#michael shannon x you

[hottpinkpenguin]

Would you write a one shot for Zipco at all? I Understand if not I just laughed every time he was on screen I feel like he’s one of them drunk naturally funny guys who just rambles but I had an idea, he’s obviously very very drunk 90% of the time ��

imagine he’s crushing on you ( your way out of his league but like him back) yet you don’t like how drunk he is all the time and word gets back to him and the group starts picking up how he’s sober more now because he’s trying to move on you

If you don’t write for him at all I understand ❤️

A Good Woman - Zipco X Female Reader

A/n: after writing my first fic for the Bikeriders, I kinda fell in love with Zipco's character so actually very happy that you requested something for him! it's currently a oneshot, but I might do a prt 2...? PS fam, there are no gifs of Zipco and that rlly needs to be rectified pronto Word Count: 3072 Warnings: some outdated misogynistic/traditional gender roles vibes; cursing; alcohol use

You’d never seen your father closer to murder than the night Zipco picked you up for your first date. You heard Zipco coming on his chopper about a mile before he pulled up your cul de sac and stopped at your front door. He had a small cluster of wildflowers - picked by hand, illegally, out of a garden he passed on the way over - clutched awkwardly in one of his hands. He left a smudged fingerprint on the doorbell. 

“Mama, Daddy, this is Zipco.” You reddened with embarrassment when you realized that you didn’t actually know his full name. Your mother raised her eyebrows at the sound of his name, while your father’s complexion turned a shade of red dangerously close to purple. 

“Nice to meet you,” Zipco mumbled. You swallowed thickly, trying to catch his eye to see if you could somehow cue him to kiss your mother’s cheeks like she expected. As you took in the terrified look on his face, you realized it wouldn’t do any good. He hadn’t shaved since you’d first met him three days prior, and his stubble would almost certainly offend your mother. 

“Mr…. Zipco.” Your mother moved first, extending a hand in greeting with great trepidation. Zipco took it limply for a brief moment before dropping it, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat self-consciously. 

“Our daughter has a curfew, Mr. Zip-toe,” your father blustered. You were almost certain that he intentionally mispronounced Zipco’s name. 

You stepped forward, eager to intercept this conversation before it took a turn into confrontation. Much to your surprise, Zipco nodded obsequiously. “Yes sir, your daughter told me. I’ll have ‘er back well before then, and only a little bit drunk.”

Your stomach fell out through the bottom of your feet. Of all times for a bad joke, this was certainly not one of them. Your mother inhaled sharply as her eyes widened in disbelief. Your father opened his mouth, ready to hurl insults, as his face darkened from puce to fuschia. 

“Daddy, he’s just teasing. He knows, I told him all that. We’ll be safe, I promise! Kathy will be with us.” Your second-cousin, Kathy, was the whole reason Zipco was here at all. You’d been tagging along with her and her new biker boyfriend, Benny, when you’d run into Benny’s motorcycle club - Zipco included - outside of a pool hall in a section of town your parents would never allow you to go to. Not that they knew that. But Kathy’s endorsement of Zipco was the only reason they’d agreed to the notion of you going on a date with a man who rode a motorcycle. 

Your mother placed a silencing hand on your father’s shoulder. Outnumbered, your father let the protests that had been so close to exploding die on his lips with a flustered sigh. Next to you, Zipco was practically vibrating with discomfort. Quick to leave, you place a hasty kiss on both your parents’ cheeks and bid them adieu, ushering a stockstill Zipco out of the door before they had a chance to rethink the whole thing. 

You made a small show out of putting on your helmet and fastening it under your chin so your parents could see. You delicately perched on the second seat of Zipco’s bike and gripped the handles near your ankles chastely until you’d rounded the corner and your house was well out of sight. You quickly let go of the handles, wrapping your arms around Zipco’s thickly muscled torso and leaning your cheek against the Vandals MC patch of his jean jacket. Riding on his bike was just as much of a thrill today as it had been three days prior. You shimmied up towards the front of the bike as close as you could get to his back, until the two of you were practically zipped together from your belly to his back. Unsure of where you were going, you closed your eyes and smiled contentedly, listening to the roar of the road as Zipco drove you out of the suburbs and out into the rolling farmlands outside of town…

*****

“Woah woah woah, look what the Latvian beast dragged in. A pink princess!” You blushed at Johnny’s greeting, resisting the urge to twirl around in the baby pink dress you’d picked out for the occasion. Kathy had actually laughed at you when you’d tried it on for her, asking you if you knew that we’re going to a biker race, not a Sadie Hawkins dance. But you knew that Zip liked it when you dressed in soft colors. One night when he’d been feeling particularly romantic, he called you his cotton candy queen. You’d practically melted on the spot. 

Next to you, Zipco grumbled some nondescript retort in Johnny’s direction, his arm tightening around your shoulder. You reached up and planted a kiss on his stubbly cheek, happy to reassure him. The grainy smell of whiskey tickled your nose, and you tried to conceal the flash of frustration that ripped through you. He was drunk again? It was barely 6:00pm on a Thursday, for Christ’s sake. Plus, he was supposed to be driving you home. You hated to think of how your parents would react if, once again, it was Kathy’s boyfriend Benny who dropped you off at the end of the night. As your mother succinctly observed, “getting picked up by one biker is bad enough, but getting dropped off by another just makes you look like a cheap whore”. 

Johnny threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t worry Zip, nobody’s comin’ for your princess, not on my watch.” Zip chortled before he took a heavy seat next to Funny Sonny in front of the fire. You followed, sitting on the other side from him, exchanging a small wave with Kathy. She barely noticed, her tongue so deep in Benny’s throat you wondered if she’d managed to lick his tonsils yet. 

“How you doin’, darlin’?” Funny Sonny asked, shooting you a leering smile with rotten teeth. You remembered the first time you’d met him how that state of his dental health had almost made your stomach turn. Now, you couldn’t imagine him with a beaming set of pearly whites. One thing that these last four months of dating Zip had taught you, nobody in the Vandals was perfect, and if they were, they wouldn’t be nearly as fun. 

“Peachy keen, Sonny, and I appreciate you askin’.” You’d managed to drop the g’s at the end of your words that Zipco said made you sound like a spoiled daddy’s money brat, but you hadn’t quite adopted the informal, cuss-riddled speak of the Vandals. You’d tried once or twice, but after getting quizzical looks at best to outright laughs at worst, you’d decided that you couldn’t fight nature. Besides, most of the guys seemed to warm up to you, after they got over the shock of seeing their roughest, wildest member with a judge’s daughter. As Benny had explained to you one night, Zipco was motor oil and you were champagne. You had to give people a little bit of time to get used to seeing opposites paired together. 

Funny Sonny laughed, shaking his head at your perfectly articulated and sincerely polite response. “Any time, darlin’, any time. Zip, here, I saved you one.” Funny Sonny tossed your boyfriend an unopened beer, which he caught deftly despite the haze of whiskey that had turned his eyes glassy. As he went to crack the top, you nudged him gently on the shoulder, leaning over to whisper in his ear.

“Baby, aren’t you takin’ me home tonight?” He didn’t hesitate, but proceeded to open the top of his beer and take a swig. 

“‘Course,” he replied curtly, turning to face you. He was close enough to kiss, and you could feel his warm, cigarette-and-Canadian-club breath fan over your face. You would have found it sexy, if it wasn’t coming from the man that was supposed to drive you over an hour back home in a few short hours. 

“Well, maybe you should… y’know…” Zip stared at you blankly, waiting for you to finish the sentence. You were acutely aware that several of the guys sitting around the fire were watching your interaction with mild interest, although trying to appear totally oblivious. Even Johnny had his ears craned in your direction. The last thing you wanted to do was embarrass Zipco in front of his MC. 

Your eyes flicked meaningfully at the beer in his hand. Zipco shrugged. “What’re you trynna say?” he asked flatly. You could sense his defenses coming up. This wasn’t the first time you’d had this discussion. 

“I just… I think maybe, since you have to drive me home, and it’s a long drive y’know, maybe you should cool it. On the drinkin’.” 

Zipco’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. You watched as he struggled to stuff his temper down. The circle had gone awkwardly quiet, and now some of the guys were watching him openly, warily. You knew from talking with Johnny and Benny that Zipco had a reputation in the club of being a hothead with a hair trigger temper. You’d never seen his temper, at least that was what those guys had told you. And you didn’t want to, from the sounds of it. 

“Didn’t know I was datin’ my fuckin’ mother.” Zipco took a loud gulp of beer, downing the rest easily and crushing it in one hand, tossing the crumpled aluminum can over his opposite shoulder. 

You pursed your lips and ducked your head down as you felt your cheeks stain with humiliation. “I’m not tryin’ to be your mother, Zip, I just-”

“Then quit mindin’ what I do and shut the fuck up.”

If the circle had been quiet before, it was silent now. You willed yourself not to cry, squeezing your eyes shut against the burn of tears. You’d been trying your best not to embarrass him, and here he’d gone and properly chided you in front of everybody. And based on the tension on his jaw, he wasn’t feeling any regret. He avoided your gaze, unlooping his arm from where it had come to rest around your shoulders and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

Unsure of what to say or do, you stayed still and quiet. After a few long moments, Kathy chimed in quickly that was it Wahoo or Corky who said that they could beat Cockroach in a wrestling match. The ensuing round of laughter and eruption of conversation was louder than necessary, everybody eager to give you and Zipco the illusion of privacy. 

You didn’t talk to anybody for the rest of the evening and you only watched the races with vague interest. Zipco didn’t race, for his part. He stayed precisely where he was, by your side. Even though his posture didn’t relax or change, you sensed that he was locked in his own head, battling with regret over his harsh words. 

When you finally whispered that we gotta get home, I have curfew, Zipco practically leapt up from the seat. You’d been watching carefully, and he hadn’t had anything to drink since that beer almost three hours ago. The glassy gleam in his eyes had been replaced by something that smoldered with an intensity that made you squirm. You exchanged brief goodbyes with the rest of the club and with Kathy, who asked you pointedly are you ok, to which you hurriedly nodded yes. Zipco, watching intently from a few paces away, didn’t say anything as the two of you walked out of the field and back towards the dirt road where the club had parked their bikes. You hopped on the back of his bike, wrapping your arms around his waist and laying your head against his spine like you always did. You thought you sensed him relax slightly at the feel of you against him, but you couldn’t be sure if it was true or just wishful thinking on your part. 

The two of you drove quietly along dark country roads until he pulled over without warning in the sickly yellow light of a truck stop. He cut the engine on his bike and stood up, ripping off his helmet and turning to face you with a desperate intensity.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured as he wrapped his arms around you, holding your head to his chest. You all but burst into tears as you hugged him back, nodding against his stomach. “I was wrong, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Please, please forgive me.” When his voice broke on the second please, your resolve broke with it. You pulled back, looking up at him with tears clinging to your lashes. He tenderly rubbed the moisture from your cheeks with calloused thumbs. 

“Its OK, Zip. I shouldn’t have said anythin’ in front of the guys-”

“I’m workin’ on it.” His statement brought you up short, and you looked at him with a question in your eyes. 

“The drinkin’”, he added by way of clarification. “I’m workin’ on it. I swear. I just… I need time.” 

You bit back against the impulse to ask him how are you possibly working on it after you’d seen him drunk or almost-drunk for nearly three weeks straight at this point. You swallowed those words and just nodded again, leaning your head against his stomach again. You could hear his heartbeat - strong and racing - against your ear. He smoothed the back of your hair and rocked you softly for a few minutes. Once the hiccuping sobs had subsided, he bent down and pressed a deep, apologetic kiss to your lips before putting his helmet back on and swinging a leg over the seat of his bike. 

You were late for curfew that night, but even a stern reprimand from your father couldn’t steal the small slice of joy you felt every time you spent time with Zipco. You fell asleep with a smile on your face…

*****

“What do you mean you ain’t drinkin’?” 

Zipco shrugged off Big Fat Jack’s incredulous question nonchalantly. “I mean I ain’t drinkin’.” Zip slid onto a bar stool and accepted the tonic and lime that the bartender Richie offered him. From the pool table behind him, Big Fat Jack was still flabbergasted. 

“I ain’t never known you not to drink, Zip. What the fuck’s goin’ on here, is it end of days or somethin’? You dyin’ or somethin’, got the cancer?” 

“Yea, Zip’s got somethin’, I hear it’s terminal too,” Wahoo chimed in noisily, his quip eliciting chuckles from Corky and Cockroach. 

“Oh yea? What’s that?”

“Zip’s got that hunger.” Zipco tensed against the joke he knew was coming. “That pussy hunger. Bad case of it.”

Six months ago, Zipco would have been one of the guys laughing at that kind of crass joke. He’d never understood why guys got their backs up about banter regarding their ladies. But now, he knew it all too well. He sipped on the tonic and lime, fighting with the urge to order a pint and two shots of Canadian Club, down them all and then throw Wahoo across the bar. He tried to picture your face: tears streaked down your face, your precious little lips trembling as you’d cried because he’d made you that way. More than anything else he’d tried, it was that image that had helped him patch together a shaky week of (relative) sobriety. He had hated the sight of you hurt, but more than that he had hated the way he felt to be the one who hurt you. Normally, Zipco would drink away anything he disliked about himself. He’d had a lot of practice - hell, he’d been drinking since his eleventh birthday, when his dad had given him a beer and a shot of vodka. He’d never banked on drinking being the thing he disliked. But, then again, he also hadn’t banked on having someone like you in his life. And you were worth everything. And maybe, whatever you saw in him was worth it too. 

So, with that image of you crying and that extremely tenuous hope for his own redemption, Zipco brushed off Wahoo’s and Big Fat Jack’s chirping until they lost interest. One of many things Zip had learned since he’d been sober enough to notice was that drunk people generally lost interest quickly. Thankfully, Wahoo and Big Fat Jack were no exceptions. 

“Speaking of your lady, where is she?” Johnny joined Zipco at the bar with a Budweiser in hand. Zip noticed the way Johnny’s eyes flickered to the lime and tonic with a note of interest. Zip knew there were drinks out there that probably looked identical to what he had in his right hand at that moment, but he wasn’t the type of guy to drink fancy cocktails. If he was drinking,it was a beer, it was a shot, or it was straight from the bottle. Johnny knew that too. 

“Studyin’,” Zip replied simply. 

“You got yourself a schoolgirl, eh?” Johnny elbowed Zipco teasingly, the double entendre not lost on either of them. Against himself, Zipco smiled and shook his head. 

“Got ‘er beautician’s test tomorrow,” Zipco added, raising his now empty glass towards Richie and shaking it. Richie nodded and started prepping a second glass. 

“Yea, ok. And you? Fat Jack’s right, Zip, I ain’t known you to pass on a drink in our whole friendship.” Unlike Wahoo and Big Fat Jack, Johnny’s statement sounded impressed and curious. 

Zip nodded, running his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully. “Tryin’ to better myself, I guess,” he said after a few moments. Johnny nodded, sipping his Budweiser and sizing Zipco up. 

“Good woman’ll do that to a man.” Zip smiled softly. Johnny knew, after all. Johnny had Becky and two kids at home. Something Zipco had found himself dreaming about more and more these days, since meeting you. The idea of having a warm smile and a house all his own to come home to was beginning to sound mighty nice. 

“Reckon so,” Zip agreed. Richie appeared with Zipco’s fresh drink, prompting Johnny to raise his bottle for a toast. Zip followed suit. 

“To good women,” Johnny declared. “To good bikes. And to the men who ride ‘em!” 

With a hearty laugh, Zipco clinked glasses with his club President as he let Johnny’s toast paint wanton pictures in his mind…

[isabelly-smelly]

List of Pro-Palestinian Celebrities That I Have Been Working On

pro🍉 (❌ = problematic for unrelated reason, 🕊️= passed away)

reneé rapp

pedro pascal

bella ramsey

bella hadid

gigi hadid

dua lipa

melanie martinez❌(sa - “she didn’t say no” was response)

the weekend❌(misogyny - lesbian fetish)

towa bird

phoebe bridgers

lucy dacus

julien baker

beabadoobee

kehlani

hozier

melissa barreram

macklemore

cate blanchett

hari nef

julia fox❌(connections with kanye and drake)

mitski

SZA

nina lu

zendaya

victoria monét

rachel zegler

jenna ortega

clairo

chloe forero

miss rachel (toddler learning)

ariana grande❌(said her dream dinner date is jeffery dahmer)

ricky montgomery

angelina jolie

maisie peters

chani nicholas

nemahsis

chappell roan

frank ocean

ramy youssef

cardi b

halsey

eddy mack

saul williams

arooj aftab

michelle wolf

carice van houten

matt mcgorry

michael stipe

Jasmin Savoy Brown

Dame Vivienne Westwood

Neemz

amira jazeera

MUNA

Hedy Epstein

Hunter Schafer

Chance the Rapper

ishowspeed ❌ (treated his ex-girlfriend terribly)

Noname (rapper, poet, and producer)

shannon berry

nicola coughlan

bambie thug

zara larsson

AURORA

jonathan glazer

joaquin phoenix❌

lizzy mcalpine

coldplay (will champion, phil harvey, guy berryman, chris martin)

tyler the creator

björk

pink floyd (at least roger waters)

lauryn hill

chuck d

david bowie (loving the alien)🕊️

Malcom X🕊️

the strokes (Julian Casablancas, Albert Hammond Jr., Fabrizio Moretti, Nick Valensi, and Nikolai Fraiture)

earl sweatshirt

michael jackson (palestine, don't cry)🕊️

kid cudi

rage against the machine (zack de la rocha, tom morello, tim commerford, brad wilk)

lorde

FKA twigs

joji

ethel cain

Michael Jordan Bonema

lil peep🕊️

sean beam

liam cunningham

dianne guerrero

sean bean

tobias menzies

charles dance

carice van houten

emma d’arcy

madison pettis

lena heady

mxmtoon

joe alwyn

momona tamada

patrick spicer

mark ruffalo

halle bailey

chloe bailey

nicola coughlan

tom welling

kristen kreuk

rob delaney

kali uchis

louise xin (fashion designer)

isabela merced

joseph quinn

grace van dien

helana christensen

josh hutcherson

charli xcx

megan thee stallion (called for ceasefire at her concert 8/1/24, not sure if she talked about it before that because i only went to one concert)

hozier

not pro🍉 (“neutrality” = not pro 🍉, red text = signed letter for "israel")

taylor swift (no statement)

kanye west

oprah

dwayne johnson

lana del rey

selena gomez

rihanna (no statement)

adam sandler

lady gaga (performed in "israel")

beyoncé (no statement)

justin timberlake (performed in "israel")

noah schnapp

bon jovi (performed in "israel")

robbie williams (performed in "israel")

Brett Gelman

entirety of paramore (no statement)

chris pratt

justin bieber

hailey bieber

haley baylee (no statement)

natalie portman

madonna (performed in "israel")

kardashian family

Jenner family

jennifer lawrence

amy schumer

neil druckmann (admitted to "The Last of Us Part 2" being based on Israel's genocide against Gaza, except from a zionist's point of view)

bruno mars (performed in isnotreal)

mayim bialik

gal gadot

Jerry Seinfeld

Debra Messing

Bryan Lourd

Richard Lovett

Ryan Murphy

Zachery Levi

Sharon Osbourne

Tracey-Ann Oberman

George Lopez

Phil Rosenthal

Mekhi Phifer

Diane Warren

Haim Saban

Irving Azoff

Ynon Kreiz

Jody Gerson

Mark Hamill

Rick Yorn

Howie Mandel

Sherry Lansing

Rick Yorn

Tom Rothman

Julian Edelman

Antoine Fuqua

Jack Black

Aubrey Plaza

Tahj Mowry

Josh Peck

Ziggy Marley

Howie Mandel

Chris Pine

Billy Porter

Ben Savage

Jeremy Seinfeld

Bella Thorne

uncertain

billie eilish (wore ceasefire pin but doesn’t boycott - made videos for mtv israel)

laufey (connections to mitski- no statement)

hank green (historically hasn’t been pro🍉 but has donated recently)

olivia rodrigo (connections to Chappell roan - no statement)

dylan mulvaney (posted in support of palestine but has a few pro-israel friends & has partnered with pro-israel brands)

If you spot any typos, mistakes regarding celebrities listed, or have information about celebrities not listed, please either DM me or leave a comment on this post!!

