way that reminds you of the encounter with the same woman in what is now the future. Releasing you, he towers over the blonde woman in a way that has her almost cowering in fear. “If you ever fuck with me or my people again, I will make your life a living hell.”

“You have my word, Michael, but you must promise me one thing first.” Michael raises an eyebrow, gesturing for Cordelia to go on. “Don’t go through with what your father has planned for you. Work with us, learn with us, and we can figure out a way to achieve both of our respective goals in a way that won’t irreparably damage the world.”

Michael looks hesitant, so you gently grab his chin and pull his attention towards you. “Listen to her. She’s not saying to completely turn your back on your father, she’s just saying that there’s other ways to achieve what you want without causing an armageddon.”

“Why do I get the feeling you know something I don’t?” Michael mutters, obviously not used to you being the only one privy to information.

“Just trust me, okay? Learn some more about your magic, work together with my coven, and then make your decision instead of rushing into things while being blinded by emotions. Can you do that for me?” Michael stares at you before finally sighing and nodding, kissing the pads of your fingers lovingly.

“You had better be right.”

“For all of our sakes, I hope so.”

“Alright, Cordelia, I’ll work with you,” Michael says to Cordelia, who slowly smiles in relief.

“That’s wonderful to hear, Michael.” You gasp at the tugging in your chest, feeling like a hook has snagged itself in your ribs and is pulling you somewhere. Michael’s concerned, and through the ringing in your ears you can hear him ask if you’re okay, but even through your pain you smile and nod.

“I think that’s our cue to leave. Michael, I love you. Always remember that you have a family.” Your form is starting to flicker, and you can see yourself wavering like a ghost. Mallory is the same way, taking stumbling, frantic steps forward to meet you before the spell wears off.

“But they’re all-”

“Family isn’t always blood. Family can be people who you hold dear to your heart. You’re my family, Michael Langdon.”

“(Y/N),” Mallory calls, gripping your hand right as your bodies disappear from this particular moment in time.

You feel as if you’re submerged in water again, the waves carrying you wherever they please. You don’t know if the world will remain the same as it was before you attempted the spell or if it will be different. If it is different, just how much have you been able to change by saving Ms. Mead from her fiery death? It does no good to dwell on these things, so you quiet your mind and allow the water to gently carry you towards your fate.

///////////

Tag List: @sammythankyou @queencocoakimmie @girlycakepops @pastel-cloudz @sebastianshoe @nana15774 @lichellaw @ultragibbycentralworld @grim-adventures58 @dandycandy75 @trimbooohgodplsnoooo @alexcornerblog @everything-is-awesomesauce @ccodyfern @jimmlangdon @langdonsdemon @langdonslove @kahhlo @omgsuperstarg

#michael langdon #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon imagines #michael langdon x reader #american horror story #american horror story imagine #american horror story apocalypse #AHS #ahs imagine #ahs imagines #ahs apocalypse

184 notes · View notes

abdifarah · 5 years ago

Text

Snake Charmer

I grabbed my sneakers and ball from the backseat of my car. As I stepped onto the basketball court, the palm of a stranger’s hand suddenly hit my chest before my foot crossed the threshold of the out-of-bounds line, as if to protect me from stepping into molten lava. It was in fact hallowed ground he was preparing me to enter. “I don’t want to mess up your day, but Kobe Bryant died.” The words did not register. He must have meant to say Bill Russell or Magic Johnson or some other retired player, up in years or immunocompromised. My heart sank as the words did. Seemingly coordinated with the stranger’s preparatory address, my phone began to shriek. I shared basketball, above most else, with my closest friends, and for those of my friends “not into sports,” they knew I was and that I was probably the one person in their lives that could explain why their instagram and twitter timelines had been commandeered by the news of Bryant’s death. I sat on the court and texted friends I hadn’t spoken with in years. I mentally ran through all of the Lakers fans in my life, like someone tallying loved ones near the epicenter of an earthquake or tsunami.

The surprises continued. My uncle Kenny called me. Kenny, like most of the men in my life, does not make calls. When I see Kenny during the holidays we do not hug or catch up with small talk. Me and Kenny speak solely in sports. “How are the Cowboys doing?” translates to how are you doing? On this occasion Kenny did not resort to code. “Are you okay?” Kenny asked with a tone of genuine concern in his voice. Strangely, I was not. Stepping out of my body momentarily, I watched myself frantically text friends and scour the internet for updates with large tears welling up in my eyes. Importantly, next to me, five or so other guys on the basketball court were doing the exact same thing. I was dumbfounded, and even a little amused that it was Kobe Bryant, of all people, that elicited this reaction from me. As a basketball fan I loved Kobe Bryant as a player, but I didn’t love him. I loved Kobe the way the world loves the Dalai Lama. Kobe was that inhuman child/god/king we watched grow up, do great exploits, and whose often trite proverbs of ostensible wisdom we warily entertained. His sudden and violent death brought into swift focus that, while famous for almost my entire life, I took Kobe for granted.

Kobe Bryant was the first of us to realize: the camera is always on. In the days and weeks following Kobe’s death I found myself pulling up old games on youtube and having them on in the background while I worked. I was surprised how many of the beats–a certain sequence of plays, a specific call by an announcer–I remembered, like I was watching reruns or listening to a throwback radio station. As much as The Fresh Prince or Martin or Seinfeld, Kobe Bryant was TV. Mostly to my frustration, as someone who ineffectually rooted against the Lakers, Kobe Bryant was always on my screen. Undoubtedly, a cloud hangs over everything related to Bryant now in light of his death, but rewatching games from the 2000 finals, in which Bryant’s Lakers bested the Reggie Miller/Jalen Rose led Pacers, I was reminded of how much uneasiness and sadness I felt for Kobe Bryant watching him even as a teenage admirer. After every exceptional defensive play, flashy pass, or difficult made shot, Bryant made sure the camera saw the fiery glint in his eyes, the licking of his lips, the exaggerated clinching of his jaw.

Even more so than the NBA’s previous generation of celebrities–Bird, Magic, Jordan–Kobe Bryant seemed to be the first superstar to internalize that basketball was a performance: a movie backed by a John Tesh score, or more specifically, a loosely scripted 24-7 reality show complete with story arcs, heroes, villains, close-ups, and backstabbing confessions. Bryant perpetually signalled: to the camera, to the fans, to his haters, to his teammates, that he possessed the most passion, that he outworked everyone, and that he would stop at nothing to be the best. By all accounts this was all true. But we knew it less because it was true and more because Kobe wanted us to know. Even as a youngster I found his thirst obnoxious.

Kobe was desperate, but he was also just ahead of the curve. Kobe Bryant proudly admitted to not having a social life, and almost a decade before Russell Westbrook said it, Bryant proclaimed that “Spalding was his only friend;” a both sad and sobering admission for any would-be competitors tasked with defeating Bryant on the court. Bryant’s performative work, that now permeates and characterizes most of millennial culture, predated social media. The author Touré in his book, I Would Die 4U, contends that despite being a baby boomer, Prince was the quintessential GenX celebrity, whose music perfectly tapped into that younger generation’s disaffected, countercultural ethos. Born in 1978, Bryant technically resides in GenX. The intense outpouring from all corners of the digital world over Bryant’s death stems from the fact that he was truly the first millennial celebrity.

For Bryant, fame came before success. As the photogenic rookie for the Lakers, Bryant had cameos on sitcoms, graced the cover of every teen magazine, took Brandy to the prom, put out a rap album, and pitched every soda and sneaker Madison Avenue could throw at him. But like an inflated college application, Bryant’s extracurriculars read as contrivances. Bryant was named a starter in the 1998 All-Star game, an honor voted on by the fans, meanwhile he wasn’t even a starter on his own team. To suspicious observers, Bryant was an industry plant; the antidote to the fearful influx of hyper-black, hip hop culture embodied in players like Allen Iverson or Latrell Spreewell; a basketball and marketing robot with a pearly white smile, that spoke multiple languages, and would pick up where Michael Jordan left off; ushering the NBA to unprecedented commercial heights.

Despite his superficial charm, Kobe Bryant’s lack of genuine personality proved off-putting, almost creepy. Although possessing a similarly shimmering smile, everyone knew that the real Michael Jordan chomped on cigars, pounded tequila, gambled through the night, and did not actually hang out with Bugs Bunny while wearing Hanes tighty-whities. We acknowledged humanity, healthiness even, in this contradiction. For Bryant’s generation of sports superstars, the public and private arrived flattened. A sports prodigy, a la Tiger Woods, Bryant’s lone-gun, misanthropic persona emerged as a defense against the alienation he felt from his teammates and colleagues around the league, those that did not share his cloistered upbringing. Bryant’s longtime teammate and consummate foil, Shaquille O’Neal, had the nickname, Superman. Despite his titanic presence and supernatural physical gifts, O’Neal epitomized the terrestrial; always joking, dancing; embedded in pop culture; a true man of the people. The true Kryptonian was always Bryant.

As an ignorant seventeen year-old, my initial reaction in 2004 to the accusations of rape against Bryant was amused shock. “Kobe Bryant has sex?!” In 2004, I, like many, put Kobe on the shelf. Less out of a desire to proactively make any bold gestures on behalf of women, but more out of petty schadenfreude. As stated before, I respected the talent, but I was not really a Kobe fan. I always rooted for the underdog, and Bryant was anything but. To the contrary, everything about Bryant was an assault on the concept of the underdog, the diamond in the rough, the idea that anyone, despite their humble or downright degraded beginnings, could rise to excellence. Bryant was born and bread to be great. Sadly, I took grim pleasure in seeing the NBA’s posterboy–the prototype of black celebrity respectability–revealed as the actual embodiment of the entitled, toxically masculine, and sexually predatory stereotype of the black athlete.

Bryant lost endorsements. Nike released the Huarache 2K4, an all-time great basketball shoe originally designed to be Bryant’s first signature release with the brand, as simply a stand-alone product. The Lakers shopped Bryant around for possible trades. Like Sampson sheared and stripped of his powers, Bryant’s hairline appeared to recede, he cut off his signature fro, and he began shaving his head closer and closer. Bryant changed his number from 8 to 24 as one now changes their Instagram or Twitter handle to represent a break from the past. Like a biblical character after a traumatic or transformative event, like Abram becoming Abraham, or Saul becoming Paul, Bryant adopted the moniker of the Black Mamba. He resigned to allow the sorting hat to place him in his rightful house of Slytherin, and embraced the duplicitous snake that many already viewed him to be. Somewhat strangely, the Black Mamba was the assassin code name of the main character in Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill, who in the film is left for dead, and out for revenge. Did Bryant see himself as this woman wronged, or as the titular character, Bill, contently awaiting his deserved day of judgement. Knowing Bryant, he probably saw himself as both.