As always, this blog stands with Palestine, Congo, and Sudan. PLEASE make sure to email your state representatives (if you live in the United States). If you do not know your representative (or how to contact them), you can use this website (which is the official U.S. House of Representatives website). My reposts on Tumblr are all about Isnotreal's genocide on Palestine (at least as of 6/16/2024). Make sure to amplify Palestinian voices and journalists as well (a list will be included below of some Palestinian journalists and groups/people supporting Palestine on Instagram).

@/wizard_bisan1

@/hindkhoudary

@/m.z.gaza

@/anat.international

@/palestine.academy

@/eye.on.palestine

@/ampalestine

@/byplestia

@/wael_eldahdouh

@/jenan.matari

@/thepcrt

@/blackforpalestine

@/jewishvoiceforpeace

@/palestinianyouthmovement

@/eid_yara

[siampie]

Finding You||Chapter 6

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings/tags: pinning, childhood trauma, eldest daughter syndrome, mention of emotional abuse, mentions of SA

A/N: Enjoy this chapter, you guys. Comments and reblogs are always welcomed, greatly advised and strongly appreciate.

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Tag list: @marytheweefrenchie; @sunflowersandsapphires; @schneeflocky; @danzer8705; @ebathory997;

@shouldbestudying41; @beezusvreeland; @lulukings92;

Dividers by @cafekitsune

“In the latest gangbang shooting, the young father of two was gunned down in this Dublin’s pub, last night.”

The news anchor was standing in front of the aforementioned pub. The guards surrounded the establishment, collecting evidences. You put down the remote on your coffee table, and moved in the kitchen.

“Caolan Moore was celebrating the birth of his daughter Leah, when the gunman entered the pub and shot him five times. Moore’s fiancée, Shannon Gogarty, said he was a loving father who enjoyed nothing more than spending time with his kids.”

You started a fresh pot of coffee before sitting down at the small kitchen table. It all had seemed surreal, last night. Everything all happening at once, your mother calling you, Michael being arrested. It all had seemed surreal and chaotic. Unfortunately, you were no stranger to chaos. You did grow up in a pretty unstable home, walking on eggshells around your father at times. The man was able to explode at the drop of a hat. Although, as he grew older, he became less violent and less controlling.

You stared out of your large kitchen window. The red and blue lights had flashed across your walls well into the night. The guards had swarmed the streets, coming in and out of Jimmy’s home, collecting evidences. The news of Caolan Moore’s death had hit the internet long before the news outlet got a hold of it. Words were that the Kinsella did it, specifically Michael Kinsella.

You knew those words to be true. You knew, deep down, that Michael had done it. You knew it was for revenge for Jamie’s death on behalf of his brother, Jimmy. It didn’t take a genius to know that. It also didn’t come as a surprise that it happened. After all, you had watched enough tv shows and movies to know that this was the next course of action for the Kinsella. It was bound to happen.

You let out a long breath. You weren’t all that thrilled to go to work on no sleep. You had been restless for most of the night, thoughts of your mother whirling around your mind.

“I’m in Dublin.”

Thoughts of her being in Dublin had you reeling. You didn’t know what to do, what to think. You had thought of calling your sister or your little brother but—you didn’t want to worry them. And now that Michael had been arrested, you didn’t think you should burden him with your own issues. He already had a lot to deal with. He didn’t need to deal with you on top of it all.

You were anxious, you could feel it in the pit of your stomach. You didn’t want to go out and take the risks of bumping into her, or bumping into him. And since they had your address, the chances of that happening were pretty high. But you couldn’t just stop living your life because they were in Dublin, because you might come face to face with them.

A black car pulled into your driveway. It was Birdy’s, you frowned up at the car through the window. Your breath hitched at the sight of Michael climbing out the car. He had been released. You stood up and moved to your front door, as the car pulled out of your driveway.

“Michael?” You called as soon as you opened your door. The man walked up to you. “Are you okay?” Your eyes roamed over him quickly.

“I’m alright, pet.” Michael answered, smiling softly at you. “Yer up early?”

“Well, I didn’t really sleep.” You shook your head quickly. “Do you want to come in? Have a cup of coffee and maybe some breakfast?”

“I’d love that, yeah.” He nodded before stepping in.

The night before had seemed surreal but was long forgotten. Michael had been released. You felt relieved to see him, sitting across from you, in your kitchen. Although, you had barely slept the night before, you somehow felt energized. And the coffee had nothing to do with it.

You felt like you could breathe again.

“So, not that I’m not glad to see you here,” you started, “but they released you early. I thought that they were supposed to keep you for—at least twenty-four hours.”

Michael let out a snort, amused by your question. “You know how the guards operate in Ireland already?”

You shrugged, “I couldn’t sleep last night. So, I did some research.” He hummed, taking a bite out of his toast. “Why did they release you so soon? Did something happen?”

Michael did not answer immediately. He looked down at the table, pondering whether he should tell you about his seizures or not. He didn’t want people to know. Somehow ashamed of his own weakness, reminder of what had happened the night Allison died. He would lie to his family without hesitation, they didn’t need to know. They had no business to know about his seizures. But to you—well, you were different. You left room for him to be vulnerable, you genuinely seemed like you cared.

Maybe he could tell you.

“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.” You said, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Michael put down his cup, “seizures,” he simply said. “Or at least, that’s what they’re thinkin’.” He looked up at you. “They can’t question me after havin’ one. So, they released me this mornin’.”

“Oh.” You nodded. “Have you seen a doctor yet?”

“Gonna need to see a GP to find out what’s happenin’ really.”

“I’m sure—I’m sure you’re gonna be alright.” You tried to reassure him; his lips tugged up at the corner. “My dad had epilepsy for a while, and he did okay. So, trust me when I say, it’s manageable. And you’re gonna be alright. I’m sure of it.”

Your phone rang in the living room and you froze. It couldn’t be your mother. Not that early in the morning. And your brother had been definitely blocked, couldn’t be him either. It was probably Bessie calling to make sure you were coming into work. It was logical. Yet, you couldn’t help the fear you felt at the sound of it.

“Your brother still bothering ya?” Michael questioned and you weakly shook your head.

“Not my brother.” You took a deep breath. “Last night—my mother called. She’s in Dublin and she wants to meet up.”

“Alone?” Michael stood up with his plate, going to the sink.

You shook your head as a snort of disbelief pushed past your lips. “Chances are that—my stepfather came with her.” Your eyes followed him, “I can do that later." you protested.

“’S alrigh’,” Michael assured you as you stood, moving closer to the kitchen island. “What happened between you and your stepda?” He questioned.

Could you burden him with this? After what he had been through the night before. Before he appeared in your driveway, you thought it’d be a bad idea. But now that he was standing in your kitchen, offering to hear you out, you found it difficult not to confide in him.

You took a deep breath, “nothing happened. Not really.” You offered him a kitchen towel so he could dry off his hands. He leaned against the sink. His eyes on you, waiting for you to continue. “Let’s just say that—after my mother abandoned us, we didn’t hear from her for almost a whole year. And when she came back in our lives, she didn’t come back alone.”

“Yer stepda,” he stated.

You nodded, “in the beginning, he was nice enough. I even liked him but after a while—he started to—get a little handsy with me. Trying to get me to sit on his lap, massages, that sort of things.”

Michael clenched his jaw at your words, gripping the sink, his knuckles turning white. A barely contained rage making itself known at your words.

“I didn’t say anything at first,” you continued. “All I wanted was to see my mother, you know. But—uhm, one night—he went too far,” you paused. “Nothing happened, but I woke up to him standing in my bedroom, in the middle of the night. He was just standing there staring at me. And then, he sat on my bed and started stroking my hair. I didn’t move—I couldn’t—I just—I just froze.”

Michael crossed the space between you, pulling you straight into him. Without realizing it, tears had sprung from your eyes, your voice cracked on the last words. Your arms wrapped around his middle, eagerly. His arms felt as strong as they had before. His scent wrapped around you, offering you the comfort that you needed more than anything in this moment.

“Did he—?” Michael started but you cut him off.

“Didn’t have time,” you shook your head. “First thing I did the day after was told my father. He pulled us out of there as quick as possible. Tried to tell my mom too but she didn’t believe me.” You sniffed. “In the end she chose him over us. Over me. And I’ll never forgive her for this.”

Michael’s hold on you tightened, his large hands splayed over your back, running up and down your spine. You felt his chin rest on top of your head.

“Like I told ya before, I won’t let anyone hurt ya.” He said quietly, “I won’t.”

“I know.” You buried your face deeper into his warm chest, “I know.”

In spite of the chaos that was your life at the moment, regardless of the fear that was gripping your guts, you felt safe in his arms. You felt oddly content and at peace in his arms. He was offering you much needed comfort. And there in his arms, you felt less alone.

“Ya know what I did last night?” He whispered in your hair.

“I do.” You pulled away slightly, so you could look up at him. A frown was pulling his lips downward, his guilt filled eyes were roaming over your face. “It’s all over the news, and the internet.”

He didn’t need to say the words. The question was admission enough on his part. Michael had gunned down Caolan Moore, you already knew. And yet, he was willing to share this part of him with you. The darkness and the danger that came with it.

“And yer not afraid of me?” His hand came up to cradle your face.

“No.” His palm pressed further into your cheek, and you leant into his touch.

You weren’t afraid of him. You had been in the beginning, and then you got to know him. And the more time you spent with him, the more you realized that Michael was no threat to you. He had been genuine in the way he spoke to you, quiet and yet, eager to know more of you.

Michael Kinsella was a threat only to those who wronged him. Caolan Moore was a blatant proof of that.

Hope was shining in his eyes. Your hand covered his, as you held his gaze. Along with hope, there was affection, and a softness in his eyes. His thumb brushing against the apple of your cheek. A small smile graced his lips, wrinkling the corner of his eyes.

The world around you faded away as you held each other’s gaze. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, your eyes falling on his. Your heart raced beneath your ribcage. The arm he had around your waist pulled you further into him as he leaned down. His nose brushed against yours, his lips inched closer to yours and he paused, leaving room for you to push him away. Hesitantly, you closed the distance, your lips meeting his. Making the final decision to kiss the man, putting yourself out of your own misery.

His hand left your cheek, to hold the back of your head as your kiss grew more passionate and heated. Your arms made their way around his broad shoulders, your fingers grazing the hair at the nape of his neck. Your chest pressed against his, heart pounding in your ears, panting and moaning, each time his lips briefly left yours.

Your hand had wounded up in his brown locks, soft and thick between your fingers. You gasped as he lifted you up, placing you on the kitchen island. His lips latching onto yours as he came to stand between your legs. Your legs locked behind his waist. His tongue slid into your mouth, warm against yours. His hands were on your thighs while your arms around his shoulders pulled him further into you.

You got lost into him, his scent, the touch of his hands, his lips. In everything that was him. You wanted him. You wanted to touch, and kiss every inch of his body, wanted his hands and his lips to roam every inch of yours. But as much as you wanted to see and feel more of him, you had to put a stop to it.

Not today, not like that.

You pulled away, bringing your forehead against his. Both of you breathless, shoulders heaving as you were trying to catch your breath.

“I have to go to work.” You regretfully told him. “I need to get ready,” you almost groaned letting your head fall back.

Michael pushed your hair away from your face, tucking a strand behind your ear. “''S alrigh'. I let ya get ready,” he grinned at you, “we can continue this on another time?”

“Yeah, you still owe me a date.” You bit down your bottom lip, a smile tugging at your lips.

“Is that so?” He snorted in amusement, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.

“It is so.” You huffed out a laugh. “Want me to walk you out?”

“That’d be grand, pet,” he helped you down the counter, his hand wrapping around yours.

You laced your fingers with his, he grabbed his jacket as you walked past the small table. Once you’ve reached the door, you turned to him, grinning up at him. Butterflies erupting in your belly, fluttering around in excitement.

“See ya later, yeah?” He asked.

“Yeah, see you later,” you nodded.

“How about I take ya out for a drink later tonight?” He suggested.

 “I’d love that very much.” He leaned down and rested a soft kiss on your lips.

Michael released your hand, and opened the front door, you followed him on your doorstep. You watched as he walked up to his own door, you waved at him. And a large smile split his face in two, he waved back at you before disappearing into his home.

With a deep sigh you walked back into your home, closing your door behind you. You couldn’t help the grin on your face, your heart skipping away in your chest. Energized in a new way, and with something to look forward to, you rushed up the stairs to get ready for work.

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[tea-with-evan-and-me]

man about town interview | spring/summer 2014

for the tweam! click through for my best attempt at deciphering this (maybe impossible to find?) throwback interview

‘’I don’t think I’m scary at all. It was kind of funny watching myself being scary. Because I’m not scary.’’ Says Evan Peters, the up-and-coming up-for-anything actor best known for his extreme roles on American Horror Story, the prestige television series that treats social taboos as map points. For three seasons, Peters has excelled at playing against his offbeat boyishness by amping up his young Malcolm McDowell intensity, with results that fall somewhere between ‘’teen dream in strangler’s gloves’’ and ‘’terrifying Michael Cera.’’ He most recently appeared in American Horror Story: Coven as Kyle Spencer, the good-natured university student who is decapitated and then reanimated with the body parts of his Kappa Lambda Gamma brothers as a temperamental Rocky Horror who beats his sexually abusive mother to death with a trophy.

Over a bold chai tea with stevia, at a restaurant in Venice, California, Peters is lighthearted and dryly humorous, like a young Michael Shannon, with whom he should costar in a successful disturbing family sitcom. He wears black jeans, a well-worn t-shirt under a plaid flannel, and a necklace with a toy dinosaur pendant. He drives a 2004 Pontiac Vibe that he correctly describes as ‘’vintage’’; says that he just feels like growing his longish blond hair into a ponytail, and has a red thumbs-up permanently inked onto the to pof his right hand, that was traced over a nightclub door stamp. At one point, he raises his forearm to show off a temporary tattoo that he received the night before at the castle park family entertainment center in Sherman oaks. ‘’This is a Belle tattoo. It’s not real,’’ he explains playfully of a small portrait of the beautiful young heroine from the animated Disney film Beauty and the Beast. I tell him it’s very pretty. ‘’Thank you. She’s gorgeous,’’ he responds. I ask if Belle is his favorite Disney princess. ‘’Well, I picked her out. There was also Jasmine, Ariel and Cinderella. My other buddies got those.” ‘’What about Belle appeals to you?’’ ‘’She likes the Beast.’’ Peters says.

This summer, Peters appears as the teenage Mutant speeder Quicksilver in X-Men: Days of Future Past, the sequel to 2011’s X-Men: First Class, which has proven to be an eventful ??? movie. In October 2012, director Matthew Vaughn – who relaunched the franchise with much needed style and a new cast of young, indie + credible actors – left the film to be replaced by original trilogy director Bryan Singer. As such, fans were already touched when Singer announced that he would retell ‘’Days of Future Past,’’ the seminal X-Men time-travel storyline from 1980, an ambitious plan turned wild when he revealed that both franchises would merge into one. Cut to the 2012 San diego Comic-Con whereby unthinkable feats of scheduling – the sprawling casts of the modern-day first series and the 60’s era prequel (that include expensive names like Jennifer Lawrence, Hugh Jackmon, Halle Berry, Patrick Stewart, Ian McKellan, Michael Fassbender, and so on). Convened with ??? new additions like Peters to unhinge popular culture. ‘’You think to yourself, ‘’wow, people really, really love this stuff.” And it makes you appreciate it more. It makes you work harder at it.’’ he says about the experience.

Peters’ role in the films is crucial but concise. ‘’It’s a huge, huge opportunity but I always make sure to tell people it’s just one scene. Easy, it's just one scene.’’ Peters says, as if talking down a rearing horse. Quicksilver has already been the subject of film industry chatter regarding lawful usage of the character, who is both the son of Magneto and a colleague of the Avengers, making him fair game for inclusion in both Days of Future Past and the 20n5 Avengers sequel (in which he will be played by Aaron Taylor-Johnson of Kick-Ass). An Empire magazine Preview of Quicksilver’s costume design was greeted with comparison to Kid Vid, a ‘90’s cartoon form of the Burger King ‘’Kid’s Club,’’ and the news that Peters had been saddled with the Halle Berry “rough wig’’ role. But his fan’s enthusiasm for the project—in which desperate X-Men from a dystopias future try to stave off mutant genocide by altering the present day—is undimmed. ‘’I think it’s the best film of the francise yet,’’ proclaims Peters. ‘’It’s pretty dire. It’s a pretty epic situation. But there’s definitely some humor in there. Its’s just badass, man.’’

Quicksilver is a departure for Peters in some ways if not others. Both X-Men and Horror Story are tight productions that take extensive precautions to protect story lines. Peters says that he did not receive the full script for X-Men until arriving at the Montreal location days before shooting. Horror Story pages are often delivered the night before a scene. The short lead time can demand a ??? almost improvisational acting process. ‘’The minute we get the script, plans are cancelled, dinner is cancelled,’’ he says about working on Horror Story. ‘’Some of it you’re like, ‘Oh shit, I have to do that?’ Screaming and crying, realizing that my whole body is pieced together and I’m not myself? I’ll probably have to work on that.’’