In the myth of Hercules (not the Disney version) the famous god-man kills his wife and kids in a fit of hysteria inflicted by a vengeful Hera. If we imagine that the mythical figures of today were really just the celebrities and aristocrats of past millennia who had control over the pen of history and whose carnal tales swelled into sacred gospel; the fits of rage and mania brought on by the devil or hades or a poison arrow, were really the Chappaquiddicks, Vegas hotel rooms, and dog fighting compounds of their time; times when our heroes unequivocally and inexcusably committed evil. If Hercules was in fact a real man of some importance to his time–the son of a dignitary–that unfathomably killed his wife and kids, it follows that instead of being sentenced to death or some other fate reserved for the criminal commoner, that he would be given some lesser sentence and a chance–albeit slim–of redemption. Hercules is banished by the gods to serve an insignificant king and accomplish the arduous good works assigned to him as a means of atonement; the great works–slaying the nine-headed hydra, retrieving cerberus –that ultimately generate his immortal legend.

Bryant’s post rape case/post Shaquille O’Neal years with the Lakers mirror this herculean restitution. Despite years on center stage, the Lakers, like Bryant, were similarly in their nadir, and would spend the middle of the aughts in basketball purgatory. Bryant was no longer primetime television. What happens to a pop-star when no one is watching? Surprisingly, Kobe Bryant kept performing, and at higher heights. Bryant was doing his best work while no one was watching. I remember walking through the door of my college dorm on a non-descript spring day. My roommate, Bryun, yelled at me with no context, “8 1 P O I N T S !” Kobe Bryant’s 81 point game may lay claim as the first social media sports moment. Less because no other great sports moments had occurred between 2004, when facebook emerged, and his scoring explosion in 2006, but because very few people watched that midseason contest between two mediocre teams live. It arrived to everyone, like myself, after the fact.

During a recent lecture, artist Dave McKenzie, when answering a very banal question during a post lecture q&a, about his long term goals as an artist, answered soberingly, “I’m just trying to get through this life and do the least amount of harm.” While we all hope to navigate this life without hurting others, most, if not all of us, will in some way. While we can and must continue to interrogate why powerful (or at least useful to the actual powerful) men like Kobe Bryant seemingly evade the full reckoning of their actions, we must acknowledge that Bryant became something of a patron saint to those who for whatever reason found themselves on the wrong side of right. Maybe they were the underprivileged black and brown boys and girls in over-policed neighborhoods of LA where Bryant played for 20 years. Perhaps they were not pure victims but made some questionable choices and found themselves caught in the system. Or maybe it was the newly divorced father attempting to win back the respect of his kids after breaking apart his family due to his own indiscretions. Kobe Bryant in this second half of his career, culminating in back to back championships, provided a picture of how one climbs back from the depths of hell, even if they were the one that put themself there. This explains the irrationality of Kobe fans, who defended him in everything, and straight-faced spoke his name in the same breath as Michael Jordan, despite honestly being in a class below. For them, Kobe was bigger than basketball, and while many fans share a vicarious relationship with their sports heroes or teams, Bryant’s winning was more profoundly linked to his fans’ sense of self-worth.

Precocity embodied, Bryant arrived in the NBA a generation too soon. As the son of a former player, singularly focused on professionalizing at a young age, even foregoing college at a time when that was still a rarity, Bryant was an alien compared to most players of his generation. The trajectory of players today more resembles Bryant’s. Gone are the days of Dennis Rodman or Scottie Pippen or Steve Nash picking up basketball late, or being undiscovered and surreptitiously landing on a small college team, eventually catching the eye of the larger basketball world. Now, professional basketball starts disturbingly early. Prospects like Zion Williamson have millions of Instagram followers in high school. Second generation pros are commonplace – Steph, Klay, Kyrie, Devin Booker, Andrew Wiggins, Domantas Sabonis, Austin Rivers, Tim Hardaway Jr., Glenn Robinson III, and so on. Bryant was the cautionary tale, a sage mentor, and ultimately an icon to the generation of players succeeding Bryant, who like him, entered the spotlight and scrutiny of an increasingly voracious sports machine as children. Thanks in part to witnessing the triumphs and travails of Bryant, today’s young superstars arrive to the league encoded with the understanding that the fans, the media, the sports industry writ large, wait with baited breath for them to fuck up off the court as much as they do a spectacular play in the game. To these various stakeholders, it’s all good entertainment.

[A bit of a tangent] As the coronavirus began to ravage New Orleans, in particular the homeless and already vulnerable of the city, I had a group of friends, more acquaintances, who took it upon themselves to collect donations, buy groceries, prepare and ultimately hand out meals to the large number of homeless people mostly living under the I-10 overpass downtown. As a naturally cynical person, I immediately questioned the motivations. All of those same homeless people were living under the overpass before coronavirus, where was this energy then? One friend involved with this effort confided that she was incredibly anxiety stricken in all of this, and that this “project” was taking her mind off things. I chafed at the phrasing of feeding the homeless as a “project.” Additionally, daily I would scroll through the Instagram feeds of those helping and see pics of cute hipsters in masks and gloves and in grungy, rugged, but still impossibly chic outfits posing in Power Ranger formations in front of their rusted Ford Ranger filled with grocery bags to distribute. A masterclass in virtue signalling, the narcissism of it all polluted the entire endeavor for me. When I asked a trusted voice why this all rubbed me the wrong way, this person replied curtly, “What does it matter why or how they do it? They’re doing a good thing.”

Kobe did not simply embrace this role of elder-statesman to the succeeding generation, he courted it, campaigned for this mantle as aggressively as he once sought championships. Lacking confidence in the intellect of the public to make their own conjectures of how Bryant resurrected his career, he rebranded himself a self-improvement life-couch, and proselytized his “Mamba Mentality,” even staging a parody Tony Robbins style conference as a Nike commercial. He collected young promising players to mentor like Leonardo DiCaprio collects young blonde models to date. Gossipy whispers swirled every offseason, “Kobes working with Kawhi.” or “Watch out for Jason Tatum this year; he spent the summer training with Kobe.” All of Kobe’s newfound openhandedness seemed spiked with self-aggrandizement. Opting to be the mentor of the next generation ensured that the success of future stars led back to him, and that he would be relevant and sought after long after his retirement.