Peters owes his career to television. ‘’I was watching a lot of TV and I kind of wanted to be on the TV and in movies. I love movies and TV,’’ he says, and cites inspirations like Joaquin Phoenix, Heath Ledger, Christian Bale, George Clooney, JIM Carrey, Chris Farley, Tom Hanks in Forrest Gump, and the millennial teen comedies Even Stevens starring Shia Labeuof and So Little Time with Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. ‘’That sort of stuff. I just really wanted to be a part of it and loved acting and performing.’’ He moved to Los Angeles with is mother when he was 15 years old, and steadily won work in television, on shows including Phil of the Future (2004) and One Tree Hill (2008), and in movies like the independent films Clipping Adam (2004), his first big break, and later Kick Ass (2010). Being cast as Tate Langdon in the first season of American Horror Story in 2011 was his tipping point, playing a Skull Boy-faced high school shooter in a latex catsuit who rapes his girlfriend’s mother to please a ghost. He has since become one of the five main players to appear in all three season of the series, sterling company that includes Jessica Lange, Sarah Paulson, Lily Rabe and Frances Conroy.

Now the world gets to enjoy a lighter side of Peters, like when he appeared on a 2011 episode of the G4 networks Attack of the Show and blithely volunteered that he was working a a rap song called ‘’I’ll Tap That Fucking Ass.’’ He laughs off a request to recite a verse. ‘’I can’t. That never materialized. I tried but it was too much pressure. It was just a concept. I was just trying new ideas,’’ he says, and then volunteers a different musical direction. ‘’It’s called ‘Natch Snatch.’ Like all natural snatch. Big bush. Snatch. Cause it’s nice. You know, ‘girl, you’ve got that natch snatch.’ It’s another nice concept. Probably on the same album.’’ Peters laughs in agreement at the suggestion that he is a kook in the best sense of the word. ‘’I get called a weirdo sometimes,’’ he admits ‘’But it’s like, I don’t feel that weird. I don’t feel that different. I look at everybody else and I’m like, ‘’you’re a fucking weirdo, too. You like all of your shit. I like my shit.’’ Why does one have to be weird and one have to be normal? It doesn’t make any sense to me.’’ Meanwhile, he seems to be successfully negotiating his public and private persona. ‘’I’ll try to be myself as much as I can but you obviously can’t be who you are at home in your skivvies eating donuts. You can’t be that.’’ He explains, before confirming that guy exists, with his tongue sort-of-in-cheek. ‘’You bet he does. Yeah, definitely watching New Girl. Crying.’’ But while Peters seems fairly comfortable in the public eye, fame no longer interests him. The development is not unrelated to his intense, closely-watched relationship with fiancée and two-time costar Emma Roberts (on coven and in the 2013 ?? Adult World) ‘’When I was younger I was like, ‘’That would be awesome!’’ now I don’t particularly love it,’’ he says ‘’Emma gets paparazzi a lot, and because I’m with her we get paparazzi, so it’s kind of a weird thing that I don’t love. But it’s so small in the big picture of all the positives that come with this job that I can’t really complain about it.’’ he may be surprised by the attention he and Roberts receive, but he is hardly self-ptying. ‘’Honestly, it’s not that bad. If you don’t set up a Google alert on yourself and go out searching for it then you’re not going to see it. So I don’t see it.’’ Roberts has already endured the Hollywood learning curve that Peters is now experiencing. ‘’She gives me advice, like cut your hair. She likes my hair to look nice,’’ he says, and laughs. ‘’She’s been around and knows the ropes and how to play the game very well. And she has incredible social skills. She can talk to anyone and everyone loves talking to her. I’m not that good at that stuff so she kind of helps me out with that.’’ I wonder what guidance she offers him. ‘’You’ve just got to be personable and talk to people, even if you don’t want to. Put on a happy face and buck up. Grow a pair of balls. Don’t be a little wuss.’’ Petersa says, and laughs. ‘’I mean, she doesn’t say that, but you know what I mean.’’ 

Next for Peters is Lazarus, opposite Olivia Wilde, Donald Glover and Mark Duplass a 2015 feature from director David Gelb, known for the documentary Giro: Dreams of Sushi. Peters describes the project, about a team of brainiacs working magnanimously to reanimate the dead, as a “contained Sci-Fi horror thriller” as it mostly takes place in one laboratory setting. He plays the party animal scientist. Peters encouraging sidesteps the questions of his involvement in the next season of American Horror Story, to be set in 1950 and the present day, for which Jessica Lange is practicing a German accent. ‘’I don’t know what I’m allowed to say so I’m going to say no comment,’’ he says.

‘’At the end of the day it is acting. You want to go with the biggest, weirdest, boldest shit and see if you can actually do it and go there,’’ Peters concludes, ‘’I’m very curious about everything. I feel like I don’t know that much. I’m trying to learn it all and figure it all out.’’

[puppyboywinger]

here is a list of fictional characters/ships i think would be better if they were yuri/lesbian. i do not take complaints

jeff winger, community

redstreet/jeff x britta, community

troy x abed, community

brad bakshi, mythic quest

baksbee/brad x david, mythic quest

charlie kelly, it’s always sunny in philadelphia

lip gallagher, shameless

gallavich/mickey x ian, shameless

jung x shannon, kim’s convenience

todd chavez, bojack horseman

zach stone, zach stone is gonna be famous

scott pilgrim, scott pilgrim takes off

scott x ramona, scott pilgrim takes off

scollace/scott x wallace, scott pilgrim takes off

matthew patel, scott pilgrim takes off

EVERYONE IN SCOTT PILGRIM

freddie x sam, icarly

starlord, guardians of the galaxy

chidi x eleanor, the good place

michael mell, be more chill

byakuya togami, danganronpa THH

byakuya x makoto, danganronpa THH

if you think of any more that should be on this list, please rb :-) i love dykes and you should too

[silverhallow]

Strangers All At Once: Strangers

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Strangers All At Once Masterpost

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Pairing: Sophie Beckett x Benedict Bridgerton

I can't even lie, I'm not doin' well Wakin' up without you, sleepin' by myself Alone in our room, all your stuff is gone Yeah, I'm standin' still here while you're movin' on When my world would tear in two You were who I ran to Now I can't even call, or call you my friend Oh, darlin', it's strange 'cause you and I are strangers all over again

Violet had put her plan into motion straight away. She decided not to tell Benedict about her plan but she’d called Francesca and Eloise to get them to help with her plan.

Eloise was to come and stop with Benedict and try and find the music he’d written to go with the song she’d heard Benedict singing to himself when he thought no one was around and she was to give it to Francesca.

She knew how much Sophie had loved Benedict’s singing voice, she’d told her as much when they first met, how they’d sung karaoke together before the end of the night. Violet had often seen them together in the kitchen singing and dancing and she knew that it was a good place to start.

If Sophie wouldn’t listen to Benedict talking, she knew she’d be unable to resist listening to him singing.

All she had to do was then get Sophie to Aubrey Hall before the wedding and she recruited Mike for that.

Violet had called him and asked him to break or at least pretend to break the oven at The Cottage where she knew Sophie was planning to make the Wedding Cake but only when she was there at the Cafe so she could invite Sophie to use their kitchen as it had a massive oven that Benedict’s grandmother used to love baking in, and she knew how much Sophie loved it as well…

She knew Sophie had a couple of ovens but her main cake making one was bigger and with the size of the cake, she knew she needed the larger oven.

Michael had laughed down the phone “you’re going to give the poor girl a heart attack… I love it. It’s evil.”

“You don’t have to actually break it! But it’s just to get her here”

“I know that but what if she declines, if she thinks Benedict is there…” Michael asked

“Oh i’ve got a plan for that… but it should get her here for a few days and hopefully postpone her being able to actually leave…” Violet explained.

Michael agreed and it was the following morning Violet had come into the cafe, Sophie was serving a customer and Michael was out back sorting out a batch of bread for an order so she sent him a message to say the plan was a go.

Violet waited patiently with the intention of getting some Scones and some of Anthony’s favourite lemon drizzle loaf as she watched Sophie clearly a little uncomfortable but Violet just gave her a warm motherly smile.

She felt horrible about how she’d acted the first time she saw her again and since that day she’d vowed she was going to make things right and this was the first step.

“Soph!! Sophieeeeee!” came a tell from the back “YO BOSS!!!”

“Michael, will you keep your pants on! We’ve got customers” Sophie hissed at him as he came flying out of the back, flour on his face, he’d even managed to splatter some bread dough all over him “what the bloody heck happened…?”

“The big oven… Shannon went to put the bread in, something exploded and the bread just… did this!” he said, gesturing to himself and giving Violet a wink, and the older woman had to suppress a laugh as she wondered what the hell Michael had done.

“Please tell me… please tell me it wasn’t… the cake oven” she said looking at him

“Erm…”

“Michael! You know you’re not supposed to put bread in that! Why did you let her?? I told you to keep an eye on her!!! That oven…It’s too hot! You’re meant to use the convection one!” Sophie panicked “I'm supposed to start the wedding cake tonight!”

“I’ll ring the bloke to come fix it?” Michael offered

“He’s on holiday this week!” Sophie said her heart racing as she panicked “I… god Kate is going to kill me!”

“You could come use our Oven Sophie…” Violet offered sweetly “I know it’s not the same as your big one but it should be big enough”

“I… i don’t know” Sophie said, worried, her terror evident in her eyes and she absolutely didn’t want to be around Benedict anymore than she needed to be and she still needed to pack…

“Benedict won’t be there til the night before, he said something about an exhibition if that’s what you’re worried about…” Violet replied, moving forward and speaking quietly.

“I… I… i don’t know” Sophie said

“Look if Mr Ashworth is away and can’t get here to fix it… how else are you going to make a cake… for your best friend for her wedding…” Michael said a little too cheerfully and Sophie narrowed her eyes at him, something was up.

“I… let me just go have a look at the oven” Sophie said and disappeared to the back.

“What did you do to the oven?” Violet asked “because if she sees it’s fine…”

“Oh it’s not… i’ve took the conductor out, dropped it on the floor and cracked it and put it back in. it’s an easy fix and i’ve called a pal to come sort it tomorrow” he grinned

“What did you do to the bread to cause it to explode?”

“Oh this isn’t actually bread dough, it’s something I found online, and paid Shannon £50 and two bottles of Kilmartin whiskey to play along and just blame me anyway” he grinned

“So what happens when she turns the oven on?”

“It’ll spark and cut out the rest of the ovens” he grinned

“She is going to kill you if she finds out it was planned”

“Well considering Shannon won’t say out, and I don’t think you will… I think i’m fine. Besides, i’m hoping if she does find out, the news i’m dating Fran will be enough of a shock for her to forget out about it” Michael grinned wickedly at Violet who just shook her head

“You really are going to be the death of her aren’t you”

“It’s what siblings do” he grinned “even if we aren’t true siblings” yet he thought to himself. He loved the idea that one day they could be in laws and he knew how he felt about Francesca was how Sophie felt about Benedict so as long as this plan worked, he knew it would be a matter of when not if.

It was just then the light flicked off and they heard the panicked screech from Sophie and then a few moments later the rest of the lights came back on “Mike… I can’t… I can’t believe you let Shannon do that! She said you just told her to use it and you do it all the time!”

“It’s never happened before!”

“Mike, that oven’s like several thousand pounds!” Sophie said, flailing her arms around “and i’ve got a bloody wedding cake to make! For a wedding In two days time!”

“Look i know someone who can come look at it tomorrow but it won't be fixed in time, if you wanna make the cake, you’ll have to go to Aubrey Hall, I am sure it will be okay” Michael said softly, he did feel at least a little bad about the fact Sophie was panicking.

“Sophie, I promise the only people that will be at Aubrey tonight and tomorrow are myself, Francesca, Kate and her family.” Violet said “and I promise to ensure that everyone is out of your way so that you can bake in peace”

Sophie bit her lip, she knew it was probably the next best location for baking, it would mean delaying her leaving for France a day or two as she’d have to stop at Aubrey to make the cakes and then for the rehearsal and then the actual wedding so really, she had to admit to herself, it was probably sensible. 

It also saved having to transport the cake…

She sighed and nodded “thank you Violet, that would be… that would be helpful. I’ll pack up everything I need and travel over later this afternoon, Michael, you better make sure someone fixes this because Alice will kill you, oh and tidy up the bloody mess back there” she said before turning on her heels and disappearing into the office to make a call to her friend in France to say she was going to be a few days late in arriving.

Violet grinned at Michael “thank you for your help”

“It’s not a problem, what’s the plan now?” he asked with a cheeky smirk

“It’s better you do not know” she replied coyly as she departed The Cottage, a smile on her face. She just had to hope that Francesca was going to hold up her end of the plan.

~*~

Benedict hated that his mother wasn’t going to tell him what her plan was and that all of this had happened because he had listened to his bloody brothers telling him it was too soon to tell Sophie that he loved her.

He had known from that very first night when they’d discussed how much they hated Wonderwall, how it was so overreacted and how Champagne Supernova and Supersonic were the better Oasis tracks but in truth they both just preferred Blur.

He’d known from that very next morning that she was someone he could not live without and he’d wanted to tell her but Anthony and Colin, both at the time still perpetually single, had told him it was too soon. Even when he’d been looking at the engagement rings, Anthony had still told him it was too soon. 

He’d been told to make himself scarce at Aubrey Hall, to get a lift and not leave a car. His mother had called him and told him that she’d managed to convince Sophie to come and make the wedding cake in their kitchen but she’d been promised that he wasn’t going to be there…

Even though he already was “just lay low… you’ll know when the moment is right” his mother had said to him and he had no idea what that meant but he trusted his mother.

He’d spent the last two days in the art room his mother set up for him as a child, drawing and sketching and creating things that he hoped to show Sophie. Pictures of the cottage that they’d talked about, pictures that he’d drawn from memory of their time together. 

He knew to most people it would seem quite stalkerish but he hoped, prayed, that when he’d had a chance to talk to Sophie… that she would understand.

That she would believe him that he loved her, that he’d always loved her and that he wanted her future, her everything.

He was climbing the walls, itching to speak to her, to barge into the kitchen to tell her everything but after 24 hours, when he was about to cave and just do what he wanted, Francesca had appeared “Come sing with me, i want to practise and you’re the only one around who can sing…” she grinned.

Benedict groaned but he knew Francesca had her audition for the Royal Academy of Music soon, so he decided to humour her and went with her into the music room, and as he led Francesca out, she deliberately left the door open to his art.

~*~

Sophie felt sick as she worked in the kitchens, when she’d pulled into the garage she’d seen no trace of Benedict’s car and his motorbikes were both still there and she knew he’d left in the car so she assumed that he wasn’t there.

She’d spent the first day preparing the cakes, they were cooked and today she had planned to make the fondant and decorations for the cake and to start assembling it ready for tomorrow and the wedding.

She knew tomorrow she’d have to face Benedict and she felt sick at the thought but she knew that after tomorrow she’d never have to see him again, it would be over, her heart couldn’t break anymore.

The morning before the wedding she’d gone to make her way back down to the kitchen only to find the normal route blocked off. She frowned, it hadn’t been blocked not even 20 minutes ago, when she put the cakes in the oven, she’d ran upstairs to change her top having gotten some raspberries on it as she prepared the fruit for the jam.

But now there were three cleaning trolleys and a trolley with speakers on it were blocking the way through and Sophie sighed she was going to have to take the long way around and past the music room and the sitting room, the place she’d been avoiding since it was the place where she’d heard everything that made her heart break.

As she made her way down the hallway she tried to move as quickly as she could but as she got halfway down she heard a light tinkling of music which caused her to pause, she figured Francesca must be here practising and as she stopped to listen, something in her peripheral vision caught her attention.

She turned her head and saw… herself… staring back at her.

She tilted her head, her mouth falling open as she stared at the picture and she found herself walking through the open door and couldn’t believe what she was looking at.

Pictures of her, sketches of her and Benedict, a stunning portrait design of the home they’d talked about and Sophie felt her heart squeeze painfully, it was memories, all their memories sketched in front of her, presented to her in vivid detail and it made her want to cry.

How had it meant nothing to him when it had been everything to her… how could it have been nothing to him when he’d drawn all this…

As she glanced at the easel she saw the piece he’d been working on, it was her… that night in the bar when they’d met and it was just as she was remembering, the music that filled her ears changed and she heard a voice…

A voice she knew all too well, a voice that soothed her soul and made her heart beat faster… singing words of that night…

Of how they met… and she knew…

He was here…

~*~

Benedict watched as Francesca warmed her fingers up on the piano, letting her fingers dance across the piano in the way he’d shown her when she was younger. They were the musical ones in the family, yes Colin and Anthony could both sing a bit but he was a piano player, he’d taught Francesca and she’d quickly surpassed him and it was always down to them at family gatherings to entertain.

He didn’t sing as often now, it hurt too much and the last song he’d written, had been about Sophie, he’d written it in the last few weeks just the lyrics but he knew he’d get around to writing the music eventually but as he found himself drifting to that piece, those lyrics…

He heard the music coming to life and he blinked at Francesca, his mouth falling open in surprise “how… where” he stammered

“Me and Eloise found it last week, it had beautiful lyrics so i thought… maybe i’d try writing music to it… I hope you don’t mind…” Francesca asked coyly.

Benedict swallowed, he thought he’d done a better job of hiding it, but he knew out of all his siblings, Francesca was least likely to tease him about it, so he just nodded

“Will you sing it with me?” she asked “to make sure it works?” 

Benedict didn’t want to but he could never say no to his sister and if it meant reliving that night, his feelings now… he would… what could it hurt…

So he took a deep breath, nodded his head and closed his eyes as he listened to his sister starting the music as he began to sing…

We were strangers at the bar

They were playin' Wonderwall

I overheard you say you hate this song

Next thing I knew, I'm walkin' over

Came and tapped you on your shoulder

Said, "My dear, you're not the only one"

Spent the night there at my place

That night became a hundred days

And I shared all my deepest secrets with you

Soon enough, well, I found out

You're somethin' I can't live without

And, every time I close my eyes, I miss you

His eyes closed as he sung the words he’d written, remembering that night, it playing out beautifully in his mind as he remember everything, every last detail.

How he’d shared how he felt about his family, about how he wished people would see him for who he was personally rather than for who is family was. How he’d felt when his father had died, how he shared all his wishes for the future and how, she really was something he couldn’t live without.

And I know

I waited all my life just to fall for someone like you

In the blink of an eye, yeah, it all fell through

I can't even lie, I'm not doin' well

Wakin' up without you, sleepin' by myself

Alone in our room, all your stuff is gone

Yeah, I'm standin' still here while you're movin' on

When my world would tear in two

You were who I ran to

Now I can't even call, or call you my friend

Oh, darlin', it's strange 'cause you and I are strangers all over again

He sighed as Francesca played on a little, with no idea that he had just gained an audience… his mind on Sophie, wishing she could hear his words.

~*~

Sophie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The words… it was their story.

She remembered how he’d walked over to her as she complained about how much she’d hated the song to Posy and how he’d actually walked over to her and tapped her on the shoulder and said “my dear, you’re not the only one”

And for the first time in a few weeks, she felt… hope.

She had no idea what caused her to move but she made her way to the door and to the music room and just leaned against the open door, staring at Benedict as he seemingly poured his heart out through his words.

Heart's a mess and head's ablaze

The nights become the starts of days

And I've been drinkin' just to get me through 'em

It's funny how you love someone

And when it's over, said and done

It's almost like you never even knew 'em

And I know

I waited all my life just to fall for someone like you

In the blink of an eye, yeah, it all fell through

I can't even lie, I'm not doin' well

Wakin' up without you, sleepin' by myself

Alone in our room, all your stuff is gone

Yeah, I'm standin' still here while you're movin' on

When my world would tear in two

You were who I ran to

Now I can't even call, or call you my friend

Oh, darlin', it's strange 'cause you and I are strangers all over again

All over again

Now I know

I'll be waitin' all my life for someone like you

I can't even lie, I'm not doin' well

Wakin' up without you, sleepin' by myself

Alone in our room, all your stuff is gone

Yeah, I'm standin' still here while you're movin' on

When my world would tear in two

You were who I ran to

Now I can't even call, or call you my friend

Oh, darlin', it's strange 'cause you and I are strangers all over again

She was transfixed, the music was beautiful and so perfectly played but she saw pain on Benedict’s face that she’d never seen before and she had to wonder how much of what he was saying was true.

Did he miss her? Had he loved her?

But everything he’d said… what she’d heard…

Her heart was screaming, her head was throbbing in confusion and as the song finished, Sophie just stared at Benedict, her eyes not even on Francesca as she smirked to herself, seeing Sophie standing there and slinking out of the room without either of them seeing her go.

Benedict’s eyes opened as he finished and he saw Sophie as she opened her mouth “Benedict…” she said softly. “Did… what…?”

“I love you Sophie. Always have… always will” 

[avocado-writing]

heaven can’t help me now

White Death x Reader

Rated E, Minors DNI

CWs:  Hybristophilia, Hematolagnia, Violence, Slight Dacryphilia, Older Man/Younger Woman, Infidelity

A/N: This is the filthiest thing I’ve ever written, I think, and it’s about a fucking Michael Shannon character. Thanks as always to @lady-jane3 and my friend M ❤️

Your marriage to his son was one of convenience. Two powerful mob families unified in the traditional way: the wedding of an eldest son to a daughter. The fact that you had only met enough times to count on one hand was irrelevant.

Business came first. 

The White Death found it funny, you approaching the altar in white. The sacrificial virgin marched to the place where she would be offered up. Even your necklace reminded him of a slit throat: a red ruby choker cinched up tight. Your eyes were doe-wide and hands shaking, but you held your head high as you made it down the aisle. As if you were afraid of nothing. 

You met his son’s bored gaze with a level neutrality the White Death found secretly impressive. He half expected you to be sobbing. It is good you understand your duty: marriage, children, obedience and support. 

You were wedded under the grace of God and the White Death rolled his eyes at the awkward kiss his son planted on your mouth. You wanted it to be chaste; his son did not. But you would not embarrass yourself in front of the priest, so remained modest even when confronted with the boy’s lechery. 

He watches the evening pass. You keep an air of professionalism about you at all times. You know what is expected of you. You smile, but never bare teeth: you are a gentle thing and it would not do. 

What will become his obsession with you seeds itself in his heart. 

His working relationship starts with you the next day. The morning after your wedding night. In a stark contrast to the stainless white you were enveloped in yesterday, today you’re wearing a well-fitted black suit. It manages to be both professional and leave very little to the imagination. He ordered the presence of his son, and doesn’t let his surprise show when it’s you who appears in his stead. 

“Your new husband is not enough to keep you in bed?”

He expects you to be flustered, but you manage to swallow any embarrassment down. You speak plainly. 

“I want to be helpful to this family. I might as well learn from the best. The patriarch.”

Ah, he likes that. It isn’t often someone refers to him by his actual position. But he loves the way it sounds out of your pretty little mouth. 

So you learn. 

He realises you didn’t have much of a chance to show your worth in your own clan. You were written off, as daughters tend to be, as marriage fodder. But you have a sharp mind and a sharper tongue hidden in your head. You’re clever - no: cunning. And ever so attentive. You listen to every order he gives and take note of it; you’re a model student. His son is a failure, his daughter desperate to overachieve; but you. You are perfect. He was enchanted at first by your demure beauty, but now he realises there’s far more to you than meets the eye. 

He realises he was a fool to write you off as a lamb. There’s something lupine in you yet. 

A feeling of pure disgust crosses him when he sees his son by your side. The way he doesn’t even look at you, totally ignores you as if you’re nothing to him. It’s a palpable rage he can feel building, one he can taste on his tongue - he always knew he hated his son, but your introduction into their lives has amplified it. 

So he finds a reason to send his son away. A job to “prove his mettle”, as it were. Pretends it’s something of worth to the family, when really it’s just an excuse to get his him away from the compound. His son throws a petty tantrum about the fact he has to do something, but not over that he’s explicitly told not to bring you with him. 

You do not seem sad your newlywed husband is leaving. 

You take your place at the White Death’s desk, typing quickly on your laptop. Doing some administrative work. Unlike your husband, you don’t need to be forced into it; you are happy to volunteer your time to him. 

You are the only other person allowed to sit there. You look like you are made to be there, face the zenith of concentration. There is nothing unusual about him watching you work, but now he knows his son is far away and he is made bold.

He paces over to you, as if he were a wolf descending upon its prey. You don’t seem to notice. But your whole body freezes when he touches his hand to your back, gently correcting your posture to sit up properly. 

It could be an entirely innocent gesture. But from the tiny gasp you take, he knows you don’t want it to be. 

He listens to the sounds of your fingers on the keyboard, and he notices when they still. His hand does not move when he sees you’re staring at a picture he keeps nearby. There’s a melancholy on your face he’s sure you hope you’re hiding. You’re not. 

“Is this your wife?” you ask. Yes. His angel, now gone. She’s young in the photo, carefree, teeth showing while she laughs for the camera and for him. He wonders why you bring it up. Perhaps you feel guilt, him touching you in front of her. Him wanting you so brazenly. 

“She passed when she gave birth to my daughter,” he states. His heart still hurts from it, but it is not the same pain it once was. Now it has been reduced to a dull ache. You nod, admiring the picture. 

“She’s beautiful,” you confess, quietly. He hears the way you say it. The tiniest tremor in your voice. He cuts to the chase. 

“And you think you are not?”

You laugh, self-deprecating, as if you say, who would? 

His touch moves. He traces along your spine, up to your shoulder. Knuckles dust against the skin of your neck where your pulse beats, rabbit-fast; he cups your face. 

“You are beautiful, красавица,” he states. When he swipes your cheek in a caressing arc, he sees the way you part your lips. 

His eyes bore into yours. You are not frightened, though your breath hitches. 

Carefully he presses his thumb into your mouth, down onto the hot plain of your tongue. You close around it and suck, and he swears under his breath. 

The knock makes him retract his touch. He gives a moment for the two of you to regain your composure before he calls in the visitor (a grunt reporting on a tailing job). You leave soon after, and for the first time in years the picture of his wife is hidden away in a desk drawer. 

For the entire thing, and then the night as if follows, he can’t stop thinking about the feeling of your mouth on him. The soft sweetness of it. He hasn’t known such a feeling for years, and it stirs him up inside. By the time he retires to his chambers for the evening he’s almost gone mad with it. He considers taking himself in his hand; or perhaps getting someone to hire him some company for the night - but he knows both would be a poor substitution for you. Besides, he’d feel almost like he was being unfaithful to you if he chose someone else to lay with. 

The irony that he considers that while lusting after his son’s wife is not lost on him. 

As he drinks a glass of something strong he hears a gentle tap at his door. He is surprised, when he opens it, to find you. Your eyes are wide, and you’ve been worrying your lip with your teeth so hard you threaten to break the skin. 

He towers over you as he leans against the doorframe. A hunter whose prey has willingly come. 

“You are up late,” he states. You swallow thickly. 

“Can I come in please?“

He holds open the door and you obediently enter, fiddling with your wedding ring. It’s a nervous fidget he’s noticed that you do. As if your hands are looking for something to busy themselves in order to take your mind off whatever plagues it. You say nothing for a moment, instead just heading over to the window and staring across his land. 

“Speak to me, красавица,” he says, voice low but sincere. He walks behind you, leaving his drink as he goes, standing so his chest is almost flush with your back. He doesn’t quite close the gap though. Not yet. 

He revels in the way your breath hitches. 

“I… I was thinking about how you were touching me earlier,” you eventually manage. 

“And you want me to touch you again?”

As if you’re afraid to hear yourself say the answer, instead you just nod. 

He embraces you. One of his hands settles on your abdomen, the other comes to clutch your little face in his hand. He buries his face in your shoulder and smells the sweet scent of your perfume. You gasp at it and keen into his touch, hips gently thrusting forward, your body betraying your poker face and telling him straight away what it is you want. 

“Stay still красавица, hmm? You want this, do you not?” 

Another shaky nod. He holds you close as he guides you backwards to his leather couch, bringing you into his lap as he sits. He finds his fingers creeping back into your mouth where you dutifully start to suck them. His thumb rubs your cheek and the hand that had alighted in your stomach creeps down into your waistband. You moan at the first stroke. 

“Shh. You do not want anyone to hear you in here with me.”

He feels you swallow. 

His hand slips down to your willing cunt, soaked already from the promise of him. The rough pads of his fingers begin to press into your clit. You gasp around him, back arching; he smiles into your hair. 

“Tell me how it feels,” he whispers, mouth hot at your ear. He can’t imagine his son has pleased you like this, selfish little brat that he is. And you do so deserve to be pleased. 

“It… it…” you’re already struggling and you completely lose the power of speech when he slips a finger inside. It enters you easily, the wetness allowing him access. He adds a partner to it and begins to fuck you with a come-hither motion, rubbing the pads of his fingertips against your inner wall. You gasp and buck in his embrace but a tight arm around your waist keeps you restrained against him. He will feel every second of your orgasm every way he can. 

“You are so lovely,” he sighs, pressing a kiss against the exploded plain of your neck as your head rolls back. You whimper and one of your hands reaches back to tangle in his hair, just for something to hang on to. Something to ground you. Your breathing gets harder, your breath hitching as tears of overstimulation form in your eyes. Your poor body is likely unused to someone else trying to bring you to finish like this, but you can’t fight nature. You can’t fight him, nor his beautifully clever touch. 

“I think I’m going to - I can’t - ”

“Do it. Let go for me, красавица.”

Your first orgasm at his hands is an explosive one. You lurch forward to ball up around his hand, letting out a loud gasp bordering on a shriek as you flood his palm with your release. He smiles as your hips roll against him, riding out the feeling, chasing it to its conclusion. Afterward you collapse sweetly in his arms, breath heavy, sweat on your brow. 

“Oh,” is all you can muster. 

“‘Oh’ indeed,” he agrees, pulling his hand from out your waistband and getting you to suck his fingers clean. 

He does not ask you to reciprocate, not that night. Instead he sends you off after a drink of water, telling you to reflect on what you want your relationship with him to be. He’s clearly amenable to whatever decision you arrive at. He watches you trip back to your room, high on the euphoria of it all. 

When you’re gone he takes the hand still covered in your come and fists his cock, hard. He in turn releases more powerfully than he has for years, his orgasm hitting him like a fucking freight train as he remembers how pliant and needy you were in his arms. 

The next time he makes you come, he thinks, he’s going to watch your face to see it. 

He does not see you the next day. No doubt you are mulling over his offer. He certainly doesn’t expect you to darken his doorstep that night, dressed in only a silky black robe, and place a hand on his chest before backing him into his own room. 

He makes you come three times before he even thinks about letting you touch him. He wants to spoil you like you deserve. It’s worth it, afterwards, to watch the way your eyes go wide when you take him for the first time, feel him throb heavily in your palm. He’s hard from watching you write under him after all. You’re sex-drunk from your orgasms, but you’re lucid enough to realise what a size he is. He lets himself have a quiet smile as your eyes go wide. At least ten inches, and too wide for you to fit your fingers around properly. 

He covers your hand with his and shows you how to fuck him with it. Your breath hitches even from giving him pleasure, and he realises what a thing to be treasured you are. 

He continues these dalliances for a week, every day you continue your diligent work with nothing but subtle and teasing touches to suggest there’s anything illicit going on; and at night he touches you in just the right places to make you scream. 

When his son returns from his mission, his first night without you is aching. The idea of his son lying in bed next to you is infuriating. Squandering you, taking advantage. 

You should belong to him, thinks the White Death as he tightens his grip on his tumbler. Him and him alone. 

The next day, when he’s certain that the two of you are alone in his office, he lifts you onto his desk and eats your cunt for the first time. 

You clutch at his hands as he goes to pull your panties down over your stockings - he can only hope that you’re dressing like this for him, a present to unwrap - your eyes are wide and uncertain. But he presses a kiss to your inner thigh as if you say, trust me. 

You release your hold on him, hesitant, but the moan you’re soon letting slip suggests you’re more than amiable to what’s happening. 

His mouth is just as clever as his hands, and explores you to find what makes you cry out. Any attention to your clitoris with the flat of his tongue is welcome, and when he pushes it inside you grip his hair so hard he’s sure you rip some of it out. 

You scratch your fingernails against his scalp, quietly encouraging. After you come twice on his face, he doesn’t object when you return the favour, sliding bonelessly to your knees in front of him and pulling down his fly. You take him as far down as you can before your eyes go wide as you gag - he wants to tell you to stop but before he can you strengthen your resolve and try again. He feels himself hit the back of your throat, the lovely wet warmth of your mouth engulfing him. 

He sees the way tears prick at your eyes as your tongue works his shaft, swallowing him down the best you can. With one hand he caresses your face while he whispers what a good job you’re doing; his other comes to rest on your neck.

He can feel himself disappearing down your throat. 

Tears drip down your cheeks from overexertion and overstimulation, and he comes so hard it leaks out from between your lips. You look so beautiful with your face wet; he has no choice but to bring you back to your feet and give you a searing kiss. 

“Send him away again,” you beg. The White Death does not need you to ask him twice. The next day his son finds himself being shepherded off from the compound under the guise of business, leaving his wife safely with his father. 

That night the White Death wastes no time in lying you down on his bed and kisses every inch of skin you reveal to him, hitching up your silk lingerie to tease and tantalise. He worships you at this altar the two of you have created. Afterwards, when you’re exhausted and curled up next to him, chest rising and falling ever so softly, he realises what a hold you have over him and you simply have no idea.

The two of you start being… bolder. Well, nobody can say anything, can they? He’s the boss around here, and if his men want to keep their tongues in their heads, they’re not going to comment on the fact he seems to have become awfully close with his son’s wife. You sit next to him when there’s meetings, a diligent note-taker and wise participant in your own right, and with a smile he rests a hand high up on your thigh. He sees the looks those assembled give each other, but nobody says a word.

The day he realises that he might be in love with you is when he sees you kill someone for the first time. There’s a leak in his organisation, someone dripping information to one of his rival crime families, and they’ve finally weeded out which of the bastards it is. He has the man in the courtyard, bound and on his knees. You watch as he’s kicked to the floor.

“Rot in our ranks. He’d sell us out and see us fail. What should we do with a man like this, hmm?” he asks, mouth at your ear. You consider this for a long moment, poker-face unmoving, before you reach to the holster at his hip and take his gun. You shoot through the traitor’s skull without blinking. 

Blood sprays you, and the White Death has to be subtle about the fact it makes his heart race to see you commit the act with such ease. Later, when he’s between your legs with his mouth, drinking down the taste of your orgasm, he finds himself growing hard knowing you find killing as easy as he does.

You are perfect. You were sent for him.

He wants a piece of you to take around with him, to have in his pocket. So he walks into your bedroom one day to take a pair of your panties. You have many: lacy, ruffly things, including a few that he himself has bought you, and is taking his time picking them - when he sees your bed. 

It’s perfectly made, and one of his shirts is lying on it. His favourite one, the one he’s been looking for for a while. He puts two and two together and realises: you’ve been wearing it to bed. The idea of you swamped in his clothes, maybe spread out and touching yourself while dressed in it - it’s more than he can bear.

That night, he comes to your room before you can get to his. From the lust-blown darkness of his eyes as he towers over you in the doorway, you can tell that this is the night.

So far you’ve only brought each other pleasure with fingers, hands; once when you rode his thigh while he recorded you, your breasts bouncing and face sweaty. But he feels like if he doesn’t know what your tight heat feels like around him he is going to lose himself. 

He presses you down into the mattress, drinking in the little gasps and moans you let out while he kisses the length of your neck. Your body has become adjusted to his expectations by now, so when he reaches into your waistband, he finds you plenty wet already. He takes his time in undressing you, peeling off each perfect layer, growing harder with each inch of skin he sees. He will never get tired of this. For the rest of time, he could indulge in watching you, and it would be time well spent. 

When he’s stripped and his clothes have been thrown to the floor with yours, he carefully parts your thighs and moves between them, taking his length in his hand and rubbing it between your folds. He begins to push inside of you, but when he’s got little further than the tip he hears the way you gasp.

It’s in pain.

He stops immediately. He could never hurt you; not unless you asked him to. He takes you in: the shaking breath, the wide eyes, the way you’re biting your lip.

“What is the matter?” he asks gently, reaching forward to caress your face. You nuzzle into his palm and its calming effect is obvious.

“I… I’ve never…” you look down to where your bodies are barely meeting, and the White Death understands.

“But you had a wedding night?” he asks, a little confused. You can’t look at him.

“He just used my mouth before he went to sleep…”

He will kill him. He’ll kill his own son for dirtying you, for taking advantage of your sweetness. A woman like you is meant for adoring, not for ignoring. He reaches down to kiss you, long and slow, not stopping until he feels your body relax beneath his while your arms slip around his neck.

“Do you still want me to?” he asks, forehead pressed to yours.

“Yes.”

“Then I will be gentle, красавица.”

And so he lays you down in your marriage bed and takes your maidenhood like his son was meant to. 

 He buries himself in you, inch by slow inch, stopping whenever you ask. It takes a while before he’s sheathed and you seem amazed you’re able to fit all of his surprising size inside. He fucks you with slow, determined rolls of his hips, stretching and adjusting you, never too much to hurt. Soon your noises of mild discomfort turn to ones of pleasure, tiny mewls and gasps at how thrilling penetrative sex can be. After a while he stops and pulls out, moving back down your body to your cunt, licking your sensitive vulva and tasting the metallic tang of your virgin blood there. When he’s made you come with his mouth he enters you again, a thumb on your clit keeping you high on euphoria while he fucks you harder. 

You come on his cock, spasming warmly around him, and he coats you with his release. 

Laying there, sweaty and exhausted, he thinks he will never be blessed with such a heavenly visage again. There is no God for him now. But there is you, an angel. 