Whatever the subconscious or even conscious motivations behind Bryant’s mentorship, his movie Dear Basketball, or his show Detail–in which he broke down the games of basketball players across levels and leagues, treating women’s college basketball standout Sabrina Ionescu with the same care and reverence as NBA star James Harden–the result was education, service, stewardship, and love for the game of basketball.

I started writing this soon after Bryant’s death but struggled to synthesize an ultimate point. In the end I am not sure I have one, just that Kobe Bryant, much to my surprise was a figure of enough complexity and enduring relevance to require re-interrogation. In hindsight, I needed to watch The Last Dance; the 10 part Michael Jordan re-coronation. In 2009 newly elected President Barack Obama, after stumbling over the oath of office during the freezing January inauguration, retook the oath the next day in a private ceremony just in case any of his political enemies, or the fomenting alt right with its myriad factions–from the conspiratorial to the downright racist–tried to invalidate his presidency. While trivial in comparison, Jordan, with The Last Dance is attempting desperately to reconfirm that he is the greatest basketball player of all-time, something only a few lunatics question. While the actual game footage is a wonder and leaves no doubt of Jordan’s basketball supremacy, the final tally of this hagiographic enterprise may result in a net loss for Jordan. Jordan, like a 19th century robber baron, seems to genuinely believe that his misanthropy, arrogance, condescension, usury, brutality, workaholism, and myopic focus on basketball, and consummate self-centeredness were all justified, required even, to win. To win what? Championships? With sports leagues and public officials debating when and if sports can and should come back amidst a virus with devastating life or death stakes, sports and success within them feel quite trivial and quaint at the moment.

Having won at everything in life, sitting in his palatial mansion, sipping impossibly overpriced scotch, Jordan does not seem fulfilled. He is Ebenezer Scrooge. Unfortunately, it is not Christmas, and no ghosts of introspection are visiting Jordan, only a camera crew determined to retell the gospel of Jordan with a few non-canonical details sprinkled in for flavor. I am reminded of a line in Pat Conroy’s My Losing Season, an autobiographical account of his college basketball days at The Citadel. After a storied career, Conroy’s senior season is a disaster (hence the title). In it he says no one ever learned anything by winning. The inference is that, while winning is great, the actual growth occurs before, in the losing. Jordan in The Last Dance is the ghastly personification of “never losing. Like Bane before breaking Batman’s back, “Victory has defeated you.” With an unimpeachable resumé, Jordan was never required to question his actions or behaviors towards his teammates and competitors. Worshiped unwaveringly by all, Jordan never felt the need to give anything back to the game or to the communities that supported him.

While never verbally conceding, Bryant seemed to embrace being the loser. Bryant realized early, perhaps as early as Colorado, that he was never going to be as beloved as Jordan. He began planning early for a life outside of basketball. He started a production company. He braved eye-rolls for the n-teenth time when he proclaimed that he was going to be a “storyteller.” Beyond a cliché adage, Bryant became a “family man,” and focused on this part of his life with the same ferocity that he once attacked the basket. Despite braving turmoil very publicly as a young couple, the bond between Bryant and his wife Vanesa appeared, at least on the outside, genuine. They welcomed their newest daughter, Capri, just 7 months before his death. While no less ambitious or busy in retirement, the Bryant who once wore his insecurity and desperation on his sweaty armband, strangely appeared content, happy. The guy who once proudly proclaimed “Spalding his only friend” relented to a verdant life with others.

While undoubtedly compounded by the tragic and sudden nature of his death, the truly astounding outpouring for Kobe–murals the world over, calf-length tattoos, millions of twitter handle re-namings–stands as an accomplishment, or better said, an acknowledgement that “better” athletes like Jordan or LeBron or Tiger or Brady will probably never receive. He wasn’t the best of us, and in many ways we loved him even more because of that. Before The Last Dance we got a preview of the more candid Michael Jordan during Kobe Bryant’s memorial, where Michael, who unbeknownst to us all was a confidant of Bryant’s, admitted that Kobe made him want to be a better father, a better person. In the end even the GOAT was a disciple of the Mamba. It’s only right that the first millennial superstar gained the biggest following.

#Kobe #Mamba #thelastdance #lastdance #michael jordan #goat

4 notes · View notes

aion-rsa · 5 years ago

Text

Are You Afraid of the Darkness?: A Hopepunk Explainer

https://ift.tt/2PUZUv7

A brief guide to the hopepunk movement—its origins, and its possibilities.

facebook

twitter

tumblr

This feature originally appeared in Den of Geek's NYCC 2019 print magazine.

When author Alexandra Rowland (A Choir of Lies) first posted to Tumblr in 2017, "The opposite of grimdark is hopepunk. Pass it on," she had no idea how intensely that sentiment would resonate with the platform’s community and beyond.

"Initially, I was just vaguely bemused that anyone was listening to me," Rowland says, "but at the same time, I understood intellectually why hopepunk was resonating with people. Simply put: they were hurting, and hopepunk was a thing that helped comfort the hurt."

What is hopepunk? It depends on who you ask...

Rowland, quoting her essay “One Atom of Justice, One Molecule of Mercy, and the Empire of Unsheathed Knives,” says: “Hopepunk is a subgenre and a philosophy that ‘says kindness and softness don’t equal weakness, and that, in this world of brutal cynicism and nihilism, being kind is a political act. An act of rebellion.’”