He gets you a glass of water, forces you to drink, and gathers you into his arms as you come back to your senses. He traces nonsensical patterns on your back affectionately. The first words out of his lips surprise you.

“It is your birthday soon, is it not?”

You blink.

“Yes,” you confess, shyly. He presses his lips to your cheek to prove he means no harm with his question.

“What do you want for it?”

“I don’t want - ”

“Be honest with me, little one.”

You consider for a moment.

“A party. I want a party where I can be on your arm for the night.”

He chuckles, taking your hand and kissing each finger.

“Then a party you shall have.”

It is, of course, not the only present he gives you. Perfumes, clothes, a gun designed to perfectly fit your pretty little hand. And of course a white diamond choker. If anyone were to look at it - really look at it - they’d see his own name has been encrusted amongst the stones around your neck. 

And on his arm you are. He got someone with experience to plan it, of course, and it’s in the ballroom of his compound, but you seem delighted all the same. He’s invited some of the other minor families as guests, and all of them wisely choose not to speak as he dances far too closely with his son’s recent bride, your hand on his shoulder and his on the small of your back. The look of happiness on your face thaws his cold heart.

He has to step away for a minute - just a minute, no more - to talk business, but when he comes back, you are gone. He searches for you amongst the guests… and his blood runs cold when he hears that his son got back tonight. 

He moves through the crowd when he spots the boy involved in animated conversation with you on the other side of the hall. He’s angry, you’re angry, but when he grabs your arm and hauls you out of the door the White Death clenches his jaw so hard he threatens to shatter his teeth.

The two of you are in the hallway. In the sparse moments he took his eyes off of you, his son has done damage. He stands over where you are sprawled on the floor, his fist red with your blood. Your lip is split and red is dripping down onto your dress. There’s scratch marks across his son’s cheek - you clearly tried to defend yourself - but you were taken by surprise. He looks to his father, thunderous.

“The whore has been fucking someone behind my back.”

The White Death’s anger tends to be a cold thing. Patient, calculating. But the sight of this engulfs him in a white-hot fury he’s never felt before. 

“I know,” he replies, and he waits just long enough for his son to put the pieces together before he grabs him by his hair and drags him back into the ballroom. This is something that needs to be witnessed. It needs to be humiliating.

His son has never been a match for him physically. There are gasps as The White Death leads his son into the crowd, using the grip he has on his scalp to keep him still while he begins to beat him. His closed fist rains down on his son: he feels his nose break, his eye socket fracture beneath his blows. When his face is more blood than skin he lets him drop to the floor, the toe of his shoe finding the plain of his ribs and kicking until he hears an audible snap.

In the haze of red that clouds his vision, he manages to make out you stumbling towards him. You clutch his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

“Stop. My love, stop.”

The sound of your voice pulls him back. He takes your arms in his hands, gentle despite the fact your husband’s blood falls from his knuckles, checking over your injuries.

“Nobody ever touches you again,” he promises. The sincerity in his words is undoubtable. You believe he’d kill anyone who ever tries to lay a finger on you. He pulls you into his arms, vowing he will get your marriage to his son annulled, he will take you as his bride. 

He loves you.

And he will keep you safe.

[cymorilcinnamonroll]

And the Angel of Death Loved the Painter's Brush - An Archangel x Artist Romance

The seraph fanned his wings under the summer sun, raven feathers like black pearl inlay against the azure sky. He sipped his cappuccino, checking the time on his silver watch. Midday. She should be here by now. He sighed, tracing the skull-shaped cufflinks and damning himself for wearing a heavy, royal blue Armani suit in such heat. He swept his long white hair out of his eyes and rose, the sole visitor on the island cliff they had agreed to meet upon. It rolled down into crashing waves, tidal pools moss green with seaweed. The ocean spread out before him like rippling sheets on a laundry line, straddling the border between Heaven and Earth. The mists of the afterlife shrouded the horizon, veiling the archipelago that was a waystation between the mortal and immortal realms. Remiel, the archangel of death, was the isles' one true resident, able to cross the realms with ease. For others, the waters were treacherous, fraught with Leviathen, lost souls, and secrets that would put Circe's mysteries to shame. How his visitor was navigating them, Remiel hadn't a clue

He surveyed the ocean, tempted by the cool water's embrace. It was the water of life, fed by the great rivers of Eden and so potent, to touch them was to rip one's soul from one's body. Assuming one had a soul. Angels were singular creations, formed of heavenly fire and the light of God. Remiel doubted that anything resembling a spirit resided within him. Angels were function, not will. Those that claimed to have free will were a fallen lot, divorced from the presence of God. To some, that was liberating, but many of his dark brethren secretly grieved. Remiel couldn't imagine the void that would be left in him were his Creator ripped from him. True, God had abandoned Heaven during Lucifer's rebellion, but the angels still knew he was somewhere, perhaps creating new universes or watching over prodigal sons. Perhaps asleep, resting until the Apocalypse commenced and the Messiah descended to Earth.

Remiel wondered if the End Times were nigh. With Eve's reawakening and Samael's plots, it seemed they drew closer each day. He sighed, wanting to wash away the creeping thoughts of suspicion. What side would he choose, if Heaven's factions split? Gabriel's wishes to walk amongst the humans? Michael's steadfast clinging to tradition? Samael's radical plot to destroy Hell and reunite the Fallen with Heaven?

He shook himself free of his worries and dove into the purifying waters. He sliced through the currents, angels' adamantine skeletons piled high as reefs underwater from the Heavenly War. The bones skimmed his feet as he walked across the depths, watching schools of fish fin overhead like silver clouds. He remembered his horror when his brothers had died and, instead of coming to Remiel as souls were supposed to, they had snuffed out like candle flames. Vanished into the ether. Gone. There was no afterlife for angels. No isles of the Blessed or Asphodel Fields. Only nonexistence. Remiel knew the paths of death well. None led anywhere for angel- and demonkind.

The bottom of a sailboat shimmered above. Remiel ascended, wings pumping like engines and propelling him upwards. He broke the surface in a veil of foam, the sweet waters fresh on his lips. Drenched, he landed feather-light on the boat's prow, smiling at Shannon. She looked at him in awe, clearly not expecting the Angel of Death to make such an abrupt appearance. He bowed, wing tips skimming the water. Shannon grinned back, trying to mask her surprise and clasping the tiller she had released in her confusion. His angelic glory overwhelmed her as it might a mortal, but Shannon was not quite human, clearly unaffected by the water's deathly touch. She masked her discomfort well.

“Fancy meeting you here, Remy,” she said, steering the sailboat towards a rocky beach beyond the cliff.

“If it isn't the Mother of All Living in the flesh,” Remiel said warmly, settling himself on the prow's seat. He let his hands drift in the sea, dragging seaweed along. “Something tells me you didn't come here for the fishing.”

Shannon laughed. “I wouldn't put this much effort into hooking fish.” She thumped the heel of her foot on the boat's floor. Remiel's eyes were drawn to the carvings in ancient Greek and gold inlay under her toes.

“You didn't,” he said in wonder.

“Steal Charon's boat?” Shannon flashed a winning smile. “Of course not. All it took was a kiss.” She laughed. “The old man was more than obliging to lend me his most prized possession.”

Remiel shuddered at the thought of puckering up to mummified Charon. Only Shannon would have the gall to let her lips grace Charon's mouth. Samael would throw a fit over his lover's methods of persuasion.

“Sam doesn't know, of course. He thought I was bribing dear Charon with an exorbitant amount of money. But we all know Charon doesn't go for spare change, and God knows I needed the cash, so I pocketed the difference and Samael is none the wiser. I don't get paid enough for this divine fiasco of a job, and college loans are hella expensive,” Shannon sighed. “Not that you celestial folk would know anything about being young and broke.”

Remiel shrugged. “I can imagine the difficulties of balancing your mundane and mythical life.”

Shannon puffed air through her lips. “You don't know the half of it.” She landed the sailboat on shore, jumping into the water to pull the small vessel to land. Remiel helped, examining Shannon. She wore combat boots, dark wash Shanas, and a distressed Guns n' Roses t-shirt under a leather jacket. Eve- Shannon Parker, as she went by now- had reincarnated into a particularly peculiar time, where women wore pants and electricity was channeled into instruments to produce “rock” music, of which Shannon was an aficionado. Whenever he saw her, she was wearing some variation of her current outfit- obscure band names or rock groups plastered across her breasts. Remiel much preferred classical. But Eve had always been experimental, whether it had been messing with Gabriel's instruments in Heaven or boldly concocting new recipes out of Eden's limitless supply and forcing the angels to try her experiments, manna be damned. She loved exploring, and it was that damning curiosity that had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

He shouldn't look down on her for her boldness, though. It was because of it his job was about to get much easier. She was in the process of becoming a psychopomp, a guide for souls. Under the training of Samael, Shannon was learning how to put spirits to rest and save lost souls. There were situations where mortals were needed to act as undertakers and the attention of an angel was overkill. With Samael's power, she was lightening both Remiel and Samael's case loads. Samael, the punishing angel, presided over the darker aspects of death- the rotting, the disposal of remains. Remiel ruled over the transition and served as the guide of souls, the one humans met when they passed on. He was the process of death and the angel that led souls onward to the proverbial light. Samael stepped in in the case of egregious sinners, when one's good deeds were vastly inferior to the harm they had caused in the world. Those souls were not of Remiel's domain, and he was glad for it.

Boat firmly planted in the sand, Shannon began combing through the beach, searching for shells and sea glass. Odds and ends from the mortal realm ended up here- Remielsaw a pocket watch, several rings, and jewels just below his feet. The treasures to be found in the border isles were endless, if one cared for such things. Remiel did not.

“Remy! Aren't these fabulous?” Shannon called. She modeled a pair of round wire-rimmed sunglasses she'd found in the strand. “Should I do my John Lennon impression?” Careless of his approval, she began singing “Let it Be” off-key. Remiel cringed at the less-than-dulcet tones pouring from her lips.

“When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be...” She twirled, laughing, and collapsed on the sand, watching a pair of birds of paradise fly overhead. The isles were a hodgepodge of biota, this one tropical. She watched the cloud forest that crested the island's mountains. “God, I love this place. It's like Wonderland. I saw a sea serpent and hippocampus on the way over here, then a selkie started tailing my boat. You guys should have guided tours, like a safari or something.”

“I imagine Sandalphon would disprove of revealing the immortal world to humanity,” Remiel said. He flew over to where she rested. “So how goes your training?”

Shannon shrugged. “Same old. I feel like I could put souls to rest in my sleep. Samael's been an ass about my studies- he won't let up. I swear, he's a drill sergeant. Not like you, Az. I like how you're casual about this whole thing. You trust me. Sam's just so worried about me and afraid I'll screw up.” She crinkled her nose, as if smelling a bad odor. “I hate it. He's so overprotective. He thinks I'm fragile. Just because I'm a human doesn't mean I break easily.”

Remiel knew all about how breakable humans could be, but said nothing.

Shannon tilted her sunglasses and yawned. “But whatever. I'll show him I'm capable and he'll stop ragging on me.” She rolled over and chewed on the end of her long, rose-red braid.

Remiel let his toes touch the surf, digging them into the sand. He watched the waves. “Give him time, Shannon. He has a plethora of reasons to worry about you. I worry too, though I may not show it as obviously as Samael. It is our duty, as angels, to protect mortals, not put them into compromising positions.”

“Hah. I could write a book about the number of compromising positions Sam's put me into.” Remiel blushed at her innuendo. “But I volunteered for this. And anyways, I'm not exactly mortal, am I?” she said bitterly, painfully aware of the heart in her chest that was not her own. It was the serpent's, the Forbidden Fruit he had offered Eve and she had consumed, giving her soul immortality. “I'm living on borrowed time.”

Remiel knelt and smoothed her arm, concerned. “You must stop thinking of yourself as broken, child.”

“My life isn't mine, Remiel. He claimed me, the duplicitous bastard. I should have died and been at peace. Samael's selfishness is the root of all evil.”

Remiel cringed. He remembered the mad desperation on Samael's face when he'd learned Eve was dying. “It's hard to watch things you love perish, Shannon,” he said gently. “Though it may have been wrong, Samael did what he thought was best for you.”

She untied her braid and ran her hands through her hair. “Why does he always get to make the decisions?” she said quietly.

“Is that what you truly want? Death?”

“I- no, I just... I love him too damn much to ever wish for that. The thought of what he'd become if he were alone, it frightens me. Samael's madness is always there, just under the depths. I think he needs me, though he'd never admit that. He's changed since I've known him, become kinder, though he's still an ass. He's becoming more like he was.” Shannon let sand run through her fists. She stared intently at the grains as they poured onto the ground.

“It's true,” Remiel affirmed. “You're an inspiration to him. He's growing more angelic.”

Shannon smiled softly. “He would hate you for saying that.” She flung her glasses into the sea and rose. Remiel pumped his wings and rocketed off the ground. He fluttered in the air beside her. “But I'm forgetting what I came here for,” Shannon said. “Sorry for making you listen to my personal drama. We have more important things to deal with.”

“Anytime,” Remiel said. “A friend of my brother-in-arms is a friend of mine. We all care for you, Shannon.”

Shannon blew air through her teeth in skepticism. “Michael may beg to differ with you.”

“Michael is blinded by his devotion to our Father. He does not forgive easily. Relations between him and Samael are... tense, and you have sided with, in Michael's eyes, a treacherous party. He expected more from you.”

She sighed. “There's no doubt Sam's slick as a snake. But it's hard to be unbiased when your heart belongs to Michael's enemy.” The two walked farther inland, following a river thick with jungle vegetation. Shannon's combat boots squelched in the damp underbrush. They came to a grove of banyan trees on the riverbank where a canoe was docked. Remiel alighted on it and helped Shannon into the vessel.

“Give Michael time,” Remiel advised. He took a paddle from the base of the canoe and began guiding the boat sleekly through the waters. The canoe startled a pair of pink dolphins. They crested the water, skin like pale jewels in the afternoon sun.

“I will. I just hate disappointing him. Michael's been so kind to me. I feel like I've failed him, with all that I've done.”

“It wasn't your fault Metatron attacked, Shannon.”

“The Grigori War started because of me.” Shannon hung her head. “All because I couldn't keep my damn curiosity on a leash. I had to keep asking questions about things that should have stayed buried. I set Samrafil free, and all Hell broke loose because of my damned actions.”

“You'll make reparations in time,” Remiel said gently. “And it was only natural for you to be curious about the forbidden. Samael unfairly kept you in the dark. You were deceived.” They entered a forest of kapok trees, their trunks thick as elephants. Flower petals fell like snow, painting the water a multitude of colors as they floated on the currents. Shannon traced a palm front. She looked hurt. Remiel wished he could heal her soul, but some hurts were too deep for even an angel.

Heavenly song appeared as they approached the Gate. It was one of the many entrances to Eden in the border isles. Silvery light poured forth from a circular entrance over the water, veiled in clouds and mist. Shannon's heart stirred, old memories of her past life surfacing. She held her breath at the angels' song. Shannon clutched the sides of the canoe, steadying herself. Remiel guided them through. Peace washed over him as they entered the heavenly paradise.

Angels ringed the Tree of Life, a great, marvelous creation of indescribable beauty whose leaves bore the names of every soul in creation. Seraphs and cherubim orbited around like electron clouds, pouring songs of praise while others tended to the tree, plucking and pruning ceaselessly. Remiel's underlings tended to the fallen leaves, whose golden-brown surfaces named the souls that were due to die. The angels of death picked up single leaves and flew off into the ether to attend to their duties, while angels of birth above cared for new leaves, shepherding new souls off into birth. God's throne blazed in the sky above, the sun of this world, His heavenly palace at the center of the cloudless azure. At the heart of the Tree Gabriel, the Angel of Life, supervised, laughing joyously as he chatted with Lailah, the Angel of Conception. Gabriel spotted Remiel and waved, grin like a supernova. Lailah smiled, face glowing with new life. Shannon waved back shyly.

“Well, if it isn't the troublemaker and Mr. Tall Dark and Deathly. Welcome, you beautiful people!” Gabriel said, diving down, red macaw wings fanned open, and landing on the prow of the canoe. Lailah followed, her flamingo wings like dawn. She landed at the boat's back, the two angels balancing one another as if on a seesaw. The canoe bobbed with their weight.

“Oh, Shannon, you look adorable!” Lailah said, reaching out to touch the collar of Shannon's leather jacket. “If only I were allowed to wear leather on the job,” she sighed, fingering her rosy gown with gold trim.

“Thanks.” Shannon blushed, once again in awe of the angels' presences. “I wish I could pull off robes like you. I drown in them. Oh! And your sandals! Where'd you get them from? They're adorable.” Shannon admired the Angel of Conception's footwear.

“A thrift store in this quaint little French town. Want to go shopping this afternoon? My treat.”

Shannon's eyes brightened. “Are you sure?”

“Of course! I'm bored out of my wits, listening to Gabriel's same handful of jokes over and over again. I need some girl time.”

“Hey!” Gabriel said in mock-offense. “The one about Moses' wife and the Red Sea is a killer. I don't know why you weren't amused.”

Lailah narrowed her sparkling black eyes. “Jokes about PMS aren't funny to those of us with two X chromosomes, Gabe. The monthly curse isn't a laughing matter.”

Gabriel chuckled. “I suppose not.”

Remiel shifted uncomfortably. He always felt uncomfortable around discussions of human biology, having been celibate all his life. Unlike Gabriel and Lailah, who had been together since God knew when. Theirs was a union of purest love, of joy in their shared work and each other's company. Remiel admired their partnership but thought he could never have one. His was solitary work. And yet...

Remiel's mind strayed to the young man in Highgate Cemetery he had seen yesterday. He had been sketching amongst the moss-covered stone angels, face serene, like a Romantic poet of old. The artist had worn all black, blending with the shadows. His hands had moved across the canvas like a lover, tending delicately to the curves of gravestones and ivy-covered trees. He had signed his charcoal sketch “Dante,” named after the poet that had wandered the underworld in his dreams. Remiel had watched him from a mausoleum, paralyzed by his beauty. The artist had had long black braids and golden brown skin, with amber eyes that bespoke the African plains of his ancestors. He smelled like rich earth and expensive wine, and it was all Remiel could do to keep his fingers from running through Dante's hair like rain.

Finished, Dante had shivered, as if he knew someone was watching him. He had looked directly at Remiel, though Remiel should have been invisible to a mortal, and smiled softly. “Aren't you beautiful,” Dante had said, peering at Remiel with that curiosity that was so peculiar to humans. Remiel had startled, drawing back.

“You can see me?” the archangel asked in disbelief.