To understand hopepunk as a concept it helps to understand what it stands in contrast to. Grimdark is a fantasy subgenre characterized by bleak settings in which humanity is fundamentally cutthroat, and where no individual or community can stop the world’s inevitable decline. Hopepunk, in contrast, believes that the very act of trying has meaning, that fighting for positive change in and of itself has worth—especially if we do it together.

read more: Autuonomous — Robots, Love, and Identity Under Capitalism

“I think it's a reaction against the overwhelmingly nihilistic, dystopian slant to a lot of stories in the world right now,” says author Annalee Newitz (The Future of Another Timeline). For Newitz, hopepunk isn’t a subgenre but rather “a reason to tell stories, a motivation, or maybe a narrative tone.”

“The idea is to tell a story where there are hopeful elements or maybe a hopeful resolution to the characters' struggles,” Newitz says. “I don't mean to suggest it’s all about having a happy ending, because you can have a pretty ambivalent, broody ending that still conveys hope. Hopepunk is really about showing readers that we can make it through even the most difficult situations. Even if your hero dies, hopepunk suggests that someone else will be there to take up her torch and carry on.”

Hopepunk is Curtis blowing up the train at the end of Snowpiercer, or Max and Furiosa deciding to risk everything and go back to the Citadel at the end of Mad Max: Fury Road. It’s Naomi choosing to open the Roci’s door to let in as many desperate Ganymede refugees as possible in The Expanse. It’s believing that humanity may not be inherently good, but we’re not inherently bad either, and that giving people the chance to prove themselves compassionate is a worthwhile choice.

“At Uncanny, we tend to think of this as ‘radical empathy’ or ‘radical kindness’—choosing to do the good, kind thing, even when the system doesn’t encourage that, as an act of courage,” say Lynne M. Thomas and Michael Damien Thomas, the editors of Uncanny Magazine.

read more: City in the Middle of the Night Review

The Thomases contextualize “hopepunk” as a marketing term, one that has gained prominence in the last few years but that has been around much longer: “There have been veins of hope (as opposed to grimdark hopelessness) across literature for hundreds of years, and for decades within the SFF genre.”

If hopepunk, by some definitions, is nothing new, it is a cultural lens seemingly on the rise after a pop culture period ruled by cynical stories, like Breaking Bad and The Dark Knight, and in a real-world environment that has become increasingly distressing.

“We can retreat into paralysis, and pretend that's somehow pragmatic or realistic,” says Newitz. “Or we can say, fine, this is a horrible problem, let's get together with other people and try to solve any small part of it that we can. Those are the two pathways we can take through a narrative, too. We can tell stories about people who try to fix things, rather than rejoicing in their splendid destruction. It’s a way of showing other people that just because things aren’t perfect, doesn’t mean they can’t be better.”

Has the definition of hopepunk changed since Rowland first coined the term?

“The heart of [my original definition] hasn't changed at all, but my efforts to remind people of the angry part of hopepunk definitely have grown,” she says. “The instinct is to make it only about softness and kindness, because those are what we’re most hungry for. We all want to be treated gently. But sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone is to stand up to a bully on their behalf, and that takes guts and rage.”

read more: How Red, White, and Royal Blue Hopes For a Kinder America

In 2019, hope can feel impossible. If the past few years have taught us anything, it’s that the struggle to create a kinder and more just world is one that will never be linear and will never be over. It is bigger than any one of us, and longer than any lifetime. If hopepunk is the stories that keep us trying in the long shadow of that reality, then it is a vital ingredient to the recipe for change.

So what is hopepunk storytelling? It’s whatever you need it to be... as long as what you need it to be is a way forward in the darkness.

“In hindsight,” Rowland says, “I'm just very happy–when so many people find a philosophy like hopepunk meaningful and compelling... it sorta restores a bit of your faith in humanity, doesn’t it? Maybe all is not yet lost if there are enough people around to say, ‘Oh. Yes, this.’”

Hopepunk Reading Guide

Novels

The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison Saga by Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples Uprooted by Naomi Novik Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler The Future of Another Timeline by Annalee Newitz The Calculating Stars by Mary Robinette Kowal A Choir of Lies by Alexandra Rowland The City in the Middle of the Night by Charlie Jane Anders Trail of Lightning by Rebecca Roanhorse The Expanse by James S.A. Corey Wayward Son by Rainbow Rowell The Sol Majestic by Ferrett Steinmetz The Book of the Unnamed Midwife by Meg Elison

Other

Our Opinions Are Correct Podcast, Episode 22 hosted by Annalee Newitz and Charlie Jane Anders

Uncanny Magazine edited by Lynne M. Thomas and Michael Damien Thomas (recommendations: "Contingency Plans for the Apocalypse" by S.B. Divya, "Sun, Moon, Dust," by Ursula Vernon, and "Packing" by T. Kingfisher)

Hopepunk Author Interviews

Due to the nature of print media, I was unable to include as many of my interviewees' insightful thoughts on hopepunk as I would have liked to. Here is a guide to the full interviews from various speculative fiction authors and editors. I highly recommend clicking through to read them in their entirety.

An Interview with Alexandra Rowland, Author of A Choir of Lies

Excerpt: "By telling hopepunk stories, we necessarily have to be asking questions like, 'How do we care about each other in a world which so aggressively doesn't care about so many of the people in our communities? Who do we consider community, and is that definition too narrow? How do we fight back against the people who want to make us sit down and shut up?'"

An Interview with Annalee Newitz, Author of The Future of Another Timeline

Excerpt: "I think hopepunk is the opposite of apathy. In so many stories these days, characters are (literally or metaphorically) lighting cigarettes and enjoying the end of the world. They may look cool doing it, but it's profoundly anti-social and toxic. As soon as your characters don't give a shit about anything, you're leaving hopepunk behind."

An Interview with Lynne M. Thomas & Michael Damien Thomas, Editors of Uncanny Magazine

Excerpt: "We think that the world can always use more radical empathy and radical kindness. Culture is, fundamentally, a mix of people giving in to their most kind and least kind impulses, and much of our storytelling comes from that inherent conflict. We'd rather encourage the former, personally."

An Interview with Ferrett Steinmetz, Author of The Sol Majestic

Excerpt: "I loved it the moment I heard it. I'm an old punk who knocked around some of the Nazis that the Dead Kennedys decried in 'Nazi Punks F**k Off,' so the idea of punk utilized for something other than some Hot Topic-style cynicism flooded me with joy."

Note: The title of this article comes from hopepunk musician Frank Turner's "Blackout."

Kayti Burt is a staff editor covering books, TV, movies, and fan culture at Den of Geek. Read more of her work here or follow her on Twitter @kaytiburt.

Read and download the Den of Geek NYCC 2019 Special Edition Magazine right here!

facebook

twitter

tumblr

Feature

Culture

Kayti Burt

Nov 7, 2019

Hopepunk

NYCC

NYCC 2019

from Books https://ift.tt/32pEbOv

#aion-rsa #Books

0 notes

halfblood-fiend · 6 years ago

Text

Remembering - Star Trek: Discovery

Rating: Teen and Up

Words: 998

Warnings: obsessive love and a somewhat controversial relationship

Mirror Gabriel Lorca intervenes on Fate's behalf and reflects upon his feelings for Michael Burnham when they meet again for the first time.

Read on AO3

Finally.

Gabriel Lorca's months of searching were finally--finally--over. This opportunity that had presented itself seemed just too good to pass up.

His ship, the Discovery, had been waiting here in the middle of Federation space for some time. They were monitoring the electric storm raging below them, something mildly important for Lieutenant Stamets' work on the spore drive, when Opportunity came knocking. Here they were, here he was, conveniently in the path between her and a dilithium mining facility that exclusively employed convicts, when he was informed that the storm below them just so happened to be infested with a highly volatile form of electrical pest. Species GS54, Commander Saru had said, as he advised they keep their distance. For Lorca, it was as though a bolt of lightning had hit him. Fate was intervening now, the pieces he was waiting for fallen right into his lap. Lorca knew exactly what he had to do next.

"I'll be in my ready room. Saru, you have the bridge."

"Aye, sir."

Sending the subspace signal to the holding facility where Michael Burnham had been sent after her court-martial was an easy thing. Trivial, really. The Federation's "top secret" codes were simple ones to crack, nothing--mere child's play--compared to the complexity and intricacy among the Terran Empire. He was sloppier than he should have been in his haste, but he knew no one would trace the message back to him. No one would even think to.

Lorca practically laughed as he typed out his transmission:

Emergency, priority one. Piezoelectric incident in mining facility, Tellum. Much of mine destroyed. Fifty dead. Dilithium production integral for continuation of Klingon War and must not cease. Send able-bodied replacements immediately.

The message felt so familiar under his fingers that for a moment Lorca nearly believed he'd never left the Empire at all. He would never forget that it was by a stroke of luck, yet another string of fate, that he arrived in this place in the middle of wartime. He might not have been able to convince the people of the Federation that he was this Universe's counterpart had they not been so desperate for soldiers with the stomach for battle. And Lorca had plenty of that. Here, now, his Terran ruthlessness was praised and landed him precisely where he wanted to be: as captain of the U.S.S. Discovery with Paul Stamets and his spore drive under his watchful eye. That he was given license to appropriate anything he needed to further the war effort, was a nice perk. And one he would take full advantage of now. The prize today was the last piece in his grand cosmic puzzle, and his only ticket home.

No matter which way he looked at it, Lorca knew that this Michael Burnham would never be his Michael. Not really. Oh, she would probably look identical. She'd be just as powerful, just as fiercely beautiful, and maybe she'd even have some of the same traits: that scheming vitality, that fiery passion, her stubbornness, her drive, but she wouldn't be his Michael. In the end, it shouldn't have mattered how similar or not similar they were, he would need to keep his distance all the same. Lorca needed to hide any and all attachment to his past life. Michael Burnham was simply part of the plot; a means to an end, nothing more. To forget this would mean his undoing.

But even the best-laid plans had uncalculated variables. When Lorca turned around, when he saw her standing there, alive and well, before his desk as the room slowly eased into light...

His breath caught in his throat. He felt as though he'd been kicked in the chest, stomach pummeled until he was within an inch of his life. The shock was worse than any Agonizer.

It was all he could do to stop himself from grabbing her shoulders, from kissing her, from shaking her. Remember me? I didn't mean to love you! I didn't mean to let you die, but now we have a second chance!

She's not yours, he repeated to himself, vehemently--violently. But still... still his heart ached for Michael. Still, he saw her in his mind's eye gasping and unwinding beneath him, or restraining his arms from above him--he was never picky about which. Her's was a fire of unadulterated passion Lorca had no hope--or intention-- of putting out.

Even as he spoke to her, his heart cried for hers. He searched this Michael for any sign, any inkling, that she knew how closely intertwined their fates had been before. Recognize me, Michael! I'm here for you now. Remember me! His heart begged her in a sickening show of weakness the real Michael Burnham would have sneered at. For a moment, Lorca couldn't help himself.

But there was never any recognition.

The woman before him was not his Michael.

She was ruined. Resigned. Her eyes were lifeless, missing the fire that always made her her. In this universe, she carried the weight of the war on her shoulders and didn't relish in it. All this self-pity, over one measly mutiny, over a few thousand casualties...