The artist had smiled and nodded. “Yes. I've seen many things in my time, but none so poetic as you.” Dante admired Remiel's bone-pale hair, youthful face, and pewter eyes. The artist approached, and time stood on its head. Remiel's heart fell silent as he choked on his breath. He fell into the artist's smile, felt like he was drowning, and for the first time in an eternity, felt young. Why? Remiel questioned himself inwardly. How did the young man elicit such a reaction? The grace of God walked with him, the beauty of the Creator clear in the boy's face. He could be no older than twenty, Remiel was sure, such a new thing to the world. Remiel spread his wings instinctively, his heart throbbing. Something he had never felt before- desire- stirred within him. Scared by the reaction, he backed away.

Dante laughed kindly. “So you're a shy angel, then? Just like a bird. Please, don't fly away...” his voice drifted off like the peal of deep church bells. Remiel felt roused into prayer by it, as if he wanted to worship the artist and count out on a rosary Dante's virtues. He ached to touch him, to hold him and know his soul. Remiel shivered as passion overwhelmed him, suddenly feeling like his thin black robes were not enough.

“I have nowhere to go,” Remiel admitted, voice shaking. “And I do not think I could leave.”

Dante approached gently, footsteps quiet. His movement was liquid, like a dancer, and a belt of chains jangled at his waist. Up close, Remiel could see that gold eyeliner ringed his eyes, making Dante look like a lion. He wore ripped black Shanas, a fitted ebony sweater, and fingerless leather gloves. His black Oxford boots fell softly against the mausoleum floor. Dante reached out his elegantly tapered fingers smudged with charcoal, brushing Remiel's raven forewing. Remiel caught Dante's hand with his own pale one, intertwining his fingers through the artist's. The archangel shivered, the sense of the forbidden surrounding Dante terrifying and exhilarating. Dante sighed, overcome by the grace of the angel, who radiated the peace and calm of death. They stood like that for minutes, staring intently into each other's eyes, Dante knowing.

“Then stay,” Dante whispered, bringing Remiel's hand to his full lips. “Let me draw you,” the artist murmured into Remiel's glowing skin. Remiel thrilled at Dante's breath across his knuckles.

“What are you?” Remiel had asked, baffled.

“A human that has seen too much, many of which hasn't been kind,” Dante replied, English accent lilting. He shrugged, releasing Remiel's hand. “My family's always been able to see spirits. We moved here from Port Au Prince when I was young My grandfather was the Houngan of his village in Haiti, my father is a voodoo priest. Seeing spirits runs in our blood.” Dante moved away from the Angel of Death. “I was my dad's prized son, raised for the clergy, until he found out that I had, as he calls it, 'unnatural love.'” Dante smiled ruefully. “As if loving men would damn you. He kicked me out when I was seventeen. I've been working at a coffeeshop and paying my way through art school ever since.”

“I am sorry. Your father is wrong, even if he is a man of God. Love never damns one.”

“Even you?” Dante had asked. Remiel froze.

“I... do not love.”

Dante's eyes sparked. “Is that so? The lwa do. Erzulie Freda has three husbands. Sometimes, they take human lovers in maryaj lwa.” He chuckled. “I always thought it was a stupid idea. The lwa are tempestuous, just like the gods. Why a human would want to involve themselves with one always baffled me. But, seeing you, I can understand why. You are the most glorious thing I've ever seen.”

Remiel blushed madly. “Your words are kind.” He wanted to say how beautiful he found the bold artist, to explain how he wanted to fall to the ground in prayer at Dante's feet. But the words caught in his throat, and he found his mouth hanging open, amazed.

“Why have I never seen an angel before?”

Remiel struggled for words. “We tend to be elusive and keep to ourselves. We do not take on physical form often. Have you ever seen the sparks of light that follow humans?”

“Yes, everyone I've ever seen has one.”

“Those are guardian angels.”

“Oh,” Dante said, surprised. “So is that what you are? My guardian angel?”

“No.”

Dante scrutinized him. “Then why do I feel like I've seen you before? I feel like I know you.” He went back to his sketchbook and thumbed through the pages. Shock registered on his face. “Here,” he said breathlessly, showing Remiel the sketch. Remiel paled upon seeing the picture. It depicted the archangel reaping, face calm as he brandished his scythe, separating a woman's soul from her body. Dante's hands shook and he dropped the sketchbook. Remiel dove and caught it, saving the pictures from the wet ground.

“I drew that after a dream I had last year,” Dante explained, voice shaking. “That's my mother. She died in labor, giving birth to me.” The artist looked at Remiel, questioning. “There was an angel in it. The Angel of Death.”

Remiel felt fear spread like ice across his back. He hated the thought that Dante was afraid of him. He dared look into Dante's eyes, only to find fascination, even thankfulness, dancing there.

“Who are you?” Dante breathed.

“Remiel,” the archangel murmured,“the help of God.”

“Remiel,” Dante said, testing the name. “No wonder you feel so bloody peaceful, if you're the Angel of Death.”

Remiel didn't know what to say. Instead, he looked through the sketches. He was blown away by their beauty: Dante exaggerated anatomy like Michelangelo yet had the romanticism of the Pre-Raphaelites. Scenes of gods, angels, and all deities in-between covered the pages. Urban fey and London's Celtic spirits filled the pages next to voodoo lwa. It was like a journal of what Dante had seen: a gancanagh chain-smoking in the meat-packing district, a troll's skewed reflection in a puddle of gasoline, gargoyles clinging to the London Eye. It was distinctly English and Haitian, an exotic blend of mythologies, one that flowed in Dante's veins, the other adopted.

Dante watched him flip through the sketches. He caught Remiel's hand, making him stop on the picture depicting the archangel. Dante studied the rendition and then looked toRemiel's face. “I got the eyes wrong. And you have an aquiline nose. I have to fix that.” Remiel handed back the sketchbook. Dante settled onto a gravestone and erased the imperfect features, then quickly sketched new ones, peering at Remiel all the while. Remiel found himself self-conscious, something he'd never felt before. Artists favored Gabriel and Michael, never him. He tucked his long white hair behind his ears and blushed, fidgeting with the hem of his cloak.

Dante turned to a new page and peered at Remiel. He put away his charcoal and pulled out a pen from his messenger bag. Remiel felt naked, suddenly conscious of himself. What did Dante think of his tall stature, too tall for a mortal, his unnatural grace and deathly affinity, the alieness that he possessed? He cursed his monkish robes and wished he wore something more human. Remiel closed his wings, unsure.

“I want to sketch you,” Dante said quietly, studying Remiel. “I want to remember you.”

“You- you do?” Remiel whispered. Most shied away from death. Why would this human want to remember him? Still, Dante looked upon him with a kind of reverence, with- did Remiel dare think it?- desire. The artist considered Remiel like one would eye a piece of artwork they wanted to own. Remiel, who had spanned eons, whose true form was vast beyond comprehension, felt small under Dante's gaze. He wanted to be owned. To be possessed. The primal need that filled him sent tremors through him.

“Of course,” Dante breathed, voice heady with unspoken want. Remiel shook at its intensity.

“I- I don't know what to do,” Remiel said, feeling helpless and cursing himself for it.

Dante smiled. Remiel would have murdered for that smile. He cringed at the sudden realization, instantly knowing he would do anything for this child, even something completely against his nature.

“Just be yourself,” Dante whispered. “Relax.”

Remiel did. He unfurled his wings and sunk onto a marble lion, sitting on its back and watching Dante's graceful hands move across the page. Dante sketched his form, ink staining his hands. He stared intently at Remiel. Blushing, Remiel looked to the ferns that skimmed Dante's ankles.

The artist cursed in disbelief. He watched Remiel in wonder. “How are you so beautiful? It's unfair. I can't capture that beauty on a page. No wonder humans invented religion. They can't help but worship God and His creations. You're immaculate, Remiel. Terrifying and perfect. No wonder people die when they see you.”

Remiel winced at the mention of death. “I would never hurt you, Dante-”

“I know that. I've had bad run-ins with immortals, and I can tell which ones mean me harm. You mean me the opposite.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Dante nibbled on the cap of his pen, grinning lazily. “It's your eyes, angel. They speak volumes more than you say.”

Angel, he had called him. Remiel shuddered at the tenderness in Dante's voice. Dante went back to drawing, smile permanent. He glowed, Remiel thought, so alive with life as he sketched furiously. Energy poured off him like rain from a rooftop.

“Call me Remy,” Remiel said.

Dante grinned, amused. “Remy. I like it.”

He sat like that for an hour, for once the subject of a mortal's sketch. Dante kept tearing sheets from his sketchbook, crumpling them up and throwing them in his messenger bag, dissatisfied. After the silence became unbearable, Remiel spoke: “Perhaps I could speak to your father.”

“And tell him what? That in God's eyes, gays all join hands with straights in Heaven and sing kumbayah? He'd never buy that. He'd think you were a demon, that it was a trick.” Dante sighed, reaching into his bag and withdrawing a cigarette and a lighter. He lit it and took a slow drag. “Dad thinks I'mdestined for Hell. Anything I associate with, spirit wise, he considers of the Devil.”

Remiel moved to comfort Dante. Dante withdrew from his touch, cursing. He buried his face in his hands. Remiel's heart stirred. He wanted to draw Dante to his chest and enfold him in his wings, protecting him from the pain of the world.

“I can't do this, Remy. I can't draw you. Look at this.”

Remiel did. All he saw was beauty, a loving depiction of himself. His breath caught in his throat.

“The wings are off, and the proportion's all wrong-”

“It's beautiful. May I- may I have it?”

Dante looked surprised. “Sure, but I don't see why you'd want it.” He took a contemplative drag, looking at the dark clouds overhead. “You must have met all the great artists of history.”

“Yes, but none has ever drawn me.”

Dante rose, putting away his sketchbook and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I can't see why not,” he whispered. “I've never seen anything so beautiful. Even God Himself must pale in comparison.”

“Don't say such a thing.” Remiel turned his head, embarrassed. He felt an inexorable gravity drawing him to the artist. Dante brought the cigarette to Remiel's mouth. Remieltook a drag, his lips skimming Dante's fingers. Dante stubbed the cigarette on a headstone and threw it onto the ground between them. He took his gloves off and pocketed them, then put his bare hands on Remiel's neck, tracing down to his shoulders and out to the ridges of his wings. Remiel sighed, folding his pinions closed over the artist and enfolding them in the feathery darkness. Thunder rumbled above and a slight rain began. Remiel's wings shielded them from the drizzle.

“I'll say it if it's true,” Dante said. He let his hands slip down Remiel's chest, exposing the milky flesh beneath the neck of his robe. His fingers lingered at Remiel's collarbone. The archangel shivered, the mortal's touch sending thrills to his core. Dante traced circles into his flesh. “You're cold.”

“Side effect of being death,” Remiel breathed. He caught Dante's hands and enfolded them in his own.

“We should do something about that.”

“About being death?” Remiel asked, confused. He meant to push the mortal away, but couldn't bring himself to.

“About the cold...” Dante murmured. He closed the space between them, body pressing into Remiel's like a lock into a key. Remiel felt Dante's arousal against his leg and sucked in his breath. Remiel hardened, lust overcoming him. He panicked, never having felt such need before.

“Dante,” Remiel said roughly. “I can't.” Still, the angel's body didn't obey him. Remiel crushed Dante to him, hands roving down Dante's back. “I can't, but I... I can't help it. Please, don't think less of me.”

“How could I?” Dante asked, drunk off Remiel's beauty. “But you're right. We can't, not yet. Coffee. Coffee will warm you up.” Dante tucked his cheek into Remiel's chest.Remiel shuddered, desire razing him. “Come to Java Junkie tomorrow at 5. I get off work then. Coffee's on me. You can model for me again, and I'll draw something that doesn't suck.”

Remiel nodded, wordless as he fought down the desire that threatened to overwhelm him. “I'd like that,” Remiel said through gritted teeth. His arousal was painful, unused cock hungering.

Dante smiled, untwining himself from Remiel's embrace. “You're a tease, you know that, angel? I know what I'm dreaming of tonight.” And with that, he left, vanishing into the trees like the wind. Remiel had been left with his lingering scent and an insatiable ache.

That ache flared again, rocketing Remiel back to the presence. He winced, trying to catch what Gabriel was saying.

“... and so, the mohel says to the demon, that tail is unkosher-”

“Stop right there, Gabe. This joke is disgusting,” Lailah interrupted.

“What's a mohel?” Shannon asked, innocent. Lailah shook her head, face darkened. Gabriel laughed riotously.

“Remiel, care to enlighten her? Az? You okay there?” Gabriel asked. “You look like you're about to worship the porcelain god.”

“What?” Remiel said.

“You look sick. You okay, sweetie?” Lailah asked.

“I, um.” Remiel cleared his throat. “My thoughts strayed. My apologies.”

“What were you thinking about?” Shannon asked, curious.

“Nothing important. Now, shouldn't we attend to the Book of Life?” Remiel asked, trying to distract them from himself.

“Right,” Gabriel agreed. “That's why we've been waiting for you two all day long. Shall we?” Lailah and Gabriel sat in the boat. Gabriel took a paddle from Remiel and helped him guide the canoe to the massive root system under the Tree of Life. The current carried them between the roots thick as trees, towards the great heart of the Tree of Life.

“It's beautiful,” Shannon said breathlessly, clearly blown away by the tree's magnificence. They came to the hollow interior of the tree. A spiral staircase was carved into its walls, rising up to infinity. Hosts of angels attended to the tree's interior. The inner bark was like birch, living script with words in all languages flowing across it as it wrote itself. For the tree was the Book of Life, and what was written in it was all that had been and was. What could be slept beneath, waiting for the opportune moment to grow.

“That it is,” Remiel agreed.

Shannon held her breath. She steeled herself. “Will it hurt?” she asked softly.

“Only a little,” Lailah said, gentle. Gabriel tied the boat to the dock at the base of the staircase. “Here,” Lailah urged, enfolding Shannon in her arms. They ascended together to the tree's heart. Shannon would commune with the tree, baring her soul to its alien will and noting the names of the dead she was to reap. Remiel, job done, looked to Gabriel.

“I... have a problem, Gabriel.”

Gabriel peered at him in knowing. “And would this certain problem have anything to do with love?”

Remiel startled. “How did you...?”

“It was written all over your face, Remy. Lovesickness. And coming from you! Of all the things I expected to fall in love, you're up there with rocks and prune juice.”

“Those seem rather unromantic, not to mention their utter lack of feelings.”

“Exactly. Now tell me, who's the lucky angel?” Gabriel asked, slapping the Angel of Death on the back in congratulations.

Remiel didn't know how to respond. Gabriel paled. “She is an angel, right? Not a...”

“He's a mortal, Gabriel.”

Gabriel's eyes grew wide as moons.

“You think I'm an idiot, don't you? Hell, I'm a fool.”

“No! No, Remiel, even bloody Samael can't keep it in his pants when it comes to humans. I just... expected something different from you. You're a traditional angel, celibate. To hear that you've fallen for someone, much less a mortal, is surprising. I swear I won't tell another soul.”

The two paddled away in silence, Gabriel brimming with questions but keeping them to himself. Remiel couldn't stand the quiet.

“I'm meeting him for coffee,” Remiel admitted. “He works there.”

“Wonderful!” Gabriel said enthusiastically, glad for the detail her brother had spared. “Oh, but you need my approval.”

“What?”

“As your older sis, it's my duty to ensure you're involved with a proper man. Which is why we're going to his coffeeshop now and I'm scoping him out.”

“Really, Gabriel. That isn't necessary-”

“Ah ah ah! Of course it is. And I'm dying for a caramel machiatto. You get a discount, right, because the barista's your boyfriend?”

“He's not my- my lover.”

Gabriel snorted. “Remy, I know the look of blue balls when I see it. And you had a major case of them earlier. He'll be your something soon enough. Nothing could resist you.”

Remiel was baffled. “What does that mean?”

“God made you so beautiful that souls are ripped from their bodies when they see your true form, Remiel. As if this boy could withstand you.”

Remiel blushed, thinking of Dante. “I don't want him to desire me just for my... my beauty.” He reached into his pocket, withdrawing Dante's rolled-up sketch. He unfurled it and showed it to Gabriel. “He has such talent, such a presence, I nearly lost it, Gabriel. I could barely control myself.”

Gabriel examined the picture. “That's quite some artistry. I've never seen the likes of it before. He draws like a man possessed.”

“He drew me,” Remiel said in amazement. “No one draws me. Ever.”

Gabriel grinned. “Apparently, this mortal does.”

“I don't know what to do.”

“I do. It's simple. Go to him. Order coffee. Let him take you out on a date as he proposed.” They crossed through the Gate into the border isles and came to the banks of the rainforest. Gabriel summoned a portal to London, donned a dapper blue pantsuit, silk scarf, her catseye sleek as a fox, Ruby Woo MAC lipstick on point, and stepped through. Remiel stuck with his designer blue Armani and entered. It was raining over Big Ben, streets bustling with umbrellas fighting the wind. Gabriel grinned deviously, taking wing as Remiel followed. Invisible to mortals, they soared overhead to Java Junkie. It was tucked between an ancient Anglican church and a rowdy pub, with peeling paint and obscure music floating out into the rain. The pierced, punk, and fabulous spilled out onto the streets from the coffeeshop, standing and sitting under the awning as they laughed and chatted, clutching mismatched, chipped cups.

Remiel landed, soaked. He welcomed the storm, feeling fresh and purified. Gabriel had allowed the rain to skim off him harmlessly, dry and immaculate as always. He was put together and in control. Remiel looked like he felt: a hot mess.

“I don't think this is a good idea...” Remiel muttered, fear pricking him like needles. He tied his long starlight hair back into a ponytail and wrung it out, nervous.

Gabriel thumped him on the back. Remiel coughed. “Cojones, Remy. Don't forget you have them. It's just one adorable, puny human.”

“I feel like a gnat under his gaze. What could I possibly have to offer him? Why would he ever be interested?-”

“Shh, you're over-thinking things.”

“I am, aren't I. Lord, I'm...”

“What?”

“Scared.”

“That's natural. Embrace it. Just be yourself, Rem. There's no reason he wouldn't love you. Now come on- let's get out of the rain.”

They entered. The smell of coffee grounds overpowered the shop. Remiel honed in on the young man behind the counter. Dante was busy preparing a spiced chai latte. His braids were tied back in a knot and his eyes focused intently on the drink, skimming foam off the top. He wore a black hoodie, skinny Shanas, and combat boots, silver studs sparking in his ears. Remiel trembled, desire flaring in his core. He could smell the spice of Dante's skin, his faint cologne wafting through the coffeeshop.

“He's beautiful,” Gabriel murmured. “No wonder you've fallen for him.” Gabriel removed her glamour and entered the line. Remiel kept his glamour on, invisible to all mortals save Dante. He lingered in the shadows, unsure. “A caramel machiatto- keep the change,” Gabby said brightly, turning to wink at Remiel. Dante processed his order.

“Hey,” said a buxom blonde punk, starry-eyed over Remiel. She looked up into his eyes in wonder. “Wanna buy me a drink?”

“Not particularly,” Remiel said. The girl shied away. The archangel barely noticed. He only had eyes for Dante.

“That'll be four pounds...” Dante said, handing Gabriel his drink.

Gabriel took a sip. “Mmm. Heavenly. Say, Dante, is it?”

Dante raised his brow. “Yeah?”

“I have a favor to ask you. You see that gentleman over there?” Gabriel said, indicating Remiel. Remiel ducked his head, cheeks flushing. He heard Dante draw a sharp breath.

“I do,” Dante said, voice rough.

“He wants to treat you to a drink.”

“I don't get off my shift yet-”

“You do now!” Gabriel hopped over the counter and took on the barista's duties. She began bubbily processing orders in a flurry. “Consider it a well-deserved vacation. Now what'll you take?”

“I can't-”

“Your boss is asleep in the back room. As far as she knows, you'll have been working this whole time. Would you really deny an archangel like me the joy of a working man's life?”

Remiel dared look at Dante. He was smiling, taken aback. “I'll take black coffee then.”

“Good. Then take your coffee and this cappuccino over to Remiel. Enjoy! Next customer...”

Dante approached, the sway of his hips like a jaguar. He balanced the cappuccino in the palm of his hand, grinning. “Hey, angel. I see you've got yourself a wingman.”

Remiel blushed, taking the drink from Dante. “He's my brother. You'll have to excuse him. Gabriel can't control himself.”

Dante laughed. “Gabriel, eh? She looks like she's having the time of her life.”

“He is easily amused.”

“And you, Remiel? Are you easily entertained?”

Remiel considered his question. “I enjoy watching things.”

Dante walked to a dimly lit corner and sank into a leather wing-back chair. Remiel followed suit. “So do I,” Dante agreed. “That's why I want to be an artist. I love the details of life. Everything's so immaculate in their creation, even broken things. Like stained glass windows. All the pieces fit together like a puzzle and create something whole. By themselves, they can't stand, but brought together, they're beautiful.”

Remiel sipped his cappuccino and licked the foam from his lips. “You enjoy stained glass works?”

“Oh hell yeah. Tiffany, Pre-Raphaelite designs. I love them all. I want to be a stained glass artist and open my own studio. See?” He rummaged through his messenger bag, withdrawing his sketchbook. Dante looked at Remiel, amber eyes unsure. “What do you think of my new design?” he asked quietly, flipping to a sketch. It depicted Remiel kneeling in prayer, scythe draped over his back, skulls and flowers at his feet. A scroll with the words “MEMENTO MORI” hung in the air above him. Self-conscious, Dante closed the sketchbook. “I couldn't stop thinking of you last night,” he admitted. “So I drew this.”

Remiel's breaths grew heavy. “I cannot stop thinking of you either,” Remiel said, voice heady. He reached across the table and took Dante's gloved hands in his. “Everything you create is beautiful, Dante. Unlike any human's work I've seen before. You will go far, and you will not be left wanting after your dreams.”

“Thanks,” Dante murmured, running his fingers over Remiel's palms.

They kissed, rain fell outside as the sweet smells of Remiel’s frankincense cologne and Gabriel’s gardenia perfume mixed with cappuccinos, the gargoyles on London’s eaves and the cobblestones pooled with oil rainbows.

And like that, Remiel broke the ban on angels falling for mortals, kissed Dante, and set in line a series of events

That would make all angels

Fall.

[blysse-and-blunder]

in lieu of packing

11pm, saturday, july 15, 2023

the things i could be doing right now could fill multiple volumes, but i listened to a podcast today about academic (im)perfectionism and am deciding i don't need to feel guilty. this summer's Big European Travel starts tomorrow and I! am! nervois! but i've done some smaller trips recently which helped me work up to this in a way. further media and life musings below the cut.

reading i had a few weeks there where my recreational reading was... a little bleak, in that i was reading things that felt dated and/or formulaic and/or just put me straight to sleep, thereby meaning that i took much longer than i normally like to finish anything-- this was enlivened with two excellent new instalments from two different series i love, anne leckie's translation state and samantha shannon's a day of fallen night.

very very fun now thinking of these back to back. two books were so engrossing, built (and built on) such rich worlds, such good command of the vibes/atmosphere/tone they were going for, but so different! to sound like a book reviewer for a moment, leckie's prose is sort of lean where shannon's is lush, something like that. there's a joke in here based on the meme that goes 'sci-fi is where x, fantasy is where y' but i'm too tired to work it out myself. both of these books say-- so there are incomprehensible beings in your world which may wish to eat and/or destroy you, and some people have found ways to work or live with them, but it is very weird and alien to your way of life. day of fallen night feels more like a climate metaphor, and there is plenty that felt pulled straight from the psyche of the years 2020-2023. both do fun/interesting things with gender and relationships, and both made me want to go re-read their respective predecessors to heighten the feeling of connection and resonance with those other works.

watching mostly dimension 20-- i introduced @yogurtforever to fantasy high last week, and I myself have been working my way through the toy island arc of neverafter-- but here is the place to mention watching netflix's new documentary about WHAM!, of all things, with @yogurtforever and @thehibernatinglentil last weekend.

not being a documentary hound, i never would have watched this without friends, but it was genuinely quite fun! i didn't know a ton about wham! or george michael, which i now realize is a shame because there's a lot to know. making up for it by having the lyrics to their first hit single, the inimitable 'wham rap', stuck in my head for the next 200 years.

listening due in no small part to the wham! doc (and an mama mia 2 rewatch the week before that), i put on a lot of throwback music this week. it ended up being more 70s than 80s, and that got me thinking about how strongly my parents' music taste influenced mine. there are so many good artists from ~back then~ who i have found out about later, because we just didn't listen to them at home? and of the vinyl i remember finding in the basement, you know, it wasn't bowie, it wasn't fleetwood mac, it wasn't springsteen (it was james taylor and paul simon and probably joni mitchell). luckily, summer camp taught me all the lyrics to a bunch of other oldies, and we did listen to the radio oldies station quite a lot, so my education wasn't entirely deficient. i bring this week the don maclean song 'vincent', which i will be thinking a lot about for one reason and another this week.

playing i have, at long, long last, completed my stardew community center. it was a little anticlimactic, after all the travail that went into it, but i'm so pleased. it only took like two actual human real life years! the last thing i needed was a rabbit's foot, and now at last i feel like i can move to the next tier of game play. i remain unmarried, fighting for my life in skull cavern, but now with two small bunnies to love.

making trying to figure out how to eat most of the food i have in the fridge, how to use up things and make the most of what i have and not leave anything to spoil for the next little while, so i haven't really been cooking big projects. i've been 'making' appointments, got my eyes checked, had coffee with two different profs and chatted with a former student about her med school applications, and that's about it!

working on conference paper, which is both a slideshow (graphic design is my passion, this part is mostly fine) and a draft of what might turn into usable words for the chapter i'm working on. naturally i have built it up into the Biggest Scariest Most Important task, and so am avoiding it and finding it miserable to work on. and i still have time! i had wanted to not work on it on the plane, during my travel week, etc., but there is actually time. there's time. and i keep having small breakthroughs, after 2-5 hours of dicking around, which allow me to believe that there is an end in sight. other things to be worked on, for when i have some 'free' 'time'-- newsletter draft that's so very overdue, multiple students asking for detailed essay feedback and grade breakdowns, emails from students asking for other things, recommendation letter, the next chapter that i'm meant to be finishing this summer. luckily, it's a long plane ride.

[the-darkness-does-not-bargain]

*sounds of a massive stampede* wn superhero au???? *blurry eyes emoji* beatrice lightning powers, ava frankenstein esque creature, lilith fire & claws, mary & camilla as batman, ga types, and shannon as superman type???? omfg all of this sounds so damn cool, i almost wanna put my fist through a wall but in like the best & most excited of ways (<- might just be a little obsessed w comics and superheroes)

pls do elaborate all about it, and on how ava does gain her powers 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

Bestie, you're really to blame for all of this because you put the seed in my head, so here we go.

What I'm imagining is a scenario where superheroes have been around long enough to receive some amount of regulation. Superhero teams largely act independently but are beholden to government bodies and have to abide by certain special laws. I'm picturing Supreme Court cases and federal bills outlining hero jurisdictions, how heroes are allowed to investigate crimes, and how the court system handles superhero activity (is evidence found by a superhero admissible? Do heroes have to respect Miranda rights? etc. etc. Including variations based on country of origin, so Spain's laws will be different from America's etc. etc.).

People who have superpowers have to register themselves with their local hero agency and either join up or sign a binding agreement not to use their powers. Violators are considered criminals and the local agency and hero team are responsible for apprehending them. Heroes can and often do use secret identities, and the law has a long list of rules for what they can and can't do out of costume, but some choose to hero full-time and have their living expenses covered by their local agency.

So you have your generic comic book city (I guess it could be Malaga or Madrid but idc) and the local hero team is the OCS, one of the most well-known. They've been around since the first generation of heroes revealed themselves to the public, and are currently led by Suzanne, a hero who retired after an ~incident~ 12 years prior 👀 and now oversees the current team, which includes all of our girls.

Ava is still in St. Michael's and quadriplegic after she and her mom were caught in the crossfire of a hero-villain fight 👀👀 and became collateral damage. Her mom died but she was found alive. There was and is an active media initiative to downplay the damage caused by superhero activity, and the hospital was given financial incentives to keep this seven-year-old alive at any cost so they could claim as few civilian casualties as possible. Horrible, disgraceful, and Ava rightfully holds some resentment towards superheroes even though she is glad to be alive.

The OCS girls are as follows:

Shannon (Star Girl) is a Superman-esque alien who arrived on earth and quickly became the most famous hero worldwide for her incredible abilities. Her powers include: flight, super strength, x-ray vision, ocular beam projection (laser eyes), and invulnerability to everything except divinium. Suzanne recruited her almost immediately after she revealed herself and she quickly became the face of the OCS. She helped recruit all of the other girls into the team, and she led most of their missions prior to her death (sorry, yeah, Shannon doesn't get to live in this one, not unless you do it like real comic books).

Mary (she has a hero name built in lmao, Shotgun Mary): is a human without any specific powers apart from being a badass with guns. Unlike canon, she can actually fight well hand-to-hand, but she's a master at all things firearms and explosives. She gives very mild Punisher vibes but it's mostly aesthetic. She was a vigilante who met Shannon by chance while taking down some crime syndicate or other, and Shannon convinced her to join up with the heroes. She often seems out of place among the OCS but she is invaluable to the team.

Beatrice (Maelstrom): is a human with control over lightning and electricity in general. She got these powers in an accident where a bunch of electricity was channeled through an alien space rock (maybe divinium) and she touched it. She was already on the outs with her family by this time, who basically told her to go die being a hero to elevate their family name. She was really angry and reckless when she joined the OCS, but Shannon and the others helped her overcome that. Now, she's a hero in good standing and loved by the public.

Lilith (Morningstar): a hybrid of human and uhhhhhhhhhh (?????) who controls fire and can grow claws (and wings eventually). She doesn't really know how or why she got her powers, only that they manifested suddenly in her teens and her parents also coerced her into becoming a hero. Suzanne took her in and trained her for several years before letting her officially join the team, so she still feels a lot of pressure to be the best and a leader, just not because of a family legacy.

Camila (Gambit): a human like Mary who is just more badass than normal. She's a prodigy at archery as well as a technical genius and hacker. Suzanne finds her trying to hack into the OCS computer system and immediately hires her. She's the newest member of the team and doesn't go out in the field often because she's still learning to fight, but her tech skills are often mission-critical.

So what happened to Shannon? This is where Ava comes in, along with the two scenarios where she gets her powers. Scenario 1: Frankenstein Classic. Shannon disappears on a solo mission to investigate some villain activity in the city, and winds up getting killed by Vincent/Adriel. They take her body to some secret lab along with Ava, who they might have bought from St. Michael's on the DL in exchange for more funding. Disgusting, and then it gets worse. They want to create a superhuman they can control for villainous purposes, and they do it by cutting off parts of Shannon's body and attaching them to Ava. We're talking limbs, guts, spine, one of her eyes, everything. Part of Shannon's alien biology is the ability to assimilate with foreign tissue as a survival tactic, so her bits just sort naturally graft themselves on, leaving only lines of scar tissue where the two ends meet. A consequence of this is Ava getting Shannon's powers to some extent.

Scenario 2: Frankenstein John Carpenter Edition. The OCS goes up against Adriel in a fight, and Ava (for whatever reason) gets caught in the crossfire again and dies. Shannon dies at the same time however, probably from a divinium bomb, and her body lands on Ava's. Alien biology comes back but Even Worse, and Shannon's blood (and probably CSF and other fluids too) basically becomes its own entity, oozing out of her corpse to occupy the closest organic mass and mount a full hostile takeover. So Ava comes back to life as her body is forcibly converted from human to alien.

No matter what scenario you pick, it's bad for her, because she either has to fight her way out of a mad scientist's lab using limbs that aren't hers, or she wakes up alone in the aftermath of the battle with no idea what's going on. To say nothing of the OCS being devastated by Shannon's death. Big Oof imagining them in scenario 1 finding Shannon's butchered body missing so many pieces. And when they find out later where those pieces are? It's bad, it's really bad.

They have to bring Ava in, which is fucked because Shannon was the world's most famous hero for a reason and now all of her power is in the hands of a scared 19-year-old who doesn't trust superheroes. Just finding her is a pain in the ass, and then they have to get close enough to incapacitate her. It probably winds up being Bea's job, which creates some excellent tension and mistrust for them to work through later.

That's what I've got so far in my slow contemplation!

[hottpinkpenguin]

Hi! I was wondering if you'd be willing to do a gender neutral reader x Zipco one shot. Maybe something like them both being sweet on each other but both thinking the other isn't interested. Ending with a first kiss or more or whatever you feel! Thanks for considering!!

A/n: this got steamier than I thought it would when I started. What can I say, I love a broody biker man <3 Thanks for the request anon!!

Long Time Coming - Zipco X GN!Reader

WC: 2142 Warnings: mention of past domestic violence relationship; alcohol use; steam

**K i know this gif isn't from the movie but i could literally not find any on tumblr so dont hate me

You leaned back in your chair in the bar, taking in the motley crew of bikers that had become something like a family over the last few months. Johnny was standing over by the pool tables, one arm slung over Benny’s shoulder to keep himself upright, the other clutching the neck of a beer bottle and conducting a very off-tune rendition of Elvis’ All Shook Up, vocals provided by the very drunk duo of Wahoo and Corky. Kathy had kicked off her heels and was doing a rather uncoordinated jumble of the monster mash, trying to adjust to the sloppy cadence of the drunk chorus that kept falling behind the beat of the jukebox. Your cousin Cal was laughing so hard at the antics he almost had tears in his eyes. Cockroach was off in a corner whispering something naughty in his wife’s ear, judging by her giggle and the bright pink flush on her cheeks, as he played with the ends of her hair. Funny Sonny was smoking a joint near the front door at a table with a fast-asleep Fat Jack across from him. Every few minutes, Funny Sonny would try to flick a pretzel crumb into Fat Jack’s open mouth between his snores. Most of the crumbs fell short of their target, dotting Jack’s beard and his chest.

And then there was Zipco, seated solemnly at the bar studying the bottom of the whiskey and coke in his hand as if he were reading tea leaves. He was the one somber face in the tavern, and judging by the furrow in his brows his emotions were churning like a storm. You chewed on the inside of your lip as you watched him from across the smoky bar, wondering what it was - or who - that was causing him such grief. Of all the bikers, you knew him the least and thought about him the most. 

Zipco shifted on the barstool, and you could see the muscles in his back tense and move against the black of his t-shirt. Enjoying your unobstructed vantage point from the relative anonymity of the dimly lit bar, you greedily drank in the sight of his side profile, his face partially obscured by his perpetually mussed hair and shaggy beard. He lifted his glass to his mouth and took a sip, his forearm and bicep flexing appealingly as he did so. The sight made you feel thirsty suddenly as your mind fed you imaginings of his thick arms wrapped around your waist, his big hands spread open and roaming across your skin. You wondered how he’d taste - probably like whiskey and cigarettes, you thought, with a small squirm - and how that scruffy beard would feel against your lips.

“Jesus Christ, y/n, take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Cal slid into the chair next to you, jarring you out of the daydream that had your toes curling in their shoes. Embarrassed, you ducked your eyes and scolded your cousin.

“Shut the fuck up, Cal.”

“I’m tired of watchin’ you makin’ eyes at each other,” he continued, ignoring your protestations with a confident swig of his beer.

“‘Ey, Zip! Get over here!”

“Christ on a fuckin’ cracker, Cal, what the hell are you doin’?” You jabbed your elbow as hard as you could muster at his ribs. He dodged, protecting his beer with one hand and batting away your arm with the other. Zipco turned on his stool, one eyebrow raised in annoyance or curiosity, you couldn’t tell. 

“The fuck you want?” he shouted at Cal. His eyes landed on you momentarily, and your heart pirouetted in your chest. Your imagination picked up right where it’d left off, feeding you intrusive pictures of Zipco’s body hovering over yours, the heat from his skin warm against you as his lips devoured your moans.

“Come over ‘ere! You and y/n are both drinkin’ alone, nothin’ sadder than a solo drunk.” You felt yourself dissolve into embarrassment at Cal’s words. Panic set in as you saw Zipco actually stand up from his stool and begin making his way across the bar towards you. What the fuck were you going to say? 

“Cal, I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” you growled murderously, which only made Cal’s smug smirk widen. 

“You’re welcome,” he replied smartly as he stood up from the chair and offered it to Zipco, who settled with an unintelligible grunt. As Cal left, snaking through the crowd towards the pool tables, he looked back at you and winked. 

“Your cousin’s a shithead,” Zipco commented gruffly, his bluntness shocking a laugh out of you. “Sorry, I know he’s kin to you. But he’s a shit.” 

You smiled, feeling a millimeter more comfortable now that Zipco had broken the ice.

“No argument here,” you agreed with a queasy, nervous-sounding laugh. 

“How’d you end up in Chicago, anyway?” Zip asked stiffly. He was searching for something to say, just like you. It was a safe question, and it should have had an easy answer. But you found yourself chewing on the inside of your cheek, wondering just how much of your backstory you should tell him. Should you tell him the truth - that you wound up here after Cal found you half beaten to death by your boyfriend - or just offer something vague and mysterious, like ‘oh, I blew in on the wind’? You felt very self conscious as the silence between you stretched longer and longer.  

“Long story,” you finally managed glumly, dark memories pressing in on the edges of your mind. Zipco was visibly fidgeting next to you, acutely aware that he’d inadvertently stepped on a sensitive subject. When he finally spoke, his voice was laced with embarrassment and pain. 

“Didn’t mean to pry. Cal never said much ‘bout how you ended up here. And I’m… curious.” Something about the way he muttered the last word plucked a string in you. You fought to suppress a small smile at the confession that Zipco was curious about you.