She didn't recognize him. And suddenly, Lorca was disgusted with her.

She was nothing.

Michael back talked his orders (which he expected from her), some chicken-shitted excuse about wanting to serve out her sentence (which he did not expect from her), but Lorca knew better. If there was one trait he would bet his life that was the same, it was her curiosity. Once she realized what was going on aboard this ship--once he showed her--she would stay. Michael was another tie, another thread attaching him to the life he'd accidentally left.

And with no small amount of luck and a dash of fate, Lorca would return, destroy Emperor Georgeou, and rule the Terran Empire himself. Perhaps even with Michael at my side, after all, he thought, willing or not.

#Fiend writes #Star Trek: Discovery #Discovery #Michael Burnham x Mirror!Gabriel Lorca #Discovery Season 1 spoilers #Michael Burnham #Mirror Gabriel Lorca #Their arc was so underrated #and glossed over so quickly #you barely had enough time to be horrified #so I'd like to delve into that thx

11 notes · View notes

amirosebooks · 7 years ago

Text

Dean’s Motivation for Revenge

I saw @mittensmorgul‘s post about Dean saying yes to Michael and the way that choices suck sometimes the other day. I immediately started typing a long follow up out at work and had to shelve it when we got busy enough that I couldn’t justify writing meta on the clock. (Ugh, rude.) Then I saw @postmodernmulticoloredcloak‘s follow up post to that this morning and omg, yes.

I don’t have much to add to the second post, but I do want to touch on the post from Mittens.

In the week since the finale, I’ve seen a few people pointing out that Dean was the only one on Team Free Will (or any of the shows major players) who could kill Lucifer because he was the only one who wasn’t motivated by revenge for doing so. (I cannot, for the life of me, find the post I’m talking about here. Meta moves too fast in this fandom for me to keep up with 90% of the time.) And, while I sort of agree with that point, I also kind of... don’t.

Allow me to explain.

No, Dean was never directly a victim of Lucifer’s torture or particular breed of violence. But, Dean “Mother Hen” Winchester absolutely has a reason to go after Lucifer to get revenge, or justice or whatever you’d like to call it, on behalf of his family.

Warning, I like to use a lot of gifs in my meta...

Let’s start with Mary Winchester. Yes, she’s a huge bag of worms and confusing mother-sons relationship meta right now, but let’s go back. To the apocalypse. To Dean watching the position that Heaven and Hell put Mary in. That impossible choice she was forced to make between the life of the man Heaven made her love and the vague love she would have one day for her future kids.

Now, I’m not a parent, but I’ve known enough parents who have agreed that until you have your kid and meet them you have no idea how fiercely you can love someone. So let’s play with that idea.

Azazel was sent after Mary Winchester because the children from the Campbell and Winchester pairing had the potential to make good vessels for the upcoming battle between Lucifer and Michael. The big fight that Heaven and Hell had been building up to for, literally, ever.

So, good choice or not, Mary chose the love she could feel right then in that moment and the promised safety for her future children, and took the deal. Thus sealing Sam’s demon blood fate and setting herself up to burn on the ceiling in the opening credits to the show.

And Dean watched it all. There was nothing he could do to prevent it.

We can’t talk about Mary burning without talking about the effect it had on John Winchester. Because Heaven and Hell wanted Lucifer to be free and Michael to have his sword, Sam had to drink demon blood and Dean had to get charged with an impossible task to become the Righteous Man.

John Winchester, the once bright eyed soldier who married a woman he was fated to love but otherwise probably wouldn’t have had much contact with, basically became canon fodder to set up the war between Heaven and Hell.

Dean got to see John before the fire, before the deal Mary made, too. He got to see the smiling, joyful man his father never was in his lifetime with his own eyes. He got to meet the man his mother fell for. The man John was before Azazel got involved in their lives. The man John was before revenge consumed him and turned him into, arguably, a human monster.

Dean was there. He watched it all and he shouldered the impossible task of taking care of Sam and his father, no matter the personal cost.

(Best gif I could find of Dean’s time in hell in Tumblr’s gif search.)

ANYWAY, let’s talk about that impossible task. Take care of Sammy. That’s exactly what Dean did. Especially from that moment in the gif with John above, and definitely throughout Dean’s entire childhood and most of his adult life, he took care of Sammy. He sold his soul to keep Sam from dying, to protect Sam from what the demon blood had done to him. To keep him from having to be one of Azazel’s chosen kids.

[Incoming tangent that I swear will make sense in a minute.]

It didn’t help in the way he wanted, but he did it anyway.

Now, before I got so deep into SPN that my blog became wall to wall Winchesters and Team Free Will, I was heavily involved in a fandom for the Cut & Run book series. The series is about two (canon) bisexual FBI agents falling in love and fighting crime. One of the agents is a Marine and his best friend is a Boston police detective named Nick O’Flaherty. Nick was an abused kid who spent much of his childhood protecting his siblings and learning to be strong. Nick is one of my all time favorite characters ever. (And if I ever get the time and mental energy together enough to do a proper meta series, I’ll write one comparing him with Dean because omg. I know he’s not based on Dean, but the similarities hurt my soul because I want to wrap them both in blankets.)

And, spoiler alert, in the 8th book of the series Nick get pushed into torturing someone for information in order to find a killer and save a group of missing children. There was a lot going on with Nick in that book, but that moment intrigued me.

When the book came out, the fandom wrote a bunch of meta about it and I, for one, kept coming back to the question of “why Nick?” Why was he the one out of their little group of Force Recon Marines who was “trained to torture.” So I asked the author (or she responded to a meta post, the last few years have been fuzzy, but I remember her answer).