“My ex was a piece of shit,” you offered quietly. “When I ran out of escape plans, I called Cal. He brought me here.” There was a lot more to say about that long story, but you let those sparse details suffice. Zipco looked at you, bashfulness replaced by something hotter and more dangerous.

“He give you this scar?” Electricity leapt through your veins when Zipco’s fingertips connected with the jagged line of scarred skin that snaked down your forearm - courtesy of a broken bottle in your ex’s hand. You jumped reflexively at the contact. The scar wasn’t sensitive anymore, but you were surprised that anyone had noticed. You took great care to cover it most of the time, eager to avoid prying questions. Somehow though, the question in Zipco’s voice felt inviting. There was a protective streak stitched in between his words that beckoned you closer. Mouth gone dry, you nodded wide-eyed at him. 

“I didn’t think anyone had noticed…” 

His eyes captured yours, the anger bubbling in his gaze softening at the sight of you drinking him in. An unexpected intimacy tangled together in the space between you, tightening like the laces on a corset. Your head was spinning, heart pounding, palms sweating slightly. Your lungs seemed to forget how to breathe, spasming futilely in your chest. Unable to bear it anymore, simultaneously you both dropped your eyes to the table. 

Feeling warm and overwhelmed, you took a healthy swig from your beer, followed by another, hoping for a dose of liquid courage. So far, all the booze had done was whet your appetite for other vices. You swallowed thickly as you snuck a glance in Zipco’s direction. He looked deliciously casual in his jeans, riding boots and black t-shirt, the signature leather jacket long discarded in the hot, summertime air of the smoky bar. Suddenly, an idea struck you.

“It’s a little hot in here, don’t you think?” 

He nodded. “Always is. No fuckin’ ventilation in this shithole.”

“I’m gonna get some air,” you said, letting your words hang in the space between you two like an offering. You wondered if he heard the invitation. It took a moment, but when you saw comprehension dawn on his face, the sparkle in his eyes and the quick smirk told you everything you needed to know about his eagerness.

“I could use a fresh cigarette myself.” You rose first, Zipco trailing you like a shadow. You wondered if anyone noticed, but you couldn’t bring yourself to focus on anything but the prickling awareness of Zipco close behind you, so close you swore you could feel the tease of his breath on your neck. 

When you stepped outside, the quiet of the dark, sleeping street and the cool of the air was welcome. Your body turned without needing input from your brain towards a particularly shadowy alleyway next to Junker’s. You could hear Zicpo’s heavy steps close behind you. 

The quiet of the August night helped you think more clearly, ratcheting up both your commitment to the moment and your nervousness. You reached a wall, turning to face Zipco. The streetlight glinting in his gaze looked like starlight. He was close enough for you to smell the mint of his aftershave and the grassy, woodsmoke tang of whiskey on his breath. Your heart surged up into your throat at his closeness.

“I’ll take a cigarette, too, if you’re having one.” Your voice was a half-note higher pitched than usual, fluttering at the edges. 

He smiled gently, moving a half-step closer to you.

“Now that I’m out here, I’m not sure I need a smoke after all,” he murmured. His eyes flicked back and forth between yours, the questions hanging in the air beginning to vanish one by one as your body language answered each one. You felt your back come into contact with the bricks of the wall behind you just as his lips found yours. The feel of his mouth against yours unleashed the restraint you’d been fighting to maintain. You kissed him back with a needy pressure that you could tell surprised him by the small gasp he let out. He barely let a moment pass before he was matching you, a strong hand coming to cradle the back of your neck. His skin was calloused and warm, just like you’d imagined. You felt your bones melt as you relaxed into his embrace, letting his arms and the wall behind you hold you upright.

The kiss morphed from needy to excited to probing, each of you happily responding to the other as you found your rhythm. Zipco was utterly silent against you. The almost ferocious focus with which he moved and held you was intoxicating, and pretty soon you were gasping and sighing and moaning enough for the both of you. Your hands had found their way up into his hair, raking across his scalp and trailing down the side of his neck, dancing underneath the collar of his t-shirt. He shuddered slightly against you, his lips curling into a smile against yours. Hot summer night and barely-private alleyway be damned, you were too far gone to care as your fingers began sliding downwards, looking for the hem of his shirt.

The front door of the bar opened, letting the sound inside pour out into the street. You broke away from each other’s lips as Cal stumbled out with a bleary-eyed Fat Jack and Johnny close behind. Zipco rolled his eyes, bracing for what he knew was about to come as he placed a hand on the wall next to your temple, granting you a measure of privacy and obscuring your face from the bar-goers.

“‘Ey, you two, tonsil-lickin’ session is over! Pack it up and get a room!” You barely stifled a giggle at Cal’s quip, leaning your head against Zipco’s arm and smiling up at him. His face was flushed as he matched your relieved smile. 

“Been wantin’ to do that for a long time,” he admitted with a devilish smirk. 

“Rude to keep me waitin’ then,” you shot back. He ducked down, catching your lips again, this time softer and more tender. 

“Seriously, guys, get outta here. As annoyin’ as it was to watch you two pine after each other for weeks, somehow this is worse.” 

Cal was so close he was practically making it a threesome. Despite the self-congratulatory grin he wore, the note of sincerity in his voice kept you from hitting him. You and Zip broke into matching laughs at Cal’s invitation, and before you knew it, you were settling in on the back of Zipco’s bike, its engine purring underneath you and your cheek pressed against the leather of his jacket. You smiled at Cal, knowing you’d never hear the end of it, as he winked at you before Zipco drove off into the night.

[wexhappyxfew]

Shannon. The Kennedy x Bucky fic? KILLED ME!! The convo in the early morning, his protectiveness, the hand-holding!? *insert Michael Scott gif* it’s happening, everybody stay CALM!

Anyway, it was wonderful and I’m enjoying getting to see their relationship grow in the camps and I absolutely can’t WAIT for it to grow more. But I can be patient, I promise lol (I’ll do my best).

I eagerly read everything you post.

I hope you have a lovely weekend!!

-☀️

EEEEEEEKKKKK THANK YOU!!!!!!!!! 🥹 thank you so so much sunshine anon, you gem!!!!!! :’) i can’t agree more with you with the aspects of this entire piece — for me, early morning dawn can be such an intimate and equally vulnerable period of time and i couldn’t help but include that here ALONG WITH (1) bucky’s longing looks and equal care and protectiveness of kennedy and (2) THE PREMARITAL HANDHOLDING LIKE. DONE DEAD. i just *had* to weasel it in somewhere i couldn’t help it haha!

AWWWWW thank you so so much again!!!!! writing the Silver Bullets crew, the girls, the duos — all of it — it’s truly so much fun and an absolute joy and it means so much to see people connecting with each pairing in various ways!!!! i just am very !!!!!!!!! about it truly 😭✨

HAHA LOL!!!!!!!!!! your patience and kindness means so so much truly, especially to a writer just — thank you seriously 🥹 your sweet messages have meant the WORLD!!!!! thank you for the support and love! <3

ENJOY THE REST OF YOUR WEEKEND TOOOOOOOOOOO :D

[ossified-hypothesis]

Current Things

Tagged by @evenaturtleduck (thanks! ☺️)

3 ships: idk I’m not really much of a shipper! We were just talking about ships in the October Daye discord though - my favourites to come out of that convo were August x Nolan, Oberon x Sylvester (aka the Disappointing Dad Duo™️), and Toby x Literally every knowe she meets 😆

[Edit: sorry I lied a bit I forgot I’m shipping Outlaw Ty and Texas Michael after the latest WOE.BEGONE episode 😅]

Last song: decadence by woe.begone (the fact I was listening to a track from the cowboy album is pure coincidence, my music was on shuffle lol)

Currently reading: ok so I was reading The Truth by Terry Pratchett when a bunch of my library holds became available. So now I’m also reading System Collapse by Martha Wells (Murderbot my beloved 💕), Yellowface by R.F. Kuang, Where the Drowned Girls Go by Seanan McGuire, and A Day of Fallen Night by Samantha Shannon 😅

Last movie: I think it might have been Scooby Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed (lmao) - I remember a distinct lack of decent telly on over the holidays so I’d decided to watch this mostly out of nostalgia

If you mean in a movie theatre then I don’t think I’ve been back to the cinema since Barbie in the summer - I want to go see the boy and the heron but need to find the time lol

Currently watching: Delicious in Dungeon! And also the new series of The Great Pottery Throw Down (think bake off but for pottery). I need to watch season 4 of what we do in the shadows when I get the chance as well

Currently craving: Sleep! And maybe a cup of tea

Currently consuming: food or media?

Food I consumed this evening was leftover quorn korma with fruit and nuts, followed by a bunch of chocolate I got for Christmas

In terms of media the podcast brainrot is still going strong lol. Namely WOE.BEGONE and Hello from the Hallowoods but The Grotto and Jar of Rebuke deserve honourable mentions!

Tagging @flamefirenut, @boopblep, @felixcosm, @forbidden-fungi, @mocha-moth, @discursivetacenda and anyone else who wants to take part! (no pressure though!)

[fereldanwench]

so i finished my lost rewatch last week, but i have this problem in which i often cant just let a show end and i have to immediately restart it, which means I'm watching s1 again lmao

s1 i think will always have comfort show status in the spirit of the x files or roswell--i had the box set in college, and i pretty much always had it on when i was chilling in my bedroom. plus the star wars RPG i was really involved with at the time also had a lot of lost fans (soooo many face claims were actors from the show), which added to a fandom coziness

anyway, i just really like having it on in the background

but this also means i have Thoughts of varying import and controversy so under the cut it is

there have been a lot of jokes over the years about how oceanic flight 815 had a ridiculous amount of hot people on it, which is true, but i feel like shannon and boone are like a time capsule of early aughts hotness which i find kind of fascinating. shannon especially--tall, skinny, blonde, tan, square face--she is like the epitome of what was supposed to be hot for young women in 2004. which, uh, as a curvy brunette teen i thoroughly resented and probably contributed to some of my disdain for the character at the time lmao

still not really a huge fan of her character, though, even with that envy and contempt long behind me. and i will never understand what sayid sees in her--sayid has always been a fave, and i liked the scenes with him and shannon bc he's such a romantic and i love that about him, but i just have a hard time believing he'd be attracted to her personality-wise

i actually noticed there seems to be a little bit of chemistry between him and kate early on, which, yanno, she's obviously got her hands full with jack and sawyer, but i was like hmmm, that could be an interesting dynamic to explore. I'm not invested enough to read lost fanfic but if i was, that'd probably pull me in

i've also found myself liking claire a lot more now, although i will always find emilie de ravin's voice SO grating. and it's not the accent--her (bad) American accent in roswell didn't help either. she just sounds like she's always 3 seconds away from sobbing and i just wanna tell her to take a deep breath

i was always on the fence about charlie, and while there are things about his character i find sympathetic (namely his struggle with addiction), I've decided i don't like him lmao I've teared up quite a bit during my rewatch, and i remember crying when he died in s3 when it aired, but it did nothing for me this time around

you know what does make me tear up every single time despite knowing it's doomed (or maybe bc i know it's doomed)? the scene when they get michael's raft into the water in s1. hits me every time

i watched a video recently that showed the top googled shows over the past 2 decades or so, and while i was never super involved in the lost fandom, it did occur to me when i saw it listed as the number one show for a while that i think lost was probably the last major fandom to enjoy a pre-social media community. i mean it was like right on the cusp of web 1.0 and 2.0: a lot of the social media juggernauts like facebook and twitter would launch while it was on air, but i think most of the community still existed on personal sites and forums

[autoacafiles]

So this has been something that's been asked for a few times, so after a long times work, here we have it! A hypothetical voice cast for the characters of Autobot Academy. If there's a character you don't see, it's as we don't want to rush figuring out a character. We may update this list in the future, however it'll be in our own time, so we won't be taking any questions about specific missing characters. And hey, if you have your own voices that don't match up with these, then feel free to stick with that!

Autobots

Yuri Lowenthal - Hot Shot/Excellion II/DF Hot Shot/Ben Tennyson

Ashley Eckstein - Lightbright/Maxima/DF Lightbright

Tara Platt - Artillery/Maelstrom/ CG-11272017

ThunderPsyker - Bumblebee/Mjolnir

Morgan Garrett - Arcee/Diabla/Spidarcee

Nick “Lanipator” Landis - Rampage/Shockaract/Straxus

Brianna Knickerbocker - Transmutate/Transmutate X/Transmutate IX

Sam Vincent - Side Burn/Darkburn

Rick “Rice Pirate” Lauer - X-Brawn/Wrenchit

Chris Hackney - Mach Alert/Infernox/Lio Convo/Galva Convoy

Tiya Sicrar - Moonracer

Christine Marie Cabanos - Nightracer/Wipe-Out

Ashley Johnson - Glyph

Kanono - Tap-Out/AlbinoBug

Lizzie Caplin - Tremor/Shockblast

Erika Ishii - Sonar/Noisemaze

DoktorApplejuice - Armorhide/Armorbreak

Josh Keaton - Sideswipe/Firebreaker/Sunstreaker/Mismatch

Alejandro Saab - Steeljaw/Shatter-Pattern/Phantomjaw/Hellhound

Chris Miller - Thunderhoof

Sumalee Montano - Lodestar

Max Mittelan - Hosehead/Contagion

Sam Regal - Bomb-Burst

Kyle McCarley - Longshot

Ben Diskin - Misfire/Missilefire

Lucas Gilbertson - Saber/Dark Saber/Devcon/DF Devcon

Li Ming Hu - Hightail/Ravager

Mike Ginn - Gridlock/Ravager

Erica Mendez - Galaxy Flare

Michelle Ang - Riptide

Vanessa Marshal - Strongarm

Jill Harris - Nautica/DF Nautica

Courtney Ford - Muzzle

Nicolas Cantu - Wasp/DF Waspinator

Erin Fitzgerald - Convex

Archie Kao - Roadblock

Connor Kelley - Sky High

Haven Kendrick - Hot Rodimus/Raze

Michelle Yeoh - Windblade

Shannon McCormick - Rung

Elizabeth Maxwell - Chromia

Edward James Olmos - Fortress Maximus

Travis Willingham - Rollout

Andrew Francis - Scorch

John DiMaggio - Kup/Nitro Zeus/Leadfoot

Kyle Herbert - Star Convoy/Orion Pax/Toxitron

Mark Bonnar - Starscream

Paul McGann - Perceptor

Jake Johnson - Devaron

Herself Sarah Wiedenheft - Saperion/Arcrunner

Debra Wilson - Elita-1

Nicolas Cage - Overload

Nathan Fillion - Silverstreak/Killstreak

Ian MacKellen - Alpha Trion

Maximals

Tara Strong - Slash

Bryce Papenbrooke - Leobreaker

Matt Mercer - Bigfight/Death Convoy

Tom Gliblis - Break

Aleks Le - Stampy

Jack DeSana - Whoop-Kong

Roger Craig Smith - Bound Rogue

Charlie Day - Rattrap

Protectobots

Ashly Burch - Whirl

Heather Watson - Minerva

Aerialbots

Ratana - Stiletto

Cherami Leigh - Skyburst/Stormclash

Rachel Robinson - Surge

David B. Mitchell - Silverbolt

Axellerators

Jamie Chung - Flare-Up

Ron Botitta - Amp

Decepticons

Jason Marnocha - Megatron

Isaac C Singleton Jr. - Soundwave

Kathleen Delaney - Thunderblast

Vincent D'nofrio - Motormaster

Laura Bailey - Drag Strip

Shelby Rabara - Wildrider

David Kaye - Gnashteeth

Marc "Ganxingba" Soskin - Thundercracker

Ian Hanlin - Skywarp

Ryan Reynolds - Deadlock

Kaley Cuoco - Flamewar

Todd Haberkorn - Stonecrusher

Maurice LaMarche- Cryotek

Josh Powell - Onslaught

Corey Burton - Shockwave

Sylvester McCoy - “Doc”

JK Simmons - Horntrap

Resistance

Cameron Monaghan - Beta Maxx

Neo-Maximals

LaMonica Garret - Great Convoy

Peter Dinklage - King Atlas

Lydia Leonard - Black Convoy

Sam Witwer - Venator

Others

Colin Baker - Jhiaxus

Billy West/Michael Dorn - Dion/Umbra Convoy

Greg Cipes - Carjack

[twenty-words-or-less]

Top 5 Worst Films of 2023

Yep, it's that time of year again where you're all subjected to wordier opinions of the films I either disliked or were indifferent to! I'll post the best list later on, but for now, here are the worst...

5. Mercy Falls

I appreciate British films being shown in cinemas. I appreciate this cost about £20 and a speck of dust to make. However, it’s incredibly dull and predictable. There isn’t much else to say about it.

4. The Flash

Only this low because I expected it to be this bad. The literal ‘worlds collide’ montage at the end was a great idea, but the waxy CGI reconstructions of Superman actors, living or dead, left a bad taste in my mouth. Ezra Miller’s laugh was annoying, and Sasha Calle and Michael Shannon were absolutely wasted.

3. Five Nights At Freddy's

How the fuck did Scott Cawthon fuck his own premise up? It should have been a simple bottle film that cost $10m at most. One guy. One room. Dodgy animatronics. Instead, we’ve got a protagonist who I wanted the animatronics to kill, sudden genre switches, subplots galore, and weird character decisions. The worst thing about it is that it didn’t even include the famous Toreador March. That would have improved the film somewhat.

2. Fast X

I saw it for a charity drive and I wish I’d doubled the target. This was physically painful to sit through. This hasn’t lodged from the no. 2 spot since I saw it back in May. I fully believe Daniela Melchior was tricked into doing this – she probably thought she was auditioning for a legitimate film. Jason Momoa apparently chose this film to actually act, and carried it the whole way through. Good thing he’s built as all get-out.

Honourable Mentions

Love Again: The best bits were Nick Jonas’s cameo and the sweet and funny montage over the end credits. Everything else is naff.

Assassin Club: This not having a Wiki page was probably the best way to insult it – arguably the best way to insult any film. Daniela Melchior had a terrible year. Hope 2024 is better for her.

Unwelcome: Completely forgot this existed, to be honest. Should tell you all you need to know.

And finally, the worst thing I saw this year...

1. A Good Person

This earned the great dishonour of not just being the worst thing I saw this year, but the worst thing I’ve seen in a long time. Old was bad, but it had the cave scene. Burning was terrible, but it had gorgeous cinematography. Shit, even the 365 Days films were bad, but they were at least easy to laugh at. Zach “Can’t Accept That Scrubs Ended Thirteen Years Ago” Braff’s latest effort A Good Person does not have a single redeeming thing about it. Not even the usually-reliable Florence Pugh could save it. Much like Fast X, this has not lodged from this spot since I saw it. It’s the first film to reach the “coveted” 0.25/5 rating on here, too. In East Asian languages such as Cantonese, the number four is closely associated with death. This is Braff’s fourth go at directing, and it bombed. I pray that it kills his career.

Thanks for reading! Best post coming soon.

~Mikey