Nick was the one of the group who was perfect to train for torture because he would hate it. Nick is the mother hen of the group. He protects people, even people he doesn’t know, it’s who he is. Which means, if you force him to hurt someone, he’ll do it and he’ll do it quick because he doesn’t want to do it. This, unfortunately, makes him more efficient at the job than other characters who might use revenge or inner rage to take out their emotions on the person they’re trying to get information out of.

[Tangent coming back to SPN now...]

THIS is the same reason, in my opinion, that Alistair was able to break Dean and get him to pick up a knife in hell. They tried with John, but John was already too prone to lashing out physically. Dean, on the other hand, has always been softer than his father or his brother. (Sam is ruthless AF when he needs to be, and it’s sadly awesome to watch sometimes.) There was never a chance for John to be Michael’s true vessel. Or even his sorta useful one, not really. If they needed a Righteous Man, they needed someone who could be broken. Someone who could be pushed into doing terrible things and doing them quick to get shit done because he doesn’t want to do them.

Now let’s take on Sam Winchester. Dean’s charge. The kid Dean had to raise while John Winchester avenged the death of his soulmate. The kid Dean watched rebel against their father and abandon Dean (over and over) in search of college and a normal life. The kid Dean tried to be everything for, but always came up a little short (by Dean’s self-loathing coated standards).

He watched Sam lose his first love in the same way they lost their mother. At the same time Jess burned, so did Sam’s best shot at the normal life he’d wanted since he was old enough to want things. Dean watched Sam mourn and could do nothing to soothe it. He watched Sam seek out revenge and grow into the powers Azazel gifted him with. He watched Sam fall victim to his demon blood addiction and say yes to Lucifer and get trapped in the cage with Lucifer. He had to commit his brother when the hallucinations of Lucifer became too much for Sam to fight through.

Dean’s tried to protect Sam their entire lives, but the one thing he was never able to stand as a shield against was the kind of psychological (and other) torture Sam endured from Lucifer.

And then there’s Castiel. It’s been known for, at least, the last seven or eight seasons that one of the keys to Dean Winchester’s heart--or at the very least, gaining his ride or die protection and affection--is to save Sam when he couldn’t or, eventually, to save Cas. Much like Sam’s psychological torture, the one thing Dean has never been able to save Cas from is himself.

Which is why watching Cas take on abuse from Lucifer to spare Sam from it not once, but twice was huge for building up the trust and such that Dean feels for Cas. (Regardless of whether you ship them, that is fucking huge and it’s fairly obvious from the canon of the show that it’s drive Dean to protecting Cas and trying to save Cas multiple times over since then.)

Dean’s felt guilty for corrupting Cas into falling probably since Zachariah sent him to the Endverse, maybe sooner. But to watch a creature who was once so powerful and mighty and sure of himself and his cause utterly break under the weight of Sam’s memories of the cage had to layer that guilt on even more. Then to find out that Cas had said yes to Lucifer possessing him so that 1) Sam wouldn’t have to and 2) to clean up a mess (the Darkness) that Dean felt he caused? Ouch.

Dean saw what being close to Sam’s memories of the cage did to Cas the first time, no fucking wonder he spent the last half of season eleven trying to get Lucifer to GTFO of his friend and most of season twelve trying to keep Cas from doing something stupid and Lucifer related again. Which, again, didn’t work because Dean cannot protect Cas from himself (or Lucifer, for that matter), no matter how much he’d like to. (Something I think Dean finally started to grasp hold of in season 13.)

Speaking of those stupid Lucifer related things Dean kept trying to keep Cas from getting tangled up in (and ultimately failed to prevent)... Jack!

Whether you love him or hate him or think he’s annoying, there’s a few undeniable things we know about Jack after spending a season with him. 1) He’s powerful AF. As he should be seeing as he’s half archangel and the son of fucking Lucifer. 2) For all that he’s this super powerful being, he’s also innocent AF in a way that’s rubbed against Dean’s MUST PROTECT instincts from the beginning of the season (after he got past the whole shoot to kill thing) 3) He brought Cas back from The Empty. (Well, he was able to wake Cas up in The Empty and Cas did all the work annoying his doppelgänger into eventually YEETing his ass out of there... anyway) 4) He reminded Dean of Cas when Cas was dead and gone and (presumably) lost to Dean forever. 5) Dean has claimed Jack as family and part of the new edition of Team Free Will. That means Jack officially has Dean’s ride or die (or ride AND die in many cases…) level of protection.

Now, given who Dean is as a character and a person, there’s absolutely no way in fuck you can convince me he’d want to see the aftermath of what would happen to someone who is so naturally sweet and innocent and powerful as Jack after Lucifer was done with him. Dean’s already seen what the idea of Lucifer did to his mom and his father. He’s seen what it did to his brother and his best friend. I do not at all believe he wants to relive that with Jack. Not after he’s 1) finally accepted the kid into his family and 2) saved the kid from the apocalypse world.

And this doesn’t even remotely touch on Dean seeing what became of Crowley after Lucifer kept him as a dog in hell or how Rowena went a little... off the rails trying to get her power back after Lucifer killed her for the second time.

So, no, I don’t really think Dean is the only one who didn’t have a motive for revenge against Lucifer. I think he’s the one with the most reason for revenge AND the most emotional capacity (since he’s the only one, other than Jack, who wasn’t traumatized by Lucifer) to take on the task.

THAT is why I think Dean said yes to Michael, consequences be damned.

#spn meta #dean winchester #spn spoilers #13x23 #michael!dean #my spn meta #c&r meta #lucifer #i don't feel like adding more tags to this because i basically recapped thirteen seasons of the fucking show #nick o'flaherty #nick o'flaherty vs dean winchester

59 notes · View notes